Demons, gods, sea monsters, egotistical magicians, fresco artists, warriors, little girls with daggers, llamas and tigers living together… Trying to get everyone in tune for the final battle is proving a bit nerve wracking. Since I’m slogging my way to the end of the Untamed Fantasy Novel©, of course all sorts of ideas for the Rampant Run Amok Military Sci-Fi Novel© decided to erupt instead. What the heck, working on a bit of the RRAMSF Novel couldn’t be all bad, could it? Then I could return to the UFN and figure out how to kill off a god. Nothing like a little cosmic mayhem to make the words flow.
Not.
My RRAMSF characters stubbornly insisted on talking. Chatting sociably about their problems, as if they were having tea in an upscale Shoppe instead of fighting to save their little corner of the cosmos. As if they were the most important thing in my quasi-created universe. How dare they! I had to get their attention, and refocus them on priorities – mine. Desperately seeking inspiration, I turned to my old standby. Cartoons. Is there no wisdom they can’t impart?
Yakko's Universe
Everybody lives on a street in a city
Or a village or a town for what it's worth.
And they're all inside a country which is part of a continent
That sits upon a planet known as Earth.
And the Earth is a ball full of oceans and some mountains
Which is out there spinning silently in space.
And living on that Earth are the plants and the animals
And also the entire human race.
It's a great big universe
And we're all really puny
We're just tiny little specks
About the size of Mickey Rooney.
It's big and black and inky
And we are small and dinky
It's a big universe and we're not.
And we're part of a vast interplanetary system
Stretching seven hundred billion miles long.
With nine planets and a sun; we think the Earth's the only one
That has life on it, although we could be wrong.
Across the interstellar voids are a billion asteroids
Including meteors and Halley's Comet too.
And there's over fifty moons floating out there like balloons
In a panoramic trillion-mile view.
And still it's all a speck amid a hundred billion stars
In a galaxy we call the Milky Way.
It's sixty thousand trillion miles from one end to the other
And still that's just a fraction of the way.
'Cause there's a hundred billion galaxies that stretch across the sky
Filled with constellations, planets, moons and stars.
And still the universe extends to a place that never ends
Which is maybe just inside a little jar!
It's a great big universe
And we're all really puny
We're just tiny little specks
About the size of Mickey Rooney.
Though we don't know how it got here
We're an important part here
It's a big universe and it's ours!
You might think that you're essential
Try inconsequential
It's a small world after all!
Writer: Randy Rogel
Voice of Yakko Warner: Rob Paulsen
Showing posts with label Not Shakespeare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Not Shakespeare. Show all posts
07 September 2007
06 April 2007
Eye Candy
This is the type of eye candy I'm talking about... None of those chocolate covered eyeballs for me this Easter. Gratuitous? You bet! (Thanks to Amelia for bringing the Spartany goodness to my attention.)
03 April 2007
Poetry as Influence
Since it's National Poetry Month, a few articles have surfaced on poetry on some of the newspaper sites. Today there is an article in the Christian Science Monitor, "Recapturing Wonder Through The Pleasures of Poetry", where the author exhorts us to read poetry for various reasons - "But as the poet Edward Hirsch has reminded us, reading true poetry "is an adventure in renewal, a creative act, a perpetual beginning, a rebirth of wonder." "
Many of these articles seem to come down to the same theme. Why read/make/bother with poetry? Pose the same question about music, and things get hostile. I'd like to blame some of the 'why poetry?' sentiment on the rampant anti-intellectualism in our schools. Being forced to deconstruct poems and examine them for 'meaning' has done more harm to poetry than any thing else I can think of. I was lucky enough to have a high school English teacher who had us read Shakespeare, Frost, Wordsworth and Ginsberg for the sheer joy of it, for the fun of the language and rhythms. For some of us it started a life long love affair with words, and the possibilities of what words could become.
Here is a poem by Robert Penn Warren, that I read long ago. It wasn't a poem recommended by a teacher, but one I discovered in my poetry travels that had a great influence on my desire to read, write, and absorb poetry. The right poem, at the right time, will do that.
Trying to Tell You Something
Robert Penn Warren
All things lean at you, and some are
Trying to tell you something, though of some
The heart is too full for speech. On a hill, the oak,
Immense, older than Jamestown or God, splitting
With its own weight at the great inverted
Crotch, air-spread and ice-hung, ringed with iron
Like barrel-hoops, only heavier, massive rods
Running through and bolted, and higher, the cables,
Which in summer are hidden by green leaves—the oak,
It is trying to tell you something. It wants,
In its fullness of years, to describe to you
What happens on a December night when
It stands alone in a world of whiteness. The moon is full.
You can hear the stars crackle in their high brightness.
It is ten below zero, and the iron
Of hoops and reinforcement rods is continuing to contract.
There is the rhythm of a slow throb, like pain. The wind,
Northwest, is steady, and in the wind, the cables,
In a thin-honed and disinfectant purity, like
A dentist’s drill, sing. They sing
Of truth, and its beauty. The oak
Wants to declare this to you, so that you
Will not be unprepared when, some December night,
You stand on a hill, in a world of whiteness, and
Stare into the crackling absoluteness of the sky. The oak
Wants to tell you because, at that moment,
In your own head, the cables will sing
With a thin-honed and disinfectant purity,
And no one can predict the consequences
Many of these articles seem to come down to the same theme. Why read/make/bother with poetry? Pose the same question about music, and things get hostile. I'd like to blame some of the 'why poetry?' sentiment on the rampant anti-intellectualism in our schools. Being forced to deconstruct poems and examine them for 'meaning' has done more harm to poetry than any thing else I can think of. I was lucky enough to have a high school English teacher who had us read Shakespeare, Frost, Wordsworth and Ginsberg for the sheer joy of it, for the fun of the language and rhythms. For some of us it started a life long love affair with words, and the possibilities of what words could become.
Here is a poem by Robert Penn Warren, that I read long ago. It wasn't a poem recommended by a teacher, but one I discovered in my poetry travels that had a great influence on my desire to read, write, and absorb poetry. The right poem, at the right time, will do that.
Trying to Tell You Something
Robert Penn Warren
All things lean at you, and some are
Trying to tell you something, though of some
The heart is too full for speech. On a hill, the oak,
Immense, older than Jamestown or God, splitting
With its own weight at the great inverted
Crotch, air-spread and ice-hung, ringed with iron
Like barrel-hoops, only heavier, massive rods
Running through and bolted, and higher, the cables,
Which in summer are hidden by green leaves—the oak,
It is trying to tell you something. It wants,
In its fullness of years, to describe to you
What happens on a December night when
It stands alone in a world of whiteness. The moon is full.
You can hear the stars crackle in their high brightness.
It is ten below zero, and the iron
Of hoops and reinforcement rods is continuing to contract.
There is the rhythm of a slow throb, like pain. The wind,
Northwest, is steady, and in the wind, the cables,
In a thin-honed and disinfectant purity, like
A dentist’s drill, sing. They sing
Of truth, and its beauty. The oak
Wants to declare this to you, so that you
Will not be unprepared when, some December night,
You stand on a hill, in a world of whiteness, and
Stare into the crackling absoluteness of the sky. The oak
Wants to tell you because, at that moment,
In your own head, the cables will sing
With a thin-honed and disinfectant purity,
And no one can predict the consequences
04 February 2007
Marmion and Other Deceptions
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!"
Back when I was that odd kid in high school and college that read Shakespeare for fun, I rummaged around for other authors of interest. In one of those strange coincidences, a friend recommended Sir Walter Scott. "You have to read Marmion," he said, "It mentions your name. And that quote you like? It's not Shakespeare, that's why you can't find it. It's Sir Walter Scott." So I secured my copy of Marmion, A Tale Of Flodden Field and off I read.
Marmion is a very long narrative poem written in six cantos and published in 1808. It's about the battle of Flodden Field in 1513, where the English army killed King James IV and slaughtered the Scottish army. It has enough operatic overtones to keep even Gabriele happy, I think.
The poem talks of Lord Marmion, who is interested in Clara de Clare, who is already engaged to Ralph De Wilton. Not to be thwarted, Lord Marmion forges a letter to get De Wilton in deep trouble. He is helped by his present mistress, Constance De Beverley, who breaks her vows and helps with the letter in hopes of winning Marmion. De Wilton claims the right to face Marmion in combat, and is defeated. Clara de Clare runs and hides from Marmion in a convent. Constance was walled up alive as punishment for breaking her vows, but manages to get a letter out proving De Wilton's innocence. De Wilton is reinstated as a knight after proving his innocence, and heads off to find Marmion and demand justice.
Meanwhile, Marmion heads for Scotland to supposedly talk peace. While he is there, the Battle of Flodden Field takes place, and Marmion is eventually killed in the battle. (Very nice, drawn out death scene) Ralph De Wilton arrives just in time to take part in the battle, fights with honor and regains all the status he lost because of Marmion's treachery. De Wilton marries Clara and you assume they live happily ever after...
(from First Canto – description of Marmion)
Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
His helm hung at the saddlebow;
Well by his visage you might know
He was a stalwart knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been;
The scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of Bosworth field;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
His forehead, by his casque worn bare,
His thick moustache, and curly hair,
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,
But more through toil than age;
His square-turned joints, and strength of limb,
Showed him no carpet knight so trim,
But in close fight a champion grim,
In camps a leader sage.
(Canto Two – Constance speaks to the Abbot)
“I speak not to implore your grace,
Well know I, for one minute’s space
Successless might I sue:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain -For
if a death of lingering pain,
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,
Vain are your masses too.
I listened to a traitor’s tale,
I left the convent and the veil;
For three long years I bowed my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride;
And well my folly’s meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.
He saw young Clara’s face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir,
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more.
’Tis an old tale, and often told;.
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne’er had been read, in story old,
Of maiden true betrayed for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me."
(Canto Sixth)
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke:
“Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!”
He muttered; “’Twas nor fay nor ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.
O dotage blind and gross!
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust
Had laid De Wilton in the dust,
My path no more to cross.
How stand we now?—he told his tale
To Douglas; and with some avail;
’Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow.
Will Surrey dare to entertain,
‘Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?
Small risk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun;
Must separate Constance from the nun –
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!
A Palmer too!—no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye:
I might have known there was but one
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.”.
When first we practice to deceive!"
Back when I was that odd kid in high school and college that read Shakespeare for fun, I rummaged around for other authors of interest. In one of those strange coincidences, a friend recommended Sir Walter Scott. "You have to read Marmion," he said, "It mentions your name. And that quote you like? It's not Shakespeare, that's why you can't find it. It's Sir Walter Scott." So I secured my copy of Marmion, A Tale Of Flodden Field and off I read.
Marmion is a very long narrative poem written in six cantos and published in 1808. It's about the battle of Flodden Field in 1513, where the English army killed King James IV and slaughtered the Scottish army. It has enough operatic overtones to keep even Gabriele happy, I think.
The poem talks of Lord Marmion, who is interested in Clara de Clare, who is already engaged to Ralph De Wilton. Not to be thwarted, Lord Marmion forges a letter to get De Wilton in deep trouble. He is helped by his present mistress, Constance De Beverley, who breaks her vows and helps with the letter in hopes of winning Marmion. De Wilton claims the right to face Marmion in combat, and is defeated. Clara de Clare runs and hides from Marmion in a convent. Constance was walled up alive as punishment for breaking her vows, but manages to get a letter out proving De Wilton's innocence. De Wilton is reinstated as a knight after proving his innocence, and heads off to find Marmion and demand justice.
Meanwhile, Marmion heads for Scotland to supposedly talk peace. While he is there, the Battle of Flodden Field takes place, and Marmion is eventually killed in the battle. (Very nice, drawn out death scene) Ralph De Wilton arrives just in time to take part in the battle, fights with honor and regains all the status he lost because of Marmion's treachery. De Wilton marries Clara and you assume they live happily ever after...
(from First Canto – description of Marmion)
Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
His helm hung at the saddlebow;
Well by his visage you might know
He was a stalwart knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been;
The scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of Bosworth field;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
His forehead, by his casque worn bare,
His thick moustache, and curly hair,
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,
But more through toil than age;
His square-turned joints, and strength of limb,
Showed him no carpet knight so trim,
But in close fight a champion grim,
In camps a leader sage.
(Canto Two – Constance speaks to the Abbot)
“I speak not to implore your grace,
Well know I, for one minute’s space
Successless might I sue:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain -For
if a death of lingering pain,
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,
Vain are your masses too.
I listened to a traitor’s tale,
I left the convent and the veil;
For three long years I bowed my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride;
And well my folly’s meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.
He saw young Clara’s face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir,
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more.
’Tis an old tale, and often told;.
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne’er had been read, in story old,
Of maiden true betrayed for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me."
(Canto Sixth)
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke:
“Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!”
He muttered; “’Twas nor fay nor ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.
O dotage blind and gross!
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust
Had laid De Wilton in the dust,
My path no more to cross.
How stand we now?—he told his tale
To Douglas; and with some avail;
’Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow.
Will Surrey dare to entertain,
‘Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?
Small risk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun;
Must separate Constance from the nun –
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!
A Palmer too!—no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye:
I might have known there was but one
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.”.
20 December 2006
Orc Side Story
Scott Oden, this one's for you. A sort of get well wish and taunt all in one. I love multi-tasking....
Orc Side Story
(Sung to the tune of Gee, Officer Krupke)
GOTHMOG
Dear kindly Fiction Author,
You gotta understand,
We're really not too hardcore
Just a little out of hand.
Our mothers were all humanoid,
Our fathers bred from pork.
Golly Moses, natcherly we're Orcs!
GOTHMOG AND ORCS
Gee, Fiction Author, we're very upset;
We never ate the horse flesh ev'ry Orc oughta get.
We ain't no barbarians,
We're misunderstood.
Deep down inside us there is good!
GOTHMOG
There is good!
ORCS
There is good, there is good,
We're just misunderstood!
Like inside, the worst of us is good!
URUK-HAI (Spoken) That's a bloody good story.
GOTHMOG (Spoken) Lemme tell it to the world!
URUK-HAI Just tell it to the editor.
GOTHMOG
Dear kindly Editor Your Honor,
My face is rather rough.
Green-skinned and beast-like,
No wonder I look gruff.
With a piggish upturned nose
and fearsome little tusks
Leapin' lizards! That's why I'm so brusque!
GORTWOG: (As Judge) Right!
Fiction Author, you really are a square;
This orc don't need a complex, just some tender loving care!
It's just that he once was, a fairy little elf.
Which explains the tatting, he just can't help himself!
GOTHMOG
I can't help myself!
ORCS (Talking over one another)
We'll use Picot sticks, and do some Cluny leaves!
Do you think this armor looks gay with Mignonette stitch?
I think Quatrefoils look simply fab with those boots!
GORTWOG: (Spoken, as EDITOR) In the opinion of this Agent, the Orc is degenerated on account he ain't been venerated.
GOTMOG: (Spoken) Hey, I'm a venerate degenerate!
GORTWOG: So take him to a book signing.
GOTHMOG: (Sings)
My father's squat and flat-nosed,
Ma broad nosed and sallow-skinned.
My grandpa wears support hose,
Much to grandmother's chagrin.
My sister sings Greek Opera,
My brother sculpts ear wax.
Goodness gracious, no wonder I wear slacks!
BILBO: (As Psychiatrist) Yes!
Fiction Author, don't be so gosh darn snobby.
This Orc don't need a shrink, just a good productive hobby.
The Fantasy genre's given him a hatchet job!
This misunderstood Orc, is really not a slob!
GOTHMOG
I'm not a slob?
ORC
We're not slobs, we're not slobs,
We're not slob, slob slobs,
We just need a better description of our jobs!
BILBO: In my opinion, this Orc don't need to have his head shrunk at all. Tatting Orcs are a protected class!
GOTHMOG: Hey, I got class!
BILBO: So take him to a publisher!
GOTHMOG
Dear kindly NY Publisher,
I'm really quite unique.
Do you want to see my tatting?
I'll let you take a peek
I hope you don't discriminate
against humans of our kind.
Gloryosky! I'm tired of being maligned!
ARWEN: (As Female Social Worker)
Eek!
Fiction Author, Throw this Orc a bone.
He doesn't need a contract, just a shelf of his own.
It ain't just a question of wearing tights and looking good;
Deep down inside him, he thinks he's Robin Hood!
GOTHMOG
Robin Hood!
ORCS
Orcs in tights, Robin Hood!
We're misunderstood,
Can you say that, I knew that you could!
GORTWOG (As Judge)
The trouble is he's a gloomy gus.
BILBO (As Psychiatrist)
The trouble is he thinks.
ARWEN (As Female Social Worker)
The trouble is he's ravenous.
GORTWOG
The trouble is he stinks.
BILBO
The trouble is he's muscled.
ARWEN
Inside where he's hard-headed.
ORCS
Fiction Author, quit billing us as dreaded!
Gee, Fiction Author,
We're flat on our ass,
'Cause no one wants an Orc with a wee bit of class.
Gee, Fiction Author,
What are we to do?
Gee, Fiction Author,
Orc you!
Orc Side Story
(Sung to the tune of Gee, Officer Krupke)
GOTHMOG
Dear kindly Fiction Author,
You gotta understand,
We're really not too hardcore
Just a little out of hand.
Our mothers were all humanoid,
Our fathers bred from pork.
Golly Moses, natcherly we're Orcs!
GOTHMOG AND ORCS
Gee, Fiction Author, we're very upset;
We never ate the horse flesh ev'ry Orc oughta get.
We ain't no barbarians,
We're misunderstood.
Deep down inside us there is good!
GOTHMOG
There is good!
ORCS
There is good, there is good,
We're just misunderstood!
Like inside, the worst of us is good!
URUK-HAI (Spoken) That's a bloody good story.
GOTHMOG (Spoken) Lemme tell it to the world!
URUK-HAI Just tell it to the editor.
GOTHMOG
Dear kindly Editor Your Honor,
My face is rather rough.
Green-skinned and beast-like,
No wonder I look gruff.
With a piggish upturned nose
and fearsome little tusks
Leapin' lizards! That's why I'm so brusque!
GORTWOG: (As Judge) Right!
Fiction Author, you really are a square;
This orc don't need a complex, just some tender loving care!
It's just that he once was, a fairy little elf.
Which explains the tatting, he just can't help himself!
GOTHMOG
I can't help myself!
ORCS (Talking over one another)
We'll use Picot sticks, and do some Cluny leaves!
Do you think this armor looks gay with Mignonette stitch?
I think Quatrefoils look simply fab with those boots!
GORTWOG: (Spoken, as EDITOR) In the opinion of this Agent, the Orc is degenerated on account he ain't been venerated.
GOTMOG: (Spoken) Hey, I'm a venerate degenerate!
GORTWOG: So take him to a book signing.
GOTHMOG: (Sings)
My father's squat and flat-nosed,
Ma broad nosed and sallow-skinned.
My grandpa wears support hose,
Much to grandmother's chagrin.
My sister sings Greek Opera,
My brother sculpts ear wax.
Goodness gracious, no wonder I wear slacks!
BILBO: (As Psychiatrist) Yes!
Fiction Author, don't be so gosh darn snobby.
This Orc don't need a shrink, just a good productive hobby.
The Fantasy genre's given him a hatchet job!
This misunderstood Orc, is really not a slob!
GOTHMOG
I'm not a slob?
ORC
We're not slobs, we're not slobs,
We're not slob, slob slobs,
We just need a better description of our jobs!
BILBO: In my opinion, this Orc don't need to have his head shrunk at all. Tatting Orcs are a protected class!
GOTHMOG: Hey, I got class!
BILBO: So take him to a publisher!
GOTHMOG
Dear kindly NY Publisher,
I'm really quite unique.
Do you want to see my tatting?
I'll let you take a peek
I hope you don't discriminate
against humans of our kind.
Gloryosky! I'm tired of being maligned!
ARWEN: (As Female Social Worker)
Eek!
Fiction Author, Throw this Orc a bone.
He doesn't need a contract, just a shelf of his own.
It ain't just a question of wearing tights and looking good;
Deep down inside him, he thinks he's Robin Hood!
GOTHMOG
Robin Hood!
ORCS
Orcs in tights, Robin Hood!
We're misunderstood,
Can you say that, I knew that you could!
GORTWOG (As Judge)
The trouble is he's a gloomy gus.
BILBO (As Psychiatrist)
The trouble is he thinks.
ARWEN (As Female Social Worker)
The trouble is he's ravenous.
GORTWOG
The trouble is he stinks.
BILBO
The trouble is he's muscled.
ARWEN
Inside where he's hard-headed.
ORCS
Fiction Author, quit billing us as dreaded!
Gee, Fiction Author,
We're flat on our ass,
'Cause no one wants an Orc with a wee bit of class.
Gee, Fiction Author,
What are we to do?
Gee, Fiction Author,
Orc you!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)