Dragon Girl

Artwork by Liz Ortiz

http://facebook.com/Gryphonknight

Story by Georg Freese

Someone once asked what drove me to push myself to suicidal limits, and I answered that if the world had no place for me I would make one by force.

Many saw me as the odd girl who shouldered her way into the world of men, an aristocrat who wanted to stand amongst the ranks of the laymen, but that was not my true oddity. My difference, and my frustration, is that I would not envision myself the wife of any man. I loved a girl.

The first time I became aware of the strength of this love was when she, my best friend, a girl I had grown up with since childhood, was betrothed by her father to a youth we knew. It is hard to describe, given all the emotions fluttering within my adolescent heart, how deeply that had affected me, but I suppose it was the sudden awareness that she would no longer be free to ride horses with me anymore, that we would not share the sunsets anymore, and that I could dream of having her to myself no more.

Out of desperation, I kissed her. But she did not feel the way I did. She became estranged. I became miserable.

Someone once asked me what drove me to such suicidal limits. Men will never understand the overwhelming sorrow of unrequited love.

The only way to release my frustration was riding mares through perilous cliffs and across open plains until they panted and frothed with exhaustion, challenging with training swords every squire in my father's household, and my older brothers, defeating them all in joyless victories. I then challenged my father, but him I could not defeat, for his age, his strength and his wisdom surpassed me immeasurably.

   

I told him one afternoon, as our breaths calmed and our sweat cooled following our duel, that I would not be betrothed to a man. He was kind and offered me the rare chance to chose the youth to whom I was to be married. But he did not understand, and I did not have the nerves to tell him, that he was the only man in my life, and that in my heart there would never be a place for another. Not as a husband. Not ever.

I was admitted into the regiment of sentry cadets given the influence of my father, even when I told him not to intercede, even when I could have gained admittance on my own skill at swords and horses. I know he meant good, but still, ever since I was a young girl I was disregarded from contests of archery, sword and horsemanship, contests reserved almost exclusively for men. As a girl, my sense of frustration at not being regarded adept was only increased when challenges where won on my behalf. It was as if I was not even given the chance to compete, but allowed to win out of sympathy. 

When I entered the sentry cadets regiment I was received with the sniggering hostility I was used to when stepping into the domain of men. And even though I kept to myself and my frustrations, still they challenged me. After defeating their champion in a sword duel, he dared me to a flight by night, which involved breaking into the stalls at midnight and stealing away with two dragons for a race to the marches at the limits of the realm and back. I had never ridden a dragon before. I was terrified. I was thrilled. I was excited.

That is when I met her who, restless at our presence, paced within her cage, eager to burst with fire but for the guard about her beak. The cadets dared me to ride her, and I did.

She was restless indeed, and once we swooshed from the stalls, up into the blackness of the night skies, she bucked and swerved and rolled to cast me off her back, yet I was too stubborn to let loose. In the meantime, my challenger had ridden his dragon far into the distance where his silhouette faded in the dark.

I then yanked at the reins and yelled at the dragon, telling her that, rebellious as she may be, that man was winning the contest to which he had challenged me, and that I was not about to allow for that to pass. And to my surprise she hearkened, and she obeyed, of her own volition.

She undulated with mythical grace as she gained velocity, and I held onto her, undulating with her as we soared across the night skies with such swiftness that my heart pounded with a thrill greater than racing the fastest horse could ever arouse.

We reached the end of the realm, the snow-peaked eastern marches, just as my challenger returned with his dragon, taunting me with jeers as he swooshed past. I whispered for my dragon not to disappoint, and again, she hearkened and, swerving wide over the marches, we began the stretch home at such a velocity that my eyes watered at the chill of the oncoming wind, yet still I glanced ahead as we approached the challenger and overtook him, returning to the headquarters first.  

Elated as I was, once my dragon landed, I found not the cheering of congratulations I had expected, but an ominous silence, for the commanders had received word of what happened at the stables and had arrived to set order. I was sentenced and punished to spend three days in solitary confinement, three days endured in misery and contemplation. The freedom I had experienced flying that dragon was then just a memory recalled within the confines of my cell.

At last I was released and asked to present myself before the commanders' council in full uniform. I did, expecting to be further disciplined. And, even though I was severely scolded and threatened, I was eventually congratulated for having dominated the dragon which none other had been able to ride. I was surprised and elated when they told me that, though I was still to undergo cadet training, she would be reserved for me exclusively.

Something inside of me fell off that day, a heavy anchor which had been dragging me under for years, a frustration which I no longer felt for, bonding with her, and soaring the skies patrolling the marches, I felt the most exhilarating liberation I could have ever dreamed of.

With her, I was free.

    

Angel Incarnate

There once was a man, a man whose days passed in solitude and whose nights passed in loneliness, a man who had no woman to call his own, a man who had no woman to love.  

He was a good man, and the women of his town, who allowed him onto the doorsteps of their hearts yet never past their threshold, told him that one day the right one would arrive into his life, and that she would love him for who he was, and that together they would be happy.

But she never arrived.

Growing desperate with the years, the man prayed to the gods in the heavens for a nymph, an angel whom he could care for and pamper, a woman whom he could worship and love. He prayed within shrines and within temples, before the sea and beneath the stars, to Aphrodite the goddess of love, and to Eros and the mischievous darts of his bow.

Then one day, as the auburn sun sank bright in the autumn dusk, across the fields of hay and the eventide bay, a nymph descended from the heavens, a winged angel of such beauty and kindness as the loftiest gift the gods could bestow on the world.

The man gaped at her radiance and, falling on his knees, offered her his undying faithfulness and love.

But the angel, shedding her wings, and wrapping her slender arms about herself, shivering nude in her now human flesh, shunned this man, leaving him then for another, a man whose strength enticed the desires of many women in the town, a man whose nonchalance made the angel feel warm inside, a man whose confidence made her feel moist below.

For, having descended from the heavens and taken human form, her breast beating with a heart pumping with desire, the angel did not long to be worshipped.

She yearned to love.  




-Freese, June 2013

Craft And Time.

Visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York the other day, I found myself thinking how interesting it is that, for every work of art, all sorts of information is provided - its style, its epoch, its technique, etcetera, all but the time it took for the artist to complete said work of art.

Everything else is talked about - the stone a sculpture was chiselled from, the oils used on the canvas, its realism, its surrealism, its expressionism, its impressionism, even anecdotes about the artists' lives - all but how long it took for him to create what is now before our eyes.

Maybe our appreciation would be different if we knew this. For example, knowing it took a sculptor a whole year to shape a given statue, and this only after completing two models in a smaller scale, perhaps we would take a moment longer to appreciate the statue instead of just glimpsing at it while passing by.

Think on all those weeks and months spent dedicated to this one piece, while maybe completing others, while probably dealing with mundane problems, like a mean neighbour, while most certainly paying rent and most likely being hurried to complete the work even as he hastened in order to collect the commission in order to pay some of his way out of debt.

Who knows? And it's not only the time it took to create that given piece, but also the time it took for the artist to hone the skills which allowed him to create such a craft - a lifetime of craftsmanship.

There is something very human about this aspect of every work of art, an aspect which takes the artist down from atop a glorified pedestal to let him stand amongst us as one of us. Appreciating the artist as a person makes his achievements all the more awesome.

The next time you go to a museum, think on this, and maybe take a moment longer to appreciate something which took a long, long time to create. 

-GF

The Guiltless Wheel

Thoughtful of a good friend of mine who is suffering from a debilitating health condition, and has come to think of her ailments as payback for wrongs she has done earlier in life, I would like to take a moment to write a little of my view of life and the world.

I am taking a chance by blogging this for two reasons: firstly, my understanding is not whole nor near ready to be committed to screen. Secondly, I know there are many out there with different points of views, particularly those following a single god, who may disagree with what I am about to say.

Having thus disclaimed myself let me now speak of the Wheel.

The core difference between monotheistic and pagan beliefs is that monotheists see the world and life as being linear, while pagans see it as being cyclical.

Within the monotheistic view, a man is born, grows, becomes who he is and then dies, his soul migrating thereafter to an eternal place of peace or an eternal place of suffering depending on his deeds.

Pagans however (and I am generalizing here) see the world as a sequence of birth, growth, deeds and death, followed by another’s sequence of the same, in an eternal cycle.

Hence a pagan lives aware that he only has but the little time in this world he is given.

To where the soul migrates thereafter varies from pagan belief to pagan belief, though there is always the importance of honoring the dead, in particularly family members who have died, and by extension forefathers who have passed away.

Hence the notion of "Honoring one’s forefathers with one’s deeds," meaning to do honorable things in life, meaning to do good deeds, not to please a mighty god who will judge a man upon his death, but doing them to please those who lived before him, without the efforts of whom the man could not have been born nor live the life which he lives.

But let me take a turn here, for it is life and not afterlife I wish to speak of.

In the linear view of monotheism, it is natural to fall into a cause and effect understanding of the world, even when there is no direct connection between two given events. To draw an example (and a very superstitious one at that), if a man cheats another and later a branch falls on his head, it could be understood that this happened as a punishment for his earlier, wrongful deed... the "one god" being somehow behind this rebuke.  

In a cyclical view, it is understood that men will cheat and branches will fall as they always have, as they always will, and one event has little to do with the other, though it can be said, for argument’s sake, that the man who has a guilty conscience will resent the branch more, as the accident will ripple in his stressed state of mind.

What I want to get at (for this topic can digress in a dozen different directions) is that good things happen, and bad things happen, both for no good reason. The universe does not have a will to favor or obstruct any one particular individual, it simply "is."

Now, the universe is dynamic, and it can be influenced, and yes, it can favor or obstruct a man in a subtle way, but this has little to do with the man, and certainly nothing to do with morals. Understand that morals is a human concept, not one of nature, and it is man who will desperately try to understand the world in terms of good and evil, which is really a twisted notion of beneficial or harmful.

   

Bad things happen, good things happen, and we can only react. This is the wheel, always turning round and round, good things followed by bad, bad things followed by good, like the seasons of the year, summer followed by winter, winter followed by summer.

Thus it may be best not to see the universe in a moral context of cause and effect, of guilt and reproach, but just as it is; good and bad things happening at random, or at least, for reasons which do not involve any one person individually.

So what is the point?

Just like in the eye of the storm it is the most peaceful, at the center of the wheel it is the most stable. The way to get there is not to get too excited when things are good and not to become too desperate when things are bad. This goes along with what Buddhists would call "to follow the middle way."

But let me go back to the turn of the seasons mentioned before, and let us look at trees: in winter, when conditions are harsh, trees shed their leaves ridding themselves of everything that is not strictly necessary. During this time they do not grow; they just survive. In summer, when conditions are optimal, the trees flourish with flowers and foliage, growing in girth and height, their seeds flying with the wind to spawn new saplings.

If one were to apply this same wisdom to one’s life it would read as follows: in times of harshness, cut back from all that is not strictly necessary; luxuries, comforts, treats (it is hard, I know). Do these things without questioning why bad times have befallen on you of all people, because they befall on everyone.

When times are good, celebrate and be merry. Further your plans, invest your time, work hard and make the most of the moment. Do this rather than just being grateful to a god (it is hard, I know). Good things befall on you because they befall on everyone.

 

To hold back when things are bad and go forth when things are good, to be proactive rather than reflective, to question not the reasons why good or bad things happen, to just understand that they happen and that it is the only thing one can do to make the most of any situation... This is the way of balanced, cyclical thinking.

Understand that good and bad things happening have nothing to do with you, but what you do with the situation does. It has everything to do with you. That is your turn at life and your responsibility; to do what you can with the time that you have.

Do not empower your grievances with guilt because you are only making your problems stronger. It is your charge to solve problems, to overcome obstacles and to defend your right to live your life to the fullest, and defend it with all that you got!

And finally, do not let guilt haunt you. Guilt is a correcting device meant to kick in when in the near of the possibility of making the same mistake again. That is where it belongs and that is where it must stay.   

If you messed up, just make sure you do not let it happen again the next time around (and you can bet there will be another time around, there always is).

Move on. Don't let guilt hold you back. 

Always remember you are an amazing being, full of life and full of light...

Stop dwelling on guilt, and shine!

-GF

  

A Pine Tree Decorated With Crimson and Green

A Pine Tree Decorated With Crimson and Green

by Georg Freese

     As you may or not know, I am currently waist-deep in the writing of a story, fording through the obscure waters of history in search for buried signs, and sifting through cold wet sands in hopes for that golden nugget of knowledge that will validate my theories.

     I speak of the Goths of the 4th century C.E, them who lived in the former Roman province of Dacia (modern day Ukraine) and later migrated west, where they came to be known as Visigoths and Ostrogoths.

     Spending hours of research for the sake of historic accuracy, I have come to learn many things, two of which I will share with you now, as they relate to the happy holidays we are celebrating today.

     Though later celebrated as a Christian holiday, the celebration of Christmas is Pagan in its roots, a notion made evident by its distinctive paraphernalia, all of which seek to bring joy in the darkest and coldest nights of the year.

     The first and most obvious sign is the presence of a decorated fir tree (or pine tree). Remember that the firs and pines are evergreen trees, which means they keep their foliage throughout the dead of winter while the rest of the trees in the forest shed theirs. This quality of endurance during the harshest season of the year was admired by the early peoples of Europe, and thus they revered, celebrated and worshipped it.

     Also a common tradition of Christmas is the use of the colours crimson (red) and green for decoration. But why? I cannot provide the exact reasons, but I did come across a passage that documents the use of these colours by northern European peoples for ceremonial occasions. It is an observation by the 5th century Gallo-Roman historian Sidonius Apollinaris who, describing a procession of Frankish royalty (tribes migrated to early France), wrote as follows:

     "... The prince himself... [was] clad in gleaming scarlet, ruddy gold and pure white silk... The chiefs and companions who escorted him... wore a tight fitting, many-coloured garment (tartan squares?)... [and] green mantles with crimson borders.        

     Perhaps the green and crimson was regarded by many as an elegant combination fit for solemn occasions. Or perhaps it is just a coincidence. I can only sigh at the sight of this nugget of knowledge, not sure what to make of it, and throw it in my pouch with the rest, hoping that later, putting more of them together, I will have a more accurate notion of an epoch long since gone by.

     But for now...

     Merry Xmas everyone!

.

 

Their Time Forever Gone 

(250 word fic)
by Georg Freese

The winding cobblestone streets, jostling with brown timber and white plaster houses, converged at the square of the old German town. 

There stood a tower of smooth masonry, a five stores stalwart which arose from the square holding high a quadrilateral turret with a clock on each of its four facades, a turret crowned by an arched belfry and a spire of blackened brass tiles. 

A door at the tower's base, a door with its wooden planks chipped and its iron studs corroded, creaked open to the abandoned darkness within, where a hundred and thirty steps of stone clambered round the inside of the tower's walls.

Ascending past a titanic pendulum, the steps wound round and round until they arrived at the turret above, where the clock's mechanism of interlocked cogwheels and gears sat absent gyration, rusted by disuse, swathed in spider's webs and mantled in oblivion's dust. 

Further aloft, the belfry was quiet but for the flutter and cooing of roosting pigeons, where a bell of tempered brass once loud and solemn now hung dead from its gallows, its flank blemished by a thousand strokes from the mechanical mallet quiescent beside it. 

Outside, at each of the four clocks, the twelve roman numerals stood at their radiating posts in eternal wait for the rotating sentries to pass their hour. But the arms and the hands stayed to their last place of call, never to march again, their time forever gone.