Large Fierce Mammal

I’ve mentioned my Esteemed Friend and Fellow Fiend Jim Keating more than a few times here, and no doubt will again because he persists in provoking me. His daily updated MAAJAK World (pronounced “MAGIC World”) ezine (MAAJAK = Master At Arms James Albert Keating) has been a daily morning stopping point for me since I first discovered it many moons agone. To my own sensibilities, its eclectic selections give insight into the mind of a Man who is a Complete Gentleman of the Oldest of Old Schools.

Over the years, Jim has expanded his august publication so that today we have two related pages to enjoy – MAAJAK 1 and MAAJAK 2, and today, he felt compelled to issue a definition of the MAAJAK publication philosophy:

Maajak World was created for entertainment purposes. To share knowledge and to educate also became a priority over time. Magazines of the past were an inspiration. Saga, Argosy, True and many other great old publications offered a diverse amount of good reading in their heyday. I wanted that same diversity in MW. Those old magazines  always had something about cars, a bit of adventure, some hunting topics, outdoors stuff, new products mainly for men and opinions that counted! That was some quality, five star entertainment! MW loosely follows that lead from the past. Yes, the subjects are a lil bit different, yes the players have changed. But all in all, we never tire of such classic magazine formats, they are long lived. Rejoice in this wonderful world and what it offers. Maajak World is just a bridge or a portal that can offer glimpes of greatness which we all share in. They are the reflections of the greater cosmic roles we play in this universe of mysteries. The wonderous wizard of www.cyberspaceorbit.com aka Kent Steadman was also an inspiration for MW. Kents non-classical JKD-ish approach to the internet was ahead of its time and provided ground for others to build upon – he was old internet. FREE meant just that free – “Steal this Book” Abby Hoffman – take it and run son. Maajak World is made up from hundreds of emails that are sent in daily. Good links and websites. Some are unsuitable, others are spot on! I thank you all! Thank you also for the support over the Valentines day long holiday too. Like real life, there are no 2nd chances. Here and gone, that is the way of nature. Look now, taste now, jump now.. soon no more. Gone. MW is like that, like life, rapid, here and gone. No archives, no second chances. These are some answers to some of your questions.

I’m guilty of having been among those who send Jim the occasional inspiration to be shared with our respective, and often overlapping, audiences; even as he has frequently inspired items that appear here. I don’t think either of us will stop that behaviour any time soon.

I quoted what Jim posted today for posterity because, as written word, it won’t be around for long even though its spirit and sentiment will remain. As he wrote, “… Like real life, there are no 2nd chances. Here and gone, that is the way of nature. Look now, taste now, jump now.. soon no more. Gone. MW is like that, like life, rapid, here and gone. No archives, no second chances ….”

This carpe diem approach to Life parallels my own, and only last evening I gave a related snippet of advice along those lines to another Esteemed Friend. You know who you are.

And the title of today’s piece? Well, that refers to a family encounter not long ago involving 4 year old Alyssa (Neice LFM) and our own Treasured garçon sauvage, SFM Viktor. We were all visiting Nana Izabella (Esteemed Mother of Mrs. LFM) who lives to photograph everything in range of her ever present camera, and on the day in question, had apparently been targeted by the Gods for a lesson in carpe diem.

Alyssa kissed Viktor on the head – in itself not an amazing or even remarkable thing – but Izabella noticed it while she was somehow, miraculously, without camera ready to hand. She immediately cried out in dismay, seized her camera (instead of the day) and asked Alyssa to repeat the scene.

Alyssa pointedly and resolutely declined, and when asked why replied, “Because it already happened.”

Thus endeth the lesson.

It is always with the greatest of joy that I greet every morning, just because of who I wake up next to, and today marks yet another reason to be both joyful and thankful – the anniversary of my incomparable Wife’s birth!

So to you, my Love and most powerful inspiration, there’s this. The happiest of birthdays from the happiest of Men!

You

The powers that sow entropy
Had nought a thing to do
With the forging of perfection
That I celebrate as you.

The rabble chase the dream of Love
Believing it their due.
The wise Man strives for worthiness
Of such a one as you.

Yesterday I had the brief, though always delightful, opportunity to converse with Debbie Scottcrnec (click here to read the origin of the name) whose husband Zac has the delightful propensity to buy her sharp pointy things as gifts. Zac follows us here, mostly because of his interest in the Blade Arts and what we have to say about them, but also because, not unlike his Wife, we’re all as cute as the dickens.

Anyway, Zac is a realtor hereabouts, and in a recent promotional video, had cause to reveal what he had given to his Wife for Christmas. Debbie promised to send me the link, and she was as good as her word. Now I’m sharing it with you. Enjoy!

Crown’s Law of Dirty Fighting: There IS no such thing as dirty fighting. There’s only fighting.
(Source: The Swordmaster’s Grimoire – http://classicalfencing.blogspot.ca/2013/08/fight-dirty.html)

To many a modern fencer, the “weapon” in hand is no weapon at all, but an instrument of athleticism no different and more deserving of noble regard  than a tennis racquet. In discussion with one who openly brings concepts of martial artistry into fencing practice, even accomplished fencers routinely ridicule any such idea as archaic and obsolete, and continue to ply techniques grown from generations of teachings that are finely honed for the scoring of “points” by those who know the continuation of a life, possibly their own, no longer stands on their very next move.

As long as all participants embrace this mindset, something that only approximates the True Arte of Fence will be seen in Olympic style competitions, but an approximation is all it will ever be – one undeserving of any claim to being representative of a true evolution for such would imply improvement by Natural selection. What has actually happened is quite the contrary. ~ To the Point

I hold many a sports fencer in high esteem, and acknowledge that a prime motivator of most to enter into that undeniably enjoyable and beneficial endeavour is an interest in historical swordplay. Yet one need not linger long in the company of sports fencers before losing all patience with the too often encountered casual encapsulation of the Truths presented by centuries of conflict with edged weapons in a few dismissive sentences intended to bring us forward to the “enlightenment” one sees on the fencing strips of today.

You’ve heard the bullshit: Duels between Gentlemen were always fought only to first blood, the designated target of the sports sabre is predicated on the “fact” that the horse and legs of a cavalryman were long ago declared off limits by the immutable Laws of Gentlemanly Conduct, and the fuller – that groove that runs down the length of many a blade (sword and otherwise) – is actually a “blood groove” without which a blade could never be retrieved from the enemy’s body due to the powerful effects of sheer suction. Something sucks about that latter argument – always one of my favourites – but it’s neither the blade nor the body it’s embedded in, and whenever this idiocy is spoken in my presence, I always offer to provide immediate proof of fact by demonstration, if you know what I mean. Akin to my response to those who tell me that presenting a weapon in self-defense is foolhardy on the grounds that my assailant will simply take it away and use it against me – I pull out a Sharpy marker, explaining that every mark on their, or my, body will represent a cut or puncture, and then invite them to show me.

I’m not alone in my sensibilities on this subject. For a student of the Blade, ruin awaits when the Truth of the Fight gets overlaid and confused with unverified claims of “fact”, wishful thinking, a partially digested understanding of what Gentlemanly deportment and Honour truly mean as they are wielded by real people in real world affairs, and how little any of that has to do with fighting.

I invite you to click here to read Master Adrian Crown’s piece on the subject of fighting, from which the image and quotation at the top of this piece were drawn, and then enjoy the video examples I have ever so carefully selected to support today’s sentiment.

The first is presented by the inimitable, authoritative, and marvelously outspoken  Matt Easton of Schola Gladiatoria who has a Youtube Channel you all should follow. You will find the article he’s referring to here.

Next is a fight scene from Game of Thrones in which the character of Bronn steps forward to champion Tyrion Lannister after his election of trial by combat. To set the tone, Tyrion’s crimes are recounted here.

Being hampered in his fighting ability in a structured combat by his small stature, and the expectation that the fight must be on the enemy’s terms – never a good deal to accept – Tyrion is more than glad to accept Bronn’s kind offer, the outcome of which follows. Harken ye to the final words spoken at the end of the scene.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Asatru-World/190333604343004

It was Jim Keating who brought this wondrously bloodthirsty ditty to my attention this morning, so thanks to him I’m sharing it with you, including the lyrics so you can sing right along if so inclined. Only 18 years old (as of publication), New Zealander Lorde (AKA Ella Maria Lani Yelich-O’Connor) is hitting ALL the right notes, in my opinion. She can come raiding with us any time.

“Storytelling has a special place in indigenous culture.  It’s a cultural torch passed from one generation to another, and from it flows teachings, lessons, and continuity.  Storytelling is a powerful force for cultural survival and it can be many things – funny, profound, educational, a force of resistance, and a tool of reconciliation.” ~ Shelagh’s extended conversation with Thomas King and Leanne Simpson, The Next Chapter with Shelagh Rogers

I embraced storytelling myself, in my own way, in early childhood, and as an adult it is from that foundation that my own writing springs. It was back then that I realized the power of words. How, once woven into a story, words could change the mind, the mindset, and alter the feelings of another person simply through their juxtaposition, choosing one word over another, or the mere placement of a comma. In their mastery lay the magickal power to touch individuals or multitudes at a distance, for many a year, for good or ill.

But my own stories don’t come through me to my audience on a thread that winds its way back to the beginning of my people, at places now tattered and all but severed by the persistent actions of others who would rather those stories never be told, and the ones that have been told, forgotten. My stories, however much I may need to tell them, are not a cornerstone of my cultural identity.

Yesterday I was enthralled by a CBC broadcast that is the point of today’s piece – Shelagh Rogers in conversation with Storytellers Thomas King and Leanne Betasamosake Simpson. Set aside an uninterrupted 45 minutes and 20 seconds, click here, and give it a listen.

The Noble Haggis arrives at the banquet table of the Royal Burgess Golfing Society in Edinburgh, Scotland on Jan. 24, 2013. (Source: http://www.cbc.ca/news/world/haggis-related-bomb-scare-inspires-poem-1.2510524

On the subject of that famous Christmas confection called fruitcake, Johnny Carson once said, “The worst gift is fruitcake. There is only one fruitcake in the entire world, and people keep sending it to each other.”

He appears to have had little of the sort to say of The Haggis, and that was wise of him, for though the fruitcake is tradition, The Haggis is holy.

Tonight, wherever Scottish feet have trod (and what place worth being would openly claim otherwise?), The Haggis will be paraded ceremoniously to the accompaniment of The Pipes, its arrival and presentation toasted by kilted and scotch soaked diners at banquet tables all over the world. Poems and songs have been written of its spicy splendour, christened, “Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!” by none other than the Bard of Scotland Robert Burns himself, whose day of nativity everyone worth knowing remembers on this date in the rolling year.

And though the splendour that is The Haggis be immortalized in poetry by Burns in his Address to a Haggis, the sheer perfection of which you can read here complete with translation for those who don’t imbibe, The Noble Puddin’ has recently shown itself discontented to remain a part of history in favour of making it.

I once knew a man – a member of no less august body than the Royal Canadian Mounted Police – who one day found himself dispossessed of the ability to tell the difference between eating fish and chips and being dead – a development of such strangeness as to have previously provoked me to write of it here. Yet even that has been far surpassed by the day a few years agone on which a Haggis by MacSween took it upon itself to convince security at Birmingham Airport, UK, that it was, in fact, made of plastic explosive. The bearer of The Haggis, one Mr. Ian Blake – himself a poet and writer of some note – was himself provoked by the incident to write his own post-script to Address to a Haggis.

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation has the facts of the case, at least insofar as The Haggis has let them be known, and I invite you to listen as the rippin’ yarn unfolds by clicking here!

Sir Richard Francis Burton in a portrait painted in 1875 by Frederick Leighton (1830-1896). Said Burton to Leighton, “Don’t make me look ugly, there’s a good fellow.”

Do what thy manhood bids thee do,
From none but self expect applause;
He noblest lives and noblest dies
Who makes and keeps his self-made laws.

~ Sir Richard Francis Burton ~

If you’ve never heard of Sir Richard Francis Burton (1821-1890), then you have been denied exposure to one of the greatest minds in history; and if there was ever a Man deserving of the capitalization of that word, it was him. An Englishman of the Victorian Imperial period, renowned Swordsman, prolific Author, Speaker of a plethora of languages to a point of competency that permitted him to pass as a native in places where to be identified otherwise meant instant death, Burton never achieved the notoriety one would expect his accomplishments to attract. At least not the kind of notoriety that word is usually employed to describe.

Talented though he was, Burton’s interests were so broad and free ranging as to represent one of the many reasons that kept him from the fame and fortune he always craved, but that remained forever out of his reach. He had a fierce interest in the people rather than the Princes of the places he travelled through, and his methods included immersing himself among them – living, dressing, speaking, eating, and yes, fucking – as they did. His propensity to “go native” was bad enough to the Victorian mind, but it was his decidedly un-Victorian approach to sex, and the lore thereof (to which he typically contributed), that attached itself to him in the minds of those whose opinions and associations could affect his access to fame and fortune.

Today I intend to expose you, dear reader, to this more earthy side of Sir Richard Francis Burton.

Welcome to the entertainingly ribald 2008 documentary starring Actor Rupert Everett, and aptly titled The Victorian Sex Explorer. Just click play and enjoy the ride, so to speak. (more…)

I wrote this for fun one night last week, while sitting in bed talking to Mrs. LFM during the nightly ritual of feeding the SFM before we all go down for the duration. I read it to her, and at her insistence, present it here.

Swaddling is an age old practice dating far back before the advent of duct tape. For those who have never read the New Testament of The Bible, swaddling involves wrapping an infant in fabric, say a suitably sized blanket, to prevent free movement of the arms and/or legs. While it might sound like something between baby bondage and a straitjacket to some, believe me, free movement of the arms in a creature for whom their activity is driven more by random firing of neurons than anything resembling intention, is a fast ticket to zero rest for infant and parents. Five minutes down and BANG! The kid’s awake and crying because something just punched them in the eye, and they look like they’ve been in a cat fight. In truth, until development decrees otherwise, babies exist in a perpetual state resembling alien hand syndrome.

Until, through familiarity, the baby comes to associate the practice with the pre-bed ritual, there will usually be resistance – and by that I mean screaming of the sort that is best described as proto-swearing. This limerick is the story of Juan, whose Mother attempts to implement an artistic, although unsuccessful, approach to swaddling. Maybe he’ll grow up to be an art critic.

There is a wee baby named Juan,
Who cries when his swaddle is on,
Though the skills of his Mammy
Include origami.
And his bedroll resembles a Swan.

If ’tis a wee bit o’ th’ attitude that needs adjustin’, the traditional Irish shillelagh will make sauce o’ yer head. Faith an’ begorrah it’d take a powerful blender to make a sauce o’ one tho’. Cut me t’roat, rip me liver if oim tellin’ a loy.

Mrs. LFM and I are fans of the Old Triangle Irish Alehouse in Halifax and have enjoyed their food and drink many times. On one visit a while back, an item on the menu caught my eye that apparently came served with their celebrated “shillelagh sauce”. Now I couldn’t let that pass me by, so when our server came back to take our order I asked if the shillelagh sauce was made with real shillelaghs.

Bless her heart, without skipping a beat, she looked me in the eye and said, “Oh yes, all our food is made with the freshest ingredients.”

A fine place it is! Highly recommended, especially if you don’t have to drive afterward.