American Fez

After His Fashion

Writing a book about John Cowper Powys is an undertaking somewhat akin to grappling with Grendel's mother when it's her "time of the month."  He is a literary monster whose reputation currently dwells in what might as well be an undersea cave. But Tim Blanchard is taking the plunge with Powysland: The Greatest Author You've Never Heard Of

Powysland is an appropriate title, since Powys' does seem to inhabit his own peculiar landscape, whether he is writing about Weymouth or Wales or outer space. And it's not just the projection of his own inner landscape: his is a world where every clod of earth has its private myth and legend, where chthonic energies fidget and fart behind every hedgerow, where character enjoy names such as "Jobber Skald," and there are pretty girls, too. 

It's a cliche to claim Powys had the demeanor of an Old Testament prophet, but he undoubtedly did, and he wrote like he looked. We are talking big novels here, lengthy reads requiring commitment and staying power, which is exactly what any book worth reading should do. And even within the library of big books, Powys is certainly an acquired taste, a fine cognac, or possibly mead might be a more appropriate analogy, and so all the more richer an experience for that.

When I first encountered Powys, walloped on the head by a paperback copy of Wolf Solent that I bought because I liked the cover, most of his books were hard to find. Copies were either falling to pieces in the darkest recesses of a remote used bookstore or newly published as a prohibitively expensive hardback from a mail-order only distributor. Nevertheless, I tried to read whatever of the Powysian oeuvre I could lay my hands on, until I came across a copy of The Inmates, which I couldn't finish. But my family Bible-sized copy of A Glastonbury Romance still gives pleasure. And I dip a mental toe into Porius' rippling depths from time to time, because it is a dark and frightening lake with a powerful undercurrent and I can't be sure my poor brain is strong enough to endure a full swim anymore.

At any rate, the last book I read about Powys was called The Magical Quest or some such thing. An academic tome, it was heavy going, it's fair to say, at least for a casual reader like me. So I'm looking forward to Powysland - John Cowper will get the popular treatment he deserves, and even a dunce like me might be inspired to fully submerge my mind and its cognitive minions in Porius at last.

 

Thrill of the Chase

I've thrown myself into numerous short-lived interests over the years.

Marine Engineering, Oriental History, Vegetarianism, the Nobility of the Gold Standard, the Art of the Cobbler. All these interests and more have been stalked by my insatiable desire to possess their salient facts and lavish my own interpretation upon them.

In fact, it's probably truer to say I've thrown myself at those interests, rather like a desperately indiscriminate Romeo fabricating an all consuming love within himself for a wholly unsuitable paramour. 

At the beginning of our relationship, I go to the library and borrow a few books on whatever interest I'm currently admiring from afar. Nothing serious, just your typical first date reading material: a basic overview and a few critical studies of the interest. Then, about a week later, I'll move onto the weightier tomes, a self-proclaimed expert already reviewing the work of lesser commentators, well prepared to publicly dispute any two-bit academic presumptuous enough to lecture on my adored interest and host a Q&A session afterwards.

But, alas, the bloom falls from the rose as quickly as it appears. My current inamorato, the Art of Renaissance Italy, say, is brusquely abandoned in favor of a fresh, new interest with more exciting charms. Water-skiing, for example.

And this Lotharian pattern continues, ad infinitum. Computer Science. Hand-Loom Weaving. Egyptian Hieroglyphs. Just three more notches on the bedpost next to my reading lamp. 

For some reason, however, my love for the practice of Meditation always remains unrequited. "It's not me, it's you," I'm told.

My Cocoon

Every morning I awake to a new madness in the world.

Well, at least it seems that way from listening to the news media; from reading outraged remarks on Facebook; from overhearing gloomy prognostications and observing the wringing of hands arounds the water cooler at work. Hell is empty, apparently, and all the Devils are indeed here. 

Yet my own life actually progresses in relative peace and quiet. In fact, it's an enjoyable and rewarding experience. There is the odd dark cloud from time to time, the occasional screech of brakes in the distance, an angry shout from the next street over every now and then.

But these are only minor disturbances. If were to avoid all media I could readily be persuaded that planet Earth is a green and pleasant globe spinning in eternal serenity, that all peoples upon it smile and wave like characters in a cartoon children's book, and that the lion lies down with the lamb and the rhinoceros as well.

I am very lucky to lie this way, obviously. Sometimes I think I can not only walk under ladders with impunity, but can also balance those ladders on my head while juggling three black cats with an upside down horseshoe dangling from each ear. Not that I would, of course. I know enough not to tread on Lady Luck's feet when she's leading.

Meanwhile, the sun will rise again tomorrow. We can only hope all the maniacs out there died in their sleep. Amen.

Till Excel Spreadsheets Wake Us And We Frown

My attempt to return to some sort of semblance of a daily routine after vacationing on the Amalfi Coast is thwarted by instant nostalgia for the time spent in Italy.

Distant cruise ships disappearing into the gleaming mediterranean sea; whitewashed cottages perched upon cliffs that climb into a sky of cloudless blue; rows and rows of lemon groves; bougainvillea and witchnails; narrow cobbled streets and echoing church bells.

Time stands still, obviously, and holds on to the back of your subconscious. How easy it is, gazing at the Sireneuse bathed by hazy sun, to not only believe in the old myths but also confabulate your own. 

Which is why I'm daydreaming of slaying the pinstriped Medusa who stalks this office and whose baleful stare turns my inner life to stone.