Showing posts with label Luke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Luke. Show all posts

Friday, 4 January 2019

Nothing's Really Left or Lost Without a Trace - Nothing's Gone Forever Only Out of Place


Nothing's Really Left or Lost Without a Trace - Nothing's Gone Forever Only Out of Place

KAYDEL KO CONNIX: 
Our distress signal's been received at multiple points, but no response.

LARMA D'ACY:  
They've heard us, but no one's coming.

LEIA
We fought till the end. 
But the galaxy has lost all its Hope. 
The spark is out. 


Luke. 
I know what you're gonna say - I changed my hair.

LUKE: 
It's nice that way. 
Leia, I'm sorry.

LEIA: 
I know. I know you are. 
I'm just glad you're here. 

At The End.

LUKE: 
I came to face him, Leia. 
And I can't save him.

LEIA: 
I held out Hope for so long -
But I know my son is gone.

LUKE: 
No one's ever really gone.

C-3PO: 
Master Luke.



POE: 
 It's Kylo Ren. Luke's facing him alone.

FINN: 
Well, we should help him. Let's go.

POE: 
No, wait. Wait.

KYLO REN: 
Did you come back to say you forgive me? 
To save my soul?

LUKE: 
No.

POE: 
He's doing this for a reason. 
He's stalling so we can escape.

FINN: 
Escape? He's one man against an army. 

He's not, actually – 
He's One Man against Less than one man :

One Man, One ManBoyChild's 
Monomaniacal Nihilistic Obsession

and Luke intends to give CryLow exactly what he wants.....


We have to help him, we have to fight.

POE: 
No, no. We are The Spark that'll light The Fire 
that will burn the First Order down. 

Skywalker's doing this so we can survive.
There's gotta be a way out of this mine. 
Hell, how did he get in here?


Wrong Question 
(as it turns out)
Completely irrelevant and immaterial

(See What I Did, There?)

Because Luke's apparition of the image of
THE LEGENDARY LUKE SKYWALKER, Jedi Master
inside the fence, behind the barricades of the redoubt
did not require there to be any means of gaining physical entrance 
through the worked-out and abandoned caverns of the mine -

There wasn't one until Poe began believing that there must somehow be one, somewhere (and so led the Rebel survivors in an earnest and determined search effort to find it)

and

in working through from The Other End of The Problem, 
Please Call Me Rey acted on her earnest belief that her endangered friends, who were trapped and backed into a corner, looking for a way out, would succeed, would make it to the back door, at the . conclusion of their passage under The Mountain 

C-3PO: 
Sir, it is possible that a natural unmapped opening exists. 
But this facility is such a maze of endless tunnels that the odds of finding an exit are 15,428....

POE: 
Shh. Shush. Hush. 
Shush up. Shut up!

C-3PO: 
...to one.

POE:
Listen.

C-3PO: 
My audio sensors no longer detect the....

POE: 
Exactly.

FINN: 
Where'd the crystal critters go?

ANY MAN WHO WOULD BE A KNIGHT 
AND FOLLOW A KING -

POE: 
Follow me.

LEIA: 
What are you looking at me for? 
Follow him.


THE LEGENDARY LUKE SKYWALKER, 
Jedi Master : 
I failed you, Ben. I'm sorry.

KYLO REN: 
I'm sure you are! 

The Resistance is Dead
The War is over
And when I kill you, 

I will have killed The Last Jedi.

THE LEGENDARY LUKE SKYWALKER, 
Jedi Master : 

Amazing. 

Every word of what you just said was wrong.

The Rebellion is reborn today. 
The war is just beginning. 
And I will not be the last Jedi.

KYLO REN: 
I'll destroy her, and you, and all of it.

THE LEGENDARY LUKE SKYWALKER, 
Jedi Master : 
No - Strike Me Down in Anger 
and
I'll always be with you. 

Just like Your Father.


KYLO REN: 
No.


THE LEGENDARY LUKE SKYWALKER, 
Jedi Master: 
See you around, kid.

KYLO REN: 
No!

Do you ever lie
Awake at night
Just between the dark
And the morning light
Searching for the things
You used to know
Looking for the place
Where the lost things go

Do you ever dream
Or reminisce
Wondering where to find
What you truly miss
Well maybe all those things
That you love so
Are waiting in the place
Where the lost things go

Memories you've shed
Gone for good you feared
They're all around you still
Though they've disappeared
Nothing's really left
Or lost without a trace
Nothing's gone forever
Only out of place

So maybe now the dish
And my best spoon
Are playing hide and seek
Just behind the moon
Waiting there until
It's time to show
Spring is like that now
Far beneath the snow
Hiding in the place
Where the lost things go

Time to close your eyes
So sleep can come around
For when you dream you'll find
All that's lost is found
Maybe on the moon
Or maybe somewhere new

Maybe all you're missing lives inside of you
So when you need her touch
And loving gaze
Gone but not forgotten
Is the perfect phrase

Smiling from a star
That she makes glow
Trust she's always there
Watching as you grow
Find her in the place
Where the lost things go

The Fiction-Suit














“IT IS NOT TOO FAR-FETCHED TO PREDICT THAT SOME DAY OUR VERY OWN PLANET MAY BE PEOPLED ENTIRELY BY SUPERMEN!” Joe Shuster assured us back in 1938, but comic-book reality predicts developments in our own in many other ways. 

What we construct in our imaginations, we have a knack of building or discovering. We may not have flying men or invulnerable women racing among us, but we now have access to supertechnologies that once existed only in comic-book stories. “Mother Boxes,” empathic personal computers like the ones in Jack Kirby’s Fourth World story cycle, are already here in embryonic form. 

Is the soothing contact offered by the Mother Box so different from the instant connection that a cell phone provides? 

Twenty-four-hour access to friends, family, and the buzz of constant social exchange can make us feel cocooned and safe in a reportedly hostile world. 

In many cases, Mother herself can be summoned on the Box. 

Metron was Kirby’s avatar of ruthless, questing intellect, whose Mobius Chair twisted through time and space to make him the god of couch potatoes, surfing channels, gathering information, without ever leaving the comfort of his armchair. Metron’s magic furniture seems less a wonder of supertechnology than a fact of daily life. 

As Kirby tried to tell us in his book of the same name, we are the new gods, just as we are the old ones, too. There is already technology that allows people to drive remote-controlled cars with their minds. What’s to stop someone becoming Auto-Man, the Human Car? Secretly, he sits in his room, munching Maltesers at his computer screen, while he listlessly pilots his incredible RV supercar around town to save lives and fight the crime that ordinary police cars just aren’t fast enough to handle. In so many ways, we’re already superhuman. Being extraordinary is so much a part of our heritage as human beings that we often overlook what we’ve done and how very unique it all is. We have made machines to extend our physical reach and the reach of our senses, allowing us to peer into the depths of space and outer time. Our cameras and receivers allow us to see across the entire electromagnetic spectrum. We can slow down, freeze, and accelerate time on our screens. We can study and manipulate microscopic worlds, print our names on single atoms, analyze soil on Mars, and observe the rings of Saturn at close range. Our voices and our photographic records of everything we’ve seen are carried at the speed of light on an expanding bubble of radio, into the infinite. Television broadcasts of the first moon landing are still traveling, growing fainter as the waves spread out. If you had a powerful enough receiver and a TV on a planet forty light-years from here, you could watch Neil Armstrong take his first step on mankind’s behalf and hear our silly, hopeful summer 1969 songs. Our space machines are the remote physical tendrils of our species launched across gulfs of nothing to land on other worlds or to travel, gathering data until the signal fades, or until there’s no one left to listen. These ultimate extensions of human senses thread our awareness into the absolute freezing dark 10.518 billion miles from where you’re sitting. As I write, that’s how far Voyager 1, humanity’s farthest-reaching finger, has extended. Launched in 1977, it remains connected to its home world by radio and by the silver thread of its passage through time from launchpad to interstellar void. Individual humans are not super, but the organism of which we are all tiny cellular parts is most certainly that. The life-form that’s so big we forget it’s there, that turns minerals on its planet into tools to touch the infinite black gap between stars or probe the obliterating pressures at the bottom of the oceans. We are already part of a superbeing, a monster, a god, a living process that is so all encompassing that it is to an individual life what water is to fish. We are cells in the body of a singular three-billion-year-old life-form whose roots are in the Precambrian oceans and whose genetic wiring extends through the living structures of everything on the planet, connecting everything that has ever lived in one immense nervous system. The superheroes may have their greatest value in a future where real superhuman beings are searching for role models. When the superhumans of tomorrow step dripping from their tanks, they could do much worse than to look to Superman for guidance. Superhero comics may yet find a purpose all along as the social realist fiction of tomorrow. Superhero science has taught me this: Entire universes fit comfortably inside our skulls. Not just one or two but endless universes can be packed into that dark, wet, and bony hollow without breaking it open from the inside. The space in our heads will stretch to accommodate them all. The real doorway to the fifth dimension was always right here. Inside. That infinite interior space contains all the divine, the alien, and the unworldly we’ll ever need. To find out what higher dimensions might look like, all we have to do is study the relationship between our 3-D world and the 2-D comics. A 4-D creature could look “down” on us through our walls, our clothes, even our skeletons. Our world would be a Cubist X-ray, and perhaps even our thoughts might be laid bare to their gaze. As comics readers gazing down from a higher dimension perpendicular to the page surface, we can actually peer inside characters’ thoughts with balloons or captions that provide running commentary. We can also control time in a comics universe. We can stop on page 12 and look back to page 5 to check a story point we missed. The characters themselves continue to act out their own dramas in the same linear sequence, oblivious to our shifting perspective. They can go back in time only with the help of supermachines, like the Flash’s cosmic treadmill, but we can look at 1938 Superman next to 1999 Superman without colliding the two stories anywhere but in our heads. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby could send drawn versions of themselves into the created world of Fantastic Four, and those little drawings of Stan and Jack were like angels, UFOs, avatars from a higher universe, entering a world they’d made to interact with its inhabitants. 

They created, as I came to call them, “fiction suits,” like space suits for sending yourself into stories. 

The comics page depicted the flow of a different kind of digital time, expressed in discrete images, each of which captured a single visual moment and usually a snippet of audio time in the form of a balloon-dialogue exchange. The comics page, like the movie screen, took us through a story in a straight, linear progression from past read to present reading and future completion, but the comics page was a more personal and intimate interface than the cinema screen. It lacked the intimidating luster of the movies, and the images could be slowed down, rewound, fast-forwarded, and studied in detail. They could even be copied, traced, or improved upon, making this an ideal DIY medium for the imaginative and reasonably gifted. The pace of a film or television show was dictated by its director. The comics allowed its reader to direct his or her own experience of the story. And now there were two healthy universes living and growing inside our own. The DC universe was a series of islands separated for years, suddenly discovering one another and setting up trade routes. And there was Marvel’s beautifully orchestrated growth and development. Two living virtual worlds had been grown and nurtured inside conventional space-time. These were not like closed continua with beginnings, middles, and ends; the fictional “universe” ran on certain repeating rules but could essentially change and develop beyond the intention of its creators. It was an evolving, learning, cybernetic system that could reproduce itself into the future using new generations of creators who would be attracted like worker bees to serve and renew the universe. Just as generations of aboriginal artists have taken it upon themselves to repaint the totems, so too does the enchanted environment of the comic-book dreamtime replicate itself through time. A superhero universe will change in order to remain viable and stay alive. As long as the signs stay constant—the trademark S shields and spiderweb patterns, and the copyrighted hero names—everything else can bend and adapt to the tune of the times. These characters were like twelve-bar blues or other chord progressions. Given the basic parameters of Batman, different creators could play very different music. This meant interesting work could be done by writers and artists who knew what they were getting into and were happy to add their own little square to a vast patchwork quilt of stories that would outlast their lives. In return for higher page rates and royalties, of course. The parasitic relationship of universe to creator that saw the rebellions of people like Siegel and Shuster or Jack Kirby had become a little more symbiotic; following changes in the business in the eighties, creative people adding to the DC or Marvel universe would be ripped off with a little more reward on the back end. In this respect, a thriving fictional universe simulates the behavior of a “real” organism, but only as far as you wish to follow me down this path of conjecture. Nevertheless, human beings had built working parallel realities. Given market value as corporate trademarks, the inhabitants of these functioning microcosms could be self-sustaining and outlast their creators. New trademarks could be grown in the concept farms of fictional universes under the auspices of the corporate concerns that kept them under control, maintaining, trimming, and looking after their burgeoning gardens of newsprint and ink. Most important, they had acolytes: priests in the form of creative types such as artists who would grow up with a strange desire to draw Superman in motion and writers who would form early bonds that encouraged them to devote their talents to putting words in the mouths of characters they’d grown up with. These creative people would sustain the likes of Spider-Man, dripping their blood and sweat into the ink to give their lives to him. Batman could regularly feed on energy that kept him vital for another ten or fifteen years until the next transfusion of meaning. Emergence is a simple idea. The universe is the way it is because it grew that way. It emerged piece by piece, like a jigsaw solving itself over billions of years of trial and error. When atoms stuck together, they naturally formed molecules. Molecules naturally grouped into compounds. People naturally formed tribal associations that made them look much bigger to predators from a distance, and as a result of clumping together and swapping experiences, they naturally developed specialization and created a shared culture or collective higher intelligence. Everybody’s heard writers talk about a moment in the process of writing a novel or story when “it was as if the characters took over.” 

I can confirm from my own experience that immersion in stories and characters does reach a point where the fiction appears to take on a life of its own. 

When a character becomes sufficiently fleshed out and complex, he or she can often cause the author to abandon original well-laid plans in favor of new plotlines based on a better understanding of the character’s motivations. 

When I was halfway through the seven-year process of writing The Invisibles, I found several characters actively resisting directions I’d planned for them. 

It was a disorienting, fascinating experience, and I eventually had to give in and let the story lead me to places I might not have chosen to go. 

How could a story come to life? 


It seemed ridiculous, but it occurred to me that perhaps, like a beehive or a sponge colony, I’d put enough information into my model world to trigger emergent complexity. 

[ "Ray, the sponges migrated about a foot-and-a-half..." ]

I wondered if ficto-scientists of the future might finally locate this theoretical point where a story becomes sufficiently complex to begin its own form of calculation, and even to become in some way self-aware. 

[ There is Another Theory, 
Which States That ... ]


Perhaps that had already happened. 


If this was true of The Invisibles, then might it not apply more so to the truly epic, long-running superhero universes? 




Marvel and DC have roots that run seventy years deep. 

Could they actually have a kind of elementary awareness, a set of programs that define their rules and maintain their basic shapes while allowing for development, complexity, and, potentially, some kind of rudimentary consciousness? I imagined a sentient paper universe and decided I would try to contact it.


•••••••


One of the biggest and most significant achievements of the Green Lantern/ Green Arrow series was its introduction of race issues into the comics in an unprecedented way. A heavily praised scene from 1970’ s Green Lantern/ Green Arrow no. 76, the provocative opening chapter of the O’Neil and Adams run, drew the blood of the times with razor precision and was often cited as an example of a fresh willingness to engage with real-world issues in serial superhero fiction. 

After rescuing the tenants of a tenement block from a fire orchestrated by the unscrupulous landlord, Green Lantern, and by extension the whole Silver Age of superheroes, was called to account in no uncertain terms by an elderly black man who turned out to be less than impressed with our hero’s showy antics and had this to say: 

“I BEEN READIN’ ABOUT YOU … HOW YOU WORK FOR THE BLUE SKINS … AND HOW ON A PLANET SOMEPLACE YOU HELPED OUT THE ORANGE SKINS … AND YOU DONE CONSIDERABLE FOR THE PURPLE SKINS! ONLY THERE’S SKINS YOU NEVER BOTHERED WITH … THE BLACK SKINS! I WANT TO KNOW … HOW COME?! ANSWER ME THAT, GREEN LANTERN!” 

(For the first time in DC superhero comics, black people actually looked black and not like the traditional white men colored brown or loose-lipped caricatures that were more common. Adams’s photographic accuracy left no doubt as to the ethnicity of his characters. Italians, Orientals, Native Americans—all were given respect, dignity, and convincing bone structures by Adams’s talent and sense of inclusion.) 

In any real world where the laws of physics and some interstellar immortal judiciary permitted his existence, Green Lantern’s response would be all our responses to the same accusation: “I’VE BEEN SAVING THE ENTIRE PLANET EARTH AND EVERY LIVING THING ON IT, REGARDLESS OF RACE, COLOR, POLITICAL AFFILIATION OR SPECIES, SINCE GREEN LANTERN ISSUE NUMBER 1!” 

Instead he hung his head in shame as O’Neil subverted believability to hammer home his powerful indictment of the superhero’s role as weapon of the status quo and the ruling elite. 

Green Lantern’s sudden awareness of people suffering below the poverty line may seem almost farcical, but we can also choose to view the Lantern as a representation of the typical white-middle-class young reader and to see in the politically engaged Green Arrow a “fiction suit” for mouthpiece for O’Neil, using his art to open a few young eyes to some important facts of life. 


Changing values have lent a hollow ring to O’Neil’s sermonizing, but in May 1970, when the only nonwhite face in a DC comic belonged to the “glowing silhouette” character Negative Man, this felt like a challenging and provocative call to arms—a timely demand for the paper universes of DC and Marvel to acknowledge the human diversity of the real world in which they continued to grow and develop. 

The following issue was no less controversial, as O’Neal-Adams introduced a new substitute Green Lantern in the form of “Square” John Stewart, a black, inner-city architect with a chip on his shoulder, whose first mission was to protect a racist presidential candidate. 

This led to some slightly predictable but always amusing fun at the expense of “whitey.” The potential for tokenism was there, but Stewart was a strong character and has survived to the present day as a popular Green Lantern Corps member. 

As the acting Green Lantern in the turn-of-the-century Justice League animated shows, he reached a wider audience, on television, than any of his predecessors. Stewart was DC’s first out-and-proud African American superhero. 

Marvel, ahead of the curve on most things, had already introduced its Black Panther character in 1966, and by 1973 he was starring in his own title. 

Jungle Action, written by the radical Don McGregor (more about him later), and drawn by Billy Graham, a talented young black artist, became infamous for a controversial 1976–79 extended story line, “The Panther vs. the Clan,” which landed McGregor in hot water with the right wing. 

The undeniable dignity and majesty of the Panther (T’Challa, the proud king of Wakanda, a wealthy, culturally rich, and technologically advanced Marvel universe African nation that was as far from the stereotypical image of mud huts and scrawny goatherds as could be imagined in the sixties), was only marginally compromised by his failure to represent; T’Challa wore a full black body suit with a hood that covered his entire face. 

The completely masked black-hero trick was copied and improved upon to gruesome effect and great success decades later in Todd McFarlane’s Spawn comic and its associated transmedia spin-offs, but without the taboo-smashing impact of the Black Panther and John Stewart. 

Aiming a wink in the direction of the Black Panther’s modesty, John Stewart made a show of ditching his Green Lantern Corps domino mask in the panel after he received it: “I WON’T WEAR ANY MASK! THIS BLACK MAN LETS IT ALL HANG OUT! I GOT NOTHING TO HIDE!” 

After architect Stewart tore down the barriers, Marvel revved up the relevance bandwagon with its own next-level take on the Green Lantern/ Green Arrow formula, teaming Captain America with a flying Harlem social worker who fought injustice as the Falcon.


 June 1972’ s Hero for Hire introduced blaxploitation hero Luke Cage, aka Power Man, whose dialogue bowdlerized urban argot into Marvel universe–friendly oaths like “SWEET CHRISTMAS!” “MOTHER!” and “JIVE TURKEY!” Cage was a rough-and-tumble enforcer with steel-hard skin and the semipermanent grimace of the framed and wrongly accused. 

He wore a length of chain around his waist to remind us of history’s cruelties but soon outgrew his origins to develop as a rich and enduring character, still central to the ongoing Marvel story decades past Shaft and Jim Kelly.



••••••


I’d already contrived to meet Animal Man in his own environment, creating with the help of artist Chaz Truog what I came to call a “fiction suit.” 

This was a way of “descending,” as I saw it, into the 2-D world, where I could interact directly with the inhabitants of the DC universe on their own terms, in the form of a drawing. 

I wanted to take that direct contact idea further, to explore the interface between fact and fiction in a more personally involving way. 


I wondered if I could arrange an exchange that would affect my life and real world as profoundly as it would the paper world.


••••


Friday, 28 December 2018

Reynard Muldrake


Luke 13:32

“And he said unto them, Go ye, and tell that fox, Behold, I cast out devils, and I do cures to day and to morrow, and the third day I shall be perfected.” 

King James Version (KJV)






Fox : 

In many national traditions (French "Renard," English "Reynard," German "Reineke") an animal symbolizing cunning and trickery

Its reddish coat is suggestive of FIRE, which places it (like the lynx and even the SQUIRREL) among the DEVIL'S followers. 






In ancient Rome it was a fire demon; at the feast of the goddess Ceres, foxes were chased through the fields with burning TORCHES on their tails to ward off grain fires. 


A starfish painted with fox's BLOOD was nailed to the door to combat evil spells. 

Foxes (as in ancient China) were believed to be especially lecherous, and thus their testicles, ground up in WINE, a foolproof aphrodisiac; a foxtail, worn on the arm, was supposed to be sexually arousing



In Norse myth the fox was the symbolic animal of the trickster Loki . (The coyote plays a corresponding role in the myths of Native Americans.) 



Foxes were important Asian symbols of eroticism and the art of seduction: it was believed in ancient China that foxes (hu-li) first lived for a thousand years and then, endowed with NINE tails, could develop special powers of seduction. 

Spirits rode on foxes. 

Although fox-women never changed their clothing, it always remained clean; they are incredibly seductive, and their unbridled sexual demands can steal the life-force of the men who succumb to them. 

In ancient Japan the vulpine spirits that can transform themselves into humans- "werefoxes," we might say-were called Iwki teno. 

They possessed the ability to dazzle humans, mislead and corrupt them; they functioned like WITCHES (who can however appear in other forms) and were to be burned and their ASHES scattered over RIVERS. 

But the fox does not have uniformly negative associations in Japan. 

The rice god Inari rode a WHITE fox, and stone or wooden foxes, each with a sacred scroll or the key to paradise in its mouth, often stand beside the TORII of Inari's shrines. 

The tip of the fox's tail also often bears the symbol for "jewel of happiness." Shooting STARS are called "sky foxes" in Japanese. 

Generally speaking, the animal's symbolic significance is predominantly negative. 

In Durer's "Virgin Mary with Many Animals," we see a fox, tethered, apparently in reference to satanic associations. 



Foxes, however, are occasionally attributes of saints (e.g., St. Boniface, St. Genou), even though in Biblical usage they are the embodiment Foxes stealing geese, of trickery and malice. 

Many languages contain proverbial references to a fox preaching to geese (see GOOSE)- a crafty sermon in the fox's own interest-and "the fox" is sometimes subst ituted for "the devil." 

In Grimmelshausen's Simplicissimus, to "foxtail" someone is to flatter him or her insincerely. 

Medieval bestiaries also express a negative view of Reynard as a crafty deceiver: 

"When he is hungry and finds nothing to eat, he burrows in reddish soil so that he looks as if he were spattered with blood, then drops to the ground and holds his breath. The birds see him lying there, (apparently) covered with blood, his tongue hanging out, and they believe he is dead. They come to rest upon him, and the fox catches and eats them. The devil acts in the same way: to the living, he pretends to be dead, until he can get them in his jaws and devour them"

 [Unterkircher]. 


"On shields or in coats of arms in general the fox represents shrewd cunning, and those who so display him usually have this quality, both in reputation and in fact" [Bbckler]

Tuesday, 25 December 2018

Reynard Muldrake


Luke 13:32

“And he said unto them, Go ye, and tell that fox, Behold, I cast out devils, and I do cures to day and to morrow, and the third day I shall be perfected.” 

King James Version (KJV)






Fox : 

In many national traditions (French "Renard," English "Reynard," German "Reineke") an animal symbolizing cunning and trickery. 

Its reddish coat is suggestive of FIRE, which places it (like the lynx and even the SQUIRREL) among the DEVIL'S followers. 

In ancient Rome it was a fire demon; at the feast of the goddess Ceres, foxes were chased through the fields with burning TORCHES on their tails to ward off grain fires. 



A starfish painted with fox's BLOOD was nailed to the door to combat evil spells. 

Foxes (as in ancient China) were believed to be especially lecherous, and thus their testicles, ground up in WINE, a foolproof aphrodisiac; a foxtail, worn on the arm, was supposed to be sexually arousing. 

In Norse myth the fox was the symbolic animal of the trickster Loki . (The coyote plays a corresponding role in the myths of Native Americans.) 

Foxes were important Asian symbols of eroticism and the art of seduction: it was believed in ancient China that foxes (hu-li) first lived for a thousand years and then, endowed with NINE tails, could develop special powers of seduction. 

Spirits rode on foxes. 

Although fox-women never changed their clothing, it always remained clean; they are incredibly seductive, and their unbridled sexual demands can steal the life-force of the men who succumb to them. 

In ancient Japan the vulpine spirits that can transform themselves into humans- "werefoxes," we might say-were called Iwki teno. 

They possessed the ability to dazzle humans, mislead and corrupt them; they functioned like WITCHES (who can however appear in other forms) and were to be burned and their ASHES scattered over RIVERS. 

But the fox does not have uniformly negative associations in Japan. 

The rice god Inari rode a WHITE fox, and stone or wooden foxes, each with a sacred scroll or the key to paradise in its mouth, often stand beside the TORII of Inari's shrines. 

The tip of the fox's tail also often bears the symbol for "jewel of happiness." Shooting STARS are called "sky foxes" in Japanese. 

Generally speaking, the animal's symbolic significance is predominantly negative. 

In Durer's "Virgin Mary with Many Animals," we see a fox, tethered, apparently in reference to satanic associations. 



Foxes, however, are occasionally attributes of saints (e.g., St. Boniface, St. Genou), even though in Biblical usage they are the embodiment Foxes stealing geese, of trickery and malice. 

Many languages contain proverbial references to a fox preaching to geese (see GOOSE)- a crafty sermon in the fox's own interest-and "the fox" is sometimes subst ituted for "the devil." 

In Grimmelshausen's Simplicissimus, to "foxtail" someone is to flatter him or her insincerely. 

Medieval bestiaries also express a negative view of Reynard as a crafty deceiver: 

"When he is hungry and finds nothing to eat, he burrows in reddish soil so that he looks as if he were spattered with blood, then drops to the ground and holds his breath. The birds see him lying there, (apparently) covered with blood, his tongue hanging out, and they believe he is dead. They come to rest upon him, and the fox catches and eats them. The devil acts in the same way: to the living, he pretends to be dead, until he can get them in his jaws and devour them"

 [Unterkircher]. 


"On shields or in coats of arms in general the fox represents shrewd cunning, and those who so display him usually have this quality, both in reputation and in fact" [Bbckler]

Sunday, 23 December 2018

Myth, Legend and World Shakin’






Enkidu, The First Friend :
They took him right down that road.


-What'd he look like, Drag?


Yeah, Drag.
Did he have his eyes open or closed?

Enkidu, The First Friend :
He was smiling.

-Smiling?!

Enkidu, The First Friend :
That's right. You know.. that...

Luke smile of his?
He had it on his face right to the very end.
Hell, if they didn't know it 'fore they could tell right then 
that they weren't ever going to beat him.


That old Luke smile.

Oh, Luke. He was some boy.


Cool Hand Luke, hell!

He's a natural born world-shaker!





What We’ve Got Here, is — 
FAILURE to Communicate.

Some Men, You JUST Can’t Reach.

So, You Get What We Had Here Last Week.

Which, is The Way He WANTS It;
Well — HE GETS IT!

....n’ ah don’t like it ANY More Than You Men...



The Enkidu Principle - I Can Eat 50 Eggs






Have to close those things, or we'd drown, but it's suffocating in here.

The Submariner :
Talk about drowning.
When I was in the navy...
I was on submarine duty once, and when you get down there...

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Will you tell your story walkin'?
It's too hot.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Did you see my skinny little boy chow tonight?
He's matching you plate for plate.



I wasn't feeling good.
I think I got an ulcer or something.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
He had a bigger spoon. Make you look like yours had a hole in it.


Come on, Clarence.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
What do you mean, Clarence?
You call me a liar?

Yankee :
No, not a liar.
You just have a common, likeable tendency toward exaggeration.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
That there's the champion hog-gutter of this camp.
Well, I've seen him eat ten chocolate bars and seven cold drinks in 15 minutes.

He can eat busted bottles and rusty nails, any damn thing.
If you be so kind to let me cut off your Yankee head, he'll even eat that.

Luke Skywalker,
The Ultimate Uncle :
I can eat 50 eggs.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Nobody can eat 50 eggs.

The Unbeliever :
You just said he could eat anything.
You ever eat 50 eggs?

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Nobody ever eat 50 eggs.
Hey, Babalugats! We got a bet here.
My boy says he can eat 50 eggs,
he can eat 50 eggs.
Yeah, but in how long?

Luke Skywalker,
The Ultimate Uncle :
In an hour.
Well, I believe I'll take part in that wager.
Two dollars. Right here.
Come on now, let's talk some money.
All right, $20. Anything.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
The syndicate will cover any bet you want to make.
Koko, get some paper.

Koko :
Drag, 50 eggs got to weigh a good six pounds.
Man's gut can't hold that.
They'll swell up and bust him open.
All right, get your money up. Now,
Gambler, Dynamite, come on, get it up.
Koko-head's going to take all the money.
Come on, Loudmouth, get it up.
Wait just a minute, now.
How's he gonna eat them?
Boiled for 15 minutes.
Eat the whole thing in an hour.
One rule. No throwing up.
He throws up, you forfeit everything.
Now when was the last time
you ever saw my boy throw up?
Now shut your mouth
and give your money to Koko.
Why did you have to say 50 for?
Why couldn't you say 35 or 39.
It seemed a nice round number.
That's money you're talking about.
What's the matter with you?
Yeah, well, it'll be something to do.

Ten!

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Ten, right!
What did I do?
I stole and I told lies.
But I loved my neighbor. And his wife.
He'll never make it.
What we've got to do is stretch
that little old belly of yours.
Get all this stuff out of the way.
Them eggs's coming down.
We've got to get it all in fighting
shape, like a barrage balloon.
Ready...
...and go!
Hey, Boss, man needs a brown
bomber and a dose of salts.
You can't do that!
-I want my money back.
-No money back.
Twenty of those pills still won't
make any difference.
What are you worried about?
He can't do it.
What's he doing?
All right, stand back, you pedestrians.
This ain't no automobile accident.
That's all 50?
Move over, losers.
I got money riding here.
All right, I've got it figured out.
If he eats an egg a minute, he's got ten minutes left to swallow them.
Hey, I just got five bucks from a rodeo outfit.
Hey, you're peeling his eggs.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
That's right, mister.


He peels his eggs himself.
That's understood.


Now you may be just great at hanging paper around the big city 
and passing bad checks
but us country boys ain't entirely brainless.
When it comes to The Law, nothing is understood.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Wait a minute! Wait a minute!
Who made what law about peeling the eggs?
I'm his trainer. I'm the syndicate covering all bets.
And I'm his official egg-peeler.
That's The Law.


Just wait till the hour starts, that's all.
I was banking on the fact he had to peel 'em.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
What's going on?
You ready, Champ?
Ready?
Go!
Two...
...three...
Man, he's going to lose a finger
eating eggs like that.
Twenty-four...
...twenty-five...
Slow down a little.
Twenty-six...
Forget it, he's wasting time.
Thirty-two.
Just have 18 more to go...
What's wrong?
-I think he's gonna throw up!
-Oh, no.
-That's it. He's finished.
-C'mon Luke!
Eighteen to go.
He's finished.
Just like a ripe watermelon
that's about to bust itself open.
Your boy's done for, Drag.
I'm putting in my last tenner.
-lt don't look good, Drag.
-Man's gut can't hold more than that.

He's all right, he's all right.

He's going to make it.
I give you a dollar he don't eat all 50 eggs, I get two dollars back.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Fixer, you're a sweet old boy.
Better take that dollar and buy yourself
a new spark plug or something.
But as long as you done took a stand...
...why don't you put some money where
your mouth is and not no measly buck!
Well, all I got is 3.75, Drag.
That's a bet, Koko.
All right, now the rest of you, I want
to hear from some big-money men.
Where's all the high rollers?
I believe you've got it all, Dragline.
Every cent in the camp is riding.


What's the time?

Enkidu, The First Friend :
Come on, baby.
Twenty-four minutes to go.
Just let that little old belly sag and enjoy itself.
Forty-one.
Stay loose, buddy. Just nine more
between you and everlasting glory.


ls he eating them, Alibi?

Alibi :
He's chewing. Look at that.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
They're pigeon eggs, that's all.
Fish eggs, practically.
How much more time, Carr?
Six minutes to go, Stevie.
Chew, chew, chew!
You're helpin' him chew now!
Oh, no.
Forty-two.
Tiny, tiny egg.
Two minutes to time!
Forty-four.

All right, now, get mad at them damned eggs.
Eat it there, boy.
Chew on it.
Gnaw on it.

Carr :
Thirty seconds.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
You got the last one.
Stuff it down in there. Get it in.
That's the last one in there now, baby.
Chew. Chew.

Ten...nine...eight...
...seven...six...five...
...four...three...two...
...one...zero!


Hold it! He didn't swallow the last.

Enkidu, The First Friend :
You think so, huh? Just take a look here.
Open that mouth.


The Unbeliever :
Nobody can eat 50 eggs.