Yes, as an ongoing tale(s), this begins to accumulate, Lawrence. A character on-going...
In Canada, we have a lot of so-called book length 'documentaries,' usually based on some historical figure & what is archived about him or her. I dont know Elidius as such a figure; is he?
Doug
On 2012-02-10, at 4:45 AM, Lawrence Upton wrote:
> A man hanged himself today, or yesterday.
> He was found swinging from a leafless oak
> in a strong westerly making a slovenly dance
> which the corpse would enact repeatedly.
> I was fetched and told to Cut him down!
>
> Surprising in such fearless carefree people.
> Superstition is potent in all of us.
>
> There was no ladder I could stand upon.
> Nor any horse. & the one they call Corkish,
> because he always stinks of trashy wine,
> mocked me, as if he were any taller.
> So I asked him to clamber up the tree.
> which he did! grinning, as if he lived up there.
> Yet, reaching for his blade, a chunk of steel,
> well-cast, somehow whetted to a dangerous edge,
> he wobbled and almost fell, slithering backwards
> like a frightened cow, cursing me as no beast
> would ever think to, even blessed with speech.
> So I went myself; and did as they asked
> using my one small knife, hugging the dead
> and the cold hard tearing underside of the bough;
> while most watched intensely and Corkish sneered;
> but several slapped him round the face, blaming
> him, or so it seemed, for the man’s suicide.
> I think I have an enemy, one who blames
> others for all ills, including his own fantasy --
> when he is disappointed in his damp dream.
> He slanders fellow islanders, cussing them;
> when he’s ill, he nags; when he’s well, the same;
> a drunk or fool or both; one bedevilled --
> And then they’d have me package up this soul,
> the dead man’s. “Fetch him a wagon,” I said.
> “He cannot walk, and I’ll not carry him.”
> Much contact with the dead seemed abhorrent to them.
> I meant only that I lack strength. Unwise,
> I think now…
> It worked. And it’s done, thank God.
> They brought an old cart, but more than robust.
> “Lift him,” I commanded. “Take up his body
> and convey him to the graveyard. Quickly.”
> I led. They followed, still full of revulsion.
> One ran up and talked alongside: despair
> apparently forbids interment in sacred ground.
> Well I am interned, I laughed; I make my rules.
> He didn’t hear the word, didn’t know it.
> So I am one of the walking dead, some say.
> They put him in the earth, and stayed, muttering,
> while I crafted word stuff to bring respect.
>
Douglas Barbour
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What dull barbarians are not proud of
their dullness and barbarism?
Thackeray
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