Psimon

You were born on a Thursday.

The season was Summer. (----- Actually, it was Winter – I was born in New Zealand ------)

You are 39 years, 0 months, 31 days old.*

It is 334 days until your next Birthday.*

You are 14,276 days old.*

You are approximately 342,643 hours old.*

You are approximately 1,233,517,367 seconds old.*

GROOVY, BABY.... YEAH!!

Well, the psionic one has been in stasis for almost a year and a week (I was a little late for 'a year and a day' and the agents of O & P stole my beautiful, pea-green boat, so I had to launch the attack-sharks - can anyone say "chum"? "Ooo... a 8.5 for form in the air, but a 2.0 for the entry. That may cost him the silver medal!" )

Many thanks for your birthday wishes

I had a wonderful day listening to 80s synth-pop (the soundtrack to my teenage years ) and writing assignments

I'm in the same time-zone as you, Gryphon

Te Papa Tongawera, an architectural juggernaut of stone, steel and glass, stands berthed at Wellington’s waterfront, housing the return of the king of exhibitions. I am drawn to it as the Nazgûl are drawn to the Ring of Power, and cannot help but ponder if New Zealand has been permanently colonised by Gondor, Mordor and all the little doors, or if this will all pass into the west, and beyond will lie a far, green country under a swift sunrise.

Beneath Te Papa’s jutting outer angles, an elderly woman lurches by wearing more makeup than Lawrence Makoare ever had to endure as Lurtz, the Uruk Hai. One could perhaps be forgiven for presuming the woman is a walking prosthetic; a construct of timber, urethane, fabric and paint escaped from the exhibition or from Weta Studios’ Mirimar fortress. Walking undead notwithstanding, this is a time of family groups – the start of the second week of the school holidays – and everywhere is the invitation, nay, the compulsion for people to part with their money. A clear Perspex donation box at the entrance to the museum ensures everyone can see how generous or cheap you have been with your visit. Fathers stumble past with sons in tow, or vice versa, while mothers waddle with fledgling swans in their wake. A man glances at his watch for the third time as his charges gaze at the Exhibition promo video playing on the carefully branded display monitor. Product placement is everything here.

“Can we go in, Dad? Can we? Please…”

Dad reaches for his wallet and checks the expiry date on the Platinum Express Card. He didn’t leave home without it, silly man. Four boys with one adult chaperone: Entry tickets, souvenirs, lunch, more souvenirs. Painful.

The wheeled-walker women of Wainuiomata arrive and sweep all before them. Looking to blow their pension money on something more than the next blue rinse, their sturdy white plimsolls are going to get a good workout today.

“He’s such a sweet boy, isn’t he?” chirps the leader of the pack.

“Which one?” enquires her wingman.

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t mind his shoes under my bed.” They roar past with the doppler squeal of rubber-soles on parquet floors.

From the ceiling, banners and flags of Gondor and Rohan flutter in the air-conditioned breeze proclaiming New Line Cinema’s claim on New Zealand. In ‘Ye olde’ Gift Shoppe, two young Japanese women with flawless skin and matching Hello Kitty handbags drool over the jewellery cases filled with golden Lesser Rings of Power on tasteful mithril chain necklaces, mentally converting dollars to yen. The Gauntlet of Sauron, which one can only presume comes complete with enclosed Hand of Sauron, can be yours for a mere eleven hundred and ninety nine dollars, including GST. It’s a limited edition – he only had two to donate to the exhibition – and comes with The One Ring. A bargain, really. Twelve hundred dollars gets you all the evil power in Middle Earth.

The American-accented host who takes my ticket confides that Peter Jackson gave New Zealand ‘ownership’ of the trilogy by involving so many Kiwis in the production of the films. The exhibition has “come home” and has been expanded. Some two and a half thousand people a day viewed the exhibition in the opening weeks in April. That volume eased back to around eight hundred a day before the start of the school holidays when it jumped back to between twelve and fifteen hundred a day. With a little mental maths one arrives at an average ticket price of around nine dollars (twelve dollars for adults and six dollars fifty cents for children) and that translates to a little under a cool million in ticket sales alone (dollars, not yen) – not including Sauron’s limited edition Gauntlets.

Every shade of the geek spectrum is represented in the multitudes that move relentlessly toward the exhibition like massive Mumakils of the Harad on remote control. There are geeks and geek wannabes, closet geeks and ‘outed’ geeks, father-and-son geeks and Dad and Mum geeks. There are some who swim against the current, cutting across and through any half gap that presents itself, while others, lacking the intestinal fortitude to strike out on their own, are swept along. The One Ring rules them all and in the darkness binds them.

A bespectacled, One-Ring-shirt-wearing host wanders past clutching the body of a sign, ‘This interactive display is out of order.’ Man down! The king has fallen! Some orc-child has bludgeoned him to death with a grubby little fist. Five minutes later the host returns to his position at the entrance, ready to take tickets from several new entrants, who, despite Gandalf’s repetitive protestations, continue to slip into the exhibition.

A family of five, with the melted-wax faces of those who have been captured by the power of Sauron’s Palantir or watched too many episodes of Coro Street, huddle around a twenty-inch monitor playing documentary vignettes, most of which appear to be played directly from the Extended LOTR Trilogy DVD Boxed Set – available in the gift shop for a very reasonable $89.95 – while the movie props stand in glass-encased displays not three feet away. The cases are not entirely devoid of greasy finger and nose prints, though all are at hobbit height. Like Teletubbies on valium, they chant rhythmically “again, again” as the eyes of the toddler in the stroller roll back into his head and drool pools on his Thomas the Tank Engine bomber jacket.

The detail of Arwen’s Coronation Gown leaves you a little short of oxygen, with hundreds of glass beads sewn onto hand-dyed silk satin, chiffon and brocade. The design of her Requiem Dress of the bluest-blue, hand-dyed silk velvet under a frock of silk satin, chiffon and brocade, similarly adorned with metallic thread and glass beads, has you down for the count, but at every display, two or three commentaries compete for the auditory attention of the masses. It’s difficult to truly appreciate the beauty of Arwen’s gowns while Peter Jackson and Richard Taylor expound the virtues of Aragorn and their own cleverness, and Ian McKellen screams, “you shall not pass!” for the tenth time. Too late, Ian. I’m already in.

A little farther downstream, Boromir in the Boat is a study in how long a man can hold his breath and keep a straight face under the piercing glares of every unabashed geek that stops to state the obvious.

“He looks so real!”

You can almost hear his waxen ventriloquist response, “I’m supposed to look real, you twit. Dead, but real, or the punters in the Mines of Moria-like theatres would spot it a mile off and cry foul, wouldn’t they? Now, push off. Or push me off and over the falls again.”

It’s at about this point that you begin to get the nagging feeling you’ve seen it all before and the people become more interesting than the exhibits.

Children chase elven script spiralling across the wall in the abyss of the Ring display room.

“Come and watch the movie,” A small Maori hobbit-boy begs.

“It’s not on. There’s no picture.”

“Well, come and listen to it then.”

His mother seems unimpressed. “Nah, I’d watch the movie, but not just listen to it. You should be able to watch the movie for how much we paid to get in here.”

Another family pauses on the moulded black-cushioned island seats in the middle of the polished wood sea of the art gallery floor.

“It’s 2 o’clock. What do you want to do next?”

“What about that other thing?”

“Constable?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just art. It’s all pictures.”

“Oh… Not that one then.”

Dad has clearly had enough and makes a move for the door. The heir apparent risks disinheritance, or worse, “Are we going home now, Your Angriness?” Ouch!

From the balcony looking down to level four, hung over the rusted corrugated iron Holden, Made in New Zealand screams to all the tourists. The Lord of The Rings is as kiwi as pavlova, Split Enz, and Phar Lap. Can’t wait for the Aussies to try and claim this one!

© MikeB 2006

I was a burden on my family

I was a burden on the world

I took and gave nothing in return

I gave and expected the world in return

Would the world miss me when I slipped away?

Some might have, but then only for a season.

Most would have shown me the door,

Smiling as they waved goodbye.

I failed to love God

I failed to love my wife

I failed to love my children

I failed to love.

I failed to live.

Some may say I was selfish

And they may well be right

Some may say I was gutless

And they are probably right

Some may say I was a loser

And they are certainly right

I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag

I couldn’t sing a note

I couldn’t turn the other cheek

I couldn’t give till it hurt

I couldn’t

I just couldn’t.

So I didn’t.

This is the beginning of the end

Depression

Drugs

Doctors

Life in 3D

Raise your hand and lose it all

Hold it inside and lose it all

Either way, you lose.

This is the end of the beginning

Paranoia

Paracetemol

Psych-wards

Life on P.

© Mike B 02 Aug. 2006

Thanks you all for your kind birthday wishes

I shall cherish my Greek Alphabet always. Thank you, Jareena Faye

Belated congrats, Ayshela!

Happy birthday to you both!

The elf entered with purpose, surveying those gathered as he moved forward.

He paused. 'Are any here...?' he wondered, then the corners of his mouth twitched upward - the closest he'd come to a smile in a good while - and he continued. Drawing a small scroll from his belt, he turned to face those gathered, opened the document and began with a throat-clearing, attention-seeking cough:

"To whom it may concern,

Be advised that I, Psimon, Keeper of The Balance, Ruler of Ervan - a recent acquisition, and Quill-Bearer of The Mighty Pen, do hereby give notice and announce the design and purpose of my chosen Quill Quest.

It is my intention to compose a sonnet for each of the voting members of The Mighty Pen that encapsulates an aspect or multiple aspects of their persona, the precise nature of which will be discussed with the recipients as I proceed.

The Voting Members are currently grouped in the following categories:

Council of Elders

Guild Leaders

Bards

Poets

Heralds

Troubadours

According to the current membership roster, this list is comprised of some 42 individuals, or 47 if 'alternate' or associated personalities are included, hence there will be 42 (or 47) sonnets in all. The form or tradition of each sonnet will be at my discretion, but will be selected to enhance the work.

All works will remain copyright of Psimon, Keeper of The Balance, regardless of recipient, dimension, plane, or other form or location in which the work exists.

All questions and comments should be in written form and directed to:

Psimon

Keeper of The Balance

C/- The Mighty Pen

A copy of this notice has been forwarded to The Honorable Yui, Elder of Shadows and Miscellany.

Thank you for your time."

Psimon rolled the thin parchment, replaced it in his belt, and, with a small sigh and a nod of his head, he left.

Happy Birthday for yesterday, Alzorath.

In the words of a famous artist (with regards to birthdays):

"................"

(I don't know any famous artists quotes about birthdays - not even from the dead ones - but the thought was there )

Happy birthday anyway. Hope it was a great one.

Wyv: I liked your painting, though it could have done with a bit less angst in the colour - the claw marks are sufficient angst, giving it a whole sort of urban-dislocation/mispent youth emotional landscape thing... IMHO

Happy birthday!

Bold Beoraven, filthy fledgling of Ecgthsquawk,

Doomsayer of Hrothgar, above whose high halls

he hovered, hunting, hurtling earthward

when the killing mood was upon him.

Night time, the demon-hour, was his way,

this wary war-bird, whistling wings of death-dealing

bringing blood to claw, and caws and chaos close behind,

only to return to royal raven-rest, requited.

Then boasted Beoraven, horrid winged warrior,

bane of barrow-beasts, black omen-bringer,

“If hand of man unhasped the heavy hall door

And freed me to enter ere that fluff-fiend fled,

I would peck his pupils from their purring purse,

laying low with lethal claw the crafty kit.

Fur would fly and foe would taste death.

Then would I, Beoraven, feather-friend to none,

take that gold-braided collar-band, burnished neck-belt,

from my fallen foe and fly.

But slumber-snores resound through Hrothgar's hall

and hell has held hand from hasp.

Mead-minded men! Fate has seen fit

to shield the shaggy hearth-cat of Hrothgar.”

Thus spake the kitten-killer, hunter of hall-purrers,

dark doom-dealer, greatest of the Geat-spawn.

© 27 April 2005

Sorry, should have specified that anything up to and including C&C level 5 would be fine for this one

Regards

Psimon

Torn

*******

Fear is not, nor ever

will be in it

though this surely feels that way.

Weeping, broken and forlorn,

tears in the fabric

creeping slowly down

just like his hands.

Another cup of tea, dear,

and rot his eyes inside his head,

forevermore in mine.

He surely rates revenge,

though I am at my end

without the wit to reason

why I bore his son.

Yawn now and go to sleep

to wake no more.

Reborn.

© Psimon (5 Apr 2005)

A small sample of my course work

The criteria for this piece:

Write a poem from a single word.

It has been tooooooooooooo long since I last popped my head in here - it honestly feels like a lifetime ago - but I wanted to drop by and say hi from the Land of the Long White Cloud.

RL has been crazy-hectic lately (selling house/moving/baby/beginning fulltime Uni/leaving paid employ/homeschooling two older children/assignments/historical re-enactment. Not necessarily in that order LOL ) but things finally seem to be settling back into some sort of routine.

Anyway, just wanted to say hi and give my regards to all.

Psimon

PS. I now LOVE Beowulf!!!!!

Happy Birthday, Brute and Thinas!

May your day be as wonderful as Wyv's gifts are strange!

Hey!! No fair!! Lady Celes, I was the latest-est person here! You already posted a b-day greeting on the 10th! LOL

Of course, this does not alter my birthday wishes for Arwen and Arawn in the slightest. I still wish them all the very best that a day can bring.

Well, at least nobody else is as late as I am! LOL

A very happy (and very belated) birthday wish to you both.

But there was one shadow, a curiously shaded shadow, who would not be so easily detered from what looked like a very juicy meal.

"Purple is my favourite colour, after all, and it would be entirely remiss of me not to introduce myself to this tasty morsel... mwuhahahahahahaha-auark!"

His decidedly nasty cackle echoed across the pebbled shore as he took wing and began following the small upstart...

Thanks everyone

Emily is actually #3 mini-Psimon, so there will truly be chaos! Mwuhahahahaha... what? Oh, sorry. I got a little carried away there.

One boy (the oldest, 7) and another girl (4.5) so this tips the balance, something that I just can't have! Wait. The dog! He counts... aaaahhhh Balance is restored.

You may go about your business, citizens, the world is safe once more.

Hugs to all

Psimon

A Father's Bragging Rights.

Emily Jane was born 25/07/04, 7lb 13oz.

Emily has a heart defect called Ebstein's Anomaly (Google it if interested ) but was allowed home today. It has been quite a ride for the last few days as we learned more about the condition, but we are just happy to be together as a family again.

In true Pen fashion, Emily Jane was named for 2 writers (well, two of four - take your pick ) The Bronte sisters or Emily Dickinson & Jane Austen ...

With a name like that, I'm sure she will be a literary giant!

Anyway, enough bragging. Hugs to all.

Psimon

The Dual-Toned One returns to congratulate all promotees...

I have not been around to view many of the contributions, but I know none of you would have received these honours had they not been thoroughly deserved. My most heartfelt congratulations to you all.

May you quill never run dry

Psimon

*sneaks into The Pen and is delighted to be still vaguely recognised*

Thank you all for your b-day wishes. It was a great day (though I still had to work! LOL)

To quote some foreign chap: "I shall return"

It's a lovely piece Falcon. Just beautiful. I enjoyed it very much. Thank you for sharing it.

A revised version. - Thx for the tip, Alaeha

We stand alone together ( Villanelle )

- A personal tribute to the men of 101st Airborne, 506th PIR, Easy Company.

*************************

We were alone in unity.

Though cold and weary, scorned,

I stood with you and you with me.

Through fog and sleet I could not see

though heard the cries of men now torn.

We were alone in unity,

still pressed to earth so desperately

lest we join those for whom we mourned.

I stood with you and you with me.

My heart was numb as most would be

had they but seen the bloody dawn.

We were alone in unity,

and held to thoughts that set us free

till, when they ceased their deadly storm,

I stood with you and you with me.

For we had held the line, yes we

the battered bastards, battle-worn.

We were alone in unity,

I stood with you and you with me.

© Psimon 28 January 2004

Expectation

***************

A sense of dread.

The cold fear-stone in the centre of your being.

The quickening.

A flush to the cheeks. I love your ways.

A foot poised.

The eyes fixed on green. Bend it to your will.

The pacing man.

A cry and all is right in the world.

© Psimon 15 January 2004