Hell in a Napsack?

On my way into town this morning, something caught my eye—the note you see posted above was just lying on the street. Here is my interpretation of this wonderful specimen: a small piece of water-damaged graph paper torn from a spiral bound notebook. Measuring approximately 2.5 x 5 inches, the paper seems to derive from a pad most likely used for grocery, "to do" or other lists—notes, in other words, made for the reference of the writer him or herself. What else can we learn about this writer? From the small, schematic self-portrait above, we might be tempted to see the sharp protuberance arching over the figure's right shoulder as a scrunchie-bound length of hair, perhaps indicating that the writer/artist is a she. Well, however we may wish to decide this, he or she was clearly using a water-based pen, which has begun to run to a greenish or even cerulean blue in the right center of the page.



But what does the text actually say? First of all, we have the aforementioned self-portrait of the writer standing next to a steep, snow-capped peak. But, on the far side of the mountain lies a valley and an arching rainbow. As the text explains, "up the mountain ... 2005." Presumably, that is, after enduring "hell in a napsack," the writer will—at some point in 2005—be "golden," having reached the end of the rainbow. But what does this "hell in a napsack" (or perhaps "hapsack") entail? The list of tasks to be completed is as follows:

—Work
—Dissertation (Jan. 31st [presumably, 2005])
—Research
—Project

Jan: France and dissert.
Feb: WORK ASS OFF
March: " " "
April: Canada
May: Final Exhibition
June:

Old Ken has heard that Canada is a central location for cosmetic surgeries of various kinds. So presumably after this mountain climber has removed the tissue of her buttocks through the chafing resulting from an arduous climb up an icey peak wearing a "hellish" backpack, she plans to repair to Canada for some skin grafts. Could this be the eagerly-awaited pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Or will the ultimate, promised "exhibition" be the occasion to display the mysteries of the surgeon's knife? More to follow ...

Rosicrucian Fun

Are you a Rosicrucian? Would you like to be one? These questions might sound a little random, but I pose them to you as a way of thinking about the resistance (especially in the Arabic-speaking world) to the Red Cross. Now, the two might be entirely unconnected. But, as Old Ken was thinking about this interesting convergence between a major humanitarian organization and the followers of the mysterious Christian Rosencreutz—or the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross, a secret society supposedly begun in the early 17th century in central Europe as a Protestant resistance movement to the encroachment of Catholic power—I thought of St. George. Famous as a dragon slayer (see below), St. George is also the patron of another occult society, the Order of the Garter. Curiously, as anyone who watches English football will know, the flag of St. George is a red cross on a white background.



So where is Old Ken going with all of this? Well, nowhere in particular. But I did recently visit a curious hunting lodge built to house the "chemical bride" of one of the original Rosicrucian players, Prince Frederick, Elector of the Palatine. Daughter of James I, Elizabeth Stuart ("the Winter Queen") lived a life of impoverished exile at the Hague after the disastrous Battle of the White Mountain in 1620 when Catholic powers retook Prague igniting the Thirty Years War.



With her husband dead and her children (most notably the dashing Prince Rupert) off adventuring in the European wars, the Winter Queen was sustained by her devoted admirer, William Craven. Supposedly, it was for her that the eccentric Craven built the odd lodge you see in the pictures here—a lonely house in the hills of Berkshire called Ashdown House.



Well, such was the story told to Old Ken by a tour guide at Ashdown. I think the truth of the matter might be a little stranger still. For, consider the architecture house: a full quarter of the interior space is occupied with a period stairway that leads all the way up to the balustraded look-out on the roof. There is little of the formal reception area, banqueting facilities or interconnected rooms that would have been appropriate for the home of the Winter Queen.








Yet, just a few miles away lies the great chalk horse of Berkshire—the outlines of a massive horse carved into a steep hillside in prehistoric times (whose circular eye is visible in the middle ground of the photograph below).



More curiously still, the small hillock visible in the center of the picture (nearly kissing the golden rape-seed fields in the distance, with a whitened patch and a worn footpath leading from it) is traditionally known as Dragon Hill. For it was here, legend tells us, that St. George smote the dragon. Clearly, then, Ashdown House was no house for the Queen but some sort of observatory wherein like-minded Rosicrucians could gather and await the return of St. George (or the dragon) upon the nearby hill. As I like to say: proof!

A Long-Overdue Tribute

So, Old Ken is not going to lie. I've been busy, and more recently, I've been sick. That's right, following a barbeque on the aptly-named Isle of Dogs, I picked up a nasty stomach bug from someone's snot-nosed ankle-biter and spent the entirety of yesterday (just like everyone else who attended said BBQ) working on my projectile vomiting technique. Did I manage to barf on the door? You bet!



Thus, while recovering from my illness, I thought I'd ease myself back into the bloggin' habit by sharing with you my favorite river: the Quaggy. I am largely quoting the sign posted above here, as it it is both fun and educational: "The River Quaggy is fed from two streams near Orpington. It flows for 13 km through the boroughs of Bromley, Greenwich and Lewisham where it joins the River Ravensbourne."



"Until 1849," so the sign continues, "the Quaggy meandered through the countryside. Then the railways came, bringing people, buildings and pollution. To protect buildings flooding, the river was increasingly put into concrete." This is, I would note, something of an exaggeration as—so far as Old Ken can tell—the entirety of the Quaggy's river bottom is paved.



"In the 1990s, after lobbying by the Quaggy Waterways Action Group (QWAG)," our old friend the sign tells us, "a new method of flood protection was agreed. Storm water will be stored in specially landscaped parks and green spaces. The hope for the future is that the approach will enable the entire river to become a haven for wildlife and an attractive, recereational and educational amenity for people." From a few glances around the delicious riparian environs of Lewisham, I can do little more than quote from our genius-head president: Mission Accomplished!

May Day Mysteries!

Sometimes you might ask a question to the world—a rhetorical question as they are often called—and then, mysteriously, an answer materializes. I am pleased to be able to report that Old Ken has recently enjoyed this experience at the May Day festivities in Oxford.



Now, as part of my enrollment in LearningQuest 2005, Old Ken has recently been reading about the English "festival calendar" and its fate in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. According to what I have read, celebration of May Day can first be traced by documentary record to the late medieval period. Then, celebrants would repair to the woods before dawn, returning with greenery and flowers with which to deck out the village. Although the May pole dancing that we now associate with the day seems not then to have been in use, other (perhaps less directly phallic) tributes to this fertility rite were widespread including theatrical performances of Robin Hood stories and displays of morris dancing.



As you will clearly see from the accompanying photographs, some salient connection with these ancient practices certainly still seems to be evident in 2005 Oxford. The pale, pink light reflecting off the eastern face of the Magdalen College tower (in the first picture) indeed testifies to the fact that Old Ken was there, along with thousands of other revellers before dawn, eager to propitiate the fertility gods.



While much is made of the exploits of the few souls who annually leap from Magdalen College bridge into the shallow, goose-feces-infested waters of the River Cherwell some twenty feet below, Old Ken was struck by the atavistic character of the celebrations—the primordial atmosphere signalled by ritual implements like the "skull and horns" of the Oxford ox decked out in garlands of flowers and the uncanny, animated shrub known as "Jack o'the Green" or simply "the green man" (the latter may be seen above).



Nor was morris dancing in any short supply. As Old Ken was lucky enough to observe, Radcliffe Square (which surrounds the impressive circular Radcliffe Camera, whose rusticated porticoes feature prominently in the next few images) was overtaken by morris troupes. Now, I had always worked on the assumption that morris dancers were a rather dour, humorless lot. Not so with these! With great whoops and agility, they would dance about, whacking each other with sticks to the tune of an accordion, whistle and the tinkling of the bells adorning their costumes.



Yet, attending to the festive costumes, my eye was caught by the dress of the morris dancer at the center of the picture above, with his back turned to us. Clearly, he has a clue very important to our ongoing inquiries into squirrels and their clandestine activities dangling down from the back of his cap. Alongside a collection of pheasant feathers sufficiently majestic as to impress the likes of Hyacinthe Bucket or, more recently, Camilla Parker-Bowles, this dancer clearly has a squirrel tail integrated into his chapeau. Ever committed to skeptical comportment to the evidence of the senses and experimental methods in general, Old Ken can reassure you that I not only saw but actually fondled this tail as the dancer went past. In any case, what this clearly tells us is that he is secret squirrel. Case closed!



Basking in the glow of this revelation, I felt not unlike the eastern face of the Bodleian Library warming in the rising sun of May morning.



And there, interestingly enough, I saw a famous anthropologist chatting with a man, eating a piece of cake out of a sword. Will these mysteries never cease?