..."Pace" Test Page 1...

Slowly getting up to speed on the comic, Pace, illustrated by the very talented Larue Binder.  Want to make sure to take the time to do it justice.  Here's a sneak peak:

Presam, of the House Sophist, Second to the Left Hand

The machinations of politics had infected our world; the lines of loyalty had been cast too tightly on Cerberus. I only mulled this over for a second: the soft scent of the summer’s fields pulling me away from the task at hand. Even a momentary lapse in the interplay of a conversation could have dire effect.

Jilael, of the enemy, of State Loyal, third house of the right hand spoke to me in vagaries and it was difficult to follow his point. The problem was this very meeting, here as we walked in the open air of the Neutral Commons, the conversation was on the Proctor Elect and his family line was in desperate needs, had implications that could go three (maybe four) moves ahead of the center focus. I woke my mind up to Level 3 as best I could. Jilael could be using his incessant wanderings as a ploy.

My house, the second house of the left hand, State Sophist, was to be protected at all costs. We had the law on our side, with some of the strongest Adjuncts and their precedents to protect us. However, we were vulnerable for that very reason. We were not strongmen; we lived upon the writ of law. Other houses did not follow this rule, and thus the Commons were born.

Jilael shifted the weight of his Temperer, the small totem of our own personal estate, to his other arm as we continued our walk. His Temperer was named Keft. She had short cropped hair that she could hide her face. I suspected she wore her feelings too easily. But such a Temperer could have great value in situations requiring emotional beats. Keft shifted her small frame, claws pulling on Jilael’s shoulders up to his ear. She whispered something that I caught as her own dissatisfaction with his oral argument. I noticed her fur was on end.

“So, Presam, the story of the Proctor Elect, as is the story of the World, as imperfect as it may be,” he paused, of course, as we were in the Common, “…may the gloriousness of the Proctor guide us all...” I repeated the phrase as blankly as I would say a greeting, to allow him to continue. “…we shall find the crux of this vulnerable position for both our Houses wanting this temporary solution.” He should have said his House. The temporary line was also unnecessary. It was redundant. All solutions, all truces were only as good as the words being spoken.

“I appreciate your concern for our House, Jilael of State Loyal, but you must understand the position we are in to being able to carry out this cause. You are basically requesting the capital of our trade, the very backbone of our House to help fund your activities. I must dutifully request to understand even further the benefit to us.”

At this, my own Temperer, Ceki, bristled and whispered to me, “Careful, I sense he has something. I cannot tell what yet.” This entire conversation Ceki was still – he was keeping a watchful eye on Keft. Occasionally he would pretend to stare at his timekeeper, but I knew that was an artful way to see reaction, to hide a glance in another direction.

“Presam. I offer to you a fair, overly fair, mind you, agreement. We are being honest in our deal, as honest as these things go.” I could tell he was not good at negotiation and used to either getting to a point, good or ill, quickly. “Let me return to my House with good tidings, and you with a purse full of tyle to continue the great estate you and your family are used to.” We both stopped as I turned to mull this over one more time – although I made it up some time ago. It was a sign of respect.

Ceki put his soft furry lips to my ear, as he had done since I was a child, “I see you know what to do. However, I am still uneasy.”

“What shall we do then? We both know this agreement is poor. Taking it would be ruinous.”

“Agreed, brother,” he stroked his claws on the back of my neck to look over my shoulder at the awaiting bureaucrat. “I must agree that the deal is no good. We must fear the repercussion later.”

It was that I told Presam the House decision. He turned red and sweated profusely. Keft climbed down and walked away. Both were probably told to do what was necessary to get this deal. She looked grim, at one point putting her claws over her head. Ceki looked piteously on her.

“If in the near future, you come to a more favorable position for us to pursue, I would be most welcome to that.” He shook his head the entire time we said our goodbyes.

“There is much afoot at House Loyal these days.” Ceki agreed and fell asleep on the walk from the Commons.

…

That evening, as the leaders convened for the mid-week repast, the assemblage beamed at me. There was to be some joke at my expense, no doubt. As with all of our meetings, the Temperer’s were not present. I had left Ceki to his recognizance after the afternoon. He would have been a helpful companion where I do not like surprises. Ceki would quickly calm me with words of support – such were the best of the Temperer’s, and much to mine own. We were a good House, but I sometimes wonder at their humour.

“Brother Presam, so how went your meeting with Loyal today and our dear brother Jilael?” this from a beaming Georg who held up a goblet for an instant. He was my true brother and the one to traditionally set up the joke, whatever it may be.

“Brother Georg, the offer of Loyal was not befitting our regency. It was not in line with the values of our House. I respectfully declined Jilael and request he let me know if there is a better offer in the future.”

His face cast a grim look, just a ghost of one. It shook me to the core. Something had happened. “Well, Presam, no better offer before the Proctor Elect?”

“I am afraid not.” That may have been the crux. Perhaps the Proctor Elect was key for some other machination. But I was not aware of such a dependency. Ceki never…

“And what response do you think we got from House Loyal at this?” My blood drained from me. The smiles disappeared from the assemblage. The glasses seemed to thrum through-out the chamber of the keep.

“My brother – I do know not.”

A large serving dish had been on the table. I had not taken notice of it before. But it would be uncommon to see the main dish served before likkat. How odd it seems for the summer flowers to cascade around the frosted glass dish. The assemblage moved in upon me, subtly. Georg moved toward the dish.

“If I have been in error, I throw…” Before I could continue Georg scowled at me saying what cannot be undone. He removed the lid from the plate and I almost reeled.

The Temperer still smoked from the cooking. It had been dressed and seasoned until, I hate to say this - it smelled delectable. It was Keft. I sighed, but looked bewilderingly at my brothers. They started a low laugh and patted me on the back.

“Jilael was forced to take his life at his failure. The deal that would’ve been brokered hinged on your decision, and you made an excellent choice. To be hindered by that House.” He tut-tutted at the thought, “They have fallen in stature, some say by two seats.”

Brother Uier couldn’t help himself and pulled at the skin of Keft and put the fat into his mouth. He smiled approvingly to the group.

“Let us eat, House Sophist, and may we someday be first of the left hand!” I cried it out in relief. So are our days here in the World numbered.

…

...the hobbit...

The Hobbit is such a simple story, in terms of fantasy, but so beautifully succinct and so loving of its world and its characters.  I read and re-read the book at least three times in succession when I was 14.  Like the average nerd, I found a corner (literally) at my high school, sandwiched between a locker and a wall.  I lost myself for an hour a day in Middle Earth, with little interference.  To get through certain parts, I would continue reading in the next class (American History then Government).

And, then, glory of glories, there was a PC game at Walden Books (yeah, remember that?).  It was an interactive text adventure that I could sneak into Computer class (yes, a class that introduced the fabulous Apple IIe).  Between the OEM IIe I had at home and the one at school - I was in pre-geek heaven.

In hindsight, it was definitively one of the first times an ancillary product would come out of a piece of a written one.  There was a definitive extension of a work into something else: something electronic.  And, like many games of the time, your mind would need to hyper-extend the excitement since it was basic graphics in the extreme.  Ah, text games - take a gander below and wonder how this would play out today?

Anyhoo, Empire has the Hobbit soundtrack available to listen through (no controls, you'll have to go straight through), but it is a lovely soundtrack: http://www.empireonline.com/news/story.asp?NID=35757.

And, while at Barnes and Noble this past weekend, came across a leather-ish pocket edition that would make a great gift, pending you can find a young kid that still likes to read: http://www.amazon.com/The-Hobbit-Deluxe-Pocket-Edition/dp/0544045521/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1352995091&sr=8-7&keywords=hobbit.

If you have yet to read it, it's Lord of the Rings lite and a very quick commitment.

...Shelley's "Autumn"...

Only published after his death by Mrs. Shelley, Autumn explores a theme common for Percy in the year of 1820, specifically of death and decay.  His friend, Keats, would die within a year of these musings and Percy not much longer after that.  What would these passions foretell.

"The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the year
On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying."

In Death, published in the same way:

"All things that we love and cherish,

Like ourselves, must fade and perish;

Such is our rude mortal lot - 

Love itself would, did they not."

And, in 1822, a very lyrical piece, Lines, is much more defined in spirit:

"When the lamp is shattered,

The light in the dust lies dead;

When the cloud is scattered,

The rainbow's glory is shed;

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,

Love accents are soon forgot."

And, then, the poet's death.  Considering the wealth of permutations in the cause, he did suffer drowning.  But, again in consideration, let's go with the most fantastic of reasons:

Shelley's ship, the Don Juan, was eventually run asunder by the political agents of Wales, who sought to rob him of materials that would have created great upheaval through-out the West.  In the process of fighting a ship of twenty men, Percy would succumb only when he ran out of shot.  At this, he resorted to using hand-to-hand techniques learned by pirates in the western coastal towns around Pisa.  He at last took the material and drowned himself.  For country!

That's what one could call speculation.

...final problem, or, BBC's Sherlock S2E3...

...there's nothing more wanting than the sensational in this post-millennial era; the theme was found in The Dark Knight and the primary theme of the last episode of BBC's Sherlock.  In the latter we find that the detective's fame had become a burden, then, like a runaway train, found a life on its own.  Ultimately, Sherlock knew the response - as the answer could only bring safety to his closest friends and put to rest a deadly series of events.

The second season finale was loosely based on the short Sherlock mystery, "The Adventure of the Final Problem" (full text at the link).  Of course, series writer Steve Thompson put a modern filter on the whole affair and put forth the argument that we can become victim to our own largesse.  Sherlock's talents and Watson's incessant blogging of them presents the foundation on which Moriarty could weave his web.  Thompson crafts a much wider arch in three themes, where Doyle's short story really only provides a very basic premise: the detective has put a (vague) trap in place for Moriarty, whereas his nemesis sets his own web to "inevitable destruction".  The deviation between both plays is terrifically played out:

The theme that is shared is that Sherlock has sets his formidable sights on the take down of Moriarty, who had proven to be the focal point of a shadow organization of crime.  "The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him.  That's what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime."  As you can imagine, as Sherlock explains to Watson, taking him down would definitively prove the detective's prowess to rid the evil of London.

The definitive nature of the struggle is what is engaging between Sherlock/Moriarty.  They are of equal intellectual stature, capable of great evil or great good.  In the teleplay, they play a game of chess via fencing - physical harm more for our hero in stark deviation to the detective's encompassing attempt to win the entire match without having to resort to tricks.  Like the story, the criminal sets in motion a few attempts on the life of Sherlock, but fails.  In both stories, it is ultimately up to Moriarty to take the matter up himself.

This is where Thompson adds two layers to the entire affair.  Adding to Moriarty's tricks, to push Sherlock's own fame against him, putting doubt upon his record and, like our era, building disdain for him all together.  Fame turned quickly into derision.  Sherlock is little concerned about it in the episode, as no one should.  One of his stature, as a "special", he easily weathers the negative publicity.

But, beyond that, the criminal then stages a kidnapping in such a way to make it look as if the detective, all along, was creating the crimes, building up the case, then resolving it with the media looking on.  Doubt settles in from even his closest confidants, who began to question Sherlock.  At this, opposed to the publicity, weighs on Holmes more - if he cannot have the trust and respect of his friends, then how are things worth the price?

Between the publicity, the mistrust, the staged cases and the attempts of his life - it all culminates upon the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital where Moriarty and Sherlock have it out once and for all.  It is not happenstance: the nod to Barts is apparent in that was where Watson and Sherlock would meet first in the first Doyle story "A Study in Scarlet".  The end of Sherlock seems very final with a lamentable Watson struggling to move on.

In the short story, the dogging Moriarty grabs at Holmes, but instead falls into the Reichenbach.  In at least, Doyle explains the miracle of the detective's escape and subsequent exploits over the next three years.  I have yet to see the third season, but I am hoping they do explain how the Holmes was able to explain what appeared to be extremely final.