 Romance/Love: July 23, 2008 Issue [#2516] |
  Romance/Love
This week: Edited by: Fyn  
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Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life. ~William Faulkner
Time is what prevents everything from happening at once. ~John Archibald Wheeler
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity. ~Henry David Thoreau, "Economy," Walden, 1854
Sometimes I feel that life is passing me by, not slowly either, but with ropes of steam and spark-spattered wheels and a hoarse roar of power or terror. It's passing, yet I'm the one who's doing all the moving. ~Martin Amis, Money
But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day. ~Benjamin Disraeli
Old Time, that greatest and longest established spinner of all!.... his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes. ~Charles Dickens
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
~William Shakespeare
You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by. ~James Matthew Barrie
A good holiday is one spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours. ~John B. Priestly
Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you. ~Carl Sandberg
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Good morrow my brethren, tis the faire now to see
Tis over yonder neath the Gathering Tree.
Treat with all sorts, be they peasant or knave,
be they noble or varlet, royalty or slave.
Come step over the boundary, retreat to the past
whence fables are gilded, and legends long last.
See Robin of Loxley, Maid Marian, the Queen-
Dress in the times, see and be seen.
Munch on a dragon leg, see revelers sin,
cheer your knight in the joust, may your favorite win!
For tis within the boundary, neath the Gathering tree
where colours are brighter, and yesteryear, see.
Oh Huzaaaa to the Renn Faire, huzaaaa to us all
Huzaaaa to the listeners of the Renaissance call.
Step back into the mists of time with me; hear and respond to the trumpet call of the Renaissance Faire! Don the garb of days back and back and back. Bow or curtsy to your Queen else take fair chance of the stocks ...or worse! See chivalrous knights carry their lady's favor into battle and most of all, experience for a brief moment in time
that illusive opportunity to indulge in a fantasy view of a world long gone.
Look! Over yonder be a knight and his lady. His armor shines beneath the July sun, blinding all to the slightly dented nature of a knight long past his prime. His lady, however, sashays forth in swaying velvets and lace, the very imagined garb of an elegant lady fair. Nearby, just out of reach of those swishing skirts, a muddied beggar entreats all within listening for some coin of the realm, offering, in exchange, a most soggy hug.
Oh and see the multi-hued juggler with his dancing sphere which seems to effortlessly float (almost) from hand to hand. Tis a most studied effect, one which requires much practice. It be a most interesting interlude to watch apprentice jugglers practice this craft. Watch out for your toes as they tend to drop those balls frequently!.
At the base of the Gathering Tree, a bestaffed storyteller spins a tale of fallen stars and star faeries that protect the lonely wanderers. A wench in raggedy skirts and floral corset hawks dragon legs to the hungry for a mere five coins of the realm. Her small helper in tights and doeskin offers tankards of mercifully cold spirits for twice the dear cost of the dragon's legs. He is a busy tyke, as are his ragtag bunch of followers tumbling nearby for coins tossed in a feathered cap.
Make way. Make Way! Here cometh the Queen and her retinue. Beggars fling themselves flat in the mud, while the more elegant and refined make a leg or curtsey in a usually graceful manner. She, feeling in a most generous mood this day, invites any and all to join her at the joust where her knights shall compete for her favor and the crowd's delight.
Now, pause for a moment. If you look quickly, out of the corner of your eye, you can catch an anomaly....strange creatures...women dressed in some type of short britches, showing bare legs! They sport shiny boxes which they hold up to their faces and which flash some some of magic that captures souls. They appear to be just on the other side of the mists...unable, quite, to get wholly to this time and place yet evince a yearning, a curiosity which while commendable is not yet strong enough magic to completely transport them back in time. These are the faces to watch passing through the faire. They seem to feel the intense temperatures more than those of this time and place. They and their small ones seem tired and tempers flash. Small ones whine and cry or sleep exhausted in small wheeled contraptions. One wonders if it be the stress of trying to maintain themselves within two dimensions rather than committing themselves completely to this one on the other side of time's tapestry. A shame, me thinks.
A cool bit of root deep within the shade of the Gathering Tree, yet right in the middle of faire-ed throngs, this wanderer steps aside a moment and with feathered quill jots down her notes of this day in her new leather journal. The sounds of the faire...ribald jests of tankard carrying knaves, the skirl of the bagpipes and the snorting of horses. The scent of humanity diminished by the smell of roasted turkey...ah...dragon legs. The cool draught of honeyed ale sliding down a parched and dusty throat. The buttery soft leather of a hand tanned and pieced cape. Strident voices of venders hawking their wares and the deep voice of the town crier. The day winds down into dusk and torches bloom in the forest. Candle lights flicker in the multi-coloured tents, casting a golden glow over dragon's eyes and unicorn horns. Faeries flicker in the rafters and even the sounds are softened by the coming eve.
The path towards the gate is quiet. With each step the trappings of the past fall away as we come closer to the distant future we'd left so eagerly this morn, yet come twilight are relentlessly pulled back towards. Our carriages dissolve into steel beasts which transport us home while yet the music and the aura of of the Renaissance Faire still lingers in our souls.
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From 'Wikipedia'~~~Chivalry is a term related to the medieval institution of knighthood. It is usually associated with ideals of knightly virtues, honour and courtly love. The word is derived from the French word chevalier, indicating one who rides a horse (Fr. cheval).
Using something from the newsletter and going with the idea of a chivalrous action or person, write a short story or poem detailing said action. Poems shoud be at least45 lines long, short stories to anything above 1500 words. All serious entries will be awarded gps and merit badges/awardicons to the best ones. These will be featured in a future newsletter.
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