First Graf: The Dharma Bums

IN MANY WAYS, THIS 1958 book is better than the earlier On the Road. Kerouac’s signature stream-of-consciousness narrative style is more flowy, and the novel’s lionized centerperson (poet Gary Snyder, or “Japhy Ryder” as tDB calls him) a more noble character than OtR’s Neal Cassady — pardon me, “Dean Moriarty.” The Buddhism as portrayed is sympathetically casual without being didactic, which I suppose is also true of Buddhism itself. The book opens up in Los Angeles, where Kerouac (ahem, “Ray Smith”) is trying to “get the hell out of Dodge…”

War Prints (A Prosatio Silban Tale)

(Six printed pages. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. Enjoy.)

THE BROKEN TIRE SOFTENED AND then hardened again under Prosatio Silban’s kneading fingers, but he soon realized that his repairs were little stronger than the god which powered them.

O Tersten, Dispenser of Temporary Redemptions, many thanks for Your assistance, the beefy cook prayed, trying not to wish for a different supplicatee. May a Cold Wall rubber-wright be happy to improve my repair for a pot of something delicious.

He was midway up the Long Path: ten miles of straight pitted road slashed like an old dueling scar up the face of a mile-high sandstone cliff. Mountains pierced the clouds to the northeast and south. On the western horizon, the green hills of the Uulian Commonwell undulated toward him; below him the Hidden River flowed its marshy way to the Rimless Sea. Between the two, the green faded into a tumbled black – wounds of a war which had finished when Prosatio Silban was too young to understand it.

Blow ‘Em Out

AS DETAILED IN A PREVIOUS post (c. 2010), every March my sister asks what I would like for my birthday (it’s on the 22d, BTW) and my answer is always the same: “I already have everything I need.” That said, and for the sake of obliging my sibling for my 58th year, I do still have a semi-whimsical list, with some items apropos an autodidactic home cook. Go wild, Susan!

– Working tricorder or lightsaber
– Warp-capable spacecamper (preferably Danube-class)
– Several plain black short-sleeved T-shirts, size L
– Hawaiian shirt (or two), size L
– Pea coat, size L

Welcome to My World … Literally and Literarily

Prosatio Silban in his galleywagon / Illo (c) 2008 Alana Dill, http://youbecomeart.com Click to enlarge.

O Fellow Connoisseurs of Mythic Fiction (and Gastronomy), please: Lend me your eyes.

For many years now, I have been writing occasional fantasy tales about Prosatio Silban: a self-defrocked holyman turned mercenary cook in a far-off land containing a vast and disparate multitude of ancient and oft-commingled peoples, creatures, exiles, cultures, prophecies, landscapes, and cuisines. They vary in length from one-half to ten-and-a-half printed pages, with most ranging between three and five.

I enjoy writing them (“Do it for the buzz,” quoth Stephen King). I also enjoy having people read them. Thus, should the Universe so allow, I will here publish one every Thursday morning until further notice. (If you like what you read, you may also want the preface and introduction, as well as every story published up to now [plus ancillaries].) The subscription box at upper-left (or, if you’re on a tablet or phone, the box way below) will enable you to receive them via email as they become available. (Or, should you want 85 of them in one place (plus ancillaries!), may I suggest the e-book?)

Please enjoy. And if you’re so inclined — kindly spread the word.

Prosatio Silban and the Leisurely Eggs

(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. Enjoy.)

TO THOSE WITH LITERALIST SENSIBILITIES, the phrase “ridiculously beautiful” may suggest mere hyperbole and labored contrivance. But take dawn by the western bank of an iridescent river – black sands washed by rippling indigo sparked with silver and rose – with a golden mist muting the eerie calls of magah-birds and other early risers, and add the clean smell of a cooking fire, and words will fail utterly.

Prosatio Silban was, at least for the moment, content. His previous client had paid him well enough to obviate immediate further employment, and the beefy cook had taken the unusual opportunity (and the lesser-traveled of two roads) to bumble along with no plan other than to see if one would occur to him. So far, one hadn’t.

365 Names: “God”

“GOD” (quotation marks deliberate) is a more concise statement of Intent than “that-which-some-call-God” or even “that-which-passes-for-God.” (Or even The Metaphorager’s own working definition.) The shorter, the sweeter.

Once upon a time, in 2011 in fact, The Metaphorager aspired each day to feature a different name for that-which-passes-for-God. Some were creative, others traditional, each unique; so we’re going to attempt that project again (though not every day) until we run out of the names we’ve collected so far. If you want to see your favorite here, but haven’t, send it along with the subject line “365 Names” and let us know whether or not you want to be credited.

Words to Bring Back: “Lacustrine”

– Definition: adj.; geological Of or pertaining to lakes.

– Used in a sentence: I prefer deep-water sailing to the lacustrine variety.

– Why: For one thing, it feels good in the mouth. However, I must admit to some self-service with this WtBB, as I am writing a series of stories some of which occur in an island-city surrounded by a lake, and I’m always on the lookout for ways to concisify. And “lacustrine Pormaris” sounds much better than “Pormaris, an island-city surrounded by a lake.” (To me, anyway.)