Let's be Old Fashioned Anglo-Saxons...

and write poetry.

That is, I was thinking there should be more poetry done in the Anglo-Saxon style using kenning.  Recently, I was thinking about how much fun it is to describe things in lengthy poetic phrases.  My favorite from reading Anglo-Saxon poetry, oh so many years ago, was the way they described the sea as the whale's road.

So, naturally, when this sprang to mind recently I decided I should write my own poem using kenning. Oh right, I haven't defined it yet and you may not wish to look it up just now, being as eager as you are, I am sure, to read my poem.  So, I'll just define it for you.  Kenning is when you use a poetic phrase to describe a word instead of just using that word.  Rather than saying you rowed a boat across the sea you would say that you rowed a boat across the whale's road.  A kenning for dragon would be fire-breather.  It's not a difficult poetic concept, nothing like conforming to a strict meter.  However, I think it's a lovely literary device.

Right, so now that we've defined kenning, I won't keep you in suspense any longer.  I know you are all dying to hear a little Anglo-Saxon styled poetry.  What would your day be without it?  Bleak.  I know.  Don't worry, I understand your concern about the dearth of kenning in modern society.  So, without further ado, here is the word pile of the day:

I make myself comfortable in the ocean's sand-box;
As the birds' highway lifts my hair in playful delight.
I build a tan grainy castle for the rolling water to devour;
While my toes find freedom from their leather plight,
My fingers find purpose in their tiny ground-pebble creations;
And my face grows warm with smiles in the day's ending light.

My Immune System was Trained by the German Imperial Army

It's January and the rains have not missed their cue.  Weeds are popping up, joyfully coating Southern California everywhere in a haze of unexpected green.  Green everywhere and it's pretty for a moment until you blink and they've grown up into stinging nettles and the molds are proliferating with the best of them.  I mean really, they put rabbits to shame.  And it just so that happens that I have begun expressing my appreciation for this season by sneezing.

Mornings usually being worse, I have been known to wake up and declare with only a hint of melodrama that I am allergic to the entirety of Southern California.  On most days I have a fine vocabulary for expressing a great many sentiments.  But sometimes when my allergies are overwhelming I have no patience or brain power left to employ it and I curse my allergies with invective that could shock sailors.

Now don't go and misunderstand me.  I love my immune system.  It keeps me reasonably healthy and it has fought off all the crazy things that life and coworkers keep throwing at it.  I know that immune systems are complex and difficult to understand and I do appreciate that mine is tirelessly working to keep me healthy and happy.

What I have a problem with is its training.

Yes, training.  You don't think that the little army of immune responders called your immune system got to where it is today without training, do you?  They drill and practice and work.  They keep themselves in trim fighting condition all year round.  They are trained, tireless, professional killers in the defense of my immune system.  They are trained in the style of the German Imperial Army of old and they are extremely efficient.  And that's the problem really.

My immune system doesn't have that much to do.  I don't generally eat gently poisoned foods or sit around drinking mildly toxic water or have prolonged chats with infected herds of sheep for really any length of time.  So, without any real threats, they drill.  They are constantly on high alert for practically no reason.  They've read the manual; I could be subjected to typhoid, mumps, cholera or trench fever at a moment's notice.  And so they march, with a long list of rules and no credible attacks of dysentery in months and they are extremely bored.  So they begin to frisk everything that crosses the borders out of sheer lack of something productive to do.

Molds and pollens accidentally land on my body due to the fickle air currents that brought them nearby.  And my immune is waiting for them at the border in orderly lines and pointed helmets dating from the first world war and belonging to the German Imperial Army.
"Vat iz your name and rank!" Barks the leader of my immune responder patrol.
The harmless pollen blinks at them blankly.
"Vell, it must be a foreigner.  Ve vill bring you to Herr Colonel"
My little Immune Colonel sees a foreign body and consults the manual.  "Vell, vell vat do ve have here.  Dis leeddle pollen seems to be having ze fun with us.  Diz pollen does not have ze papers for being in dis area."
"But vat does ze manual say, Herr Colonel?"
"Ze manual says that all foreigners are invaders."
"Das ist richtig"
"Vait, vat iz dat?" A helpful immune soldier shouts, "Ze pollen iz bringing his friends."
"Dis iz definitely an invasion!" Herr Colonel says excitedly.

My immune system patrol falls into place behind the Colonel in perfectly distanced rows.  Helmets gleaming they await the commands.
"Rechts!  Rechts!" shouts Herr Colonel.  And they stride off on their right foot in perfect order.
Herr Colonel begins a World War I version of beat-box and using only his God-given talents he sounds a trumpet tune mixed with a drum beat for their march.  It would be enough to fill any military heart with pride.

And so my immune system, trained by the old German Imperial Army organizes itself thus.  It puts on its pointed helmets every morning.  The trumpet is sounded.  It marches in orderly lines.  The manual is consulted and everything that even looks like a pollen or potential invader is attacked.  I appreciate the sentiment and devotion to my well-being.  I really do.  But I don't care much for the result.  My body has decided, on the advice of my German Imperialist Immune System I might add, that the pollens and molds must be toxic and I should attempt to expel them with vigorous sneezing, eye-watering and a delightful but as yet not appreciated general itchiness.

Have you ever seen the film Those Magnificent Men and Their Flying Machines?  If not, you should.  Not only is it hilarious, it is filled with amazing and terrifying old flying contraptions.  If you are wondering what this has to do with this post you should simply watch a portion of the clips that deal with the German flying team.  You will know exactly what sort of thing my immune system is doing over here.

A sample of the German Imperial Army's finest trumpet/drum beat-box moments and a sample of what my immune system looks like while trying to maintain my good health.

History was Made This Very Evening

Most evenings do not find me communing with the collective spirit of sport frenzied enthusiasm.  In fact, most evenings that involve me and sports in the same room usually involve my unbridled invective against the barbarity of this sport or the stupidity of that one.  It's not even that I hate sports.  I simply hate watching other people play them.  I'd so much rather play the sport myself, or do anything actively, rather than watch others play sports.  However, this evening was different.

Now, maybe it's my deep American roots, but I've always had a fondness for a good ballgame.  (Not that I watch baseball often, but I tolerate the odd game here and there because I like the game.)  As a child I remember cheering on my Dad while he played in corporate ballgames.  I remember playing t-ball and Dad teaching us to bat.  My brother and I loved it when he would do the "real pitcher's wind up".  No doubt he went easy on us but we felt like pros when we would hit these real pitches.  As slightly older children we taught our dog to outfield for us so that we could take turns batting and pitching without having to run and get the ball ourselves.

So, this evening found me captivated by the world series game between the Chicago Cubs and the Cleveland Indians.  Mom, who has always been a die-hard Cubbies fan was too nervous to even sit in the room.  She feared that if she watched the Cubs would lose.  So she hovered in the adjacent doorway, fretting and finding busy work to keep her hands occupied between running in to see a play and running out of the room so as not to jinx her beloved Cubbies.

And there is something special about Cubbies fans.  They've been fans, dedicated fans, for the last 108 years without any world series wins to their credit, not since their last win in 1908.  To be fair, the Indians hadn't won a world series since 1948.  So, the stands were full of tense faces, hands over mouths and distractedly holding nervously onto baseball hats as fans of both teams watched 10 close innings.  And what a game it was.

The enthusiasm was high throughout the game.  It was exciting because it was such a close game.  With the batters who nobody expected anything of sometimes bringing it home.  So, when the Indians hit a ball at the bottom of the tenth the atmosphere was tense up until the moment that the Cubs' first baseman caught the ball and made the final out, winning the world series and delighting Cubbies fans everywhere.  A historic moment, 108 years of bad luck, curse, dryspell or whatever you would like to call it, was finally broken.  Just think about that for a minute.  People were born Cubbies fans, lived their whole lives and died without seeing the Cubs win a world series.  Almost two generations of people passed while waiting for tonight.  It has been pointed out that the last time the Cubs won the world series, Al Capone, Mark Twain, and Thomas Eddison were alive.  Tonight linked us back to a time that was a full century ago.  And I was caught up in the magic of the excitement, camaraderie and importance of this moment.  I watched history being made.  What a great feeling, knowing both teams played so well, were so close and wanted it so badly.  What a great game!  What a moment to remember.