7 thoughts on “It’s Snail Week At The Truth Barrier”

  1. Morte d’Arthur

    So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
    Among the mountains by the winter sea;
    Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
    Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
    King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
    The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
    Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
    And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
    A broken chancel with a broken cross,
    That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
    On one side lay the ocean, and on one
    Lay a great water, and the moon was full….

    [Chancel, on “barren” land, great waters either side, shelters, holds, the Wounded King]

    1. …. Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge,”
      And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
      Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
      But s h e that r o s e the tallest of them all
      And fairest, l a i d his head upon h e r l a p,
      And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,
      And call’d him by his name, complaining loud
      And dropping bitter tears against his brow
      Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
      And colourless, and like the wither’d moon
      Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
      And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops
      Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
      That made his forehead like a rising sun
      High from the daïs-throne—were parch’d with dust;
      Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
      Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
      So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
      Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
      From spur to plume a star of tournament,
      Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged
      Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

      Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
      “Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
      Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
      For now I see the true old times are dead,
      When every morning brought a noble chance,
      And every chance brought out a noble knight.
      Such times have been not since the light that led
      The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
      But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
      Which was an image of the mighty world;
      And I, the last, go forth companionless,
      And the days darken round me, and the years,
      Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”

      And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge:
      “The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
      And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
      Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
      Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
      I have lived my life, and that which I have done
      May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
      If thou shouldst never see my face again,
      Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
      Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
      Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
      For what are men better than sheep or goats
      That nourish a blind life within the brain,
      If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
      Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
      For so the whole round earth is every way
      Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
      But now farewell. I am going a long way
      With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—
      (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
      To the island-valley of Avilion;
      Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
      Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
      Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
      And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
      Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”

      So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
      Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
      That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
      Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
      With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
      Revolving many memories, till the hull
      Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
      And on the mere the wailing died away.

    1. A perect opportunity for transformation, Mr. Ogden.

      Instead of murdering the snails, gather them, no matter how few or how many, and gently relocate them to an area where they will be free to thrive and live merrily with the least possible intrusion or harm.

      Then, watch and be amazed at how much you AND your garden will be changed and will thrive merrily like never before.

      Plants know. Plants are aware.

      Plants feel.

      Plants appreciate and assimilate compassion. They are reassured and invigorated by compassion. They are nourished by compassion, as no other nourishmant can give to them.

      By implementing this multi- faceted transmormation of you and your garden, you and your plants will heal and advance to horizons of discovering nearly-magical healthfulness and happiness.

      You and your plants will be astonished.

      The adventure begins with just a glance, over there.

      Yes, over there, wherever you see it for the first time.

      1. Bravo.
        John Powell, you here articulate the very collaborative, sensitive and KNOWING trustful conduct necessary for re-creating, afresh, the world, the one which will be worthy
        of snails.

  2. snails = teachers of ballet, and silent buddhas of professorial, contented devotion to self-exile from life’s jungles of adversarial competition.

    snails = celebrity worthy of celebrity. stardom worthy of stardom. prestige worthy of prestige.

    queens and kings of peace…

    beings in a world not worthy of them.

  3. Well, hello, snail. And thank you, Celia for bringing Liam into our evening for a while, so I could tell my daughter about him, and bring him alive for a little.

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