Sum questions about Dadz blog and stuff

Shoutouttes to alle of yow from teh Ox-2-the-Forde, wher Ich have just completed my annum primum (cum maxima spe non sit annus horribilis). Thei are fillinge me to the brim with all kindz of latin shenanigans and the partyinge heere ys out of control. I am rocking the astronomy major because it is like ten shadez of the easieste liberal art.

N-E-way, people keep mentioninge Dadz book. Not the Canterbury one, that is about as close to being written as I am to a theater where the Matins movie is playing (folkes, repeaten after the Lowys: vampirez = not cool, werewolvez = not cool), but the other one.

Some one who looketh really official is even asking questions about blogz and they mention Dadz booke. Itz like a survey. You know, if your the kynde of person who liketh taking surveys. But whatever, man. De timewastibus non disputandum.

Weird stuff, gentils and churlz.

Dad sez I can do an entry on Oxenforde soon. But I'm kind of busy with my new friend, Hal.

Out.

-Lowys

Aye, Virginia, ther ys a Robin Hood

Gentil rederes, the feest of Kalamazu was ful of grete jolitee and wondir, and Ich was daswed by the compaignye of wondirful folk who cam to heare of the book. But the writinge of a booke doth but litel to take awey the dailye necessitees of the clerk of a kinges workes and a husband. Ywis, thogh ther be many volumes on the shelf clad in orange and blak, yet the trasshe taketh ytself nat out. Nor may a vanitee search on worldecat eliminate the need to add up the royal expenditure on the wages of masouns and gardiners. And aske ye nat about the frantic advyce that My Lord the King doth see fit to solicit yn the middel of the night concerninge hys confusioun at the operacioun of hys newe i-diptych. Maye it plese yow to pardon my lack of poostinge! So bisy with muchel labour am Ich, that many thinges of pop culture do passe me by. Ich knowe but litel of the scandal of Lady Zeugma at the recent tournament, or of the gret popularitee of the vuvuzela.

And yet ther are yet sum thinges of which I knowe a tolerable quantitee, and so whanne a smal mayde did wryte an email to my account, the spirit of Philosophie bid me answere. Ich did compose a response, the which must, by yts nature, go out upon this blogge:

Deere Mayster Chaucer,

Ich am but VIII yeeres of age. Sum of my litel freendes seyen that ther ys no Robin Hood. Ywis, thei do saye that ther is no historical record of him. My fadir sayeth that “yif ye see yt on a blog then it ys trewe.” Plese speke the treweth to me on yower blog: is ther a Robin Hood?

-Virginia

Virginia, yower litel freendes aren yn the grip of grete errour. Thei have been bismotered by the over-reliaunce on documentz of a tyme that ys excessifly concerned wyth historical record. Thei yive credence unto no thyng but yif thei see yt in a roll or chartir or heare a twentye minute talke yn a small room wyth questionez aftirwardes. Thei thynk that no thyng can be or hath been save for thos thinges that kan be compassid in their croniclez. Yet all croniclez, whedir thei be of thos folk at gret researche universitees or thos term papirs that childer do wryte, are litel. In the grete duracioun of eternitee, the tyme of man ys but that of a pissemyre, whanne comparisoun ys made bitwene yt and the lastingnesse of the worlde. For as wyse Boece saith of erthely fame: “yif thou wolde make comparisoun to the endles spaces of eternyte, what thyng hastow by whiche thou mayest rejoisen thee of long lastynge of thy name?” (LIBER II PROSA VII).

Aye, Virginia, ther ys a Robin Hood. Robin Hood existeth as seurelye as green hattes, stylishe sworde-pleye, and roguish good lookes existen, and ye know that thei abounden and yive to yower lyf yts gretest plesaunce and joie. By Seynt Loy! How grym wolde the worlde be yif ther were no Robin Hood. It would be as grim as yf there were no Virginiae. Ther wolde be no resistaunce to grasping landholderes then, no consistentlye rhyming balades, no romaunce to reade on a coold night or to pass tyme duringe the daye. We sholde have no deliteful readinge material, oonly lapidaries or yet anothir alliteratif allegorie about being very worryed about dyinge. The ever-lastinge awesomenesse of cuttinge downe a chandelier onto bumbling minions while banteringe wyth a romantic interest wolde be extinguished.

Nat believe yn Robin Hood! Ye maye as wel nat believe in King Arthur! Ye maye peticioun the kyng to hyre sheriffes to watche in all the grene-woode shawes in Engelonde to cacche Robin Hood, but thogh thei sawe nat Robin Hood, who koud then saye “quod erat demonstrandum”? No folk see Robin Hood, but that signifieth nat that ther ys no Robin Hood. The most awesome thinges yn the worlde are those that neither childer nor men kan see with eye. Did ye evir see the wonderful sciapods who lyve in the lande of Inde and have but oon foot, a limb of such greteness that thei can shade their bodyes by putting that foot above them? Of course nat, but that nys no token that thei are nat there. No folk can conceiven or hoold yn their imaginacioun all the wondirs that are unseene and invisible yn the worlde. Except John Mandeville.

Ye maye take apart an astrolabe and undirstond the natur of yts operacioun (and Ich have a smal tretis on that topique ywrit), but ther ys a maner of rough cloth that covereth the good fayre fruit of the world of fayerye, the which nat the gretest historian, nor even the joyned myghte of every historyan that ever did a footnote wryte, kan teare apart (thogh thei be mighty at arm-wrestling). Oonly whimsy, swashbucklinge, poesie, fin amor -- and, certes, shootinge an arrowe so that yt catcheth the sleeve of a hapless corrupt official -- can pusshe asyde the burlap of dailye lyf and disclose the wondirs of beautee and glorie at yts centir. Hath thys a real existence? Ywis, Virginia, in al thys worlde ther beth no thyng that ys to such an extent possessinge of existence.

No Robin Hood! Benedicte! He liveth, and he liveth for ay. Oon thousand yeeres from this daye, Virginia, nay, as many yeeres as an abacus kan count, Robin Hood will continue to make sure that discussioun of medieval governance and taxacioun ys mixed up wyth funnye nick-names and archery.

Schameless Self-Promocioun at Kalamazoo

In the swete monethe of Maye, alle folk flocken to Kalamazoo for oon the greteste celebraciouns of scholership on the modern ages.

Thogh yet ayein my papir was rejectid from the scholerly panel to which Ich sent yt (for Ich ascrbyed a litel too muchel importaunce to myn early werkes), Ich shal to Kalamazoo-wards goon for to shewe my litel boke to the good scholers ther.

Yif ye wende to Kalamazoo, come to Valleye III Roome CCCII (302) at Sixe of the clocke on Thursdaye, on the thirteenthe of Maye (the verye daye upon which visiouns did come to Dame Julian of Norwich) to the boothe of Paul the Engraver, sonne of the Bald Man, for to see the booke. Ich do thynke that copyes shal be available for purchase. Myn owene horne groweth tyred from al thys tootinge, yet Mayster Caxton hath seyde to me "Self love, myn makere, ys nat so vyle a synne as havinge bookes remayndered."

Grendel to His Modor

My deere rederes,

Of late, Ich have been up y-swept into the worlde of literarie celebritee. Syn that Wm. Caxton ys publisshinge my book, he hath connectid me wyth a PR ("Parchement Relaciouns") agencie, the which hath sought to place my sumwhat wyde figure in al locaciouns that may be of assistaunce in sellinge my book of blog. Philippa, for oones, hath been swept up wyth deepest delight at my writinge, and hath usid thys as an excuse to buy al maner gownes and jewelerie. She hath alredy incurred two tickets for sumptuarye lawe violaciouns.

We did make the rounde of awardes-shewes and festivals. Philippa and Ich did trede of the carpet rouge at the Aureate Spheres, the which shewe ys run by astrologers who given awardes based on the gret planetes of the skye. Ich was delited to meet the wynneres of "Leest Mercurial Career" and "Most Jovial Performance in a Revenge Tragedie" at the apres-partyes. And eek we did goon unto the Aesgars, the which are the moost notable alliteratif awardes shewe, and include categories swich as "Moost Synonyms For Warrior Used in Oon Fitt," "Longest Huntinge Scene," and "Best Use of Traditionally Polytheistic Themes in a Christian Setting."

Also, Mayster Caxton hath introducid me to othir writeres in the literarye world. Ich feele rathir sillye to be in swich company, for al Ich kan speke of is enrollinge custoumes accountez, pleying video games, and Boethius. But nevirtheless sum of the writeres are good folk who tolerate my churlishnesse and lak of hipenesse, and Ich am gretely plesid to be of their felaweshep. Ich am nowe a card-carryinge member of the "Domesday Group." Often on nightes Ich go to chat about apocalyptic spiritualitee, non-linear narratifs, and county organisacioun with Virginia Wulfstan and the E. M. the Forester.

Al of this maketh me feele lyk a Salamander out of fyre, but at leest exposure to the literarye world hath given me sum advantages. For oon ensaumple, deere rederes, Ich did mencioun that Ich wisshed to make sum poost of motheres daye for my blog and yet Ich had no thyng to seye. At which poynt, Virginia Wulfstan did russhe about wyth gret fervor and then yive me a scrap of parchemen that sche had yn the librarie of her hous. Sche was going to publisshe it herself (for the Heorogar Presse), but sche seyde that Ich koud put it out upon my blogge.

So in reverence and honour of this daye of motheres, Ich yive unto yow, good rederes, thys smal, ancient poem of elder dayes, the which was composid by a poet named Grendel:

Deare thankes to thee Modor for derke comfortes of childhood;
The meere ever merry thogh of money we had litel.
Aye a body on our bord, whos neck thou brokest thyself,
Thogh it ment walking in wyld wynter for thee
To kill a hapless warrior unhelped by his helm.
From neighbors nasty thou didst protect me,
And other demon-childer thou donkedst on the hede
Whan thei made fun of my funkyie-lookinge fingers,
The hard hand spurs that Ic of Dad’s DNA had.
Whanne Ic waxed had VI yeeres and wanted a partye,
You hyred the huge serpents who hover yn the lake –
With their grim jaws thei gave flight to the guests
(Foolish Dane childer who, cake-lured, dyede):
With wynsome joye Ic watched that riot of razor-teeth.
No partye for a prince koud boaste swich a pettinge zoo,
Or swich fearsome pinatas that in candyes place heeld payne!
Ic would liefer lyve with thee in the layres of darkness
And step the steep borders in the silent hills
Than dwell in the dearest hall that men deck
Wyth streamers and candles on Christesmasse tyde.
Wylde Geats koud nat get me to go oon step thee-from!
Merry Modors-daye, Modor, from Grendel, thy sone.

Happye Motheres Daye to Alle,

Le Vostre
GC

Anothir short noote: calling Katherine Swinford?

O deere suster-in-lawe of myne, Katherine de Swineford, where art thou? Emayle me at myn hottemail account (daliaunce at hotmail dot com) yf ye see this. Ich wolde have my peple talk unto yower peple concerninge sum matirs.

Anothir smal noote

Ich kan nat wayte for this wonderful disque of musique to emerge. Loong have Ich been a "Machaut man." (Al thogh, much lyk unto Oedipus, Ich am nat too crazie about ten thousand maniackes).

Get nat too excytede

This is but a litel updatinge. For Ich have no japes or fables to share yow-with as of nowe. Ich have but litel vim or vigor, and my corage ys all yspent. Ywis, myn eyen are ringed wyth red from long vigiles and wakinges, and many a box of pizza doth clutter the smal room yn which Ich wryte, and eek my poore brayne ys moore tired than Goweres metaphors. Long tyme nowe, Ich have been preparing a book of blog, and the labour ys al moost doon. Plese pardon, gentil rederes, my lak of postingnesse, but a smal delaye heere ys peraventure worth a solid volume the which ye kan underlyne and spille egg-salad upon and take yn to yower jacuzzi whanne the mood stryketh yow (for woe to the man who taketh his laptop yn to the jacuzzi, Ich have lerned to my gret cost on a chillye November night).