Sunday, May 31, 2015

Accuracy of Abdul's Earthly Voyage

The Rabbit translated Abdul bin Abdul's Earthly Voyage from Artak Mesropian's Armenian. Artak himself had translated Earthly Voyage from the Ancient Greek. And the question of the name of Earthly Voyage's author remains something of a mystery. Abdul bin Abdul, The Rabbit has been led to believe, isn't so much a name like George son of George, as it is the Servant the son of the servant of. And like so many The Rabbit blames all possibility of an error in his own translation on Artak Mesropian's failure to accurately translate Earthly Voyage from the Greek into Armenian. Our hero enjoys The Rabbit's predicament and likes to tease his grandfather.

The question for your writer of pulp is the extent to which this small detail can capture the imagination of the reader. Frankly I don't think it will. I think there will be yawning and glazing over. But as our hero points out Abdul bin Abdul's original version of Earthly Voyage was introduced to the Vestry of Monnow by Timothy's Promoter of the Cause, a good Saxon of Ostrogoth origin. The Devil's Advocate at Monnow was less scholarly more of a fisherman and he ripped into Earthly Voyage primarily because it had been written by a heathen called Abdul bin Abdul, maybe.  So it's all kind of central to The Rabbit's understanding of himself as a Saint, and it's no wonder our hero enjoys The Rabbit's predicament.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

A Wandering Northward

Strange thing about the River Nile is it's obviousness. If a person wanders the coasts of Ethiopia and he or she looks across the salt sea in a north westerly direction, none of it looks very pretty or inviting or different. But the Blue Nile, which meets the White Nile at Khartoum becomes the Nile River that waters Egypt and ends up in the Mediterranean. The Blue Nile from it's source in Lake Tana is no little stream. Nor is the White Nile with its source in Lake Victoria. Just pretend Ethiopia is the Land of Cush, and the Blue Nile the temptation of an Apple.

The idea of something like boat building being the Apple has for too long been the subject of polishing. "Look I've built a floating contrivance so that we can cross Bab el Mendeb" doesn't have quite the allure for your correspondent as "I wonder where that river goes." And it would have been a long trip a great deal of it through deep gorges, and maybe a waterfall.  Bab el Mendeb, The Gateway of Tears, or the Gateway of Anguish, so named from the legend of the great numbers who were drowned when an earthquake separated Asia from Africa. Yes indeed a great deal of Sabean oral history is confusing, not greatly assisted by the geneticists.

Friday, May 29, 2015

Songs of The Windral

Songs figure in The Windral. They're not easy to do. The sense our hero has of them, doesn't lend itself to translation. Songs are disguises for sets of emotion their lyrics have nothing to do with. It's like being there, I guess, and the task is to put you there, in an early morning dark pushing a wheel barrow without wasting too much of your precious time.

The one way to do it is to think of it as adding something to your own experiences. Plucking a string in your memory and adding notes to it. But you and I are strangers to each other. Your writer of pulp could give you the words to the song. But it's all kind of like translating Dylan Thomas into Arabic, which wouldn't be a problem if emotions were mathematics. 

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Eighty Eight step march

Eighty eight steps a minute is a slower march. Somewhere around a hundred and twenty steps a minute is a faster march. As I understand it, following the French Revolution, the upheavals of Napoleon, the rise of the bourgeoisie and on into the Franco Prussian War of 1870 there was a sense on the part of some French Intellectuals that something had been lost on the day Louis Sixteenth was guillotined. Mind you, amongst most Intellectuals very few have anything good to say about the Middle Class. There's a whole bunch of them, mostly from the middle classes, who put their faith in the Working Class, and there's a slightly smaller bunch, which might be getting larger and larger, that put their faith in the Upper Class. In democracies of course it's the middle class vote the political class woos.

French foreign regiments go back a while. There's been several of them all the way back to The Swiss Hundred which came into being in 1490's and was disbanded in 1830's. These earlier foreign regiments mostly just looked our for the king, kind of like Praetorian Guards. The eighty eight step march of today's French Foreign Legion was introduced to them in 1945. It was, the argument went, a return to traditional roots of the foreign regiments that received their pay from the French Treasury. Less to do with deserts and heat and more to do with Acien Regime done away with in France by the revolutions of the 1790's. And while this all might be a little obscure, it's interesting to me that the British Highland Regiments when they marched in kilts observed  the eighty eight step tradition. And indeed it's a more menacing march than that of a citizen army. You should try it to the tune of Little Bunny Foo Foo.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Naming of Places

There is something deeply disturbing about inventing the name of a place. Our hero's "Appleton" sounds so made up we're looking at something that sounds like "Toyland" or "Buddlecombe." And there are other places, a great raft of them which might also get legal minded by the opinion of a writer of pulp. A position our hero dismisses as delusional ranting by pointing out "no one reads your crap so who's going to care."

But the trouble with somewhere like Slough, which is a real place a little north and west of London, England, is not so much our hero's opinion of Slough, which is fairly positive, rather it's what happened at the Wexham Hospital a little to the north and east of Slough. I thought Rutledge Hospital, our hero vehemently disagrees. Your writer of pulp on the other hand has a problem with calling Eilat, at the north end of the Gulf of Aqaba, "Paul's Doomed Yahweh." Yet it makes perfect sense to our hero. So there's a whole thing happening!!

Monday, May 25, 2015

Facebook, Utube and Tics

A little bit of a problem counting backwards. Quite why it's important, I've got no clue. I just can't do it. Other's can count backwards, but at least I don't count rocks backwards. Must be something to with the new math. Either that or the imbeciles who devise the utube  or ytube channels for children have lost some kind of touch with realty. Give me MC5 and Love is Like a Rambling Rose.

It just seems wrong to be asking us two year olds to like things on Facebook. And why isn't there a don't like on Facebook. Not everybody likes things for God's sake. I think we can all agree some four year old must have invented Facebook. And there's the ever present possibility of tic attack. I had one, my younger sibling has yet to have a tic. So I'm feeling pretty special.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Mickey Mouse.

Never liked Mickey Mouse. He was OK as a character when he didn't dominate the story. When he swatted several flies and then had to go on to boast about it, and ended up with the hand of a princess who oddly enough seemed to share Mickey's peculiar mental and physical characteristics. Those were the good days for Mickey Mouse, in my view. The fee-fi-fo-fum days, when a decent cartoon character chewed tobacco and wasn't afraid to go ice fishing.

Who knows what must have happened to Mickey since then. He's now a pontificating figure. He's got a passport, he's got some kind of mobile device, he travels, his Eifel Tower is set within the context of a rural idle, there are no pickpockets, his Egypt comprises a single pyramid, his Italy is all about spaghetti and boating, his China is a wall. For the sake of the future, give me a cigarette smoking Mickey Mouse who has the grace to have a stage tantrum and walk away from the writers who've turned him into an advert for Cancun.

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Block Building

Your correspondent would be much better with his block building, were it not for the every present possibility of earthquakes.

I guess it's a world view of property as temporal, and a learning experience for a geriatric who didn't get an ice cream sandwich for good behavior yesterday.

Friday, May 22, 2015

Geriatric Meets Two Year Old

Two and half year old person visiting. Very good for broadening the horizon. A peek at the future. A certain understanding that her world will be different.

And possibly there are other advantages to rearranging the routine by turning it upside down, then throwing it out of the window and stamping on it.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

New Lenses

There's really far too much going on in the world for one person to get any kind of a grip on it. The single theory, the unifying theory, would see it all through a distorting lens. And good luck to them. My own unifying theory is essentially the Grocery Store and it's parking area and quite near to the Grocery Store is the Giant Hardware store. Oddly you can get light bulbs in both places, but you can't get toothpaste in both places.

An alternative unifying theory is the comment sections of those newspapers that achieve a flash of existence in the ether and are accessed through a computer screen.  And while both areas of contemplation might appear less than useful, they are the current iteration of life as it is lived by the sons and daughters of the Industrial Revolution. And I still say we're more about shiny objects, crowns and jewelry than we are about very much else. Clearly I need a new lens.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

The Electric Supply

This morning's power cut sent the mind to wandering deep into the corridors of the conspiracy theorist. Fairly convinced it was a deliberate act on the part ne'er-do-well control freaks hell bent on disciplining my own personal and sometimes erratic fabric. Never have fully trusted the automated meter reader, and it's a well known fact that all electrical outlets are listening devices. The new squirrely light bulbs emit frequencies that can read thoughts and report back to a Supreme Court composed of nine John G. Roberts clones.

It was probably something I said in a moment of intense reverie, a profound utterance which due to poor sentence construction and incorrect punctuation was misunderstood, reported to higher authority, someone called Sammy, a knock kneed, spotty faced, non-smoking twenty something with an Oedipus complex, skinny girl friend, a passion for Mars Bars and Star Wars. For two hours I learned to hate Sammy. And it just seems wrong to be so emotionally attached to the electric supply.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Traffic Lights and Hoppy Bug

Our hero is struggling with the Protestant Ethic and the profligate habits of his comrades. Nor is it something like a factory our hero is hoping to build, rather he's attempting to acquire resources necessary to secure his onward passage, a dynamic that has less and less to do with aimless wandering and more and more to do with his legal status. He has no entry stamp in his passport. The ancients of course never had to worry about such things, but in the more recent groupings of people, the nomadic and the stateless condition is sinful.

It's a legacy of the written word so well rationalize by the academic and the power hungry. A most unattractive narrative, kind of like traffic lights. Yet your writer of pulp is more than aware of the even sadder reality which is that with traffic lights fewer people kill each other in disagreements at crossroads, those sort of behaviors are reserved for Grocery Store car parks when demand for entirely unnecessary nick-nacks and the larger pieces of meat are at their height. Sadder still for the written word, I must kill the Glossy Hoppy Bug to save the Eggplant.

Monday, May 18, 2015

Hoppy Bug, Eggplant and Leafy Spurge

A penalty of warm rain is the aggression it produces in the community of Fungi. Sootiness, fluff and exploding Tomato, as the less encyclopedic refer to the offspring of spore that chose to claim territory in a Vegetable Garden. And too, Hoppy Bug is rampant. They seem to be much bigger this season, and the suspicion is that some kind of an Arctic Hoppy Bug might have drifted this way, leaping from snowflake to snowflake through the course of this past horrible winter.

Our own Hoppy Bug are glossy and they have this passion for Eggplant and Potato, they don't like Radish and they relish the aromas of Catnip. However, not all Hoppy Bug tribes are the same. Indeed, some tribes of Hoppy Bug have a fondness for certain plants that come under the ill defined category of Weed, which strangely can include Dandelion and Good King Henry, both of which I agree can be a tad dominating, yet both of which were once harvested by the more ancient Gardeners. And I'm told there's a most resilient tribe of Hoppy Bug that has a fondness for a "Leafy Spurge" which is a plant that's become a bane to cow growing agricultural interests, it has to be stamped out and the Leafy Spurge Hoppy Bug has been called upon, in yet one more desperate attempt to maintain the original meaning of the word "Organic."

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Strawberry Birds

It's been good for Strawberry. The new bed is a little more isolated, stuck out there and I'd like to think scary territory for Chipmunk, he'd have to cross open ground to reach it, or maybe he's so passionate for Maple wings he just hasn't discovered it yet. No Mockingbird, a great boon for the Strawberry. The Thrasher far too gloating a creature to mess with ground bearing fruit, he's waiting for Raspberry and Cherry. There are Sparrow, who have the little beaks, and though I'm no expert in beak mark identification, a great big gash in a Strawberry doesn't look like the work of a small beak owner. However, the Yellow Chat and the Summer Tanager might not be so pure in the area of pecking at ripe Strawberry.

I used to think that insect eating birds ate insects, and seed eating birds ate seeds. And probably the better understanding is to put the word prefers somewhere. So I do have a degree of confidence in saying that Yellow Chats prefer insects, and always possible the Yellow Chat was just minding his own business, doing his bit by looking for insects in the Strawberry bed, and made a terrible mistake. A Summer Tanager is also an insect eater that specializes in things like Bee and Wasp eating, so no wonder he has moments of insecurity with respect his life choices and could get confused. All the same someone has been pecking Strawberry, both Yellow Chat and Tanager are currently suspects. They both spend an unnatural amount of time around the Strawberry bed, and they've both developed a "Who Me" attitude which doesn't fool anyone. But no actual berry in beak evidence yet.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Early Miracles

Saint Timothy's five miracles, possibly six, are all just a little bit suspicious. Two of the Saint's early miracles, his "Speaking in Tongues" and his "Causing there to be a Ball of Fire" were witnessed by the author of Earthly Voyage, Abdul bin Abdul. And while there is much controversy surrounding Earthly Voyage and specifically the name of the book's author, Servant son of Servant as it might translate, the Saint's "Speaking in Tongues" miracle and his "Causing there to be a Ball of Fire" miracle where dismissed by the Vestry of Monnow primarily because Abdul was not of the Christian Faith. He was a Pythagorean Cultist during the Umayyad Caliphate and he was sentenced to death as an apostate by a court in Alexandria, which is the big town in the north part of Egypt, and has been for some time.

Years ago, The Society of Saint Timothy, took it upon themselves to explore the Saint's early miracles. And it was during this exploration by The Society that our hero through no choice of his own first had contact with them. Indeed there's a great many people who will say that we as individuals cause our own individual destiny. "It's your fault, no one else's" in other words. It's a cruel legacy of the Protestant Reformation. Poor Luther, if he'd better understood the wealthy he'd have removed the Purchase of Indulgences from his list of complaints against the Roman Church. All the same, in the interest of narrative, or the sole means of comprehension, better to wait before leaping off the cliff and coming up with some theory or other about how Saint Timothy might have "Caused there to be a Ball of Fire." The Society's exploration of the Saint's "Speaking in Tongues" miracle was equally disastrous. Those were of course happy days for our hero.

Friday, May 15, 2015

"Parting of the Fog" Reenactment

The Society of Saint Timothy's reenactment of the Saint's "Parting of the Fog" miracle was relatively peaceful. Far be it from me to suggest that home rolling tobacco might not have been around in the Eighth Century and that more likely the ale would have been made from something like Dandelion rather than Hops, but as I understand it the modern micro brewery's notion of authentic Eighth Century beer does apparently include the Hop and sugar. And I guess picking away at these silly details is contrary to the Spirit of the Occasion.

More interesting perhaps is the Society's Google Earth view of Saint Timothy's route out of the Usk Valley. Some years ago, your writer of pulp was a great deal more familiar with the area. Many happy rain soaked days trudging around in the footsteps of the Saint. These days the memory has faded a little, and I'll tell you this much, the Google Earth route makes no sense whatsoever. And I think my point is sitting around a computer screen drinking home brewed beer and smoking cigarettes might not be in the Spirit of a Reenactment.

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Consonants as a Relaxation Technique

Your correspondent is stove-topped following roofing activities. It's kind of like being run over by a steam roller without the squish factor. And one thing about roofing activity is that a person has to wait until it rains to find out that he or she has failed miserably to resolve the problem. The other thing is that rain water has a doctorate in psychological torture. The obvious repair is never the correct one and most roofers end their time on earth locked in rubber rooms.

Nor is your correspondent that happy with heights, so when up on a roof there's a level of tension that can sometimes be relieved by vocalizing. The purists might dismiss the relaxation technique as something like tantrum swearing. Oddly when roofing, your correspondent reverts to the languages of continental Europe. And trust me the German Consonant Shift is a blessing to the roofer. When moved to passion he can make something like Good Morning sound like a cause for excommunication.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

The Society of Saint Timothy

The Society of Saint Timothy is a little known and sometimes secretive group of dedicated men and women whose unique interest is the reenactment and study of the salient moments in the Life of Saint Timothy. Not an easy subject, there's often controversy, and of these controversies the route Saint Timothy took during his Escape From the Usk Valley has really been turned upside down by Google Earth's Street View. In a recent correspondence with The Society, it would seem that a third possible alternative route has been discerned.

And while your writer of pulp does attempt to maintain an opinion of his own, bitter experience has suggested that a person should never permit themselves to become too involved in The Society of Saint Timothy by doing something stupid like pointing out that the Google Earth Street View has no record of what things looked like in the Eighth Century AD. They are fine men and women but they do have a certain medieval attitude toward disagreement. All the same fingers crossed for The Society's annual reenactment of that historic moment in 738, when The Rabbit of Usk escaped the Witch of Ithaca.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Sainthood as a Career

It does seem almost unbelievable that the petroleum industry receives government subsidies. And at the same time it makes perfect sense once government is understood for what it is. A bunch of guys and gals doing whatever they have to do in order to get ahead, earn a couple of dollars, spend their two weeks vacation in Cancun, then shuffle painfully off the mortal coil, often to loud applause. Such a pity the political class doesn't come right out and admit it, rather than dressing up, crocodile tears, and pretending to be Saints.

The Rabbit of Usk in one of his lives, claims to have been a Saint. As with all things there's considerable dispute. Our hero who knows The Rabbit pretty well is very doubtful around The Rabbit's memory of his life as a Saint and your writer of pulp is getting all excited at he prospect of describing the Vestry of Monnow. He again saw the inquest room in his dreams last night, and one of the problems was a Running of Trout in the River Monnow, which kind of distracted the Devil's Advocate, who was a big fisherman.

Monday, May 11, 2015

Naming of Toads

A good chance the Gardener has been over-watering. Not the first time it's happened, kind of like a definition of madness, it happens with a sad regularity. And there's a good chance that not all Red Norland will achieve fruiting body because there's a good chance the Gardener planted far too early following a winter cold that reached deeper into the earth than anticipated.

There are probably seven or eight Toads in the Vegetable Garden. In people terms they are maybe twenty year olds. Not venerable Toads, a difficult status for Vegetable Garden Toads to aspire to given the constant hacking around in cold soil by Gardeners. The one young Toad has a front left paw missing. He has the name Stumpy. And funny how much more venerable Stumpy would sound in German, Stumpfartig

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Saints, Poets, lice and Crocodiles

Our hero has a fondness for Crocodiles. Not the wild outdoor Crocodile lurking at the river crossing, ready to snap up the unwary or the frail, rather those Crocodile that belong to the Sufi Poet. There may indeed be confusion in our hero's defining of a Sufi Poet, because at a young age our hero was of a mind to think of all Sufi Poets as Saints. The Crocodiles our hero has a fondness for are the result of a miracle performed by a poet. And certainly there are no end of more prosaic explanations for Sacred Crocodiles.

But just pretend a lyric moves your mind, and the lice of its author when tossed into a pond turned into Crocodiles, as they did for Lal Shahbaz, a man of peace and a poet. Much later in the passage of his time upon earth our hero read the poems of Dylan Thomas, and so many others all of whose lice would have turned into dollar bills or francs or pounds. And he had to ask the question of Lal Shahbaz. Nor was the answer very nice, which is why some crocodiles are still sacred, others hunted for their skin.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Orioles and Weeding

Some birds just don't like to be seen, and one such bird is the Orchard Oriole. There could indeed be a confusion between a girl Summer Tanager and a girl Orchard Oriole. But probably more important is why persist. Why risk physical injury creeping around trying to see someone who doesn't want to be seen, then coming away with "It could have been a female Orchard Oriole."

The other thing thing to recall, is that being able to say "Yes it was a female Orchard Oriole" and then nodding wisely is central to the self image of a pompous ass. So clearly your correspondent is very far from being cured of that odious condition, he's got a long way to go, he's pretty much in the nappy phase of recovery. All the same, there's someone that could be an Orchard Oriole who could be thinking about nesting in the vicinity, they have really neat nests and that's all I'm going to say about most of yesterday.

Friday, May 8, 2015

Chapter Seventeen RIP

I should give thanks to the Wood Duck, or more properly two photographs of Wood Duck. A girl Wood Duck considering the possibilities of a nest site, she didn't look happy about it, and I too could see problems with it. And boy Wood Duck who was reaching that point where he didn't really care any longer where the nest sight was so long as there was some kind of nest. Wood Duck's nest in holes higher up on the trunks of  trees, so there's some leaping required from the Ducklings. 

 And indeed Ducks nesting in trees share the anomaly that for your writer of pulp has become Chapter Seventeen. And here there's a fine example of decrepitude and mental decline following higher than anticipated heat and snurk factor and a general sense of having lost the Springtime. Can never be certain whether the expression is "Can't see the wood for the trees!" or something completely different. Either way The Windral will end with "Water Tanks and Marching Songs." So peace and joy to Wood Ducks, their photographer and your writer of pulp.

Thursday, May 7, 2015


Very, very difficult to believe that this time two weeks ago there was frost. Your correspondent was wearing layers, socks and his rompers. There was a whole thing with boots, and he could hardly move following a political dispute between his upper and lower extremities. And what with one thing and another Springtime of 2015 was a very pleasant couple days.

 Then yesterday it was hot from steaminess, clouds of pollen, ground very dry, everyone was suddenly very busy and a little desperate flying around with bits and pieces for their nests except Phoebes in the barn who'd already built the nest, laid and hatched the children who are now in the tweeting phase. And the truth of the matter is I've never like Phoebes.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015


The thing about obsession is that it preoccupies a mind, it turns around and around, and once in the hands of a professional the experience becomes increasingly defined by the extent to which the obsessing is unwanted, or unreasonable and whether it produces anxiety. If it is unwanted and if it does produce anxiety it's deemed unhealthy by the great minds.

And then there's the question of whether the obsessing is reasonable or not. Oh Holy Night, How Sweet It Is to be a professional! Years and years of study, long hours in libraries, du-wops and diddles on the business card to tell me that Chapter Seventeen might not be that important. Well they can kiss my fifth metatarsal, the one on the right foot.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Impasse as Authentic

There's nothing wrong with the word "chronicle." It basically means an account of events in order of their occurrence. And the thing about Chapter Seventeen is that while it is an account of events in order of occurrence, it doesn't exactly leap from the page as an event that is in order of occurrence. And your writer of pulp is beginning to believe that this might be the problem with Chapter Seventeen.

He's tried potlatch and that was really no help at all. It served merely to reinforce Chapter Seventeen as a painful anomaly. The other thing about Chapter Seventeen is that it's all very well holding firm to the faith that it's creeping toward its conclusion and carrying on regardless, but with this sort of attitude Chapter Seventeen might just go on forever. However The Windral is about wandering aimlessly, so your writer of pulp is at least making his own point to himself, which is a sure sign of authenticity even if it does present a bit of a problem.

Monday, May 4, 2015


Chapter Seventeen or Number Eleven is slowly reaching some sort of confusing and incomprehensible end point. I could seek professional assistance from a top ten list, but sadly there are no top ten list writers for those writers of pulp wholly engaged by the Sabean Genre. And indeed it might well be worth your writer of pulp's while to enter the field of writing top ten lusts for those few, rare and rather special men and women engaged by the Sabean Genre.

 There will of course have to be a Top Ten Sabean Genre List Committee, some kind of chairperson will have to emerge, Sabeans are not big on the ballot, so most likely there'll be a traditional staring contest, which usually leads to accusations of cheating. It's a complicated process which does go on a bit and usually ends with the drawing of straws. So basically I'm looking at about eighteen months before any kind of professional help is available for Chapter Seventeen.

Sunday, May 3, 2015


The Hurrah-Hurrah part of May might already be behind us. The blessing of clean air, distant blue skies, light drying breeze and sunshine is a cost when there's no rain. This means hosepipe.

Nobody likes a hosepipe. And they are particularly obnoxious in May. Maybe Mice chew on them during the hosepipe hibernation season, but more likely hosepipes just don't like us.

Saturday, May 2, 2015

Red Norland Rising

A person would be hard pressed to think of Wheat growers and Rice growers producing distinct cultural differences in societies dependant upon either Wheat or Rice. Rice growing, I'm told, makes people more interdependent. Wheat growing, makes people more independent. And of course in the world of the root vegetable the confluence of people and plants produces a distinct personality that often finds itself allergic to post office car parks and shopping.

And I guess it's possible that even Wheat growing peoples get a slight thrill when one of several million Wheat seeds sprouts. But being so independent it's probably little more than a sneer when put beside the whoop of joy, the call to the gods, the demands for sacrifice through celebration by ice cream consumption, the leaping up and down that we root growers experience when a Red Norland breaks through to the surface.

Friday, May 1, 2015

Food Sources and The Sabean Schism.

Kamut is a Wheat that may or may not have grown during that time when the Pillars of Pharaoh dominated the northern reaches of the River Nile. And without dredging up the past too much, it's entirely possible that all Sabeans might at one time have enjoyed a nourishing gruel made from a very, very close relative of the Kamut that's now grown in Montana USA to satisfy the demand form the Whole Grain Enthusiasts who now dwell in the more urban places and appear to have become wholly preoccupied with their menu choices, the definition of the word "organic" and whether something has to actually be refrigerated after opening, and the difference between sodium and potassium, and meanwhile there's no Barn Swallow, and one sixth of the Earths current species will shortly be extinct through no fault of their own....

In his attempt to better grasp the Sabean Schism, and Chapter Seventeen in particular, it's become increasingly clear to your writer of pulp that the schism, a most dramatic moment in the oral history of the Sabeans, might well have had something to do with food. Our hero who is now in his dotage and pretty much beyond making any kind of sense whatsoever, claims a connection between what people grow for food and who they are. In his view the Sphinx Sabeans were more of a root vegetable people than they were a fields of wheat growing people. And in the Great Famine it was the Pyramid Sabeans who ate Frogs and grasshoppers rather than doing the right thing which would have been to join with the Sphinx Sabeans in assisting the Pillars of Pharaoh rid Egypt of Moses. A bitter memory for the Sphinx Sabeans, a lot of good men drowned, apparently.