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Ah! Be thoust Warrior true or be thoust the Priest of Israel, thou art but in
truth one and one alone. Dracos, dragon, drakan, or even Puff - who cares
which words you choose to use, they are but one simple irksome thing - words!
There dwells within us all the notion of the dragon, the lizard-beast to be
slain by the Knight in Shining-Armour - mmm, what fools we are! Let us for
but one sweet, single moment, if it so pleases you lords and ladies, follow
the trail of one Mr Bilbo Baggins, a gentile Hobbit of utmost distinction, and
we shall soon find ourselves atop the Misty Mountains; but who doth dwell below
this behemoth of vapour and of stone? Smaug, the Satan-red, the self-serving,
that most greedy of dragons!. He who, at least it would seem, took all for
himself and hoarded ancestral-dwarf gold and jewels for his (or indeed her)
own selfish, sensual delight.
Are we not mammals? (the word means little to me but I shall use it all the
same, such is the confusion of the self) Of course we are - in a Darwinian
sense at least. We mere sloshing water-bags posses, according at least to mankind's
greatest thinkers, a mammalian brain - that is to say, an intelligence centre
that makes us, well, human! But as Mr Baggins sits and awaits the coming of
dawn atop some lonely, bitter, giant of granite, so do we (the mammalian selves,
that is) squat atop a more ancient, aged otherself-serving force - the dragon,
or, if it pleases you so, the reptilian brain; that which moves us, that which
co-ordinates, that which, in absolute truth, we would perish without!
I remember as a child being mortally wounded by 'Puff the Magic Dragon'. It's
well cool up 'til the point were Little Jackie fails to arrive and Puff, understandably
dejected, returns to his shadow-draped cavern never to appear again (unless
you flick to page 1 and re-read the story that is!)
We see, we observe. As a child, nay, as a babe in arms, I observed my parents
(for want of a better word) and indeed I have no doubt other people, walking
not crawling. I wished to be as they (how foolish the young) and, ultimately,
received fulfillment of my wish - but how? Simple. That which I desired, the
dragon gave. I (the mammal) did not learn to walk by some digital process or
erratic trial-and-error. I became as Adam and chased the Morning Star that
is to say I walked upright; the Stooping City stood tall and embraced a love-untold.
But there came a time when I, the individual, forgot about Puff. I forgot he
(or indeed she) who toils constantly that I may be free to enjoy, to observe,
and to be Myself - individual, indebted to none. I found other things to replace
those childish paper-rings. I became lord, master, Valkyre if you will, and
though I did not mount the dragon truly (except maybe in my dreams), I did in
truth seek mastery of his soul - yet still he (or indeed she) toils selfishly
for my needs (if this weren't the case I wouldn't be able to type this!)
The Dragon is not to be slain; he lies not within the slumber of some human-fed
greed. We are atop his scaly form; the ruined and crumbling walls of Camelot
art we of mortal flesh and bone. We hoard the gold and the jewels, for we do
not become as ONE, but remain as I alone. The dragon is indeed blessed of magick
and a knowledge unknown; but what of we mortal souls, we fragile dirt-free Knights?
We must wander the wounded-land 'til we realize that, as Grail Knights all,
we must, for the love of the peoples of our land, overcome our darkest fear.
We must step forth and draw the sword from the stone (or at least the stone
must recognize our true self and release the sword unto this Knight of God) fearing
not that the stone will deny us - for if the people make rhyme and song of our
name, how can we who have supped of the Chalice, dither and doubt? I implore
thee, I beg of thee my lord, my liege - all within believe you to be truly the
Knight, nay the King in beggars-clothes, yet you fear to step forth. Understandable
my armor-clad child but, I once again must beg of thee, stagger forth - who
careth how drunken thoust seemeth!
If it is the daemon-ego alone that doth shimmer so brightly within thy Crystal-Cavern
, then tremble indeed, but if, as you are undoubtedly blessed to know, the people
sing true and you are indeed He (the lands exist within you, so how can you
not be He? - expect if you are Her!) then step forth and claim your birth right.
This is the strength of the Knight-who-will-draw-the-Sword; the closer you
get to the stone, the more these crestfallen people believe in you - but what
if all is untrue, and , aghast, you have been led astray? Then a pitiful wretch
art thou - the closer you get, the more the woebegone tribe believe; the more
these heirless people believe, the greater their (and thus, conversely, your)
pain if you are not the one they seek. Ah! But what choice, my friend? Slay,
trounce, overwhelm the darkness of your Night; the shorter the distance (to
your Kingship that is) the greater the hurt you shall feel at their loss of
thee (or more correctly, as they illusioned you to be). But THEY (these frightened
cowering babes) believe in you - you ARE the painter of their dawn and they
art none other than the tallow-drenched wicks of thy shimmering lantern-lit
But alas, it would seem I have erred and strayed from some ill-beaten path myself;
ah yes! Dragon - do not let the boiling-waves and salty-froth of your anger
and frustration steer you unto some monster-strewn uncharted isle. Upon which
ever shore you chance to land, remember always - look within. True, balls of
string hold very little entertainment value these days - but what of Puff?
Must he weep alone? It was He who surely made me walk, he who gave me joy;
for upon my command He gave unto me the power of speech. It is He that 'til
this very day (nay second!) beareth upon his own ageing, weary shoulders the
mundane and the diurnal.
Be a Knight indeed (spotless if thou whilt) but remember always He that sits
beneath the Misty Mountains and serves an ungrateful master. Hoarder of gold
and treasure indeed; what does He know of this beautiful world, of the pleasure
of our senses, of the love of countless gods? We have mounted and we have bound
with muzzle and with rein the fearless Draconian Lord (or of course, with equal
beauty and strength, her most respectful Lady-self) and become as Dickens' Scrooge
and kept all for ourselves.
But the end is nigh; so what of the weak, what of the small; what of the little
man in his big car - has he a tiny willy? I doubt (and indeed I doubt if I
even care!) if he has. Little man realising (subconsciously one hopes - let's
not give him too much credence) that he is little more than the 'child with
popgun sent to face the mighty crocodile' - he is the brat. Big car equals
small genitals? Nah, little man wants to hear the Dragon ROOOAAARRR. He's
in charge, he's on top, forgotten his paper-rings and string, he's the king
- let me hear that baby roar!
My hands tremble, but I must concentrate
The Dragon stirs once more, Ancient Mountain awaits his flight
The dance begins and I am slain by shattered fragments of the Eternal Whisper