Roman Centurion's blog

You've hummed the melody - now, sing along with the lyrics!

Where have all the sowgirls gone?
Long time passing...
Where have all the sowgirls gone?
Long time ago...
Where have all the sowgirls gone?
Gone to piglets every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the piglets gone?
Long time passing...
Where have all the piglets gone?
Long time ago...
Where have all the piglets gone?
Ground to weiners, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the weiners gone?
Long time passing...
Where have all the weiners gone?
Long time ago...
Where have all the weiners gone?
Gone to hot dogs, in a bun.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the hot dogs gone?

Well, you get the drift. Maybe I'll finish it sometime - once I find out where I left those darn hot dogs.

Hey!

I'm cleaning stuff up here. If I haven't seen you for a while, or if I hardly know you, you may get deleted from my friends list.

Just thought I should warn you - nothing personal.

Anyway...
If Jumping Buffalo is going to hand out poetry, perhaps I should, too.

I had a nice mosaic,
I put the tiles in place.
It looked just like a spaceman
Who lived in outer space.

Along came a destroyer,
Who tossed my tiles round.
It now looks like my spaceman
Fell crashing to the ground.

(A Roman Centurion Original)

Well, here's another one for now, until I get bored of it.

(used the graffitti to do this one)

Just thought you might like to know!

This one's a figure I made from a drawing I did to illustrate a book.
So it's a picture of a sculpture of a cartoon.
Now I just have to make a mosaic out of the picture.

The note read, "My old friend. If you are reading this, then I am no longer alive. I found this manuscript several years ago; it mentioned certain people such as the Professor and myself, not to mention several allusions to other people of our general acquaintance.

"I wasn't sure what to make of it at first. I scanned through it quickly, then set it aside. I found it again a week later. I was sure I had left it on my bookshelf, but it was there on my reading desk. The pages were so soft, so supple. They bent so easily under my manly grip. I couldn't put it down. I opened the cover; the words seemed to leap off the page and draw my eyes down, down to their subtle connotations.

"I was trapped. I read that manuscript from cover to cover that night, caring little for the time, or the surgery I had to perform in the morning.

"I spent the next several evenings in the rapture of poring through those pages, exploring again the adventures of the unnamed narrator and his or her dog Terence. I told myself it was in the name of science, the pursuit of knowledge. But I took a guilty pleasure in the exploits of the two as their lives crossed the paths of so many sordid characters.

"It was on the seventh evening after I became hooked on the story, "like some patient etherized upon a table' , to quote T.S. Eliot, that I discovered the manuscript's designs upon me.

"If ever I was to break myself of this debilitating habit, I would have to copy out the manuscript, word for word, and send it out to others. Only then would I be free.

"I started writing immediately. And immediately, the curse was lifted; the bonds were broken. I sent the copy to Plum, who was already hooked on his own opium. I never knew if he read the story; if so, he never mentioned it.

"I locked the manuscript away, hidden, and I was fine for a space. Then one morning, I awoke, and I wondered, 'How many clones did the Reverend Tithonus Carp have?' I tried to ignore the thought, but I was preoccupied all day. I couldn't concentrate. When I returned that night, I found the manuscript laying open on my reading desk. I saw the name Tithonus Carp at the top of a page. I stole a glance.

"I was back in. The next morning, I awoke, feeling ashamed and violated by my own lack of willpower. I copied out another. And another. Every time the feeling returned, I banished it by copying out the text. I sent each copy to a different acquaintance, until I had almost run through my list of colleagues and friends.

"Now that I am gone, I am sending you the original. It is the only copy that seems to exert this strange allure. I could not bring myself to burn it. But now that I am gone, and at last free of its spell, I beg you not to read it, but to throw it in the fire at once. Destroy it, so that no one else suffers as I have.

"Your friend,
Dr Swallow"

A few days passed before I looked at the envelope again. Terence was cleaning the pool one morning - it is his job, after all - and I had the house to myself.

There was a return address, blurred by a water stain, but still legible: Dr Swallow, 22-B Barker Street... well, you know where Swallow lived. This had to be a very old envelope, then.

After all, Swallow was long gone. And Plum... I remembered reading something about Plum in the paper a week previous. I grabbed the recycle bin, and sifted through the papers until I found the article.

It was an advertisement for Plum's memorial service, at the local university. It was rumoured that Plum had a large endowment for the school, although everyone was keeping tight-lipped about it. Where would Plum have gotten all that money, I wondered.

But I digressed. The memorial service was being held that very day, and it was only ten minutes away. If I hurried, I could easily make it there in time for the first teardrops.

I fished around in my desk drawer for a letter opener, but I couldn't find one. I grabbed a pair of scissors instead, and slid the edge of the envelope open.

Reaching in with delicate fingers, I grabbed hold of a sheath of papers, and pulled them out carefully.

It appeared to be a manuscript. It was entitled, "Terence and Me".

I shuddered at the grammar. It should have read "Terence and I".

I was intrigued, however. Was this written by the good doctor? And why was Terence's name on it? A coincidence?

I looked out to the pool, where Terence was taking his third break of the morning - pool-cleaning is exhausting work, he always says. I really shouldn't let him have margaritas before noon.

There was a note attached to the manuscript: it was from Swallow.

I read it slowly and carefully; I have a keen eye for detail, you understand. What I read shocked me...

I was sitting in the parlour, dreaming of gentler days, when a loud rapping on the door brought me back to the world of the present.

I gathered up my papers, which were strewn carelessly across the divan, in case my surprise visitor wanted to enter, and stepped briskly towards the bay window.

Peering through the burgundy drapes, I could barely discern a shadowy figure in a dark trenchcoat and rainhat. You know, the type fishermen wear, with their wide, floppy brims - the kind you see on the fish product packages.

I was in Gloucester, Massachussetts once, where the statue of the boatman - I think he's a whaler - stands peering out to sea, gripping the bronze wheel of his imaginary ship. You could see his face. You couldn't see the face of the man at my door; it was hidden. The face, not the door. I know where my own door is, thank you.

Terence looked up from his crossword - all right, he's not that smart - his sudoku, and barked at me.

"Well aren't you going to let him in?"

It seemed like a dream to me, a surreal, hazy experience, where nothing seemed quite right. Something was off.

The rap came again; this time, it was much louder. Why the deuce didn't he ring the bell, I wondered aloud.

Terence rolled his eyes, and plodded out of the room, whistling as ambled toward the kitchen. I was alone, abandoned to the dark stranger without.

I grasped the knob quickly, turning it with a shiver. The door swung open, and there before me stood - no one. The mysterious visitor in the trenchcoat and broad-brimmed hat had vanished, leaving only a large manila envelope on my welcome mat. I hesitated to pick it up. I heard Terence banging away in the kitchen, and thought back to a happier time.

Very well, I said to myself, nostalgically. If it helps. I took the envelope inside, and shutting the door behind me, returned to the divan. This new event had rekindled the old spirit of intrigue I had not known for many years.

Terence came back into the parlour, carrying a plate of sandwiches.

"What's that?" he managed to spit out between bites.

"This, my dear Terence," I replied, "is just the beginning..."

I know I didn't spell the name right, but you guessed my new avatar is Caracalla, the Roman Emperor with a (rumoured) incredibly cruel streak.

After their father Septimius Severus died (in England), Caracalla and his brother Geta became co-rulers of the Roman Empire. They had always had a rivalry, and Caracalla finished it by killing Geta in their mother's arms.

His statues always show him as brooding or just plain ticked-off looking.

I thought I'd change my avatar today. Time for a new one - or, in this case, an old one. Went with a man again.

I took this picture, so it's not copyrighted - nyah, nyah!

But can you identify who it is? I'll give you a hint: it's not somebody currently living.

I broke over 50000 for tiles moved today.

Pretty soon, I'll be catching up with Swallow and Plum, and the other big guns around here.