Five Doors For Me

Five Doors for Me

Momma said to sweep the floor

But Dust I leave

Gegel Gegel Gegelmesh

Five doors for me.

Pappa said to chop the wood

But cold he will be

Gegel Gegel Gegelmesh

Five doors for me.

Momma said to fill the pail

But she will have no tea

Gegel Gegel Gegelmesh

Five doors for me.

Pappa said to close the gate

But goats go free

Gegel Gegel Gegelmesh

Five doors for me.

My folks said to feed the babe

But soon they will see

Gegel Gegel Gegelmesh

Five doors for me.

Note: The Gegelmesh is a word for the Five Pools of the Wretched Plains, where lies the Homeless House and where the damned dwell in bewildered torment. Five doors lead to these hellish planes, each a cavernous mouth of the dragon Huadan, a creature of Ornduhl’s spite. The Five Doors is a euphemism for hell. “Five Doors for Me” is a nursery rhyme taught to children, letting them know, that if they do not do their chores, they will go to hell.

This is a nursery rhyme where originates the saying "Five doors for me" which basically translates to "I'm going to hell." Said in jest or fun or fear as befits the speaker. 

Dwarves

Mordius

 

McMinnville, Oregon

 McMinnville, Oregon. 1950

Real or Imagined

Mac Brazel didn't think much of the debris that littered his land after that July storm back in 1947. His primary concern lay with the sheep that wouldn't move across the debris field but rather worked their way around it. By all accounts he had picked up a few of these balloons that tumbled down from the sky. As a caretaker of the Foster ranch, his primary job was herd control, fencing, and general land management. Weather balloons falling from the sky was part of it. Probably a very tiny part, but a part, nonetheless.

When the storm delivered a debris field hundreds of yards long it was more than he and his pony, or even his truck, could handle. With that conundrum he reported the mess to the local sheriff in Roswell, who in turn let the Air Force know. 

What follows is pretty common knowledge.

The ironic thing is, that no matter where you fall on Roswell, if you buy the Air Force's final report, or the skeptic's view of what really happened, that fact remains that despite being on the front page of the Roswell Gazette and very briefly the newswires, the Air Force managed to so utterly bury the story that it wasn't mentioned again for 30. Despite all the hubbub around flying saucers, UFOs, strange lights in the sky, abductions, etc, this story remained buried. The only story where the Air Force (Army Air Corps at the time) admitted to having a flying saucer.

Brazel left the Roswell area not long after, moved west and continued to work ranches. He would never talk about the incident in public, and by most accounts of his children, in private either.

The story vanished. Brazzel died in '63 and the whatever it was, didn't exist for a long time. But Brazel entered the history books and has become a part of the mythological landscape - real or imagined - of the United States.

What an amazing tale.

Codex of the Planes & Beksinski

In working on the Codex of the Planes, I found this picture to be one of the most awe inspiring. It is a painting by the Polish artist AdZislaw Beksinski. It, along with alot of his art, captured the mood for the planes.

Here is a small excerpt:

"Gating into the Abyss is a step into madness for the gate lies before a multitude of gates whose number the sages affix at six hundred and sixty-six, but this is only a truth that they understand. The true number is indefinable. Stepping through the gate one comes to the Wearisome Path, there to walk through ether that takes one through a world of colors that fill the nostrils with the scent of dead flowers and tastes much like terror feels in the gut as one falls from a high cliff. But the path ends so that one looks upon a vast field of monoliths, each a thousand feet high of jagged stone. These are the Mansions of the Thrall and they are like fingers of bone thrust form the earth. The sky is dark orange with streaks of white light that burns the eye with a physical hunger for food. The light catches objects here and there on the pillars, casting it back in images that flitter now and again across the sky like a giant canvas. The top of each escarpment, each pillar, range from flat to jagged. Some seem to move, to grow and shed as they do. Here and there lights spring up in the orange dark, small, distant flickering lights. Some clinging to pillar sides, others atop them, others still in the canyon like gulfs below. These are Travelers, or reapers, demons or some such creatures that haunt the fringes of the Abyss but seek the comfort of light in the glooms of this place."

                                                                ~ Codex of the Planes

Two Five Zero

 A fast paced, hard-hitting blood-letting adventure. Designed for a single night' splay and lots of characters....

On the Road Offices

 I've been traveling a bit lately, but the Troll goes where I go. Here are some pictures of my two temporary office encampments.

Broke & Plenty Tavern

The more famous of its many taverns is the Rocking Bottle, a place known for its intrigue and drink. It has rooms to let in the back. It is rumored that the Mayor’s Wife, Lady Kalie is frequently there incognito. The Broke and Plenty lies down by the dock and is slightly cheaper, but one gets what one pays for. 

                             ~ from: Codex of Aihrde Expansion Ursal Main, the Town of Allis (coming soon)

To Battle

 

Fillineous Lunch Box

I found myself wandering down Memory Lane the other night, headed to Woe-be-Gone, that little corner of the mind that harbors yesterday.

What got me on the Lane is rather strange. I got to musing about my childhood, nothing in particularly mind you, just some errant thought, and it occurred to me that the Germans probably have a word for nostalgic gymnastics and then I thought, we need one here, in America, a word that signifies that faint, warm memory of some past event that can never be. 

"Like lunch boxes." I thought to myself.

Man I loved that lunch box. Everyday is was the same food. A thermos of some apple juice, a peanut butter and jelly (apple, the true jelly) sandwich in a clear sandwich bag, with the long fold tucked i; a bag of Taco Doritos (there were only two types of Doritos in those days, taco and regular) also tucked in a bag and some type of brownie or cupcake or whatever mom put in there for dessert. I remember the weight of it. It was solid too. It felt like you had something, something to hold on to. Opening the lunch box was pure gold. The lid, tight and snug gave way with a simple pull, revealing the tightly back case of order and calm. Everything was there.

That lunch box was gold. 

Interestingly I can't remember what designs I had on my lunch boxes. Was it Green Lantern? Surely it was Tarzan. Maybe Scooby doo, or Speed Racer. I can't actually remember. I don't even remember the thermos. Scraping my brain for some vestige of a thought, lost in the jumbled tumble of could-of-beens and did-happens yields nothing but the faint memory of the sound of the lunch box opening.

We definitely need a word for this feeling. Maybe Fillineous: a nostalgic feeling of some simple thing that is lost but remembered fondly; a traveled road whose location is lost.