A new concept knife for myself....

 Alas, long time, no post again. Not because I had nothing to say or nothing to do, in the contrast... This is one of my latest and most time - consuming projects. On a dark new moon´s (sickle moon´s night, to be exact) I wandered home from a visit at my old mother´s and found a  tiny piece of ancient chisel... enough to make this "Jagdnicker" style knife from it. I like the idea of the Drudenmesser (http://www.fuhrmannsmesser.de/html/drudenmesser.html) an apotropaic style of knife that was common in the Alpine regions of Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Northern Italy. It served the purpose as a ritual knife to ward off the "Drud", a mythological figure in folk lore which was sometimes a human witch and sometimes a "night-mare", in the sense of the word. Only that the witch is me and the apotropaion I really need has to work against a very special kind of nightmare-some human beings. And I am NOT talking about necessarily sticking a pointy object into other people, not at all, to be precise. But having been a subject of mobbing, deadbashing and other totally socially acceptable demeanour by my fellow human beings has made me feel more at home in moonlit woods than in the neonlight of cities. Humans, generally speaking, are this planet´s nightmare. So the concept is situated in my local mythology. How would the apotropaic knife of the fair folk in my local mythology look like, I ask?   

 The owl is a nocturnal creature, swift and silent, as are the Dhiudha na nIamparai...

 And the fox is a psychopomp in their spirituality. Dhiudha who practice spiritual exercise (magic) and a special kind of "magical" martial art are called "*vautiskibareannai" (borne by the fox/vixen) in the Dhiudha language round these parts... sorry for the blurry pics...

 The fox is an ambiguous creature, sometimes cuddly, sometimes cruel, but always wild and striding in the night.

The knife is selectively tempered. I estimate the hardness of the edge to about 58 HRC. Handle is stag antler (flea market find). Blade length is 100 mm, tapering from 4-2 mm. The grind is a convex bevel, 1mm abovethe edge it is 0,3mm thick. The steel offers a very fine grain and a structure of refined steel or crucible damascus (Wootz). It will be in for a buttcap and sheath now... Mine, all mine... :-P

The legend of Hátislár the thrice-cursed

 This is a local legend of the Ennepetal, and the locals tell it for ages... traded it is from grandfather to grandson and in the long time it is told it has underwent a lot of change... but the elvenfolk of the Ennepe valley, the mighty kin of Iamparái tell it differently, and as far as I am told by their masters of song, more honestly.

For it was them who first started to tell the story as a warning to all humans. A story it is of the sorry shortcomings of man and the evil one man can summon upon each and every member of his entire world. A tale it is of the elven war against man, and it is this war that brought the dwarves and elves of the dale into hiding.

Now people say that Evil is a being older than the world, and it is told of in the scrolls of the dreamweavers of Feorh - Seonn - Ys, the AI - uigeann.fearh how the grey snake first assaulted the dreams that be and the world that is, and this is not the place to talk on end about these events, which took place in a place when place was not, in a time, when time was not.

It must - for now - suffice to say that the Grey came into the world from outside, a shadow that was no shadow. It devours all colours, it devours all dreams and spites peace and bravery alike. It poisons love to greedy lust, honest strife to greed, honesty to lie and wrath to hate. It is the death of all things light and all things of gay countenance; no song survives in its claws, nor tale, nor poetry. It corrupts the hearts of all its followers. Certainly one can tell, but seldom art first glance: Because the disciples of Grey are cunning in their wake.

 This is the story of Hátislár, the thrice-cursed. This is the story of a man who fell under the spell of the Primeval Evil. This is the story of a lesser dark lord of the grey hosts.

And was it once upon a time, when time was not, or but a day ago, that there was born a child into a family of relative wealth in the valley of the Ennepe? The child was a boy, and grew up almost like every other child. His father was a smith and merchant, and he was to become the heir of a modest estate. His father took pride into the small manufacture, and he was master to two excellent bladesmiths who themselves took pride and joy into making a very fine quality of steel and forged swords and knives and daggers and excellent tools thereof, for which the dale was famed throughout the known world. It is said by the dreamweavers that they were close friends to the dawrf kingdom of Klauti - Rad nearby and the Iámparái Cynn and learned a lot from elf and dwarf alike. The Redemester himself knew that he profited well from this friendship, but he was one of the disciples of the new belief of Christianity and dared not talk openly about the knowledge gained by the bond that had been formed between the races in the dawn of time. But he left his smiths alone with their afflictions, and did not fare badly by this.

Now the Ennepe valley was never suited well for farming, and the landlord of the nearby manor demanded a heavy fee, and so there was a lot of work to be done. Seldom if ever had he time to tend to his little boy, and when he had, he gave whatever gift he could get to his little son, who grew up somewhat wuild without the firm hand of his father. His mother loved him overly and taught to him not the old ways but the new word, and even if she taught him not to disdain the fair folk, he came to hold the dwarves and elves in low esteem, even to ostracize them for their difference and their ancient beliefs which he learned to sneer at despicably.

And he grew up a man with little obligations, and hard work he never had to do, for even if his father told him to crush the coal or bring water for the quench, the smiths were eager to help him out to protect him from any hardship in fear of his mother. For she had the repute of talking behind the backs of her adversaries and schemes and plots unfortunately were among the things he started to see as a key for a successful life, and success was what he had. But this success in his endeavours came at a prize, and he came to be reputed as cold-hearted, and other children shunned him. He started to smile at the mishap of others, and came to develop a greed for shining things. But all this would not have made him an evil boy, nor did anyone think of him other than a boy slightly misled. For in his heart he still was able to feel a warm love for his parents.

And thus he grew up to be a sturdy and robust youth, even if he had no hard work to do. For on the rare occasions he conversed with his father, he accompagnied him on the hunting sessions the manor´s lord commanded, and his father, being a wealthy man, even was allowed a gun and hound, and he was not an exception thereto. An avid hunter for his lord became he, and he roamed far and wide on sunny days in summer and in autumn he helped to drive the wildstock out of the thicket. Farther and ever deeper he ventured into the woods on his sauntering, and that made his countenance strong and able.

Alas for his sauntering roams. Alas for the health of his limbs and the prowess of his gait! Alas for the accuracy of his aim and the rifle in his hand! Alas for his hound that so well guided him! For the beast, that, unlike man, never betrays its own nature, led him to the crags of Haukrinnarstainns, which lay peacefully in the sun, and the gates were open. Unleashed he had the hound before, for he had thought he had a scent, and was greedy to bring home the meat and the spoils of the hunt, and the dog swiftly made into the mountain´s halls. Thereupon the doors did close, and left the youth outside, despairing for the loss of his father´s beloved hunting companion. And, fearing the wrath of his father, he started to yell at the grey stone. Now the doorkeeper heard of the wailing outside the crags, and beholding a young lad of pleasant countenance, opened the door without further ado. Alas for the times no gone forever, when there still was trust between the races and a local wanderer just could walk by to visit the wonders within the crags! Woe it was that this trusting worked for elves and dwarves alike, woe unlike any other, even if some dispute if the birth of Hátislár took place there and then. But argueably this was the beginning of many sorry events thereafter.

For into the mountain he was led, and his ostracity for the Iámparái Cynn somewhat dwindled. Now gold and gems and works of art have a different meaning in the halls beneath the mountain. being abundant in many forms, their material value is diminished in favor of their actual worth. The Cynn and the dwarves take pride and joy into the making of beauty and arts and objects of high craftsmen´s cunning. How long it was he wandered amongst the Cynn it is disputed, and he was told many a tale and many a trick of the trade of smithing and the making of beauty, but alas, his ears were even then deaf for advice, and he looked at all the gold and precious stones with a hot fire in his heart, and it was passion and greed in this fire. The dreamweavers, worried for the sanity of his soul and mind, told him the First Tale Of The AI-uuigeann.fearh and thus informed him how first the Grey took hold of the world and warned him of greed being a straight path to the Grey God´s altar; but alas, he would not listen. But hearing of there being an altar of Grey, he asked if the Grey God was worshipped and where.

Now indeed, long ago, before the venue of dwarves and elves into the dale, there lived another race, which is seldom talked of amongst the kin of Klauti - Rad and Iámparái, but still kept as a secret amongst the wise elders and tutors of their respective races. Deriving from the seed of the Oreamm and the seed of Men who propagated with the Grey Oreamm, they bear many different names. Troll -like, Goblin - like, with a fierce and strong countenance and claws like iron and fangs like steel, bearing evil arms and weapons of excellent but disturbing manufacture, contorted as their makers and masters, this race had been all but extinguished by the fair folk.

Rumour had it that there lived one last of these creatures the life of a hermit, stealing human babies and eating them in obscene rituals, so disgustingly aghast that few even dared to tell about them, a hunter even of his own kind, who had devoured his own offspring. Rumour had it this fell creature still dwelt in a cave keeping a maiden hostage whom he had kidnapped centuries ago and kept alive with evil magic. Still, this maiden spited him where she could, being yet forced to keep him company and doing his biddings under a ghastly spell. She was reputed to be of a wild but serene beauty and few could tell if she were man or elf.

And the youth listened to all these tales with jaundiced and twinkling eyes, but the masters of the tales still misunderstood what was driving him. And he was given back his hound, and he was given a plain but potent hunting knife of elven make as a gift of honour. Now it always had been customary to thank one´s host and provider with kind words and wishes of wellbeing, but the youth just took his leave, leaving his hosts speechless at such blunt behaviour.

As he returned home late, his father gave him a beating and promised him a change of things and gave him work to do at the smithy and the new-built ironforge to end his sauntering and bimbling about on dubious hunting sessions that the landlord had not sanctioned in the first. And at first it looked as if his son altogether had changed; but within his heart there was fury and anger and hate even at his father´s authority. And he took to heart the tale of the maiden who was said to live in the monster´s cave near the town upon the hill and came to see himself as akin; a creature of nobility and wildness kept captured by an evil troll. And since his father had taken his rifle from him and forbid him to leash the hounds for hunting on his own, he snuck off all by himself, just carrying the hunting knife he had been given by the elves, and in the twilight of dusk he wandered the dale until he came to a fell place.

Alas, dark was this place, and many had regretted to let live the insane monster, and not many of them lived to tell the tale. A cave it was, naturally opened in a crevice and  a small ditch in a murky and distorted forest, eerie in its desolation. One must credit his bravery to even get there in the first, but insanity was what was driving him to call upon the creature that dwelt there, hunting and prowling for the living flesh of man and beast, of elf and dwarf. And thus it was he summoned a priest and advocate of the dark belief.

It is not told what happened there, what obscene rituals were performed that night, or what stories were traded. Even for the young lad the terror of these things was too strong, and he fled the place with all the prowess of his young life, clinging to the words of the new belief as if to a life-buoy on the storm-ravaged ocean. It is said that at least he had somehow made possible the escape of the hostage, and the monster set out to hunt for both; but yet both went on respective ways, and there is no tale told within this legend of the whereabouts and whenabouts of the maiden... even if she is suspected to play a role in another legend, but this has to be told on another occasion.

Again the young lad returned home; and still, the birth of Hátislár was not yet then. His parents did not even get notion about his nocturnal journey, nor did any of his friends and relatives. But something had been corrupted forever. He had nearly forgotten about the riches of the Haukrinnarstainn´s halls, and a long time he forgot about his adventure in the halls of the Iámparái. At first, all seemed all too well. He went to church as everyone did and tried his best to work at the smithy. But something fell had befallen his clever fingers, or so it seemed, and often he ruined a cunning work by a simple blow of the hammer. The things he made were strange and stranger to the eye, and the smiths at first mocked at them.

But then there came an evening when there was a full moon in the sky, and the smiths had set a table in the smithy. A company of elves had ventured from their halls to join in on a feast in the manufacture and to offer advice, a custom both man and elf around these parts had followed for ages, a joyous party on a warm summer´s night. And the elves (and some dwarves of Klauti-Rad) with joy and a song set out to show the human craftsmen new tricks of the trade, and together they counselled and forged with a song and quite a deal of wine. Near the morning the company wanted to take their leave. In the shadow, watching with awe and envy, the young man saw them. And he saw them passing the corner where lay the scraps of forging to be melted or forged anew, and there the mastersmith who had tried to teach him to no avail had put a knife blade he had tried to make. And one of the elves, passing by the scraps, saw it lying there. One of the ancient order of smiths was he, and while he had not lived in the times of the Gráw-Khwaor, he still stopped with terror. For the knife blade he had seen he had heard of countless times, in the tales of horror of the Gráw-Khwaor-wars. And he bid the smiths to lend him the scrap metal blade. The smiths, however confused by his request, permitted him to take it away anyway to seek council with the elders. Grave was the warning the elven craftsmen gave; to be ware of the one who had made the tool, and to be wary of any signs of strange behaviour.

The company strode away into the beginning dawn towards the crags... and not one of them saw the  stalking shadow behind them. Alas for the fell prowess the young man had gained, the goddess may know where. For it is not an easy feat to stalk an elf, and this is what he did. And, armed with an iron bar he had stolen, he slew the whole company and relished in gore and blood. And he hid the bodies under big stones at the trail´s side and sneaked home. There passed half of a month, and the moon was nowhere to be seen. Sleep had not come easy to the young man. And, as disturbing his crime might have been, still this was not the birth of Hátislár. But it was on this night that he tossed and turned in his blankets, until it shivered through him like a gust of wind, and upon that gust of wind he heard a voice. "Come.", it said.

And he came. Came to the ironforge´s pond. Murky its waters lay, covered with an eerie slime and green moss like a foul swamp. Something moved beneath the stinking waters, something huge and alien to sight. It might have been of human likeness once. Once it had been the offspring of man and grey Oreamm, but no more. Beneath the swamp´s surface it had hidden, lusting for the souls that had escaped his preying, silently waiting in a slumberlike demeanour; silently, patiently and full of greed, now it rose to the lightless night. No likeness did it have to troll or man nor to anything walking the warm earth. It was like an eel, but not like an eel; wings it had like a bat, but a bat it was not. And when it spoke, without a sound, there were tentacles moving about its disgusting maw, which bore likeness to snail and worm and yet looked disturbingly reminiscent of something all too familiar. It emanated feelings fell and a fear of doom primeval; it oozed a stench so awful and ghastly that madness followed in its wake. Its limbs were rotting but full of terrible strength, and the young man prostrated before its countenance in utter terror and stuttered the words of the Lord´s prayer over and over. And the creature bent over him and kissed his brow and ordered him to bring him the bodies of the dead as food. And the young man kneeled and obeyed, shaking with terror.

And thus Hátislár the cursed was born and the first curse was inflicted upon his soul. And this was the curse of hate.

No trace was found of the elven company, and the morning found him shaken and pale, but otherwise healthy, and after some time his mind took all these events for a dream. He shunned the pond, however, and was fearful always and endulged in foul moods and thoughts of darkness. As opposed to his former endeavours, he obeyed his master and his father and mother. But noone saw him smile. Never would a laugh touch his lips, and his parents were worried about this. The wealth of his family started to dimish, too, for no elf was seen in the vicinity of the ironforge anymore. Often one of the smiths was seen strolling away to a nearby hill and gazing into the mists that rose from the valley´s ground, and the people said that he was waiting to shun his rival or his father, depending on what rumour they wanted to spread. But the elves knew better and councelled with this smith and met in secret still, for this one human was faithful still. And he begged them to maintain the Redemester´s wealth and prosperity, and they did their best. The stubborn mind of Hátislárs father, however, did not provide them the best of possibilities. All they could do was to teach the one and faithful man in the smithy, and he in turn did his best, but als, it would not prevail. And so there came a day when the smithy´s fiefdom was passed to another Redemester. But since the old man had served the lord long and well, the manor´s warden permitted the family to live on the property and provided them with victualies and a payment of honour.

Hátislár was employed a scribe and clerk for the ironforge and did well in this job, for noone saw him smile and all that counted for him was profit, money and its profitable propagating. So he earned a modest wealth and build a family, but often he went out in the middle of the night, and the darkness found him standing beside the pond which he disdained and yet lusted for, muttering uncomprehensible words to himself, or so it seemed. His passion for hunting became deeper still, and he filled his parlour with the prepared carcasses of his prey aplenty and more.

Thence came an autumn night, when the sickle moon shone brightly and sharp, that he sat out on a nocturnal endeavour, and sitting watch on a stump in the woods, across the clearing he was watching, he saw a white hart passing. And as he shot his rifle, he missed, or so he thought, and a frenzy of hate came over him like a gust of volcanic wind, violent tremors rushed through him, and, brandishing the elven hunting knife, leapt over the clearing to chase down the hart. Panting hard, he started at a mad run and followed the drops of blood oozing from the wound he had inflicted upon the magical creature, followed the secnt of death ever deeper into the forest.

And the park, indeed being a magical creature of the forest, sought refuge within the confines of the elven territory. And Hátislár stalked the deer and followed her into a thicket of brambles in a rampage, not minding the thorns tearing at his flesh, and hacked at the fierce vines not minding his own safety, and pressed through a hedge of blackthorn. And even though it was protected by blessings of wood and thorns and vine, the park fell and lay amidst the thicket of thorns, by a well so crystal clear that sprang up and always renewed itself with the spell of everlasting youth; and the park, drinking deep, seemed to reconvalescence. But now Hátislár had reached his prey and violently hacked at the magnificíent beast and again relished in blood and gore, spilling the lifeblood and the heartblood and entrails alike alongside the white stone of the well, fouling its brightness with deeds of evil and besmirching the marvellous blade of elven make. And the park lay lifeless.

Hátislár stood and laughed for the first time in years and smeared the gore upon his face, and he felt wild and powerful. And because he had seen what the water was capable of, he drank a drink so deep he could drink no more. But what was that? As he drank from the everlasting crystal well, his vision seemed to impair, and he beheld a slender figure standing by the well, dressed all in green and silver, and a voice like the rustling of leaves touched his mind with a feathery touch.

"Come.", it said. And Hátislár came, with a sneer and a frown and he raised the knife to kill. But as he tried to stab the figure, he missed, and was it on a stone in the ground by the well that the blade snapped? All that he beheld in his hand was the handle of exquisite stag antler which he had adored for so long.

And still there stood the figure, seemingly unmoved, and spoke.

"You drank a drink. You hunted. Now pay."

Thus spoke Hátislár: "I will not. How much should I pay you, scum?"

"You drank a drink of knowledge and vision. Fear the vision to agnize yourself."

And thus the second curse was inflicted upon Hátislár.

He came home and never spoke about his hunt and what he had encountered. Three wounds he brought home, three thorns of blackthorn had wounded him, and these wounds would not heal. He kept them secret for a long time, and noone knew about them. There just was a faint note of awful stench oozing about him, but he was rich enough to afford expensive perfumes. And deep in his heart he knew that he was changing. And he was afraid, and sleep did not come to him easily, and when it came, it was full of dreams of violence, hate, and greed and madness.

Then the old Redemester who had been set above him, died, and he was offered the fiefdom for his achievements as a clerk. But Hátislár did not care, for sleep did not come to him out of fear of the dark and hate and greed and envy.

And to him were born children, and they were beautiful, and their legend is told elsewhere, but all days were just like leaves borne on the storm. They passed like the winter´s snow, as happens so easily to the mortals under the Grey God´s curse, indifferent in their absence of colour. Sometimes, when he looked at his children, and at the grandchildren that were born, he could smile, and then his smile was reminiscent of a smile he had never smiled, but it quickly faded in the indifference that had ravaged his life. And madness struck his every night.

His wealth passed. Love and friendship he ruined.

And winter came upon the smithy.

The hammer of frost bore hard upon the corrupted ruin, and fell hard upon his endeavours and his every plan. Hátislár sat alone and cried. And his wounds oozed a stench so awful that more madness followed in its wake. Thus he sat and he knew he would be changed.

There was an oak standing beside the smithy, an oak the last faithful smith had planted, and a strange rustle was in its leaves, a song, and a call rose from Dale to hill and from treetop to root and root and along the road, and the road led over the countryside.

And it was thence in the summertime of late summer that the call of the oak was heard. By the call were summoned a host of singers and dreamers. To the site they came with a song and with music and laughter. They played music and shared a drink and wayward songs and toiled along with a smile and they lend a helping hand wherever they could.

And Hátislár sat in the chair he seldom left now, and he wore a friendly mask. And Hátislár let them toil for his prospering as he had done when he was a clerk and evaluated each and every one of them on the scales of his greed. And he listened to their music as he had listened to the death throes of the white park. And often Hátislár cried and he sat beside the pond seeking council with what lurked beneath.

There was one figure amongst the colourful host of strange countenance. Man he was, but man he was not, and he was clad in black and green and sometimes he told of strange tales and he forged works of strange appearance and sang songs of alien composition in langauges never heard of. he toiled, and he toiled with a smile and talked of alien dreams and dreams come true, and dreams came true.

And Hátislár watched him with envy and thusly he worked the third curse.


To be continued.

An early spring foraging hike

 These days I am not overly fond of my "fellow" human beings, to be frank. I did a lot of work for others, and of course charity bears its reward in itself, but if you ALWAYS get mobbed and deadbashed and sabotaged in the process, you get some different ideas how you want to spend your life, or rather, what you´d rather not want. I would gladly work for free for someone or something worth it... but alas-those few that would be worth it, are spread thin.But then ...alas... I do not care that much any more :-). having a bout of the flu and not feeling like doing a 85k ride with some 1500 vertical metres at all, but still feeling the need to get WWWAAAAAAYYY out there, I hitched the bus to the mountains... more the foothills of the Sauerland, but still. Arriving at the trailhead and climbing the first 100 m of rather steep incline I realized I should have rather taken it a bit slower ;-). But, not that much harm done, I did my huffing and puffing while enjoying the scenerey...

Then I climbed on at a more flu-compatible pace...

Through the thicket I scrambled, quite literally, sometimes on all fours. The Sauerland mountains might not be that huge, but steep they are well enough... ;-). I relished in the silence and solitude, with the ruckus of the valley subsiding with every step I made. You might know this feeling; I always thought there is a subtle threshold, not necessarily a geographical one, while geographics matter in this, but something more subtle. There is not anything huge that will happen, no dramatic light effects or a bombastic portal standing there.

But still, at that point, the world changes, and you change. Your mind gets another perspective, and the vibrations of your soul thrum louder than they do in the everyday mayhem, hum in harmony with the rustling of leaves and the sound of the oncoming breeze.

Then I came to a fireroad, broad, but solitary, and I followed it for  awhile.

The hills in the distance summoned me on... I must admit i followed a trail I did not know. I did not know where the trail might lead me, but everything is better than the city and its madness on som days. This was one of those days, where even lying in bed curing a flu was less of an alternative.

Even better yet: There was a cure waiting for me just by the roadside: Balsamic fir resin.

I harvested some of it. At home I took three peanut-sized grains resin with a tablespoon of coconut oil and three tablespoons honey, heated the coconut oil (you can also take whatever is at hand, but coconut oil is slightly antiseptic in itself) and dissolved the resin in it, put the honey in and per three teaspoons of the stuff took three finger´s breadth of cheap whiskey (I am talking whiskey still, not glass cleaner, mind you ... ;-) ) in a pint and filled up with boiling water, constantly stirring. Don´t overdo this, you might get stomach problems if you drink too much of the unprocessed resin!

Anyway, I climbed on, and still the vistas became more wonderful... somehow my spirit always lifts at that place, and it is as if a heavy load is taken from my shoulders. The air was fresh, but not cold, and felt clean and refreshing to me.

On the top of things, I met this not so little fella. I really like this guy and I must admit I have developed sort of a bromance with him.

I like his cloak... and the owl...

And the way he looks...

And Mr. Fluffkins at his feet... ;-)

Quite spontaneously I decided to visit the villag, Nachrodt-Wiblingwerde. This village is how a village should be, in my opinion. You can simply tell it works by how the inhabitants greet each other, and kids and elderly people interact on the street. It always warms my heart. Of course, there might be  a lot going on behind the scenes that does not necessarily looks so pretty in broad daylight, but having sat in the café at the marketplace and having involuntarily overheard one or a hundred conversations ;-) I would guess life is a bit better on the heights, at least than it is in the city.  

It started to rain, and when the cold drizzle subsided...

I was rewarded with this beautiful rainbow...

And could not resist shooting this photo... :-P

At first I had contemplated taking the bus, but then it would have meant waiting for two hours in the cold, so I decided to walk.

And, of course, I was rewarded again with murky woods.

...and mist rising from the dale.

I like walking like this. When twilight falls and embraces you like a harsh, unforgiving blanket, and still, you feel snug and huddled in the dark.

When the owls cry and foxes bark and deer are shying in the distance, then my lifeblood becomes warm and strong.

Then stars come out you cannot see in the valley, and the moon is a haunted spectre hunting in the woods, setting beings dancing around rotten stumps...

And while I might be ostracized in the world of man, still I walk trails at moonlight they would not dare walk in broad daylight.

The hooting of owls and the fighting and hunting and living of little and large critter and predator and the badger bear no terror for me... not as much as the ugly nocturnal predators that have designed the world of man...and if you fear not the twilight, the twilight will become you, it will never be your friend, but you will not need for anything else.

And then, suddenly, it was over. In stealth I trod on an empty road.

But, waiting for the bus, a car just stopped. I was a bit alerted, for you never know in the city of Hagen, but there was someone with a smile and a good face OFFERING me a ride to the centre of Hohenlimburg, if I agreed (!).

Maybe all´s not lost... and knowharramean? :-P

So feicin´what

 I have tried to be a decent member of our society. Indeed, I have. I have tried hard, so hard, that I suffered from it. I did a lot of things for others that I denied myself. For lack of time. For lack of opportunity, or so I was made to believe. For friends and institutions, for a friendly exchange, for social communities, for clubs and to save what could be saved. I have long since realized that I would quite certainly not save this bedlam of a world; and I thought, well,care for your friends and family and create comunities that care for each other.  I believed in friendship, even love, or, at least mutual benefit.

Advice: Don´t. There is no such thing as friendship. There is only an exchange in the best case, a deal, but exploit in most cases. Noone will give you anything out of free will, and nothing is for free. This is the brutal fact about modern man. There is no such thing as morality, either. People will lie to you, if they see any profit in it, would even kill you without remorse if they were not punished for it. If they could go unpunished, they would so, with no second thought or remorse, if only the profit is high enough . Even children are not innocent and are just the same as the adults. This is an utterly monstrous world we have created, and it will become ever worse.

But most of my faithful readers know this already, and suffered from it, and this post is not about whining. I will not bore you with the details of how I crashed again while just meaning well, just as it always happens. I will spare you the whining about how I am mobbed again on all frontiers. The deal with this blog is that you read this blog and you enjoy it, maybe some, at least, and at least some. You do not enjoy reading about how the world´s a shitty place. I daresay you all know it well enough without me contributing to all the bad feelings. You would not browse the internet for something as weird as this, were it otherwise. This post is about "So feicing what".

So feicing what am I obliged to play this silly game?

Recently Moritz called me. Now Moritz once was a kid whom I tutored to do the bunny hop way back in 2001 and whom I showed the way from the neighbourhood to the local trails. He always seemed to stick around, no matter what happened. Now he has moved to the South of Germany. ´Course he invited me along to "shred the local trails". He does not do much more than riding and works in the bike industry now on top. As I was declining the offer, he got a bit mad at me, and he made a fair point. I have been riding progressively less in the last years. I spent a lot of energy trying to fight for ruined smithies and funny people, and of course it is rewarding to forge something with your own hands, and to build up  a group that even stood together for some time, caring for each other and blah and blah and blah.

But when the turnaround is getting mobbed by the very same people you put together, you question what you have done. All of it. And it sucks, of course. What Moritz told me in somewhat drastic words was: What would they do for YOU?

The answer is: Naught. Never. Now it´s not that you do it for to get something back. You do it because it feels right, and it felt right and still does. But if you not only don´t get anything back, but get hit in the face for everything you do while meaning well, the logical consequence is that you do less. Equals even more getting punched in the face.

But, hey.... SO FEICIN´WHAT?

For there´s a new bike in my attic-turned-home. I got it courtesy of www.metal-motion-bikes.de (that much advertisement needs to be ;-) ), and the crazy folks on over just welcomed me and helped me a lot by building it the way they did. And when I strode into the shop, I got this feeling I missed while not knowing I missed it. Being part of the mountainbiking scene, and a vibrant part of it, for sure. I have been riding hard for some some 33 years now, and hard means hard. ;-) I rode down the Dalco trail at lake Garda at a time when a suspension fork meant 35mm of rubber pogo stick and fully sussed was not invented yet. Again I will not bore you with my dubious achievements of that time, how I filed my own cantilever brakes from aluminum that was way too soft so that they bent on the Kaprun downhill run of 1992 and how I bunnyhopped the bed in the appartment we had rented and how we devastated our rented rooms... we were younger then, and wilder, and the world belonged to us and our worries were petty. A lot has changed since these day. I am a bit proud that I might be even a faster and better rider in spite of my beer belly and aching joints. I am proud to have ridden with the best, and the best were not bored, in spite of my dubious cardiovascular fitness or riding finesse. It was about having fun, and we had fun.

And still my bike was standing somewhat neglected in my hallway, and I did not even bother to lube the chain or change the worn-out brake pads.

For the fuckers and morons were bashing me dead-or at least they tried. But there it was, standing in my hallway. My bike. You might know this phenomenon. There is something that is so much a part of your everyday life that you forget it is there. Sometimes you need someone to make you aware of it again. I certainly did, and Moritz applied for the job.       

Fact is, noone will ever accept me as a decent member of society at all. I got mobbed out of every institution, school, group or club I was in, even clubs I founded were not enthused to have me after a period of time. At the university, they tried, but I was one of the best and you cannot possibly bash someone who is having a teatime chat about academical issues with his mentors. I have tried to change the way I was, tried to be someone else, tried to be cooperative and beneficial even. Fact is, it does not work. What works, however, is getting in the saddle and get in some hard riding. Or some gliding along or toodling around. And the woods have never left me. 

 And this is what this post is about. It is about the woods. It is about wanting the light of a winter sun and cursing the raw ice on the trails. It´s about throwing raving insults at a puddle on the trail and laughing your head off on the way down. It´s about burning muscles and lungs and the feeling of flow and oneness on the trail. Call it as you like, but it is way bigger than the petty ways of mankind. That bike is just some eleven tubes welded together, a chain, some cogs, some rubber, pedals and a saddle. Nothing more, nothing less. And it´s not about the this and that of a label on your down tube.

 This is what it´s all about. This is why I can still say: So feicin´what! Drive me from the smithy as you wish, or leave it be. I am far more than just that. And I am far less than that. I have ridden mountainbikes for most of my life, I have carved wood for most of my life, collected herbs, tailored, worked with leather, tiled roofs, lay floor tiles, worked as a mason and a carpenter, as a scholar, in business promotion and city marketing as well as a gardener, a smith, a teacher. I have made knives, swords, tools, mead, food, have offered counsil and comfort to a lot of people. I have quite arguably saved at least some 100 lives in my life, in a most concrete manner. But the ten I could not save weigh far more heavily, and when I am out in the woods all this ranting and gibberish counts nothing.

 Still, I can get out there. And still, the hills convey meaning to me that ca not be easily put into words. 

And the bike, humble as it may be, is one way to get there. One means to escape for me. I cannot change this monstrous world of man. But I can change the way I think.

 I can ride down trails in the outback, feeling the icy wind in my face. I can scream into the wind and laugh my head off, and simply give a runny shit about what so - called friends jibber and jabber behind my back. Out there, it is about me, and the woods, and the wind. And thsi is what really counts. It´s about the soul, but more than that: It´s about your soul making friends with your body. Even if it is just a fading carcass, and my aching joints after a ride like this in the icy cold remind of this all too good, the soul can drive it to heights and abilities not easily accessed and not easily experienced. I am glad and grateful to have had the opportunity in my life to feel my body... and, by feeling it, getting to know my soul. The morons out there are moronss because they deny these feelings. They are zombies, undead creatures trying to prey on your soul, sucking on your life force while unable to even process it. I beg to differ.

 In these woods the path is shallow, but simple. Make silly mistakes, stack up big time. Go light on your brakes or go arse over teacup over the bars. Life is as simple as that. It is a brutal fact, and a brutal law you have to abide. Morality and love amongst fellow humans would make life easier, and were established to do so. But if these are not wanted anymore... I know the lay of fox and hare well, better than most. Being polite or even nice to others would make life easier for all-if all abide by this appointment. 

 Being out in the woods the way I have practiced now for a long time, as a spiritual practice, that is, changes what you are. And you are changed for good.Oh, no, I am not the best survivalist there is. I still like a warm room and a cozy armchair, agood book and a hot cuppa tea. But there is also something transgressing these feelings. It is hard to describe. And while the lay of fox and hare and the flight of the raptuous owl are part of it, so is the spring blossom and wintertime´s frost. I call it Skóggángr, but the word is meaningless compared to what it means. This is paradox, of course, and you can only understand it if you can´t understand it any more. 

 Seeing things like the ice crystals fills me with beauty and tranquility I miss in the world of man. Even careening down a steep singletrail fills my soul with tranquility. It is a feeling far removed from the "actual", from what is counting in the "actual world, and it derives not from a corporeal source, but from a soul.

 Riding across a river of ice might seem impossible or a silly idea even. But it´s not as silly as the stunted behaviour I lived last year. I lived it because I rejected one thought. It is a thought of severe consequences, and I did not dare to think it.

 It is the thought that occurs to me logically: In this world, I am the bad guy. I am the outcast who does not belong at all. i am the one thinking funny thoughts and being incapable of social behaviour. I am the one deviant, not the morons.

 SO FEICIN´WHAT? :-P

 They want me to be the same as I was. They want me to take responsibility for their silly actions. They want me to help them in their useless endeavours. They want me to live their futile life. They want me to join the throng and to be a good chap. But fact is, there are trails to be ridden and fun to be had. There is foraging to be done and dreams to be lived. There are songs to be sung and dances to dance and screams to be screamed on lonely mountaintops. There is craziness to be lived, animals to be befriended and eaten ;-). I now ride  a lot more and do a lot less forging, at least for others. There is nothing to be gained for me amongst people who just think in categories of gain and profit.They did not want my gentleness or politeness, nor my help. Now they must live with a wolf amongst their herd, or better, a wolf that does not try to befriend the sheep. For a wolf is a wolf, and sheep are sheep. I have realized this, finally.

 And the sinking sun greets me, and grants me light.

Lop the mistletoe,

 chop the golden bough...

 eat from the fruit of the forest.

:-P

So feicin´what? Off with me to another ride.