Jeff Mach's Blog

The Humility of Sculptor Finn and Its Consequences

Part Primus:

Once, there was a great Dwarf sculptor whose name was Finn.

Finn’s talents were extraordinary even in the that age. They had been so from an early age, and, although Finn was lauded and praised beyond belief as a child prodigy…

…perhaps, indeed, in part because of the lavishness of the praise…

Finn had an extraordinary humility. Finn was, if anything, perhaps a bit embarrassed. He knew that his work was not without its difficulty or struggle, but so much had come to him, so quickly, so naturally, that he felt it a bit unfair, perhaps. Perhaps he simply did not prefer to compare himself to other children, and later other students; he was so far ahead in so many ways, in so many things that the Dwarves valued greatly, that he was told his whole life he was destined for greatness.

            Jak argues that Art is greater than the individual; has he not said, “It is the Art, it is the Creation and the Work, and its totality in the World; and Artist is merely its tool. Its most important, its most obligated tool; a tool to serve the Art. And in this is Purpose.”

            It was widely believed that he was attempting to impress Rowan at the time, who merely said,

            “The World is the World, and by its nature, attempting to grasp its totality from without is impossible. Perhaps this is only your path, and you see it in others because you desire it for yourself.”

            Jak picked up his hammer, walked to Rowan, and handed it to her handle-first. He then proffered his parietal lobe, bending his head.

            “I can’t tell you that you’re right, but I can’t say that you’re wrong. Please end my indecision.”

            Rowan looked at the hammer, kissed him upon the forehead, and said, “This is a nice hammer. Its return should provide you with sufficient incentive to learn to speak. I admire your method and look forward to hearing more about it when you come to retrieve this.”

            She then walked away.

But in this thing, perhaps Jak was correct. Finn’s light could not at all be hidden. He rapidly became well-known, then famous, and soon they began to call him, “The greatest artist of our time”.

His art, indeed, is likely excellent, and that which we believe to be his is, indeed, of extraordinary quality. But we know the identity of few pieces, for such was Finn’s humility that he refused to sign his work.

Indeed, eventually, once he was well-off, he began to refuse to take credit for his work. He would do jobs for solo clients on the condition that they truly not tell anyone it was his; or that, cleverly, they say it might be his, or it might be a clever imitation.

When he became wealthy, he hired a few clever agents to go around and obfuscate the trail. He wanted to serve the Art. He did not wish to be served by it.

But again: this level of service to the Art came only after much time. Even with his skills, it took many years to acquire the wealth and ability needful for such things.

This is, perhaps, a meritorious life. If you are dedicated to making things, then perhaps, if you are in a position of great material comfort and general success and safety, this is an offering you can make. To P’tah? To the World? To Art? To your own, secret soul?

Perhaps so.

But Finn had never needed to be found, never needed to establish himself, never needed to secure his own base. This is no crime in him; he was simply too talented, and in a place which valued those talents far too much, for that to have been his path. He wanted to sculpt, he did the hard work, he made the sculptures; it was not any weakness in him if their value was so visibly apparent that people sought to acquire them and reward them from him his whole life.

He had never needed to convince anyone of the value of his art; it was obvious. And he didn’t really need to convince anyone to go along with his strange desire to hide; they wanted the art.

Finn created extraordinary art.

Finn died wealthy, accomplished, and successful at his goal at none knowing which works of art were his own.

Finn died a very, very unhappy Dwarf.

His is a cautionary tale.

 

Part Secondus:

The Great Competition To Create The Great Dwarf Statue

This Finn did do:

He set up a competition.

He said, “Instead of searching for the meaning of ‘good’, let us decide! I will fund a vote.”

It could be said that Finn put his entire fortune into this worthy task. He did not. His fortune really was, while not vast, significantly more than comfortable.

Here was to be the mechanism:

“Rather than decide any single aspect of the statue, we shall simply decide upon a statue. So many of us sculpt, in great or little ways. Let there be a competition among sculptors. Rather than saying that a ‘good’ statue of a Dwarf should have a certain expression, wear certain clothing, be in a certain style, be done this way or that, express this thought or motion or another… let us vote.”

(The Dwarves have tried many methods of voting over the years. They do not trust them well. He ergo had to create one.)

“I will make for thee voting sigils. I will make them myself. With this vast workshop and quarry I have, and my army of apprentices, and my wealth, and the skills of mine which thou hast lauded, I’ll create a hundred uniquely-sculpted sigils. See, here is the first one; I have used all my skills to make it difficult to duplicate, and hopefully pleasing to the eye. On the Day of the Competition, the hundred Sculptor Dwarves we have chosen by lot and arrangement shall unveil their sculptures. All shall vote, and that which is decided as best can stand as a model for all, that we might have something for which to strive. Perhaps two statues shall tie or near-tie, and we shall have two schools. Perhaps even a third or fourth school if there is a heavy favorite. But we shall get closer to knowing what is an ideal statue of a Dwarf, and then we shall have a solid way to make art going forward, a Caementicium of Art.

I have arranged with the Priests of P’tah to hold the votes, that they may be secret, and none are influenced by the fear of his neighbor.”

(“What is to be the method of the Lot? How did the Guild of Sculptors agree to this? How will votes be kept anonymous? What shall prevent the Priests from gossiping?”)

(“These are good questions. Perhaps someone will pick them up.”)

On the Day of the Great Competition To Decide Upon A Good Dwarf Sculpture, thusly it went:

I. Arrived did all the sculptors, having brought their sculptures to the assigned place in dark of night; it could have been done more easily in the day, but surely suspense was, if more complicated, surely more fun. Hail Dionysus!

II. There were sixteen statues of Dwarves.

III. Eighty-four, thus, were missing. There was much speculation. The artists were present; they weren’t saying much, but they were present, and those who had not made statues were neither grieving nor envious; nor did they apologize. Nor, even, did they go and kick a rock.

IV. They were all unveiled at once.

V. Four were straight-up terrible.

VI. This is how they were decided to be such:

Finn, already in distress, went to a friend of his who was an afficionado of the works of Jak, and not quiet about it.

“Pray thee,” he begged, “make thou a defense of these statues. Let not this competition, already be made strange, embarrass the creators of these things by disheartening them.

“Speak, please, the words of Jak, or of Soren or Juvenal, perhaps. Explain to them that there is beauty even in the ugly, as you have so often put forth to me with such eloquence.”

The friend looked at Finn, looked at the statues, looked at Finn, looked at the statues, and paused. He looked at Finn. He looked at the statues.

“I shall buy thee a flagon of absinthe! Thou may speak as much as thou desireth! Remember the Saturday last, at the tavern, when you gave us that discourse on Jak’s opinion on the table, and the beer, and the fire, and the service, for ten hours straight? And we listened, because you were buying?”

“I shall buy. Speak! Speak! Give me words that I might defend these statues.”

The friend looked at the statues for a long while.

“I’m sorry. But those are just terrible. I don’t want to talk about it.”

And so it goeth.

VI. They voted.

VII. This was the vote:

887 votes were cast.

The sculptors who had not been making statues of Dwarves had put their time and their energy and the Art into crafting very, very good forgeries of Finn’s Voting Piece.

The forgeries were very, very good. Finn himself might have been able to tell, perhaps, maybe even with certainty, but absolutely not through that many tears.

There were, indeed, winners and losers among the statues. But as it was impossible to know who had made what lots and how many. The voting was broken.

VIII. But Finn had, once again, made a great contribution to Art!

IV. Finn’s Voting Piece is considered one of the greatest Dwarven sculptures of all time. It has, of course, been described so often and so much that we need not bore you with it here. It is magnificent, and it is, indeed, very very difficult to copy, even now, when it is usually the piece used to determine when an apprentice has reached the Journeyman stage by almost everyone who works with stone.

X. Thus the Humility of Finn teaches us a lesson:

XI. Finn tried to create great art. He tried to separate himself from it, from the way others saw it, from the way other spoke of it. He tried to make it easier to understand what “Good” art might be, if one is commanded to make it.

XII. In almost all these things, Finn succeeded.

XIII. Poor Finn.

__

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

Try my Patreon.

The post The Humility of Sculptor Finn and Its Consequences appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Dungeon Doggerel Makes No Excuses

I have far too many pieces labeled “Dungeon Doggerel”. I’m ashamed of all of them. I should be writing about important things, like absinthe.

Tiamat

I won’t let Tiamat in any of my beds
Because she has too many heads.
Mother of all evil Dragons of Chrome
I’ll pat all five heads
and feed her a gnome.

Owlbears (again)

Even the creators didn’t care
When they made the Owlbear
No time for reflection or refraction
Or even something really Gygaxian

“Bears are scary, but ordinary
But a bipedal owl that’s really hairy?
That’ll reduce adventurers to gristle
…unless someone knows Magic Missile.”

The Bulette (Land Shark)

I myself would place no bet
Against the deadly, dread Bulette
Rapacious, deadly, hungry, toothy
They’re very “EGADS! FORSOOTH!”-y

You should seek them out if you’re heavily invested
In being rapidly digested.

The Drider Poem – Rough Draft.

Created by the Goddess of Spiders,
They’re arachnids with attached riders.
Created as punishment for eight-legged sins
Life dying? Death fighting? Neither are wins.

 

__

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

Try my Patreon.

 

 

 

The post Dungeon Doggerel Makes No Excuses appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

P’tah’s Careful Instructions

I. P’tah said unto the Niðr, whom some called ‘Dwarves’:

“Create.”

They said: “Gladly. That seems worthwhile. And it’s dark down here otherwise.”

He said, “Build.”

They said: “That’s very vague, O Master.”

He did say: “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’m working on something right now.”

AND SO, SOME SAY, IT WAS.

II. The God P’tah, Created All Things, Everywhere, In All Totality, Including Himself/.

Or perhaps he did not. There are many Creator Gods. It is, perhaps, not strange to see how many of them have created, they are certain, they Universe; and perhaps many of them are right.

P’tah created All. Or he did not. He certainly created many things and continues to do so; we do not know his far past, but we can know, with certainty, that tomorrow, he will be at his forge, his desk, his tax–deductible solar chariot.

Did he create All? Will he get credit for it?

He may not care.

He’s happy it was Created. It’s impressive.

Although, of course…it could certainly be improved.

III. Creation is one act which you can engage entirely and purely for yourself and still improve the world for many others. Some of those whose motives are most purely greed or obsession create that which benefits the most people.

Creation can say that. What can Destruction say?

They say obsession is not good. But most of those who say it are not happy, and they don’t create much. They waste their time on foolish things, which neither outgrow their creators, nor outlast them.

Do not offer them pity. They need and deserve it, but it is not constructive.

IV. Make well. Make that of which you will be proud.

V. Is it better to be happy, or satisfied?

Keep on working, friend. Keep on working.

__

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

The post P’tah’s Careful Instructions appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Owlbears: A Small Poke At Gary Gygax

Gary said, “Make an owlbear!”
Robert said: “Silly!”
Gary:” Don’t care!”

TheOwlbear is prehistoric
If your knowledge of history is meteoric
(ally bad) (orif your prehistory)
Makes no sense to anybody.

They’re tall. They’re furry. They have…beaks?
Their evolutionary history leaks.
Of all the monsters TSR invented
There are fewer Zoologists more resented.

I’ll write more about why they need to do kegels.
But first, I’m leaving to go get bagels.

___

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

 

The post Owlbears: A Small Poke At Gary Gygax appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

The Pact of the Dwarves and the Inferior Ring

“I grant you,” she said, slowly, “this. Outside of the Governance which we shall mutually determine at council together, under my final will and rule, you may essentially govern as you have, and live as you have.”

And for the first time he looked away from his ceiling and at Sam.

“And you WILL forge for me. You will craft for me. You will bend your tools and will towards the needs and desires of my rule.”

“Some of my requests may not be simple or easy or without pain or suffering in fulfillment. Some of these things may not be requests. All that I require, you will make; and you will be prepared to be my artisans and my craftsmen at any day or night I so desire.”

The guards by the Throne of Alice are, as have been most of the guards whose job was both protection and visibility, were of great size. They were also of much skill, and very alert, and the double-headed axes each bore were not small.

But you cannot lift an axe while your jaw is in an accelerated journey towards the floor. Sam bounded to the Throne, and, to the utter and absolute cyclopean horror of all and sundry, shook Sam by the hand.

“Hey, thank you!” he said, his voice rising in emotion for the first time. “You are very kind, and I will certainly tell my folk that. But—” and now he kicked his foot a tad against the floor. “I hate to be impolite, but because I need to ask: What can we do for you?”

 

The post The Pact of the Dwarves and the Inferior Ring appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Roughage – that Law of the Hammer

The Dwarves spend perhaps as much time debating the Law of the Hammer as other species spend developing language, writing, agriculture, and religion. There is a simple reason for this, and it’s not considered very important by the Gods involved.Finn, Kai, and Sterling were, among other things, sculptors. In the town where they used to sculpt, there stands a pile of rubble, and there are many statues.They sculpted. Oftentimes they sculpted well enough that the community fed them to sculpt. In some communities, all take turns feeding the sculptors from what they have; but here, the community was wealthy and gave them livings in exchange for their work.Nevertheless, at one time near the Empty Harvest, an old and knowledgeable hag brewed a batch of Cobalt Absinthe.Now, there are artists who abstain therefrom, but these were none of those. Finn loved the madness, Kai loved the inspiration, and Sterling drank his so quickly that none ever found out why he craved it so; it would echo down his throat and he would fall in stages to the ground and towards Morpheus.She declared she’d grant the whole batch, a tall bottle indeed, to the artist who created the sculpture which most represented Aspiration.Finn’s sculpture was extraordinarily classic; even among an Underground people, that lifted head, those upraised hands, were unmistakable; here was someone reaching for the stars.Kai’s sculpture was an ancient response: a Dwarven figure with a hand reaching into what must have been the fresh breach of a wall, and pulling forth……something, from the figure’s eyes. Something very special indeed.Sterling’s sculpture was a handsome man taking a bow and smiling.The old woman looked at Sterling. Sterling smiled, took his hammer, and attacked his own figure, smashing it methodically, over the course of a few minutes, to bits.Finn turned towards him. “You didn’t like it? You aspire to do better? You have symbolized this for us all?”Sterling smiled. “I’m twenty-two years old. I aspire to learn the art of love as often and frequently as possible.”He turned towards the audience, which was, indeed, segmented into the horrified, the curious, and the very, very definitely admiring.“My thesis is that lovemaking is better for your art than technique alone. This is a competition and,” he paused, and gave what had definitely been the statue’s bow, “I am looking for assistance.”If you visit that town, which is famous even now for producing extraordinary sculptors, you are welcome to take some of the rubble as the souvenirs.You can be certain there will be more.___Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

The post Roughage – that Law of the Hammer appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Iron Shoe Stomp

Is it madness? Is it news?
Is the whole world doing it for views?
Come, put on your iron shoes
and let’s go hunting faeries:

up the aerie mountain,
down the rushing glen,
we dare not go a-hunting,

fearing that moment when,

the phone that listens to your words,
and knows your precise location,
hears whatever it is that finally leads to
your cancellation.

We’re all increasingly sure-ifying
That everything is purifying
(Unless, of course, somebody’s lying
But that could never happen.)

Still: it’s an unironic cornucopia
To live in an honest-go-gosh dystopia;
I’m genuinely not all mad;

As Worldly tension’s weirdly mounting
I could have studied damn Accounting.
If Dervishes are all our minds
I’ll be the last to close the blinds.

Bring the Chaos! Goddes Ma’at
Will separate That from That Which Is Not
And whilst to Tiamat I tip my hat,
We’ve Marduk on our minds.

Look: It’s fine. Do as thou wilt.
But there’s a difference between concrete and silt
And we’re worried that what’s been spilt
is not blood
but brains.

___

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

The post Iron Shoe Stomp appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

The Golem and the Door

You could say of it many things. It was not practical for what it was; there had been the trade of practicality for solidity. Solid it was: blocks and blocks of clay and rock, pieced together. Perhaps it had been two or three Golems once; it was made of parts that did not seem to fit well together. You could say of it many things, but you could not, if you were reasonable, say that it was a small Golem, even by the standards of Golems.

It stood there. When Rothgar had first been dragged in chains to The Dark Lord’s citadel-bungalow, this was one of the first things that he admired. So many people guard their front gates with proud, strong, tall, dangerous soldiers, and Rothgar, who was one of those, had long felt that the pinnacle of excellent taste was to aspire to achieve even bigger, even more deadly, even straighter-standing soldiers.

Then Rothgar saw the Golem, which stood there. It was heavy, it was clumsy. It did not look like it liked to walk, or cared to do so. But despite the fact that it was entirely unmoving the vast majority of the time, it never gave the impression of being, for example, a statue. You could not be sure why. There was no breath. If you didn’t approach, the eyes didn’t move. Perhaps it was just an instinct: perhaps there was no logical reason for it. Perhaps the thing was simply too inherently dangerous, coiled, an instant from bringing down upon you a cascading torrential angry mountain.

Rothgar had never seen anyone climb it before.

It clearly hadn’t objected; this was evident from the fact that there was a Dwarf sitting upon its shoulder, with a little coiled rope ladder beside him and a sort of claw-like grapple looping neatly twice around the massive yoke-bone next to it.

The twelve warriors with Rothgar, at the very least, would have made any front gate proud. They were very well-warmed. They aimed at the Dwarf.

The Dwarf continued rubbing his hands against the side of the Golem. Rothgar, who was not young, said to a guard who was,

“What’s that in his hands?”

The young man squinted.

“…clay, I think.” He blinked. “Sir.” He squinted again. “Yes, it’s…clay.”

Rotghar had not ordered repairs. Rothgar had not needed repairs.

Rothgar considered.

In front of him, there was no great flat smashed pile of bone blood skin sinew and teeth, and it could therefore be certain that the Golem had permitted all this.

As Rothgar stood pondering, the Dwarf noticed them at last. He hastily did something with his hands against the side of the large being, looked at it for a moment, nodded, and removed the grapple. “Give me a minute!” he called. Rothgar expected him to slide down, and made an annoyed mental note to send someone to remove the climbing gear later. The Dwarf made a long complicated knot, and then leaned over the rope, covered his mouth, and very quietly said something that was clearly an incantation of some kind. He slid down the rope.

The Dwarf stepped back from the Golem, took the rope, turned it in his hands, looked at it for a moment, and tugged very hard and very suddenly. The knot came away, the rope fell, and he caught it.

…almost. It fell at Rothgar’s feet. “Sorry,” the Dwarf said, “I’m a little clumsy.” He picked up the rope.

“Who ordered repairs?” asked Rothgar.

“Nobody. You just needed them,” replied the Dwarf.

“Well, we hadn’t ordered it, but we’ll check the work. If it’s good, how much do you want for it?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied the Dwarf, coiling the rope.

Now it was Rothgar’s turn to blink. Which he did. Twice.

“What is it you want, then?” He looked back at his troops. They looked back at him. They looked at the Dwarf. He was rummaging in his pack. He pulled out a crumpled, dirty, very expensive piece of vellum parchment with a great deal of fancy writing and several large seals on it. The largest was Rotghar’s, as majordomo of the citadel-bungalow.

It stated that this was Sam Hammerwright, Son of Rock, Child of Stone, Ambassador of the Niðr, envoy of the Dwarven peoples to the conference ordered by the Dark Lord, arriving, as requested, to work out the details of the Dark Lord’s new rule.

“You’re the Ambassador of the entire Dwarven people?” asked Rothgar.

“I guess,” Sam said.

“And the Golem wouldn’t let you in? I find that hard to believe.”

Sam looked embarassed.

“I thought maybe I could fix something before I had to start doing the stupid stuff,” he said.

Rothgar looked at him.

He walked slowly towards the short, stocky young fellow, and then took him by the arm.

“I think I’m going to buy you a drink,” he said. “Let me show you how to find our pub.”

__

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

The post The Golem and the Door appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

P’tah and the Cup

Once it was said to the God P’tah, Creator of Things and All Things, eyes of the Universe, maker of little miniatures:

“Just as you must have an empty cup to fill it with tea, so must you have an empty Universe to fill it with meaning.”

P’tah nodded.

P’tah shrugged.

P’tah placed a little cup carefully in somewhere he judged a good spot,

Then into it He began pouring the Universe. He poured in a little and then a little more and then a flood and then an ocean and then into the Universe he poured another Universe, and He said:

“Make more. The Universe finds room.”

The Universe was not exactly sure this would always be true, but it was too busy enjoying the Universe to care.

__

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

The post P’tah and the Cup appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Phoenix Ashes

The Circus comes! The Circus comes!
The Circus of No Walls!
Please ignore the shadows
In the shadows of our stalls.

Behold! Behold! Cinereal
Our fortunes all are hinged
Upon the flavorsome flames with which
Our Phoenix friend is seared.

Step right up! Try, you, and see
His Pyrrhic pyromancy
Here is the conceit for which we busk:
He’ll play with fire ’til he’s a blackened husk.

Why not? Cinereal has the stones
Of one who’s daily grilled to bones.
If flaming death’s his sobriquet
Why not become a bold briquette?

And thus! The Circus of No Walls
(Please ignore its lilting calls)
Is proud to on this night, imbue
Your carnival
with barbecue.

And thus! At Night’s approach
Your hearbeats all, he’ll cruelly poach
As his act appears Death-Defying –
but no. Oh no.
His act is lying.

Upon this have utmost reliance:
This Phoenix hates all Death Defiance.
He won’t live ’til ages hoary
He’s going out in a Blaze of Glory.

Foregoing stone! Foregoing tomb!
His beauty is one great KABOOM!
Flame whirls ’round in smoky coils
As he’s doused with your favorite oils.

THRILL! to his acrobatic ignited combat!
SCREAM! as he dodges flames from Dragon, Sprite, and Wombat!
CURSE! as the burning whirlwind quite narrowly misses
…and then it does.

Silence.

And something hisses.

And JUST before our brave young bird’s entirely consumed
The chefs rush forth with haste.
Ashes are hot for but so long;
They must not go to waste.

Come in! Come in! Come in and all!
(I coyly bat my lashes.)
Jocundate with barbecue
On fresh, fresh Phoenix ashes.

____

Find me on Twitter?
Read my books?

The post Phoenix Ashes appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.