[Ulric's Scrapbook] Hall of Bright Carvings

[Ulric]

Greetings to you, esteemed guests, badgers, and crockery – this is my humble abode. Or rather, it is a state of mind inspired by Mervyn Peake, an artist and author who is one of my greatest inspirations. In his Gormenghast novels, Peake opened with the Hall of Bright Carvings, a place in the castle that no one visits, but is maintained by its lethargic curator, Rottcodd. It is filled with wondrous carvings, all which have been forgotten, or are rapidly vanishing from memory. Here is an excerpt: Titus Groan : “At one point within the Outer Wall, a few feet from the earth, the great stones of which the wall itself was constructed, jutting forward in the form of a massive shelf stretching from east to west for about two hundred to three hundred feet. These protruding stones were painted white, and it was upon this shelf that on the first morning of June the carvings were ranged every year for judgement by the Earl of Groan. Those works judged to be the most consummate, and there were never more than three chosen, were subsequently relegated to the Hall of Bright Carvings. Standing immobile throughout the day, these vivid objects, with their fantastic shadows on the wall behind them shifting and elongating hour by hour with the sun’s rotation, exuded a kind of darkness for all their color. The air between them was turgid with contempt and jealousy. The craftsmen stood about like beggars, their families clustered in silent groups. They were uncouth and prematurely aged. All radiance was gone. The carvings that were left unselected were burned the same evening in the courtyard below Lord Groan’s western balcony, and it was customary for him to stand there at the time of the burning and to bow his head silently as if in pain, and then as a gong beat thrice from within, the three carvings to escape the flames would be brought forth in the moonlight. They were stood upon the balustrade of the balcony in full view of the crowd below, and the Earl of Groan would call for their authors to come forward. When they had stationed themselves immediate beneath where he was standing, the Earl would throw down to them the traditional scrolls of vellum, which, as the writings upon them verified, permitted these men to walk the battlements above their cantonment at the full moon of each alternate month. On these particular nights, from a window in the southern wall of Gormenghast, an observer might watch the minute moonlit figures whose skill had won for them this honor which they so coveted moving to and fro along the battlements. Saving this exception of the day of carvings, and the latitude permitted to the most peerless, there was no other opportunity for those who lived within the walls to know of these ‘outer’ folk, nor in fact were they of interest to the ‘inner’ world, being submerged within the shadows of the great walls. They were all-but forgotten people: the breed that was remembered with a start, or with the unreality of a recrudescent dream. The day of carvings alone brought them into the sunlight and reawakened the memory of former times. For as far back as even Nettel, the octogenarian who lived in the tower above the rusting armory, could remember, the ceremony had been held. Innumerable carvings had smouldered to ashes in obedience to the law, but the choicest were still housed in the Hall of Bright Carvings. This hall which ran along the top storey of the north wing was presided over by the curator, Rottcodd, who, as no one ever visited the room, slept during most of his life in the hammock he had erected at the far end. For all his dozing, he had never been known to relinquish the feather duster from his grasp; the duster with which he would perform one of the only two regular tasks which appeared to be necessary in that long and silent hall, namely to flick the dust from the Bright Carvings. As objects of beauty, these works held little interest to him and yet in spite of himself he had become attached in a propinquital way to a few of the carvings. He would be more than thorough when dusting the Emerald Horse. The black and olive Head which faced it across the boards and the Piebald Shark were also his especial care. Not that there were any on which the dust was allowed to settle. Entering at seven o’clock, winter and summer, year in and year out, Rottcodd would disengage himself of his jacket and draw over his head a long grey overall which descended shapelessly to his ankles. With his feather duster tucked beneath his arm, it was his habit to peer sagaciously over his glasses down the length of the hall. His skull was dark and small like a corroded musket bullet and his eyes behind the gleaming of his glasses were the twin miniatures of his head. All three were constantly on the move, as though to make up for the time they spent asleep, the head wobbling in a mechanical way from side to side when Mr Rottcodd walked, and the eyes, as though taking their cue from the parent sphere to which they were attached, peering here, there, and everywhere at nothing in particular. Having peered quickly over his glasses on entering and having repeated the performance along the length of the north wing after enveloping himself in his overall, it was the custom of Rottcodd to relieve his left armpit of the feather duster, and with that weapon raised, to advance towards the first of the carvings on his right hand side, without more ado. Being at the top floor of the north wing, this hall was not in any real sense a hall at all, but was more in the nature of a loft. The only window was at its far end, and opposite the door through which Rottcodd would enter from the upper body of the building. It gave little light. The shutters were invariably lowered. The Hall of Bright Carvings was illuminated night and day by seven great candelabra suspended from the ceiling at intervals of nine feet. The candles were never allowed to fail or even to gutter, Rottcodd himself seeing to their replenishment before retiring at nine o’clock in the evening. There was a stock of white candles in the small dark ante-room beyond the door of the hall, where also were kept ready for use Rottcodd’s overall, a huge visitors’ book, white with dust, and a stepladder. There were no chairs or tables, nor indeed any furniture save the hammock at the window end where Mr Rottcodd slept. The boarded floor was white with dust which, so assiduously kept from the carvings, had no alternative resting place and had collected deep and ash-like, accumulating especially in the four corners of the hall. Having flicked at the first carving on his right, Rottcodd would move mechanically down the long phalanx of color standing a moment before each carving, his eyes running up and down it and all over it, and his head wobbling knowingly on his neck before he introduced his feather duster. Rottcodd was unmarried. An aloofness and even a nervousness was apparent on first acquaintance and the ladies held a peculiar horror for him. His, then, was an ideal existence, living alone day and night in a long loft. Yet occasionally, for one reason or another, a servant or a member of the household would make an unexpected appearance and startle him with some question appertaining to ritual, and then the dust would settle once more in the hall and on the soul of Rottcodd. If you’ve bothered to read all of that (which is permissible if you’re curious but strapped for time, but not if you’re eating chocolate), I’ll leave you to form your own interpretations. I have more concepts than I have the patience to develop, so let us just call them the bright carvings, while you, of course, shall be my Rottcodds. Now then, close those musket-bullet eyes and pucker up, because you shan’t be escaping my presence. I have chains out back. So, what’s on my mind? Right now, breakfast. I will be talking about writing, providing anecdotes, or offering advice here, but mainly I’m going to discuss quinoa, thighs, bacteria, and a host of other inconsequential topics. I shall also indulge in gossip and ‘girl talk’ over tea and scones. But first, some basics. Name: Kenan Age: 23 Likes: economics, running, birds, dark fantasy, boxing, satires, rum, travel, wit, interior design, tidiness, storms, noses, surrealism, sunrises. Dislikes: being serious, snakes, heights, candy, hipsters, relationships, venereal disease, children. Location: Goodfellow AFB Characters: Ulric, Savra, Marius, Dayn Literary Influences: Anton Chekhov, Steven Erikson, Franz Kafka, Sinclair Lewis, W. Somerset Maugham, Mervyn Peake, and Roger Zelazny.

I’ve gone from playful, to distraught, to mellow over the past hour. I sometimes wonder if I am trying to deny my true emotions, but then again, what’s the point? I like it this way. At times when shit hits the fan, I like to listen to this song: I happened upon it when I was researching a paper, and it made a huge impact on me. I love how Billie Holliday evokes not only hope and regret, but a sense of calm that I cannot begin to put into words. It makes me think of both past and future, and realize that while the small things in life are special, it’s important to step back once in a while and consider the big picture. The more I listen to this song, the more it become a part of me. I’ve listened to it in good times and bad, until it seems like all the people in my life are represented by its lyrics – those I have loved and those I have hurt, the ones that got away, the people I don’t know, but will meet in the future. I don’t feel ecstatic after I listen to this song, or that I can overcome all the obstacles in my life. I feel like everything is going to be all right, and to be honest, that’s all I need to hear.

[Ulric]

I ended up having nothing to do today, so I ended up roaming around in the woods. It took care of a lot of my accumulated stress, but after a few hours I got bored. That led to this picture. I'm worried that I might have developed a subsequent antler fetish.

[Mao]

Dude.

Your horns.

I like them.

*Has a horn fetish.*

(inb4 horn-y fetish)

[Ulric]

Antlers, Pao. Not horns. Horns are for sissies. Also, I've decided on a new strategy for seductions.

[Ulric]

Yesterday, while I listened to an NPR panel on combating global poverty, I kept getting incensed over mentions of Jeffrey Sachs. Specifically, his notion that the developed world can eradicate poverty by providing significant funding for structured development. It’s not a problem we can solve, no matter how many bags of money we throw around or the number of agencies we put on the ground. It’s something we have to accept. If anything, we should focus on protecting poor countries from the predations of our companies, whether it’s child labor or highly unsafe working conditions (research the Indonesian ship breaking industry). As long as we aren’t enriching ourselves at their expense, but fostering mutually beneficial arrangements, what’s the problem? My belief is that poverty is only combated effectively through the efforts of the society as a whole, not by outsiders. I spent five months traveling around India, and if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that significant, lasting change only comes from within. It’s not our duty to save the world. I spent four years at a liberal arts college, where my fellow students, no doubt influenced by the naïve enthusiasm of youth, often spoke of doing just that. I think most of them elected to study in Europe. It’s frustrating how many people are willing to espouse concepts that they aren’t capable of understanding. I can only speak of my observations, not understanding, because a culture is only understood from within. I saw beggars with polio, dragging themselves along on their hands. I saw gaunt, filthy, half-naked children and streets choked with trash and reeking sewage, the sort of desperate poverty that threatens to engulf you in a particular sort of despair. It can be hard to tell if some people are sleeping upon the streets, or just dead. It makes you realize that there’s nothing you can do, that you just have to harden your heart to the suffering. Throwing money around isn’t the answer, although it’s important to note that ‘throwing’ is something of a loaded term. In many cases, the funding goes to initiatives that may have a tangible impact upon quality of life. However, once it dries up, the progress tends to vanish. To me, this further vindicates Hazlitt (albeit partially, since our economic models can’t reliably consider the breadth of variables involved), who argued that funding provided for the sake of creating jobs in the present, rather than focusing on long-term investment, is actually harmful. It’s the same sort of principle. I do believe that when foreign aid tends to establish both social and physical capital, by providing health, education, and other services, but to make a lasting impact they need to continue in that capacity. It’s the local government that needs to provide a reliable source of funding. If they don’t have the money, then fine. It’s going to take a while. It’s going to require (foreign) domestic investment, by both local innovators and entrepreneurs and multinational corporations, as well as a culture that values liberty, transparency, oversight, and all those other things that make societies safe and wonderful for their members. This, of course, leads to a discussion of the post-colonial world. It’s great to support democracy and market economies, but the fact of the matter is that developed nations don’t have much influence over domestic matters. NGOs must abide by local standards, which tend to strip away their transformative power, especially as regarding to cultural views on corruption. Baksheeh is pervasive at all levels of Indian government. The White Tiger, a novel by Aravind Adiga, provides some vivid examples. I remember missing a train once and having to slip 500 rupees (about $10) to rail official in Aurangabad to get on the last one to Hyderabad. The thing is, many officials are so poorly paid that the locals expect them to steal. I’ve heard of some state governments paying families to keep their children (specifically girls) in school, but what’s really going on there? It’s quite probable that many will show up a few times to collect the money, without actually the school on a long-term basis. However, as long as stability exists within the sociopolitical realm, things will get better. The developed world picks and chooses its interventions, but they can’t establish endgames. Winston Churchill, who was a war correspondent in his youth, witnessed the futile struggle of the British Raj to pacify Afghanistan and pronounced the country unconquerable. Despite the efforts of the British, the Russians, and the United States, the tribal mentality remains dominant. If there’s going to be change, it will come through decades of blood and tears. I do not presume to understand the intricacies of all these different regions, along with their mitigating factors, but I do understand that the developed world’s history of dictating values and institutions (i.e. colonialism) is a major culprit in prevailing unrest and poverty. It’s safe to say that many countries shouldn’t exist, that arbitrarily carved borders have perverted the natural development of nations and led to strife between ethnic groups. And, of course, strongmen inevitably superseded the crumbing institutions that remained from colonial systems of governance. Britain sure did a helluva job in Iraq. Frantz Fanon, a prominent figure in post-colonial discourse, claimed that colonialism is inherently repressive, and severely affects the mentality of people living beneath its yoke. I’m inclined to agree, although not, perhaps, with his views toward violence. I wonder, was a sudden destabilization of institutions the worst legacy of colonialism, or these lingering psychological effects? I mean, it’s the same sort of trauma that accompanied slavery in the United States, or the incessant persecution of Jews. There are always people that argue, “X many years have passed, get over it,” but I believe there is an indelible impact on future generations. It’s not as if bigotry goes away. In my opinion, understanding is far more important than retribution. If you seek to understand, perhaps more damage can be avoided in the future. However, what’s done is done. We have to live with the skeletons in our closet, and some people are just fucked. That’s life. Personally, I take my cues from Darwin and Malthus. When many people perish due to disease, starvation resulting from overpopulation, or even wars, it’s because that’s how the world operates. No quantity of food aid or wringing of hands or even peacekeeping operations can deny the fact that suffering is ordained by the nature of man, and by the will of God. However, the trend for quality is improving. Inequality is also on the rise, but few groups can claim that life today is worse than it was twenty years ago. Slowly, developing countries continue to make strides. Not as quickly as many of us might wish, for as much as we bitch and moan and preach about starving children, these sort of changes are systemic, and you can’t fix them from the outside. But they’re possible. I’ve seen a lot of poverty, but I also witnessed a tremendous spirit of pride and unity. I met so many people, who convinced me the world doesn’t need saving. They can do it on their own. Naturally, all cases are unique. India is charging ahead, which is more than can be said for other nations. But the process of development is a common path, much like the transitional economics of former Soviet states. As much as I don’t enjoy having cripples and starving children crawl around in the street, I see great potential. Hyderabad, which is considered fairly wealthy, has a fair amount of grime and inequality. But going from Andhra Pradesh to Kerala, I witnessed a profound transformation. Kerala, which until recently was administered by communists, is a wonderful place. I remember clean neighborhoods, utterly devoid of beggars and trash. I saw many mosques and signs of community pride, which is understandable, given Kerala’s soaring HDI. It wasn’t a utopia, of course (just compare Fort Cochin with the rest of Kochi, or glance at a set of statistics), but it shows that good things are possible. I don’t mean to imply that other states have the same resources, or equally high remittances. I merely observed that many people were truly, genuinely looking out for each other. It’s always a good sign when rickshaw drivers are polite, and don’t try to rip you off for 80 rupees on a 20 rupee trip. Now, I’m just a guy with a bachelor’s degree in economics, an expired visa, and some crazy ideas, but the concept of structured development doesn’t fly for me. It’s not our place. It’s fine to keep providing humanitarian aid, or taking on the occasional project, but for God’s sake, don’t try to restore colonialism under a new guise. We, the ruling class of WASPs, are better at being distantly paternalistic.

[Ulric]

I don't know what's worse, being unable to write anything worth mentioning for my characters, or suddenly churning out a diatribe on the post-colonial world. Batiatus gives voice to my frustrations:

[Ulric]

Ulric: How does he kill you? - Cutting your throat from behind while you’re having sex, then slicing and dicing your corpse. (2x) - Beating your face in and cutting your throat. - Hacking into your lungs, then kicking you in the face and leaving you to choke on your own blood. - Splitting your head open. (3x) - Shooting you in the gut, at close range, with a crossbow. - Shooting you in the chest, at medium range. - Shooting you in the gut, then splitting your head open. - Kicking your face in, then hacking you to pieces out of spite. - Stabbing you in the gut. - Hacking at your neck. - Stabbing you in the gut, then kicking your face in. - Hacking your lower jaw off, then splitting your head for good measure. - Hacking into your back while you crawl away, crippled. - Disemboweling. - Head-butting your face in, then thrusting a pair of fingers into your brain while asking, ‘would you like a hand with that?’ - Shooting you in the throat, at close range, with a crossbow. - Hacking into your guts, then biting out a chunk of your throat. - Shooting you in the gut, at close range, with a crossbow, then hacking your hands off, shoving them down your throat, and throwing you out of a window. - Kindness.

[Ulric]

Kenan gon' be gone That's right, you won't be seeing me until September. I don't usually share the details of my life, but I've been holding this in for such a long time, it needs to come out. Two years ago, when I studied at the University of Hyderabad, a couple of my friends were badly beaten with pipes while the rest partied at a club. I was so wasted that night, I didn't know what was going on. I've never forgiven myself for not being there. If I'd only gone down those stairs, I could've put an end to everything - although as I was later informed, I was out for more than blood that night. I never, ever want a fellow citizen, and especially a friend, to be hurt like that again. In the end, the only thing I truly care about is protecting others, even if that means sacrifice. I've gone through many changes since then. I finished my degree, but rather than apply to law schools (as I was supposed to), I chose to enlist in the Air Force. I'm going to report for basic training in a couple of days, so that's where I'm going to be. I apologize to everybody I have threads with, but this needs to happen.

[Ulric]

Kenan be sorta back That's right, I almost have a measure of freedom. I'm on my first day of town pass, and I decided to poke my head in for a moment. I could say a lot of things, but for now I'll confine myself to saying that I'm proud to be an American Airman. I'm leaving for tech school in a few days. Hopefully I can get internet and start writing again. I've missed writing.