While I had a bit of diversion this morning, I have written more than 2000 words and feel in fine fiddle for cranking more pages.
This is some seriously good stuff:
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Saturday, January 8, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Protestant Reformation and Switzerland c.1600 AD
I've been doing some research for a potential project I'm considering.
Most of you will not know that I was raised a Methodist, which is a Protestant Christian faith. I am fairly knowledgable about my faith, though I do not attend church and rarely act like I know my soul is headed to hell for all the bad thoughts I have.
Some of you may know that I lived in Switzerland for a few years. I thought I learned quite a bit about that country while I lived there, but today I discovered how little I knew of both the Protestant Reformation and the history of Switzerland. The two are so closely entwined as to make them nigh inextricable. From my study, it appears that the urban Swiss were tired of sending their young men to war for the Pope and anyone else who had a coin or two to rub together.
This was all well and good for the city-dwellers, but the more remote cantons of the original confederation had no trade routes to subsidize their meagre farming and few trades to engage in, and therefore took service as mercenaries in the armies of foreign lands.
The urban Swiss adopted the Protestant faith, which did not accept the idea of purchasing indulgences (A strong underpinning of that era's military service: you get forgiveness of sins if you fight in God's name, under this sanctioned Prince). Protestantism therefore rendered military service to a Catholic Prince in killing other Christians an unforgivable sin.
What followed in the area that would one day become Switzerland was an odd grab for power. Church lands were taken by the civil governments, even in Catholic Cantons, to better protect against the adversary of the moment.
Fueling this at the time was the social requirement common through Europe that the ruled conform to the religion of the ruler. Even in the cities and Cantons ruled by councils, this meant that the ruling council's religion dictated what a resident's religion must be. You were allowed to emigrate, but if your method of kneeling before God wasn't the boss', that was your only option other than persecution and confiscation of property.
There is a little blurb about the Anabaptists in the material, about how the chose to use the bible as the sole arbiter of social requirements. They refused to pay taxes or submit to courts, with the result that both Catholics and more mainstream Protestants persecuted them. Yet more proof that the standout nail gets hammered first and hardest.
The less populous and Catholic Cantons had the military might and know-how, and used it to good effect, cementing control over their own territory and occasionally clobbering an urban center to show them who was boss. They eventually became so good at it that non-german, states nearby started asking for membership when under threat from local powers such as Savoy.
I am not sure where this is going, but I did find it fascinating reading, and will continue to study it, as time allows.Most of this information was gained through about an hour's worth of reference reading on the almighty Wikipedia.
Man, the internet is something else.
Most of you will not know that I was raised a Methodist, which is a Protestant Christian faith. I am fairly knowledgable about my faith, though I do not attend church and rarely act like I know my soul is headed to hell for all the bad thoughts I have.
Some of you may know that I lived in Switzerland for a few years. I thought I learned quite a bit about that country while I lived there, but today I discovered how little I knew of both the Protestant Reformation and the history of Switzerland. The two are so closely entwined as to make them nigh inextricable. From my study, it appears that the urban Swiss were tired of sending their young men to war for the Pope and anyone else who had a coin or two to rub together.
This was all well and good for the city-dwellers, but the more remote cantons of the original confederation had no trade routes to subsidize their meagre farming and few trades to engage in, and therefore took service as mercenaries in the armies of foreign lands.
The urban Swiss adopted the Protestant faith, which did not accept the idea of purchasing indulgences (A strong underpinning of that era's military service: you get forgiveness of sins if you fight in God's name, under this sanctioned Prince). Protestantism therefore rendered military service to a Catholic Prince in killing other Christians an unforgivable sin.
What followed in the area that would one day become Switzerland was an odd grab for power. Church lands were taken by the civil governments, even in Catholic Cantons, to better protect against the adversary of the moment.
Fueling this at the time was the social requirement common through Europe that the ruled conform to the religion of the ruler. Even in the cities and Cantons ruled by councils, this meant that the ruling council's religion dictated what a resident's religion must be. You were allowed to emigrate, but if your method of kneeling before God wasn't the boss', that was your only option other than persecution and confiscation of property.
There is a little blurb about the Anabaptists in the material, about how the chose to use the bible as the sole arbiter of social requirements. They refused to pay taxes or submit to courts, with the result that both Catholics and more mainstream Protestants persecuted them. Yet more proof that the standout nail gets hammered first and hardest.
The less populous and Catholic Cantons had the military might and know-how, and used it to good effect, cementing control over their own territory and occasionally clobbering an urban center to show them who was boss. They eventually became so good at it that non-german, states nearby started asking for membership when under threat from local powers such as Savoy.
I am not sure where this is going, but I did find it fascinating reading, and will continue to study it, as time allows.Most of this information was gained through about an hour's worth of reference reading on the almighty Wikipedia.
Man, the internet is something else.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Feelin' The Love
My phone is also my alarm and my little office outside the office I don't really have. I usually, when drawn from my dreamless slumber, first check my email for any earthshaking news, as I am still waiting on news from that book, you know, the one that's at the publishing house I hope to whore for. I then do the usual, which is to say; shit, shave and shower (In that order, though sometimes the shitting comes much later in the day. What can I say, I'm not completely regular.).
Today's email had a nice note, actually a notification of a direct message from a writer friend on Twitter requesting a chance to read some more of my scribbles and dribbles. It warms the heart when anyone asks to read my work, let alone out of the blue.
I sent some scribbles along. I hope she enjoys. I certainly enjoyed feelin' the love.
Now, to generate some more scribbles.
Today's email had a nice note, actually a notification of a direct message from a writer friend on Twitter requesting a chance to read some more of my scribbles and dribbles. It warms the heart when anyone asks to read my work, let alone out of the blue.
I sent some scribbles along. I hope she enjoys. I certainly enjoyed feelin' the love.
Now, to generate some more scribbles.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Work
Not sure why, but it seems that my work as bailiff has been trying desperately to keep me. It has been remarkably free of asshats and their asshattery of late. I've even been able to, at lunch, get a lot written.
It is, of course, too little, too late.
Hope the transfer comes quick. I might start having second thoughts if this continues.
Hail 2011!
And in keeping with the way work was, and will be again:
It is, of course, too little, too late.
Hope the transfer comes quick. I might start having second thoughts if this continues.
Hail 2011!
And in keeping with the way work was, and will be again:
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
More Music That's New To Me
Yesterday I was tooling the internets, looking for entertainment (I had already written a ton for Bridges of The Broken, so relax.) when I went to Eileen Andrews' site. She had there, for my listening pleasure, the Midieaval Baebes. I found their music a wonder and pleasure to listen too, and particularly appropriate as I was reading SM Stirling's The High King of Montival, which I received for Christmas.
Check Medieaval Baebes Out:
And, for fans of Simon & Garfunkle:
Check Medieaval Baebes Out:
And, for fans of Simon & Garfunkle:
Monday, January 3, 2011
Four Birds Up, Four Birds Down on the First Barrel
Yesterday I was awakened by the dog barking madly and a thudding at the front door. I had forgotten to set my alarm, indeed I had forgotten I was going hunting with my usual hunting buddy.
I raced to get ready and we made it out there before the fields were opened.
While my buddy and I both have dogs, neither of us have dogs we could very well go hunting birds with. I could not survive the manpoint loss of showing up at the club with my poodle. He keeps a bull mastiff, unsuited for hunting all but the largest (and heavily armed) of game. So we rent from the club. The last few times we have asked for and had Rebel, an amazing two year old German Shorthair that just wants to hunt and please the hunters, so long as you don't miss the birds he finds for you.
Thus equipped, we depart for our field. We make it about halfway down the muddy side road we take to the field we are using, and there before us are four pheasant roosters wandering down the road. They refuse to get out of the way of my buddy's big red SUV.
The sudden stink of dog shit fills the car. My buddy and I begin to believe Rebel has shat in the back of the truck. The stench grows worse.
My buddy honks at the birds. They look sideways at the truck, irritated at our effrontery.
The stink grows worse.
Hoping for fresh air, I alight from the truck. The pheasant march a little faster, but don't leave the roadway. There are two trucks behind ours, the hunters within probably wondering what I am about.
My shout finally disturbs them sufficiently that they take off. One lands in our field, the others flee across the verge into a section we are not permitted to hunt. I curse my impatience. I should have gone round to the driver's side and shouted, perhaps driving more of them to flee into our field, or at least into the fields set aside for someone to hunt.
I get back into the truck, my nose assaulted again by the aroma of high-protein dog leavings.
We park and bail out of the truck. Hurrying around back to see if there is some way we might shovel the shit out.
Rebel stands defiantly, no shit at his feet. The stench was merely his incredibly potent flatulence. He tosses his head as if to say, "What?" and jumps down. He promptly shits at the base of a nearby tree, looking at me as if to say, "I know where to do my business, do you?"
We geared up.
There was a light rain, and the temperature lingered about 42 degrees. I put my Filson upland game pants on, and found they won't fit over my fat ass any longer. Luckily, they have long suspenders, so I managed to get them halfway up my ass, and keep my legs dry.
For the last couple years I have been using one of a set of twin LC Smith .12 double-barrel shotguns my maternal great-grandfather purchased back in 1929. We think he was using them for quail hunting in the Southeastern US, as he shortened the barrels a bit with a hack removing most of the choke (It's hard to get through the brush in the southeast with a long gun.). My father brought the gun with him on one of his visits, and I have been using it ever since.
The ditch between the parking area and the actual field is full to overflowing with rainwater. The wooden plank set across it sagging under the weight of the hunters assigned the other field.
Our neighbors of the hunt have two labs, one yellow, one black. Dufus dogs. Water dogs. They carefully avoid the ditch by bumbling across the planks. Rebel, disdaining such high technology (and freshly lightened of a load) leaps the three feet, lands lightly, and starts to work the field.
The labs approach and sniff him, admiring his dog-ness. Their owners walk into their field, calling their dogs, who respond by walking with us. We are, after all, with Rebel the super-dog. It takes a few minutes for it to soak in for the dufus dogs that we are not their god-kings, and actually don't like them with us.
Rebel rises above, ignoring the dufus dogs and getting into the hunt, nose up, tail rigid, and cutting back and forth across our path. Ten minutes in, and he's on the bird I flushed into the field. The bird is a runner, but instead of running straight after it, Rebel's doing the right thing, rolling left and around, keeping the wind in his muzzle and the bird closer than if he drove straight at it and it continued to run. He finally locks up in a perfect point.
We trudge up (remember, I am half-assed). The bird launches about twenty yards from me, I raise my LC, flick the safety forward with thumb and drop the hammer on the right barrel with the bird about twenty-five yards out. Bird down.
The rest of the day went that smoothly, aside from another visit from the hunters of the neighbor's dufus dogs and the last bird I shot:
Rebel had run out ahead of us, and was in the brush lining the canal at the far end of our field. I was trudging along about thirty yards away. A bird flushed. I did my usual, not thinking. A beautiful and rather long shot, the bird dropped about thirty-five yards away. It fell on the other side of the canal, which was running very high.
The dog looked at me cocking his head like, "I ain't swimming across that shit. I ain't. Get one of those dufuses to do that shit. Better yet, do it yourself."
I didn't reply, except to apologize to both Rebel and my buddy.
When we went into the clubhouse, I told them to mark me down for all the birds I'd shot, telling them the story. They laughed, and added another bird to the card.
I think Great-Grand-Dad Whipple would be proud of the shooting, if not the hunter.
Oh, and my buddy has a new set of Filson upland game pants. They kept my legs dry, but my hips started to feel like I'd placed surgical tubing around my thighs. Halfassed is not the way to take long walks.
I raced to get ready and we made it out there before the fields were opened.
While my buddy and I both have dogs, neither of us have dogs we could very well go hunting birds with. I could not survive the manpoint loss of showing up at the club with my poodle. He keeps a bull mastiff, unsuited for hunting all but the largest (and heavily armed) of game. So we rent from the club. The last few times we have asked for and had Rebel, an amazing two year old German Shorthair that just wants to hunt and please the hunters, so long as you don't miss the birds he finds for you.
Thus equipped, we depart for our field. We make it about halfway down the muddy side road we take to the field we are using, and there before us are four pheasant roosters wandering down the road. They refuse to get out of the way of my buddy's big red SUV.
The sudden stink of dog shit fills the car. My buddy and I begin to believe Rebel has shat in the back of the truck. The stench grows worse.
My buddy honks at the birds. They look sideways at the truck, irritated at our effrontery.
The stink grows worse.
Hoping for fresh air, I alight from the truck. The pheasant march a little faster, but don't leave the roadway. There are two trucks behind ours, the hunters within probably wondering what I am about.
My shout finally disturbs them sufficiently that they take off. One lands in our field, the others flee across the verge into a section we are not permitted to hunt. I curse my impatience. I should have gone round to the driver's side and shouted, perhaps driving more of them to flee into our field, or at least into the fields set aside for someone to hunt.
I get back into the truck, my nose assaulted again by the aroma of high-protein dog leavings.
We park and bail out of the truck. Hurrying around back to see if there is some way we might shovel the shit out.
Rebel stands defiantly, no shit at his feet. The stench was merely his incredibly potent flatulence. He tosses his head as if to say, "What?" and jumps down. He promptly shits at the base of a nearby tree, looking at me as if to say, "I know where to do my business, do you?"
We geared up.
There was a light rain, and the temperature lingered about 42 degrees. I put my Filson upland game pants on, and found they won't fit over my fat ass any longer. Luckily, they have long suspenders, so I managed to get them halfway up my ass, and keep my legs dry.
For the last couple years I have been using one of a set of twin LC Smith .12 double-barrel shotguns my maternal great-grandfather purchased back in 1929. We think he was using them for quail hunting in the Southeastern US, as he shortened the barrels a bit with a hack removing most of the choke (It's hard to get through the brush in the southeast with a long gun.). My father brought the gun with him on one of his visits, and I have been using it ever since.
The ditch between the parking area and the actual field is full to overflowing with rainwater. The wooden plank set across it sagging under the weight of the hunters assigned the other field.
Our neighbors of the hunt have two labs, one yellow, one black. Dufus dogs. Water dogs. They carefully avoid the ditch by bumbling across the planks. Rebel, disdaining such high technology (and freshly lightened of a load) leaps the three feet, lands lightly, and starts to work the field.
The labs approach and sniff him, admiring his dog-ness. Their owners walk into their field, calling their dogs, who respond by walking with us. We are, after all, with Rebel the super-dog. It takes a few minutes for it to soak in for the dufus dogs that we are not their god-kings, and actually don't like them with us.
Rebel rises above, ignoring the dufus dogs and getting into the hunt, nose up, tail rigid, and cutting back and forth across our path. Ten minutes in, and he's on the bird I flushed into the field. The bird is a runner, but instead of running straight after it, Rebel's doing the right thing, rolling left and around, keeping the wind in his muzzle and the bird closer than if he drove straight at it and it continued to run. He finally locks up in a perfect point.
We trudge up (remember, I am half-assed). The bird launches about twenty yards from me, I raise my LC, flick the safety forward with thumb and drop the hammer on the right barrel with the bird about twenty-five yards out. Bird down.
The rest of the day went that smoothly, aside from another visit from the hunters of the neighbor's dufus dogs and the last bird I shot:
Rebel had run out ahead of us, and was in the brush lining the canal at the far end of our field. I was trudging along about thirty yards away. A bird flushed. I did my usual, not thinking. A beautiful and rather long shot, the bird dropped about thirty-five yards away. It fell on the other side of the canal, which was running very high.
The dog looked at me cocking his head like, "I ain't swimming across that shit. I ain't. Get one of those dufuses to do that shit. Better yet, do it yourself."
I didn't reply, except to apologize to both Rebel and my buddy.
When we went into the clubhouse, I told them to mark me down for all the birds I'd shot, telling them the story. They laughed, and added another bird to the card.
I think Great-Grand-Dad Whipple would be proud of the shooting, if not the hunter.
Oh, and my buddy has a new set of Filson upland game pants. They kept my legs dry, but my hips started to feel like I'd placed surgical tubing around my thighs. Halfassed is not the way to take long walks.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Talkin' At 2011
That's right, I chased down 2011 in my headspace at about 1030 this morning. Here is the impromptu interview:
You look much like 2010. Is there a reason for this?
Dude, you imagine I'm supposed to look different all the sudden because of some arbitrary date has passed?
I hope for better things, as I cannot hope for better people in my life. Will this be so?
You sound like a greeting card philosopher.
Is that your final answer?
No. My final answer is: How the fuck should I know, asshat?
Is this the year I get a novel out there?
Might be. Might not. You should be writing something else instead of asking me these pointless questions.
Am I hung over?
I certainly hope so, as the quality of your questions is seriously lacking otherwise.
You always this grumpy?
You would be too, if you were birthed in an orgy of drunken idiocy and screaming. Not to mention those damn horns and bits of confetti. And then there's knowing that just twelve months from now I'll be put down with a bullet to the brain and forever after only remembered by whatever asshattery happened to occur while I was up at bat.
Well, why do the work if you hate it so much? I mean, I hear the Chinese Years are chomping at the bit to have your job.
Yeah, that's what I need: a push to outsource my fucking job. I don't hate the work, it's you people I can't stand. Fuck off. I'm out of here.
You look much like 2010. Is there a reason for this?
Dude, you imagine I'm supposed to look different all the sudden because of some arbitrary date has passed?
I hope for better things, as I cannot hope for better people in my life. Will this be so?
You sound like a greeting card philosopher.
Is that your final answer?
No. My final answer is: How the fuck should I know, asshat?
Is this the year I get a novel out there?
Might be. Might not. You should be writing something else instead of asking me these pointless questions.
Am I hung over?
I certainly hope so, as the quality of your questions is seriously lacking otherwise.
You always this grumpy?
You would be too, if you were birthed in an orgy of drunken idiocy and screaming. Not to mention those damn horns and bits of confetti. And then there's knowing that just twelve months from now I'll be put down with a bullet to the brain and forever after only remembered by whatever asshattery happened to occur while I was up at bat.
Well, why do the work if you hate it so much? I mean, I hear the Chinese Years are chomping at the bit to have your job.
Yeah, that's what I need: a push to outsource my fucking job. I don't hate the work, it's you people I can't stand. Fuck off. I'm out of here.
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