meus somnium de heri (in linguam Latinam)

incubus erat. domina antiqua cum una eram. nos intro aedificium magnum.  subito compluribus quoque intro hoc aedificium antiquumque magnum. haec homines scelos erant. unus homo quidam erat procerus et unam beluam.  videbat mihi lego librorum de Latinorum et adire minaciter.  una Umbra erat.  valde timebam valde.  statim supplicabam ad Deus sed illum conabatur violenter potis recitarem ei.  quando nolloque purgamenta incipiebat fieri iratissimi. ceteri nec potis dico.

Gulle du bois (Mouth [made] of wood)

Dear Diary,

I feel awful. Last night was great. Charlie is hands down the best drummer around, he is extremely competent. After rocking out with Wreck 'ed, we went and painted the town red. As a matter of fact we were all painted in fluorescent green, pink and yellow UV paint. I vaguely recall dancing in a bar somewhere, surrounded by fair maidens, and drinking too much. Jim's band is playing at the same venue next week, and I intend to attend the show. I'm supposed to be at a gig at the moment, playing at the Commie café, so I have to leave my little Ronulus Latrator Augustus Caesar Maximus Fleximus Dip. H.E. (Barkaeology) with Natural Canine Philosophy and Natural Canine Sciences specialisms back at the ranch. I even missed Church today. This means I'm one step closer to frying in eternal damnation, but I'm hoping Big Guy will forgive me just this once. Right, time to man up, reach down, grow a pair, and get to work. Later.

Kazmakrators

Dear Diary,

I am such a silly sausage, and rather than the fiter/rebuff block thang on the whole E-male, 't was merely confirmation that I can in-fact (thank heavens) be "in it to win it" with the competition in Classical Studies. Being a monozygotic sibling of only a dozen minutes apart, I am fiercly competitive (although not so much so that I lose any sense of sportsmanship, fair-play, on the contrary, like my late Grandfather William Phillips, I take a cricketers approach to life, the sport of gentlemen).

Not only that, but (get this) the A340 Study Materials (yes, the actual real study materials, the ones written by the Kazmakrators, the formators of heaven, the gods whom shape and carve the very fabric of reality from the cosmic pattern - id est: Phil Perkins and colleagues) are due to arrive, by winged messenger, Hermes himself (whom is now either working for Yodel or Royal Mail PLC, temping, as a courier) is due to arrive any time, falling from the starry empyreal heaven to the feet of the firmament. (Bridders).

On the other hand, in light of the Mercurial messenger due to float down from the stars any second, means I will likely instead forget any competition (which, according to Ueshiba only serves to weaken an defeat one's true shield - the spirit) and instead re-read the three set books again and again, making copious notes, until Mr. Trismegistus arrives in the next couple of days.

Anyway, I've been working on my play, because some dissidents have blown up the temple in Palmyra. So, I am inspired, rather lamentably to finish Zenobia: Queen of the East. I am digging Zosimus, Southern and Imperial Crisis (Cambridge Histories XII), looking at evidence from coins, epigraphy and archaeological evidence, weighed most carefully against the literary sources (including the Historia Augusta and the writings of Appian). It's pretty cool actually.

Esoteric Archaeology of Glastonbury Abbey

Dear Diary,

Good morning. I bought a curious book yesterday on a topic which has fascinated me since being a schoolboy at Woodroffe. It is a book about unexplained mysteries (I have many such books in my collection), and within its pages is a curious article about archaeology, spirituality and "heresy" at Glastonbury Abbey.

An architect by the name of Frederick Bond was assigned the task of excavating the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, and in doing so he faced what seemed like an impossible task. Much of the structure and many outbuildings were destroyed in the dissolution of the monasteries during the time of King Henry the eighth, coupled with the weathered ruins of time meant that precious few of the structures still remain.

Founded in the fifth century by Saint Patrick before he departed Albion on his mission to convert Ireland to Christianity, the site has long since been associated with the legend of King Arthur (early sixth century). A popular place of pilgrimage, the ruined site had very few clues as to where the precise layout of the structures were.

Frederick Bond was a 43-year old leading expert on Gothic architecture, and his task was time-critical, in identifying the whereabouts of the old wall-sections. Long before the days of satellite archaeology, he would need some assistance from somewhere else, information, to lead him to where he would need to dig. Being an open-minded fellow, Frederick Bond decided to go straight to the horse's mouth for the information he required. An esoteric and mysterious man, Frederick got in touch with John Bartlett, and decided to contact the spirits of the Abbey's ancestors in the form of automatic writing, transmitted to him while in a trance-like state. In November 1907, Bartlett made contact with a disembodied spirit, whom guided his pen through a series of notes and illustrations outlining detailed plans of the Abbey, and putting together the otherwise disparate jigsaw puzzle for the location of the hidden foundations of the Abbey.

The messages from the spirit-world flowed effortlessly from his pen, coming from the spirit of a sixteenth century monk, John Bryant, whom spoke on behalf of the curators of the Abbey, which he described as "The Company of Avalon".

In reviewing the evidence from conventional scientific, literary and archaeological research methods, the spirits plans were at variance with the normal research Frederick had done. Two years later, when the excavation went ahead, Bond had to make a choice: to go with science, or have faith in the spirits of the underworld. He decided to go with the directions given to him, through Bartlett, and his disembodied spiritual instructions from Bryant,

In the first few weeks of archaeological excavation, working to the master plan of the departed monk, Bond's team found the following: wall-sections, towers, doorways and fragments of stained-glass windows, Fearful of the ridicule from his colleagues (fellow archaeologists), and also his Christian paymasters, Bond modestly put amazing finds down to factual research and inspired guesswork.

A decade later, Frederick Bond decided to come clean, and reveal the source of his esoteric archaeology in a book The Gate of Remembrance. Following its publication, Bond's reputation was torn to shreds by other archaeologists and the Church authorities, whom ridiculed him and banned him from ever setting foot on the Abbey grounds again [respectively].

It just goes to show, that if one is open-minded, and uses methods which are not conventional or scientific, both the archaeological community and the Established ecclesiastical authority will heap shame and scorn upon an archaeologist - or at least it did in the early twentieth century. I am unsure if times have changed at all.

Brown, G. (1999) The World's Greatest Mysteries, Octopus Publishing, London, pp.97-99.

carmen de meum somnium heri nocti

I was in the town of Londinium
Where I met a Native American,
A lady: as wise as Mother Nature,
Bade me, gently, enter her flat with her.
Alas, I felt her husband's eyes on me,
Yet this Yahwey logos I could n'er see,
"Don't mind Him, He's building blocks of ashlar
Come with me lad: I've something to show you."
I saw the street, vertigo from down far,
"Be not afraid, hark only what's true."
Three ancient grimoires were laid before me,
Hesiod, Hebrew, and some ancient Greek,
There was one word which she pointed out, when
Falling upon a Latin translation
It simply read one word: Jerusalem
No more can I say, what the couple said,
But retire, in sleep, in my soft bed.

Mystical Experiences (of other people)

Dear Diary,

Yesterday I met a man whose surname means, "A tall man whom shears sheep", a rather cynical man, fortunate, but had no love for his mother. He was however extremely fond of his father. His father used to put his palm on the boy's head whenever he wasn't focusing on what he was supposed to be doing, guide his son's head, and direct it towards the task in hand. When his father died, the man was mourning, and an invisible hand was placed on his head, and turned him towards the light.

In another instance, a man used to walk his dog to a spot near to where I live, a quiet peaceful place: a river, a tree, in a pastoral setting. His dog would often dive in the river and fish out a stone from the riverbed. One day the man's daughter was with him, and the dog dived to the bottom of the river. The little girl said, "Coolio [the dog's name] will fetch a flower from the bottom." (She could not see the dog). Whereas usually Coolio would fetch a stone, sure enough, he returned with a flower from the riverbed.

Pliny the younger's letters

Dear Diary,

First impressions last, and Pliny the younger's letters are a sumptuous joy to read. Sincerely. Though I recall dimly two letters touched upon in A101 and A397, the rest are a sheer delight to behold, ingest and digest thoughtfully. What magnificent style, another Ovid, another Cicero, another enigma.

Besides enjoying Tacitus and Pliny to the superlative degree, I have been dwelling on two things, one happy, the other sad.

Rainbow Land: that scene in The Campaign where Cam' (Will Ferrell) Brady writes an imaginary fiction from the perspective of an eight year old boy, full of innocence and pure wonderment at the world, the stars and all things.

On the other hand, I am deeply saddened at the departure of Mnemosyne from the Hallowed Hall (The Unseen University). Like Peter's rock, the very foundation upon the ground made up of Classical syllogisms and aphorisms upon which I tread carefully is made up, of the careful guidance, the wording in layman's terms of what is essentially a jolly complicated situation, and like an eight-year old boy in Rainbow Land, taking his first few baby steps on a bicycle (stabilisers and all) was guided gently, carefully, down an otherwise rocky and uneven surface upon which to cycle. Dr. James, I shall miss dearly. Mnemosyne, a Muse, another wonder, an exquisite writer, a speaker whom speaks so clearly in received pronunciation that the lady makes the finest crystal look ruddy and besmirched. Paula, ever dearest Paula, I shall lament thee, sincerely.

Letters of Didier the younger

Dear Diary,

Having a couple of days off work means I get to lounge around in my vacation togs, reading mainly. I have been running through Woolf's Rome: An Empire's Story, which is a thoroughly enjoyable and informative piece of literature: I can see why the University have chosen it to be on the syllabus. Excellent choice. Anyhow, Pliny's letters and the two Tacitus' (History and Agricola/Germania) have just arrived at the book-store. I am betting they're boned (seconds) like the last couple I bought. Roman Dorset had seven images missing (a mistake during printing) and in Greg's book another printing error occoured whereby all the pages were printed too close together meaning one has to really strain and open the book's spine, in order to make it legible. Alas, I trust these next three will be well. If that is not the case, then I'll just have to suck it up, and roll with the punches. In any case, I was writing to my friend Didier. Check it out:

salve Didier!

hās lītteræ invenit bene fuerīs sperābō. ante rārī annuorum quando fui tibi domo vidui Ianthinam legebatur unius libellui in linguam Latinam mirum cogitavi fuit. abhinc non solum plene amaui pro disco Latinam cadi, sed etiam comperiebam musice carminum antiquorum vulgarium habui. spectaculia musici hic locum neque eisdem ac sunt montium Gallicorum. artes de musico ipsi Jo-Jo, Stan, & Arno et allia omnes desidero, paene quemadmodum te meum carum amicum. quod nec solum musicis (quis pro ioculis sunt) sed sermonis docti partituerimus.

intro ad scholam fuit facilem, sed nunc schoenobates idem sum. quando eram discipulus in annum secundum dicebas mihi ut illos libros universi matutinos mysticos erant. saltem concordabamus illis philosiphis Platonisque Aristotelis date respecto dignis. scriptor rerum quemadmodem habebar gaudium lexi litterae Plinarum secundus. iam sextus (tertium re vera) annui in universo Britannici, discam “A-CCCXL” archaeologos Romanorumque “A-CCLXVI” lingua Latina. id amo, valde.

Vale.

Maximus.

The annual jam

Dear Diary,

It was so very nice to see Oliver yesterday and play some Old-Time music at a leisurely pace. The annual jam session (for having moved back to town we very rarely get to enjoy one another's company nowadays) went well.

The cRaZy cat-lady called, and I saw her in the evening. Despite getting completely sozzled on cheap vino blanc et rouge and some almost sultry but really quite off-putting (however drunk I may or may not have been at the time) cougar shots from the plump damsel as she intermittently flashed her bits at me like some giant withered marshmallow. In any case, I was more into talking about the new Roman Dorset book which I love, combining all my favourite aspects of learning: local history and Classical (particularly Roman, or even Romano-British) scholarship. The eccentric cat lady did her classic phrase, it had me falling off my chair, "The Romans weren't pagans Max." Oh really! Is that correct? Anyway. We parted ways amicably.

I have been thinking about getting back in to gaming again. It's not good. Not computer gaming you understand, but miniatures. I would like to have a Vegetius-style Roman army (25-28mm) with some Greek auxiliaries, to play the odd tournament. I am fanatical about the Romans, and the Greeks. It's silly really. I am like a small child with the idea of playing with toy soldiers, but, I think re-creating actual battles with the approximate ratios of troops fielded, and the terrain of the correct sort, historically, based on close readings of the primary sources, means it might be more than just a little boy's hobby. Sure, much as I long to sit there, on a sedan-chair propped up by Latin dictionaries, smoking a rather large cigar and drinking port from a cornucopia, commanding the Belaeric slingers to take on the battlements, while the Romans wait until the walls have been breached; much as I wish to be another Caesar, in my own mind at least, wearing a purple toga and pushing little trays of cavalry and infantry around, living out some kind of boyish megalomaniac fantasy: I feel the historical value of such frivolous pursuits far outweigh the imagined bellicose indulgence of a small boy's psyche. I like the random element, and thought perhaps the best system would involve giving sealed written orders to an independent arbiter, three turns in advance, as in Gemmell's Lion of Macedon.