The Orcadian


I ponder, or might I say reflect, I am always in search of the better word, I digress! Considering my southern upbringing, I might use the phrase “stewed upon it at length.” I am of a mind to use “chewed on it” or whimsically ruminate the subject, imagine a cow chewing its cud. In short, it is all about contemplating this world and worlds past. An ancient ancestor, not belonging to a named place, other than what the archaeological historians now ascribe or give credence to a race or culture that once lived there, in that said same place.

This ancestor lived in a place we now call the Orkney Isles, located north of Scotland. The name we have designated to the place is called Skara Brae and Ness of Brodgar and the name we have named these people, The Orcadians.

The Orcadian, A man aloof and alone within himself. Stubborn though obstinate, resolute though determined, burdened dissolubly with the masculine task of survival and provider. Of what burden you might ask? Why! The weight of his obligatory duty, responsibility!

A question? Was he like me or am I like him? I perceive that he was and I am, thus I have become him? He was and I am, we are as ancient as the heavens. We were sired in that great calamity, in that thunderous saga of creation.We are rather unique. We were not refined as elemental mass, swirling in the furnaces of supernovas. I am not the flesh and blood you see nor am I the radiant hues of mortality. I am spirit, I am that which was and will be! Mass-less, like light, adrift mysteriously in the firmament, in the Ether of God. I am warrior! I am Lupus, Fenrir, the wolf in the starry filament of Mother’s Milk, I am the ilk of maleness.

I was birthed in that great expansion, in the literal creation of the universe. I have been perpetually cascading, tumbling eternally, though imperceptibly, thru the eons forever. An echo that has been reverberating for eternity.Time, ever the tick of that ageless rhyme. How does one ascribe the perception of time? The seconds to the pulse of one’s heartbeat? The hours to the labor of work and sleep. The days to the arc of a rising and setting sun? An imagined chariot being pulled across the arc of the heavens by some winged beasts, carrying some solar God.

The months scrutinize the cycles of the moon and its meanderings in the night sky, that pale orb mysteriously suspended in ghostly cobwebs. That ominous potent of the mysterious and mystic night. The seasons divine the years in chilled and overcast winters, a duality between the dismal grey and the crispness of the blue chill.

Time is the executioner of all that lives. The day we are born, we begin to die. Alas! As the river persistently flows, unceasingly and unerringly to the sea, time delivers death’s inevitable blow. Interminably long are those dispassionate gloom's that stain the coarse sands of eternity. Ageless and eternal the resilience of ancient stone, distorted and set upon by the ravages of time. Pagan runes etched upon ageless dross strewn beneath the heather and lichen moss.

What awaits man but time’s inevitable bane? God’s preference betwixt Abel and Cain, a conundrum of fallible Gods. What’s the difference between then and now? Was the Orcadian in his strength laid low by some happening’s abrupt blow? Did his wife in grief forlornly wail as she saw him, pulse-less and pale? Naught remains of him, not even a moss or lichen covered stone marking his grave.

When was then and why has it become now? What once was will assuredly come nigh, not of knowledge or enlightenment but resolutely do we aspire to mankind’s oft bestial behavior. Times changes naught but little the countenance of man, forever his grimace and his scowl, the set of his jaw in the seriousness of his demeanor.

As the cradle rocks, time’s mechanism forever ticks. Ever the swinging pendulum, the metro drone marking the lapse of time. Mankind is tarnished by indelible stain of time, by the veneer of that archaic patina of death. Stained by human emotions such as greed and envy. Ancient are his yesteryear's, ancient in his indisputable crucible of savagery! No naivety or innocence here, non-sensible aspirations are naught but brutal selfish indulgence and self-centeredness, so indecently corrupt yet amiable to the sublime! Just as a river flows and carries all away, time doth carry all away, especially those that doth breathe.