h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

In 1998 I considered what sort of epic poem Santa Claus would be the hero of if we really took him seriously

I call him Notomla, for no particular reason ecept thatit sounds grandiose.

Check verse one here:

A88002100

More verses will be transcribed here n days to come.

I think it's my finest work.

if Google can find my spotlights on Crepuscular meadows, maybe it will lead people to this poem that I put so much of my best effort into.

I like it - very vivid imagery

I think it was my best work. Thankyou.

In verse 2, reporters will parachute-drop into his yard. He will deny being Santa Claus, and they will write the opposite.

F1926355?thread=533382&skip=380&show=20

Paul! I'd be honoured my friend, if you would like to "add" your poem/verse to my thread I only ask for "home grown" one's - not copied/copies from somewhere else etc...

I've just posted Verse 2, part 2.

Two words!

Thank You!

The original has small print, and I have to squint to see it, plus the light's not great. (I have to hold it in my lap while I type.)

I'm about to debut something called "The oracle speaks" as a journal at H2G2. Partly this comes from my attempt to read the King James Bible without gagging. Apparently people had to have the slightest details of comportment dictated to them, with the threat of excomunication and the anger of Yahweh if they didn't. I got halfway trough Leviticus before deciding that this does not speak to me at all. For instance, it says that if a man kills an ox, he must present it at the temple for the community good. No one is to eat the fat or blood of the ox, and there are strict rules about what should be burned, and what parts can be eaten on the first, second, and third days, and the construction of the Temple is set forth in mind-numbing dey=tail. Is this just a bit obsessive-compulsive?

So, "The oracle speaks" will be the ramblings of someone who thinks his insights and visions are important, but mostly they fall somewhere between banal and outrageous. And,. I hope, funny.

Looking forward to it!

it's tough, though. The print is small, and I have to squint, and going line by line takes time. I need a nap.

You can make the font bigger

I don't think you understand, Pierce.

I printed this poem out on paper in 1998. The font was Times new Roman, and the print size was 12. I could conceivably make a photocopy of the original, enlarging it. I have a copier next to my computer, but I hadn't thought of using it to enlarge something until just now.

I have two other problems that I might as well mention: my hands seem to get clumsier as I get older. This is probably a normal function of aging. Nothing I can do about it. I still have a perfectionist streak, and undiscovered typos are galling .

So, I go very slowly and carefully. I review each line after I type it, and make sure it's as perfect as the original. Twenty-two years ago, I could dash these things off, and have them be letter-perfect. My mind still produces some fine ideas and I have a sense of character and setting and style, as well as an appreciation of what makes life satisfying.

So, it is a challenge to be as good as I used to be. It's *harder* to be as god as I used to be. And apart from my satisfaction with a job well done, I also feel that I have something good to share with this site, and those who might access it from anywhere in the world.

Now, let me start copying verse 3.

Don't expect speed.

You are right. I did not understand

Which is flusterating

I do now, though

As for perfection I don't think anybody else understands what you are goring through as good as I do

But As much as I despise my own typos I am extremely forgiving - as in 100% - when it comes to others'

Paul, I love reading epic poem which is beautifully composed with a great deal of picturesque writing, which brings the story poem alive.

Thank you so much, both of you.

You are very welcome.

Yep!

I'm posting verse 3 here and in the official entry:

Verse 3

A day has passed.
Laughter ehoes
In the hallways
Of Notomla's workshop,
That improbably irridescent gem
O the perpetual Arctic night.
The elf-children
Have come to claim
Their Christmas treasures.

The jewel box springs open
At the touch
Of many darting, prying fingers.
The silvery disc
Nestles into its tray,
Which then slithers
Into the CD player,
And we hear the source
Of their amusement:

“'You are old, Father Christmas,'
The young elf said,
'And your beard is most feathery light,
Yet we wake every morning
Concerned for your head.
We are told that it aches—are we right?'”

There is a pause
As the children choose
Another song:

“Santa, you are so unreal.
Just how jolly does an old elf feel?
Al those hours in a hardwood sleigh:
Rheumatism till groundhog Day!”

Notomla,
Resting in his favorite armchair
In the parlor,
Smiles at this.
He blows his nose.

Now another voice can be heard.
It is that of his great-granddaughter Amy,
Who thinks the first song
Was “You are old, Father William,”
From her beloved
Alice in Wonderland.
She starts to sing.

“Please don't!”
Says older sister Vicky,
“That's not a carol.”

“Yes, it is,” Amy insists,
“It's a Lewis Carroll!”
Todd,
Who doesn't like arguments,
Plays the next song:

“Don't let your children
Grow up to be Santa Claus;
Tell 'em it violates
All kinds of laws.
Tell 'em they'll slip
On those slippery ice floes,
Get eaten by polar bears,
Or freeze with those skimpy clothes.”

Notomla's daughter Ginny
Enters the parlor
With apple juice for her father,
Whose brow she feels.
They like my gift,”
He tells her happily.
“The best song of all
Is the very next one.”

No one wants to hear it, though,
With other presents waiting still.
“The Symphony Santastique,”
Conducted by young Stanley Clo,
Will not be heard this afternoon.
Notomla sneezes.
The nurse arrives
With a thermometer
And something warm
To soothe his cold.
Soon he is asleep.

Here's verse 4, part 1


Verse 4, Part 1

The sun peeks out
From glowering clouds
That sit
Like chocolate-speckled cream puffs
Atop the time-worn splendor
Of Vienna's monuments
And ivy-bearded concert halls
As Notomla,
Now a skinny teenager named Al Moton,
Escorted by his anxious father,
Arrives at Doctor Freud's clinic.
It is 1913.

“You dream of Santa Claus?”
Herr Freud exclaims.
“This is not strange at all.
You must have seen
Herr Claus
In the window of a store,
And relived your memory of that day
In your dream.”

“The dream comes every year,”
Al says,
“The same day every year.
On Christmas Eve
I always dream
I am a plump old elf
In a sleigh pulled by reindeer,
Delivering gifts.”

“And are they flying reindeer?”
Freud demands.
“If so, you surely have a special gift
Of will or intellect
With which to rise above
The limitation of your lot in life,
For flying is a way
Of reaching out
With healing hand
And giving heart
To those who need your help.”

“Herr Doctor,”
Al Moton explains,
“The reindeer fly,
The sleigh flies too,
But I do not.
I do not mind that I am he
Who brings such gifts
To children everywhere,
But still this does not tell me
What does my dream signify?”

“Repressed desires possibly,”
Herr Freud replies,
“Disguised fulfillment of a wish repressed.”

That night,
Another dream arrives
To further baffle and befog
Our young man's troubled mind.
There are no reindeer,
Just a sleigh,
And on its side,
In letters carved
Appears the message
“Al Moton is Notomla.”

he looks again,
And now it reads
“Notomla is Santa Claus.”
And then the dream is over.

He asks Herr Freud
About this dream,
And all that can be gleaned
Is the idea
That sometimes
A cigar
Is just
A cigar.

and
Just keep adding it/them to "Sometime BC"
while ever hootoo is about, folk can read them there Paul
Therefore! for many many years mate

y right arm/shoulder hurt like heck three days ago, so I've stopped posting Notomla and playing Freecell until the pain lessens.