Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Quest Time

or as I have affectionately come to call it QT. The acronym can also currently be used for "Quest Tuesday," the mysterious "on the q.t.", or (as it happens) quite a few other things. What the hell is it? What is it good for?

As with many things worth explaining, the answer is (too?) complex. I use The Quest as a way of describing my approach to life. I don't think that is uncommon. It is an ideal -- a personal measure of the quality of how I am living. I could (and will eventually) spend pages trying to prosify what is a very simple idea which still seems ineffable. Instead, for now, I will offer two poems that I have written which may clarify my particular approach. We'll talk more of this later...


He Who Watches

Sherandilin, the city fair.
The questor's souls have perched 'mongst rare
And wondrous beings of power and might
Whose deeds become my dreams at night.
When last I lay my wearied head,
The questor's trail-song stands in stead.
For questing blood fills not my heart
And I have not the strength to start.
So long 's the road.


Tree and fen and wood and field
Walking ever silently
I've never trod the same path twice
And still I hasten eagerly
To find the path I'm looking for
Although I know it not by sight
I'll feel it when it comes upon me
Softly in the night

He Who Does

The Heart that's bold, shall walk the road,
Shall sing the songs, shall share the gold.
We are the souls Sherandilin
Whose hallowed halls we dwell within
And feast upon the mighty breast
Of all that lies along the quest.
We'll steal the hours from Death's white hand
And spread them 'mongst our merry band.
We'll stretch our lives.

The Quest

In crafting life we are obsessed.
While tumbling through it, don't forget
To thirst and make all life a quest.

Each eddy is a great contest;
The outcome judged by how it's met.
In crafting life we are obsessed.

With frequent fervor we invest
Passivity with lusty sweat
To thirst and make all life a quest.

Unyielding time will be compressed
To stretch our souls, to pay our debt;
In crafting life we are obsessed.

From stagnant streams great men digressed
Past lassitude's insipid threat
To thirst and make all life a quest.

Expunge your vessel of possessed
Minutia, torpor -- scorn regret;
In crafting life we are obsessed
To thirst and make all life a quest.