That fascinating cartoon trope: an arrow made of bees. Friar Tuck keeps them for honey and, from the honey, mead. Ben and I drink an absinthe before the show and afterwards, an ale. Ferment: summer: splendor: thoughts. What a buzz.
The Crusaders return—I’ve made that lurchy Channel crossing myself, supine, taking shallow breaths. And what awaits these veterans, fresh from the Middle East? Taxation montage. “We make our own fate from now on.” Crowe wears Renfair well—what a hunk. The plot has him an impostor-knight welcomed home by that old Crusader von Sydow and his original’s waiting wife. Every fraud’s deepest fear: no one cares. One hunk’s as good as another where the fields want “seed.” He’s in like Flynn—what was I, maybe ten or eleven, the VCR still a novelty, when first I saw the great swashbuckler himself, he springs in sporting kelly-green tights and a little pointy cap and he’s got that enormous stag slung over his shoulders, fresh-poached. Flashing a twelve-point outlaw grin.
An archer—Artemis, Sagittarius, Chewbacca. But how many of us know a bow? And so how can we understand the matrix of difficulties involved in shooting one? Those old Zen masters spent a year just teaching the novice how to breathe and draw, another year to release. The incredible tension makes it seem impossible to smoothly let go the shaft. Think of something as simple, like a trackpad or mouse. The cursor hovers above the highlighted link, sure, but it’s no small act to click it. In fact it’s all fraught and frustrating, slow or stuttery where it should be crisp. Just to push a button. To aim without trying—but it’s cool if you can’t, oafish West. No wonder those little green fairies have so much fun at our expense.
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