The House That Zelmo Built

"There's a place where everyone can be right,
Even though you remain determined to be opposed.
Admittance requires no qualifications:
It's where everyone has been and where everybody goes.

So please try not to be impatient,
For we all hate standing in line.
And when the farm is good and bought,
you'll be there without a thought,
And eternity, my friend, is a long fucking time! ~ 'You' - Bad Religion



"I have a feeling that the end is near, end of the energy to do, end of my very existence" ~ Dr. Rajendra Prasad - First President of India



"What strange and magnificent sights await us beyond the veil? What glorious treasures and secrets await us in yonder mountains of Isgoth?!" ~ Jonah Agro - "Passing and Legacy"




One morning, I awoke to the sounds of the rushing waters of a river, the bending and sighing of oak and pine trees as they swayed in the wind, and the songs of birds as they greeted the light at the end of dawn. "What is this," Zelmo asked, as I lifted myself out of bed and exited the cabin into the cold morning air, "Where in the hell is our misery?"

"Why, it's gone," I replied, "Gone far away, never to return." We strode up the path to the meadow beyond, and it was there in that wide open space that we found them. Our muses: Melpomene, Thalia, Urania -- our Tragedy, Comedy, and Astronomy! For those are the elements that defined our story from so long ago, time-worn, dusty, and forgotten underneath layer upon layer of memories. That tale that we used to sing ourselves silently to sleep with every night had finally burst upon our conscious mind with the trumpeting glory of long-dormant recall of a euphoric dream; the type of dream that you wish that you could remember, yet only the goodness remains; what created that goodness, that breathtaking feeling in your heart, has already been shut away in the dark fathoms of your sub-conscious mind, never to return.

That story that we created so long ago now writes itself once more. The names of lands far and away now come prancing along in our mind at random intervals. Names and faces, heroes and villains, battles and romance, wars and conquest! From the jungles and savannas of Tartus to the black mountains of Isgoth, there awaits a story as of yet untold. When the fingers itch this much to knead the dough that makes the loaf of bread, one can't help but succumb to the eagerness that is fed by the anticipation of long nights of toil at the yoke of the writer's pen that lie ahead.

Where and when did this enlightenment and reawakening happen, you ask? Somewhere in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming. We walked alone in the woods one bright and sunny late afternoon when it became apparent to us that we had seen this sight before, though we had never before walked along this path. The deer that stood in our way up ahead had caused a stir within us, and had we a rifle in our hands at that moment, we might have taken that deer for its meat and its horns. And that thought had conjured up our little poem about Dragonsbane, the long-rifle of Sire Ulysses who had wielded it to slay a dragon upon the sea.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? The story has yet to be told, and too much has been said here already. Why spoil it for ourselves? Yet it all begins to make further sense to us, for the story was never forgotten. No, only tucked away for a time. Even our trademark -- "my friends and enemies" -- never belonged to us, but to that bounty hunter that came upon the boy in the woods, and Vengeance would claim them both!

And so, that's where we'll begin, I suppose. That revelation of a long ago project, all but forgotten, has awakened in our head once more like an explosion in the sky. All in due time, my friends and enemies. All in due time.



The story begins...Zelmo and I are just along for the ride.





.