Final Meme Response
A trifle late, this one, but one from mostlyfoo, who I can experimentally confirm is indeed foo. Mostly.
One that was interesting to me, tell us about patriotism and the land?
So, I'm assuming this is more about my generally generically patriotic outlook. Some disclaimers on that; I am dissatisfied with most high-level government officials I have had cause to notice the work of within my lifetime. I am certainly dissatisfied with the parties as they currently stand - neither those with a chance in hell of getting elected nor those without represent me as an individual, even with the caveat that I believe almost nobody's beliefs are represented entirely accurately by any given party line.
That's disclaimer one. Disclaimer two is that I am fully aware of a number of atrocities and lesser unpleasantnesses created by my countrymen over the course of history. These do not need pointing out, though if you are aware of some particularly fascinating trivia surrounding them, the writer/GM/trivia buff/incredibly nosy person in me will be happy to travel in the direction you point.
But I love my country. I grew up in rural Shropshire. Despite my frequent complaints about the shithole of a town which was the nearest urban area for what is still over half my life, rural Shropshire is a beautiful place, and one within easy reach of the hills of North Wales. Which is also a beautiful place and which, both by virtue of its status as a principality rather than a country and by virtue of the fact I am a patriotic Briton over and above a patriotic Englishman, I consider to be part of the country that I love. I'm writing this in Lancaster, surrounded by, again, beautiful countryside - rolling hills, dry-stone-walled plains, and within easy travel around me, the Crook O' Lune, the Fairy Steps, the whole of the Lake District and, in general, much beauty.
Beauty that inspired a lot of poets, albeit mostly ones I don't care for - but hey, that's OK. We have poets I admire greatly, here in Britain; we have W.H. Auden and the working life of T. S. Eliot, we have Williams Blake and Shakespeare, we have the church architecture obsessive Betjeman, Day-Lewis and Spender, we have Rudyard Kipling and Kit Marlowe and, in poetical terms almost as important as this fact, we AREN'T responsible for Ezra bloody Pound.
Playwrights I admire, too, and storytellers whose worlds have sucked me in through the fear and thrill of M.R. James, down through the severity of Rankin and Brookmyre, to the comedic social commentary of Pratchett and the ultimate mastery of comic wordplay that belongs to P.G. Wodehouse. Actors, directors, photographers...
And at this point, I must concede that if I'd grown up in Ontario I'd be just as in love with Niagara and the eponymous Lake, if I were American I'd be as proud of Poe and Chandler and Hiassen, and so on, and so on, world without end.
But that's OK, because I've never said the French are wrong to be proud of Proust, not Shakespeare; of la Tour Eiffel, not York Minster, of...
I'm a patriot, not a jingoist. My country raised me. My country gave me sights to see and words to set the heart racing and the mind dreaming. At sumbels, I toast to the gods of my country, be that Britain, or England, or King Oswald's nation in times before - for at school, I played Rugby and football and cricket and Gaelic football on the field of Oswald's last battle, and afterward I would cross the road again to my school and change not far at all from Oswald's Well, the spring which tradition tells us sprang up after the eagle which snatched up the king's severed arm let it fell, and pure, fresh water bubbled forth from the earth.
I believe strongly that this cluster of islands have done more they can be proud of than they have what should be held ignoble. I believe our history, as a story, is one to conjure with, and as a storyteller, that's as important to me.
I believe, too, that certain mistaken assumptions are often made, but here, I turn to author Paul Cornell and his collaborator, artist Leonard Kirk, to sum it up elegantly. But then, they have eleven images to play with; if that's a thousand words apiece, I'd be here most of the night before I could hope to match them. So I'll post this, and then I'll make myself some tea, blended locally to a local recipe.
One that was interesting to me, tell us about patriotism and the land?
So, I'm assuming this is more about my generally generically patriotic outlook. Some disclaimers on that; I am dissatisfied with most high-level government officials I have had cause to notice the work of within my lifetime. I am certainly dissatisfied with the parties as they currently stand - neither those with a chance in hell of getting elected nor those without represent me as an individual, even with the caveat that I believe almost nobody's beliefs are represented entirely accurately by any given party line.
That's disclaimer one. Disclaimer two is that I am fully aware of a number of atrocities and lesser unpleasantnesses created by my countrymen over the course of history. These do not need pointing out, though if you are aware of some particularly fascinating trivia surrounding them, the writer/GM/trivia buff/incredibly nosy person in me will be happy to travel in the direction you point.
But I love my country. I grew up in rural Shropshire. Despite my frequent complaints about the shithole of a town which was the nearest urban area for what is still over half my life, rural Shropshire is a beautiful place, and one within easy reach of the hills of North Wales. Which is also a beautiful place and which, both by virtue of its status as a principality rather than a country and by virtue of the fact I am a patriotic Briton over and above a patriotic Englishman, I consider to be part of the country that I love. I'm writing this in Lancaster, surrounded by, again, beautiful countryside - rolling hills, dry-stone-walled plains, and within easy travel around me, the Crook O' Lune, the Fairy Steps, the whole of the Lake District and, in general, much beauty.
Beauty that inspired a lot of poets, albeit mostly ones I don't care for - but hey, that's OK. We have poets I admire greatly, here in Britain; we have W.H. Auden and the working life of T. S. Eliot, we have Williams Blake and Shakespeare, we have the church architecture obsessive Betjeman, Day-Lewis and Spender, we have Rudyard Kipling and Kit Marlowe and, in poetical terms almost as important as this fact, we AREN'T responsible for Ezra bloody Pound.
Playwrights I admire, too, and storytellers whose worlds have sucked me in through the fear and thrill of M.R. James, down through the severity of Rankin and Brookmyre, to the comedic social commentary of Pratchett and the ultimate mastery of comic wordplay that belongs to P.G. Wodehouse. Actors, directors, photographers...
And at this point, I must concede that if I'd grown up in Ontario I'd be just as in love with Niagara and the eponymous Lake, if I were American I'd be as proud of Poe and Chandler and Hiassen, and so on, and so on, world without end.
But that's OK, because I've never said the French are wrong to be proud of Proust, not Shakespeare; of la Tour Eiffel, not York Minster, of...
I'm a patriot, not a jingoist. My country raised me. My country gave me sights to see and words to set the heart racing and the mind dreaming. At sumbels, I toast to the gods of my country, be that Britain, or England, or King Oswald's nation in times before - for at school, I played Rugby and football and cricket and Gaelic football on the field of Oswald's last battle, and afterward I would cross the road again to my school and change not far at all from Oswald's Well, the spring which tradition tells us sprang up after the eagle which snatched up the king's severed arm let it fell, and pure, fresh water bubbled forth from the earth.
I believe strongly that this cluster of islands have done more they can be proud of than they have what should be held ignoble. I believe our history, as a story, is one to conjure with, and as a storyteller, that's as important to me.
I believe, too, that certain mistaken assumptions are often made, but here, I turn to author Paul Cornell and his collaborator, artist Leonard Kirk, to sum it up elegantly. But then, they have eleven images to play with; if that's a thousand words apiece, I'd be here most of the night before I could hope to match them. So I'll post this, and then I'll make myself some tea, blended locally to a local recipe.
