Picnic At The Bonfire Glade

[Bêthberry]

The narrator observes the Picnic writing itself, or, rather, wighting itself:

Murder ! Murder most foul.

No, not that done to the poet's verse. Good poets die young. Rather, the Poet has evaded the Roman charge to die upon his own sword. He's laid the deed to the hand of another. This is the unkindliest cut of all.

Ah, yes, the poet has slaughtered civility. The best-laid plans of the gentle Wight, appearing for pleasure and delight, have been met by having business thrust upon him. And the nasty part at that, which is entertained so rarely by this particular patient, decent Wight.

And do the voices call out to avenge his honour? No, they do not, these ungrateful Dead. Instead, they clamour for charge and punishment, elevating the poet to Wight's status, ignoring the Author of us all, the Barrow Wight, and giving lament for the dead poet's society. If Barthes could see this now. *shakes head* Mad Frenchmen stick together.

Humpf. All this would not have happened had that woman in yellow not gone cowering under bushes and mewling, "A dirge, a dirge. My picnic for a dirge." Doesn't she remember how the hobbits ruined this place the first time? And look, another has approached, Rowan, though it's a rough greeting she's received. Maybe this purported hostess is beginning to understand why I wrote her out of the invitations.

And what's this we have now? Love and honour making appearances. Who walks in with the power to make love groan? Nay, lay on, McElenna.

[ September 26, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]