MonkeyX - Hairy Thoughts

The Field

The cold pressing of fingers on the nape of his neck intruded on his fragmented dreaming. He snapped to consciousness but his eyelids remained heavy as he listened. There were voices shouting excitedly in a language he didn’t recognize. The reverberations of heavy boots made him tense. Quick steps approaching, his muscles contracted. He planned to pounce. His fingers closed on the small leather ball in his left hand, the only device by which to defend himself. Peering through his eyelashes he caught a glimpse of the uniformed men circling above. Carefully he tried to slow the hammering of his heart keeping his senses alert, he waited for his moment.

The rough touch of coarse fabric covered his back and his head tilted slightly as a mirror captured his breath on its surface. More excited discussion from the men hovering above followed. His body lost none of its tension. Their words were directed at him but he could not comprehend their meaning. His crooked glance followed the bootlaces up, past ochre trousers until his eyes settled on an olive-toned jacket made of a machine-woven fabric. The red-cross patches on the man’s shoulders identified them as a medic. He rolled back to get a better look at his face and the bear of a man beamed him a friendly smile. Under the concerned gaze he sagged his tightened shoulders. His heart began to beat with excitement whilst he racked his brain for a shared lexicon. All he could manage was a toothy smile.

The medic seemed pleased and bent to one knee to examine him further, gesturing with his hand to introduce himself as Michele. Closing his eyes, he allowed Michele to rub feeling back into his limbs with strong but not brutish hands. He watched Michele’s face crease with concentration, a large moustache gave him the appearance of a walrus. Lilting, melodic words were spoken over at his boy companion, as the medic pressed his flesh like a butcher finding a prime cut. Seemingly assured there were no signs of broken bones, the medic squeezed his shoulder with a genial firmness. He let out an involuntarily grunt which was met with nodding approval.

The younger soldier gave him some congratulatory words. The beads of sweat on their brows indicating their relief; he quickly understood the rareness of his situation. All around him the dead were left to rot, their numbers too great for the survivors to bury. Twisting his body around, he sat upright. He accepted a fresh pat on the back from the youth. He thought that it must have been the younger man who found him surrounded by so much flotsam and called for the medic. He offered a smile to the boy, barely a scrap of meat in his ill-fitting uniform, and shook his soft hand.

“Brother,” Michele offered him a fur-covered, hard canister, “Drink.”

He didn’t pause to acknowledge his victory in deciphering the man’s tongue and took the canister to his mouth. Gratefully, he let a trickle then a flood of the cool liquid drip down his parched throat. He felt the container lighten and politeness stopped him from finishing the entire contents. He panted his thanks in the man’s native Frankish and noted the visible signs of relief in their facial expressions. They hadn’t lost their wariness of the dangers he posed as a stranger. Whatever divisions between their side and their enemy, they had helped and not tried to identify him first. Even supposing that a living prisoner was worth more to their superiors than a dead corpse, he thought well of them. He could not know what malice he might have avoided but he was grateful he would be able to know them outside of the ugly realities of the situation. The relief on their face told him that he had sidestepped whatever torturous fate would have been in store for him otherwise. They would not have to burden their souls with that now.

“My thanks,” he tuned his accent to the rural south of Frankia, “Please, help me stand.”

He offered his right hand and the pair pulled him to his feet. Standing, he lost his footing in the uneven, sinking mud. The men quickly grabbed him as he crouched, seeking a more sure-footed balance. The blanket slipped off his shoulders and he shivered. His hairless body exposed to the biting wind, his older rescuer quickly unbuttoned his own jacket and put it around him. The matured sweat clinging to the soft lining mixed with the background aroma of decay, unsettling his stomach. He hid the flash of nausea and welcomed the borrowed warmth. Fastening the buttons to protect his chest, he looked down at his exposed manhood. They were past any sense of dignity, wallowing shamefully in industrialized savagery. The three of them laughed, acknowledging the absurdity.

“Here,” Michele let go of his arm and pulled his backpack down, propping it between his legs. “I usually carry a spare. Plenty of folk crap themselves first outing. Although I have not seen many completely naked after the fighting!”

He pulled out a pair of standard issue soft-plastic waterproof trousers, rolled tightly and unfurled them, presenting them for approval. Michele’s arms were thick with black hairs. The tattoos covering his shoulders and biceps marked him as a member of the 14th Brigade, the lover of a big-busted lady called Denise and a perennial believer in the Eternal Light. The Scripture quote inked beneath the cross was a poor translation, its sentiment code for a general intolerance of a maligned ethnicity. Michele noticed him appraising the words and shrugged, waving the plastic trousers for him to take.

“Young and stupid,” he gave a dismissive touch of the markings, “Not that you have to worry.”

He became aware of the uncircumcised evidence and took the trousers, bobbing his head in gratitude. Stepping into them, the legs were a matching length, hanging over his bare feet. The rope cord around his waist pulled the material in snugly and he received another congratulatory pat on the back. Ever step of his rehabilitation to a clothed brother-in-arms appeared to merit encouragement.

The time spent dressing allowed him to place himself in the axis of events stretching across entropy, on many worlds. The turn of the 20th Century uniforms; the tattoos that would soon become unfashionable; the Frankish tongue spoken by men more used to tilling the fields; their searching for life in ground pounded by indiscriminate artillery. He tried to identify the battle from its aftermath. There was no ruined city and no blanched tree stumps. There were no tracks visible made by colossal land-ships. The flat field was nestled between rough mounds of sundered hills. Verdun or Somme, he wondered. “More importantly...” his voice escaped and the two sets of on-looking eyes narrowed in concern.

Slight panic gripped him as he scanned the horizon. Inevitable yet unwelcome, the sound of projectiles breaking overhead, their thunderous descent followed by the clashing sound of tin shattering. The serpentine hiss of canisters releasing billowing clouds of sulfuric powder sparked the two Frankish men into action. Burdensome gas masks were pulled on their faces, the older man helping the panic-stricken youth. They had checked the integrity of the enclosure around their faces twice before they remembered him, standing before them unprotected.

The young man who had said nothing throughout was gripped by fear and could only stare at him, a stream of piss staining his trousers. If the youth could detect the look of serenity upon his face, he could not understand it. Inside the boy’s mask he could see tears well up as the yellow death wrapped around them. He was touched by the youth’s desolate sobs, but he too was frozen in place.

The gas irritated Michele’s exposed arms. Quickly blistering his skin, the puss filled pustules bubbled and burst. The agony visible on his face he could not resist scratching the exposed skin. His face contorted until a beatific relief imprinted on his features when finally giving up, he ripped off the mask. His lungs flooded with blood, contracting his breath and extinguishing all resistance.

The youth looked at him with horror as they watched Michele die, his cherub face adorned with a puzzled expression. His own face betrayed nothing as he focused all his attention on willing his own cells to cauterize against the invading chemicals. He watched the boy through a telescopic prism, his fingers wanting to reach out to him in futile consolation. All he could think was that he never learned the boy’s name. He watched as the seeping, heartless molecules worked upon him. His clothing offered only a few extra seconds of protection. The effects were predictable as the youthful face was quickly ravaged by spasms of pain. He barely heard the death rattle of the boy, his mind retreating into a quiet cocoon.

The mustard clouds ebbed away and released him from his paralysis. His body gave way and doubled over. He heard remote sobbing, unrecognizable and alien at first. The whelping sound crept closer until he felt it pounding from his chest. He reached out to the corpses of the two Frankish men. No different to the others around him, yet more intimately tangible. His dehydrated body offered no further tears. His anger ebbed away, he stowed his grief and retracted his arm.

His body convulsed as he stood, reforming sinews and giving strength to his renewed shell. There was no place for rage, no time for guilt, only certainty and thankfulness.

“Thank you,” he looked beyond the field, “for making me feel human.”

He walked onward.

The Conference of the Birds

For years I travelled over many lands,
Past oceans, mountains, valleys, desert sands, And when the Deluge rose I flew around
The world itself and never glimpsed dry ground; With Solomon I set out to explore
The limits of the earth from shore to shore.
I know our king -- but how can I alone
Endure the journey to His distant throne?

Join me, and when at last we end our quest
Our king will greet you as His honoured guest. How long will you persist in blasphemy?
Escape your self-hood’s vicious tyranny -- Whoever can evade the Self transcends
This world and as a lover he ascends.

Set free your soul; impatient of delay,
Step out along our sovereign’s royal Way:
We have a king; beyond Kaf’s mountain peak The Simorgh lives, the sovereign whom you seek, And He is always near to us, though we
Live far from His transcendent majesty.

 

- The Conference of the Birds by Farid ud-din Attar

Throne of the Stars - Planned Development

So far the poll results for the new design (see previous post) has been positive with some really useful feedback that will help develop the UI. I'm fairly excited about the future prospects of the game once the design is implemented on the site. There's still time to vote if you are interested and I'll be deciding on the winning designer at the end of the week.

I've also been ratifying the development plan which is now published on the forums. There's quite a few features planned and some relatively important changes to some areas that will address issues of balance and longevity of the game. 

I'm lucky to have found a small core group of players who are expressing enthusiasm for the game and incorporating their feedback as well as fixing the bugs only real play can reveal is part of the fun. Hopefully as the game develops the community around it will grow in number and passion. Still very early days and managing expectations is part of the challenge - my own and those of players.

If you've not given the game a go yet I'd love to get your perspective on it (you can sign up here).

Paradise Lost - Book II

The second book of John Milton's Paradise Lost uses a device that is familiar to most fantasy literature that has followed: the quest giving council. Its not quite as vague as some councils in its infernal designs but it does lead to Satan, our antagonist, pursuing the path that will lead to the Fall of Man. In the council Milton portrays the different forms in which evil tries to combat God's design and then proceeds to follow Satan as he temporarily escapes from Hell.

(This is a continuation of the series discussing the classic epic. The previous post on Book I can be found here).

Book II

To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,
More than can be in Heaven, we now return
To claim our just inheritance of old,
Surer to prosper than prosperity
Could have assured us; and by what best way, Whether of open war or covert guile,
We now debate. Who can advise may speak.

The council begins with Satan attempting to snatch victory from the recent defeat against the power of Heaven. The clever postulation presented to the princes and powers of Hell will be familiar to any student of earthly dictators. As the leader of the rebellion against the throne, Satan lays claims to the most severe punishment, the greatest fall from grace and in doing so puts to rest any question of who would wish to replace him. After all, given what they know now, who would challenge him? Who would want to suffer as he is suffering? In such a way, an issue that may have become contentious had they succeeded is put to rest. His credentials established he subtly warns against factionalism and with cunning invites others to advise him on the path ahead.

The model of the charismatic revolutionary leader who has burnished his record with suffering under the yoke of tyranny is recognisable in historical figures such as Mao, Lenin and Hitler. The revolutionary council of Hell in turn presents arguments familiar in tone to the disaffected of any unloved regime. Of course, earthly kingdoms are imperfect and their tyranny sometimes worthy of revolt. However, it is not hard to draw parallels between the moral weakness found in the portrayals of the denizens of Hell and those who would overthrow one tyrannical regime in order to replace it with their own dictatorship. And there can be no doubt that Satan, despite his inclusive demeanour, seeks to rule in Hell; to replace the throne of God with his own. Proud enough to believe he can outmatch all his rivals in any contest, his nature is not to contest against them but to subvert them to his cause. To do this, he allows others to debate whilst playing his own cards close to his chest until the right moment.

First to speak in the council is the classic brute, an unsophisticated argument from Moloch, who represents the seething hatred brought about by an overriding desire for vengeance, regardless of the cost. His argument is simplistic and defies logic: having lost to an Almighty power, they should resume the conflict at a disadvantage because in doing so they deny their victor the prize of peace. Moloch is rage incarnate, the madman who kills the innocent and throws his own life away. He recognises strength and fighting prowess are meaningless in the game of deceit and corruption that would play to Satan's advantage. Yet he has no means by which to influence those not already similarly disposed, of which there are quite a number. His fate is to be mocked by the next prince to speak for his unsophisticated position.

Belial speaks with a forked-tongue, appearing more noble than the brutish Moloch but his thoughts consumed with ignoble pleasures. He turns Moloch's desperation and acknowledgement of the futility of open conflict against him. He disheartens his fellows with talk of the impregnable fortress of heaven's defences. He goes further than just advocating no open war, he wishes no conflict at all. He uses the fear of defeat, of a worse fate at the hands of the Victor, to mask his desire to wallow in the situation and seek what pleasure he can from his surroundings. Belial represents the compromising evil that has no courage, no purpose but to enjoy himself. Even bathing in the shit of Hell would be more preferable to him than further struggle. He speaks eloquently and is portrayed as appealing to the eye but his heart is consumed by lazy corruption. In him are manifest sloth and a portrait of the worst human lawyers and apologists for evil.

The next speaker is Mammon who begins by acknowledging the futility of great ambition, the vanity of attempting to overthrow the throne of heaven. He proceeds to outline the only sure way of leaving Hell for the fallen spirits: the acceptance of God as their sovereign. This is not something he will countenance as in mocking terms he reveals his hatred of God. Instead, he proposes to take the riches of Hell and build a new order. There is an interesting but false analogy, often used by rich men who forfeit God's grace, in using moral relativism to claim for himself the ability to recreate heaven in hell. This is the root of Mammon's fall, to value his own labour and proudly claim to match or exceed God in his works. He looks at wealth as the reward, the goal of his undertaking and all the wealth he covets is to be found in hell. What use then of heaven? What profit in God's mercy? And to turn away from God through resentment of his wrath, to place your trust in the riches of the earth is Mammon's folly. Of the arguments made thus far, this is the most pleasing to the assembled host of fallen spirits. It is the most pleasing to hear because it offers the mirage of a self-made salvation: the pursuit of worldly riches, in place of a servile life in praise of God.

However, the court draws to a conclusion once Beelzebub, acting as Satan's mouthpiece, finally speaks. He clarifies the simple truth for the rest: there can be no peace, they are prisoners of heaven, not masters of a nether empire to be yet formed. Hell is torture and punishment, the riches of it are ashes in the mouths of those who have tasted heaven. Could the punishment be worse? Perhaps, but how would they provoke God further than his omniscience has already allowed? If He wanted to destroy them or punish them further, He would have done so already.

Open war would be futile given His power but acceptance without repentance would achieve nothing either. None of the assembled are prepared to repent so it is to guile and deceit they have to turn if they wish to upend the order of creation. It is through their own free will they have to subvert God's plan if they wish to escape their circumstance. The vanity of it all is striking and there would be no hope for it. However, the creation of the World and Man upon it gives them an opening, Beelzebub argues. For in man, the fallen spirits see a way out of Hell. A way to a place, not quite heaven, but certainly better than Hell. And through man, they could have the triumph of domination they seek. Finally, their greatest victory would be in turning Man away from God. If vengeance is their goal, he advocates, then what better way to stick it to the divine than turn the creatures that He loved more than the angels against Him?

Beelzebub gives the denizens of Hell everything they could want in his speech and its clear this is Satan's plan all along. Vengeance for their Fall, vindictiveness against God, a vainglorious desire for power and sovereignty over Man. So the stage is set as Beelzebub calls on a brave spirit to break out of Tartarus and head beyond the realms of Chaos to find the World. To seduce Man for the fallen angels or conquer the paradise given to them by God.

It is of course Satan's cue to rise up at this point and display his majesty and awesome power above his peers, and take the quest upon himself. Of course, he makes much of the dangers ahead to dissuade anyone who may wish to tag along now he has accepted the challenge. His is a quest without fellowship built on pride and he is unwilling to share the glory with any other. He is utterly effective and the other spirits fall to worship him as a god Emperor. As he makes his way to depart, the fiends disperse and sow the seeds of evil in preparation. Satan had given them what they most needed in the absence of heaven's mercy: leadership and hope. A plan for living their eternal existence without accepting their punishment. In their legions, they go about establishing their fiefdoms and hell is less of a prison in their mind than a staging ground. How quickly they seem to forget heaven and embrace their nightmarish surroundings.

Satan puts on 'swift wings' and travels to the edge of his new domain, the landscape rich with borrowed mythology such as the guarding spirits of Cerberus and Medusa, until he reaches the first boundary. The gate is guarded by his daughter Sin whom he does not recognise nor does he recognise the shape that is Death, sprung from their incestous relationship. Its noteworthy that Satan doesn't know who they are at first and it is Sin's lament that informs him of their connection. Ravaged by hell-hounds born from Death's rape of her, set to cause her endless torment, Sin has been entrusted to keep the key to the gates of Hell by God. A duty she doesn't fulfil with much diligence; given the opportunity, she sides with Satan against God. The metaphors of this triad of spirits is obvious enough: Satan brings Sin into being through jealousy and pride, Sin brings about Death when none existed before and Death is Sin's punishment. The theology presented here is a little narrow-minded, dating the poem but it is a worthwhile exposition on the foulness brought about by Satan's disobedience.

The gates of Hell are opened and will not be closed until later when the Son defeats Satan. He continues his mission through the vastness of Chaos until the powers beyond grant him knowledge of the World. Loving nothing more than to bring destruction and profit from the mischief Satan will cause, they help him. The rest of Satan's journey is smooth sailing and with the thought of revenge on his mind, the second book closes.

The second book is a familiar narrative template for the epic adventure. The story of Satan's quest to corrupt man, set forth by the council of the Princes of Hell, has only just begun. Milton has given us an insightful portrait of the ruinous powers and florid depictions of the underworld that have endured over the years. There is much to consider philosophically but it is a strange affair to follow the villain in the place where a hero would normally tread. In this Paradise Lost differs from the Homeric epics or modern works like The Lord of the Rings. We are left with a lot of familiar character depictions in a tested plot but none who merits our empathy. For that we shall have to wait a little while longer. 

Throne of the Stars - Design Contest Poll

The design contest for Throne of the Stars is drawing to a close with two finalists having presented the most impressive work. I like both their approaches but they are quite different. As such I've put a poll up for players to decide. You too can offer your opinion on the designs here.

The redesign is the first step in rolling out a Beta version that will round out the features for the game and allow me to promote it to more potential players. Its quite exciting to imagine the game with a slick new interface that builds on the gameplay that has proven interesting enough for the handful of invited players to log on every day. I've certainly got a lot of ideas I want to implement but as I mentioned before getting the design right is key to that vision.

Head First

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small ball. The pale, flesh-tone leather was scratched and sooty in the palm of his left hand. With his thumb he fastened it in place. Shifting and twisting, he freed his shoulders from the tweed jacket and wriggled free letting the worn patched garment drop to the muddy bank of the lakeside. He unbuttoned his chequered shirt. The heavy cloth dropped down to his waist and hung upturned, tucked into his denim jeans. His left hand occupied, he used his right to unfasten the brown fabric belt. Unbuttoning his trousers, he angled with his pelvis and wormed them down to his ankles. Using his right foot for leverage he kicked the worn trainer off his left foot. He stepped off the small mound of clothing as he removed the remaining shoe. The cold, squelching of treacly mud oozed around him as heart racing with anticipation, a bead of sweat ran down his cheek defying the chill.

Stepping forward onto the smooth rocks at the water's edge, he dipped his toes in. The spring water stabbed icy sensation along his tired feet. Glancing around his eyes followed the tree line overhanging the lake. The early morning light bathed the leaves in an autumnal glow. Above, a flock of birds wheeled, their chorus breaking the quiet of the isolated clearing. Their departure returned a stillness that was only disturbed by the rare fish splashing in the shallows. Looking at his toes, he saw the pebbled bottom of the lake was less than knee deep. He wiggled them and the algae growing on the rocks left a soft resin on the soles of his feet. He couldn't put it off any longer.

A sharp tug, he stripped off his boxer shorts. Naked and shivering he fixed his eyes on the middle pool of sunlight hanging upon the lake. He stepped backwards. Three wide, measured steps. Gripping the little ball, he stuck out his left hand towards the lake. With the nail of his right index finger he scratched a new mark on the leather and blew on it as he pulled his arms back to his sides. He inhaled and burst forward with great leaping strides. His toes hit the edge of the water and he jumped. Somersaulting up before pirouetting head first into the rocky lake bed.

The top of his silver-streaked blond hair made contact with the glassy surface. Immediately the water hardened; slightly thicker at first, glue-like, then instantly, a thick crystal shattering on contact. Three inches beneath the glassy surface, the water became a solid sheet of metal and his body reverberated with the backlash. For a moment the naked man was suspended upside down, legs scissored inelegantly, held in place by a few inches of water. Water which was now harder than treated steel; the shock wave broke his spine and blood poured out of his nose as fluids rushed to escape his broken body. He sagged and crumbled like a burst balloon. His innards dissembled into a black silk stream of nothingness.

He gripped the leather ball fiercely as he plunged into a void of growling harmonics, a cacophony pulling him apart. The feeling of his thumb on the small ball pressed tight into his palm all that remained of his awareness. Absent pain signals made him numb. His mind spiraled unhinged into uncertainty. He struggled to remember the incantation in the fog of fading thoughts. He fought to ignore the ragging stream of memories flooding his attention with nostalgia and centering himself, began to follow the deeply practiced path of establishing the axioms that would open the World Way to him.

"I think," his thumb pressed upon the ball for precious resistance, "Therefore, I am!"

The blackness gave way to a misty grey and his nearly forgotten nostrils flared with the stench of saltpetre and decaying bodies. He grew more confident and begun to flex his physicality, willing his right hand to reach out; kick starting his reflexes into action. He turned from a notion into a solid idea reforming as the trigger words arced through the nothingness like lightning seeking solid ground. His right hand reached forward, palm spread outwards assuming a protective guard for his face. His tongue tasted iron-soaked mud. He lifted his head to spit and expel the foul substance. His blood stained eyes caught a glimpse of the field of fallen men. Multitudes of bodies twisted, pierced and torn, ground into the trodden earth. His senses overloaded with the sight and smell of death, he managed the briefest of exhausted smiles before he collapsed into unconsciousness.

An Inconvenient Elder

In a review of two new biographies of Francis of Assisi, Joan Acocella writes:

Francis was a good example of what, in the annals of history, might be called the “inconvenient elder”: the person who starts the revolution and then, once it succeeds, becomes an inconvenience, even an embarrassment, to the next generation. (Think of Gandhi.) They honor him—they have to—but they wish he would go away, so that they could “work within the system” and relax a little.

The tragedy of a radical or revolutionary figure lies in their natural obsolescence if they are successful. The alternative is relegation to a romantic figure whose ideas never found favour. St. Francis is perhaps a victim of both fates.

His self-enforced poverty and willingness to minster to those outside of society without seeking a radical overthrow of the social structure has made him both a champion and villain to those who care about the poor and inequality. He was catholic in his adherence to the Church, believing in their special authority in the Eucharist that he saw as essential in his personal salvation. Whilst going to Rome to avoid his fast growing movement being labelled heretical, he preferred to keep it at arms length whilst he had the influence.

His compassion tempered his uncompromising principles; a template for a spiritualism that stood in contrast to the grubby ostentatiousness and narrow interpretations of the Church. As a layman who lived the Gospels, an evangelist born from a middle-class background in a time and place with crumbling morals, he might have been a natural hero of the Reformation movement.

The fact this was not necessarily the case may be because how compromised by materialism his eponymous movement had become by the sixteenth-century. Or perhaps there was a backlash against the hagiographies dedicated to him, with their attributions of great miracles. In any case, by the time he was being revitalised by Protestant writers the story of St. Francis had become conflicted.

The accounts of a genial, jovial and caring man were in contrast to the embittered elder of a movement that was co-opted by the Church to resemble one of so many gaudy orders that thrived on earthly privilege. Some of this may be attributed to a dying man's growing conservatism. He was on his death bed wise enough to suggest the road he travelled was not necessarily the best path for the salvation of others.

He remains a controversial and inspirational figure, a mad man to some, a true disciple of Jesus to others. Despite the many biographies of him written over the centuries, even those drawing upon Francis' own writings, seem to find it difficult to be certain of the real Francis. What is perhaps more pertinent is that at a time when social inequality is perceived to be at a modern peak; when austerity is the prize hangover brought about by the mismanagement of the elite, St. Francis of the 12th-13th Century should still draw sufficient interest for two new biographies to be published.

There is also some comfort in his story, as the NY piece concludes:

He cites the nineteenth-century historian Ernest Renan, who said, as Vauchez summarizes it, that the example of Francis “constitutes proof that Christianity, at least once, has been lived by a human being in all its radicality within the context of a historical life: this allows us to sustain the hope that this great movement, taken and distorted by the Church, might be able one day to resume its influence.”

Paradise Lost - Book I

I recently started re-reading John Milton's Paradise Lost which I haven't read since my teens, during a period of insatiable consumption of literary classics. A good deal of this epic poem has formed our cultural perspective on the story of Genesis, so the hasty reading of years ago didn't quite do justice to the beauty or depth I have found in a more meditative reading. I'm purposefully not going to rush this and contemplate each of the ten books in some depth. This isn't so much a review of a well-known classic but an effort to pick apart the verses to learn something relevant today. This will intentionally be out of the context of the poem's historical inception, an area where more scholarly analysis is abundantly available.

Book I

And high disdain from sense of injured merit,
That with the Mightiest raised me to contend,
And to the fierce contentions brought along Innumerable force of Spirits armed,
That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,
His utmost power with adverse power opposed
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven

The first book begins by outlying the premise of the work with Milton calling upon his muse Urania, recast as a Christian inspiration, to recount the Fall of Man. The story of Adam and Eve, the Garden of Eden, the Serpent and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil are probably familiar to everyone, even those who've never read Genesis. Milton picks up the story in the midst of things with Satan cast down to Hell after the failed rebellion in Heaven.

Obviously, to those already familiar with Satan's role in the Fall and those who believe in God, he is clearly cast as the villain, the antagonist of the Biblical story of creation. He is vainglorious, charismatic and defiant of God's will. However, Milton's portrayal is notably nuanced and there is a sense of compassion towards his fate. This isn't simply a fiery sermon warning against the perils of invoking God's wrath. It begins with a lament as to what was lost and lays on the reader what distinguishes Satan from other souls who have turned against God.

Satan was once God's most highly favoured creature, the Morning Star, the most charismatic, intelligent and mighty of the spirits of Heaven. Whilst Milton gives us only the briefest accounts of what Heaven is like, it is clearly a place of grace, light and peace. We will learn in greater detail how the Son, who in Milton's telling came after the creation of Heaven and the angels, made Satan envious and in doing so brought forth Sin into existence. It is envy of God's power, resentment towards God's judgement upon the throne and ambition to overthrow Him that begins Satan's fall from grace. It is also clearly outlined that until Satan attempted this ultimately futile and foolish act, there was only God's word as to his Almighty stature. It is God's mercy and love that had belied the fact that He was all powerful. Satan's pride compelled him to challenge this claim, as God no doubt intended, and try in vain to usurp the throne of heaven.

We also learn that a good number of angelic creatures, many of the greatest perhaps of the angelic hosts of Heaven, were persuaded by Satan to join his cause. The Prince of Lies is portrayed as highly persuasive and as an inspirational leader who seems to favour subtle influence rather than giving loud commands. In formulating a plan for his own redemption, without accepting God's sovereignty, he whispers his strategy but allows others to make the arguments for and against. He sets in motion the events that lead to Man's fall and Hell's war on the World not through displays of muscular coercion, of which he is more than capable. Instead he brings others to his way of thinking. He does this without even appearing to have had a direct hand in the process itself.

It is important to note that these spirits of heaven, these fallen angels, are not one-dimensionally evil although they acknowledge and embrace their evil nature more so than most men would ever admit, even in the privacy of their own thoughts. They have qualities that make them admirable to men; after all, a monstrous creature in which man could not recognise anything good would be a poor temptress. More than this, these are creatures created by God who is good. It is in them to be good, to find redemption and to use their gifts to bring praise to the Almighty. It is perhaps those very generous gifts that led to the pride and corruption that made their fall so great. So when Satan speaks he does so with an admirable spirit of resilience, despite his current predicament. When he wishes to inspire, he does not shirk from putting himself in danger. In fact, his pride and ambition compels him to lead from the front. He is truly a figure of heroic proportions, capable of beguiling man to admire him greatly.

The spirits who have fallen into the lake of fire after the failed war of heaven are many, but it is Satan who rises first and after some contemplation awakes the others. We learn about some of the most mighty fallen in the first book.

Beelzubub is Satan's right hand and to whom he puts the question of whether given their recent loss they should submit to the will of God. However, the question is couched in the language of resistance and it can only lead in one direction. Satan is not prepared to make peace with the "tyranny of Heaven." Beelzebub is a familiar character, the loyal lieutenant who toads along to great power and relishes in evil deeds. His role is to console his master, to pledge his allegiance even after such a terrible defeat. He acknowledges that God is Almighty for only the truly powerful could have defeated them but even in the unending torture and pain of Hell, he is unwilling to repent. His loyalty would be commendable if it were sincere but Beelzebub is as calculating as many a general of an evil dictator. He is, quite literally, betting it is better the devil you know. Once the old allegiances are established, Satan outlines his plan to continue the rebellion through guile rather than force of arms. This seems obvious as the only course of action but it is shown as a testament of Satan's intelligence and stubbornness. It illustrates his manipulative and calculating nature in that he already knows his will on this before the show of the consultation with the other Princes of Hell.

The depictions of the legions of Hell and their fallen situation is lengthy and full of references to Biblical and classical stories. Milton casts many of the gods and spirits of the pre-Christian world as fallen angels, who would later be named by men, their heavenly names scrubbed from existence. Before the "great consult" begins in Book II, we are given the vision of Mulciber, the artificer and fabled craftsman, building Pandemonium, Satan's city in Hell; whilst Mammom leads the excavation of the riches of Hell, vast in gold and gems.

These two fallen angels represent the evils of avarice and attachment to worldly things, to works by mortal hands, pride in the temporal rather than praise of the eternal glory of God. It is through their skill and labour that evil builds its foundations. They are the tools by which the charismatic Satan will wage his war from a secure fortress. It is the innovation of Mulciber and the affection for treasure of Mammon from which evil learns sophistication. It is also easy to recognise in these characters a common polemic against measuring worth by worldly things. In this Milton's views seem to be grounded very much in his own impoverished life experience. It is also a common tract of Christian thought that struggles against the juggernaut of the values of the material world. The resonance of the crafts of Hell with its great riches in corrupting the spirit is timeless. Given talent and the bounty of heaven, these fallen angels fell so hard they found a perverse happiness in their new element. As we learn in the dialogues to follow, even with the eternal suffering of their situation, they preferred to bask in their material riches, forsaking everything else including heavenly salvation.

The first book of this epic poem is striking in the rationality of the infernal actors in their fallen state. Their values strike familiar chords in their elevation of power, cleverness, loyalty, bravery and material wealth. It is easy to get lost in the depiction of their suffering, to view it all as grand imagery and become numb to their self-inflicted torment. They like the reader become accustomed to their situation. Instead of seeking redemption, they quickly focus on making the most of the place for some illusory advantage. Even with the recent memory of God's power fixed in their minds, they remain intransigent to accept His mercy. Their immortal spirit only briefly acknowledges, in defiant tones, that the peril they suffer could be worse. Their existence continues and they show despite their eternal nature a fear of annihilation. It is also clear they need leadership and hope. Even in Hell there is hope for the wicked but they remain misguided, seeking their own path to salvation by their own works. In not acknowledging God as their creator and redeemer, they illustrate the folly of pride and the dangers of following their ruinous leader.

Throne of the Stars - UI Design Contest

Early last year I begun work in my spare time on a new web game wherein players controlled a noble house in the post-apocalyptic science-fiction setting of the Empire of Man on the Twelve Worlds. Think Dark Ages meets Dune.

The fruit of that labour can be found here. Its been in alpha with about 20 active players since October 2012.

As the bulk of the most egregious bugs were ironed out and the initial list of features implemented, programming wise its nearly ready to be classified as Beta. The activity of the handful of invited players suggests there's enough gameplay to make it a modest success.

There's a few bug fixes I need to deploy but the main thing holding back further development is, to be frank, the poor UI design. I am not a UI designer by any means and what I've knocked together in terms of design doesn't do the game justice.

So recently I decided to take the plunge and hire a real designer to make the game look presentable. To do this, I have launched a contest on 99Designs.

If you're a web designer and somehow found your way here or know someone who is then please consider entering the contest.

The MonkeyX Manifesto

Hope

I am trying to be heroic, because all around me history sings.

- Song for Clay, Bloc Party

It has been eleven years almost to the day when I first started a blog (January 10th 2002). Whilst that blog died in early 2005, the WayBack machine is there to remind me of that guy, In my early 20s I was deeply concerned about the post-September 11 world, the inevitable US invasion of Iraq to come and the impending sense of conflict between Israel and Iran. In the technology space, I was watching the rising conflict between mobile application vendors (remember Nokia?) and the decline of Microsoft as the leviathan of the industry. I'd also just managed to survive the first dot com crash and worked out my website was called a blog (it was initially a postNuke one-user BBS).

On a personal level, the person I was back then was not so dissimilar or cringeworthy as I think it would have seemed had I been sharing the mercurial moods of my teenage self. Thankfully, the Web was a far more limited affair in the mid-90s so I avoided that embarrassment by a few years. Still I can't help but see hidden behind the couched reasonableness, righteous indignation and self-assured analysis someone who was at heart still an angry young man, still lost and insecure about his place in the world.

Faith

It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth; this defiles a person.

- Matthew 15:11

Have I changed that much from who I was back then? Possibly. Certainly enough that I can at least recognise it. If I do not blush with shame as my younger self surely would when presented with such a mirror, that's only because I've learned to forgive and accept grace into my life.

The years without a blog have been eventful. Rich in new experiences, full of suffering and of healing, new friendships forged and old ties disentangled. They have not been without regret; even if the regrets no longer tie me down to the past. The years have followed an uneven trajectory towards happiness with many delusions of contentment holding back real progress. I have been fortunate to meet a kindred spirit, someone who has led me to the light without judgement. In short, there is much to make me grateful and humble in what I say and I have barely begun to live.

Love

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

- Corinthians 13:13

So why pick up an old theme, an old outlet and write again in blog form? I don't feel the need to comment or even a hold an opinion on everything under the sun. My outlook remains hopeful and optimistic in the long-term. I have given up cynicism whilst reserving criticism. I'm less moved to be enraged by far off problems and more inclined to deal with my own inner struggles. I still love to create things, to slice and dice logic and reason and give it some form of expression. I am still moved by the lives of those around me, whether local or remote. If my anger has subsided its not turned into indifference, only in greater striving for empathy. 

As I considered who I am and thus what I would write, I remembered the act of writing is worthwhile in of itself. The ability to reflect through writing was a positive influence in my life. To write without publishing, without sharing, was to cocoon myself and stew in my own thoughts. I wasn't being more humble, I was just closing myself off to criticism. So here it is - publish and be damned.

Still I enter into this with a bit of trepidation and I need to set some ground rules for myself. I pray that perhaps through my own salvation in faith, I can bring into the world something good and true, expressing renewed hope and most of all, write out of love.

I pray that I remain humble in my writing, charitable in my disposition towards others and honest in my thinking.