Hyrrljós

                    Ere the silent shadows mourn and daylight fades to night
                         Beneath the watching eyes of heaven long hours turn to light.
                         A shapeless form, a heedless stare, a body birthed by moon,
                         Living, breathing, gone to all but memory he rises by ancient rite.

Call of sparks, fanning flame,
          far and near together come
     brotherhood to brothers and brothers found.
     Aflight a fleet of ship and horse,
          they round the shadows home
     and in the coming passes Eldgrímr upon the starlight ground.

Returned to the halls of the Golden land
          where in the twilight finds
     three suns, four moons, and the hymns of the
          midnight gone.
     Into the wood of an ancient mire did Eldgrímr
          journey forth
     for the triumph of the hunt.




                    Bow ahand, firetongue o're back, sword for the belt to hold,
                         into the undergrowth venture forth towards a host unknown
                         in company and kinship for feast midday to bear.
                         Beneath the summer-green canopy towards the winding depths
                         of rivers run and bends of brink
                              towards a silent throne.

Atop the flames in triumph rest the spoils of Eldgrímr come
     to feast and forge a rightful cornerstone.
Seated beneath the billowing smoke
     bare beasts arise from mists
And in the succulent herbs contend
     with the hunger of hammers and thirst of steel
For the mead of Poetry and sinew of Swords abound to fare.
From the nectar of the fathers of old, a mighty
     draft forth spring,
to the spark of creation hums and again begins anew.

A forest of swords from iron grows
     in the breath of dragons' might.
Hammer in hand and anvil strong, hammer
     between throws sparks red, orange bright.
Callused hands and coarse wiry beards
     bear witness to the morning blade
As shadows flee the steel soft, and in oil
          finds its strength.

Weary in the hours come, a rest so welcome sound
     to the tune of the forefathers, ember sing
     and into the night song flows.
Song of sorrows and song of joys, song of elder times.
     Song of remembrance Eldgrímr sang
     to legends fallen so long ago.

Come the dawn and flee the sun, the rhythm begins again.
     beneath the forgefire coals, far down the pot
     an an ancient way brought life anew
     to the axe of Danskere, in flames the irons brew.
Cleft in halves the edges join,
     a union brought by hammers hard,
     drink in the anvil's might.
   

                    Before the great golden sun finds home atop the sky,
                         Eldgrímr takes flight once more.
                         Towards foreign lands with swords in hand,
                         to the raiding of Hlaðadór.

                    Forgotten treasures buried beneath the decay of time
                         and the passing of an Age.
                         Easements lost in sleepless night, slumber upon the floor
                         while eaves creep farther warding the weary intruder's step.

Wreathed in the smoke of pipes alight,
     the midnight grindstone wears away
the armour of rust and cladding of scale
     that holds back the beauty of steel's soul.







                    Long last the dawn rises once more and Eldgrímr fades
                         back into the pages of the remembered days
                         Through flame and forge beneath heaven's light
                         Returns to the idles of the world's sight.
                    Yet not without the brothers' bond, and the memories of those rare old times.

A Farewell to Troy

It is not too often, or perhaps more often than we would like, that we are uprooted from our lives and forced to say farewell to all that we have come to know in comfort. Four and a half years passed since I first moved to the great city of Troy, and in a beat of a heart, they have gone. Looking back I will never cease to be amazed at how much has come to pass through those formative years and the impact they will have on the rest of my life.

I have come to know the company of friends who will remain, if not in presence, in the company of thought, for a great many years to come. Since my ignorance of first departing the midwest to the wilds of the north, I have found an education in ways that no books can tell and experiences that no vicarious use of technology can replace.

When first I stepped out of the door and undertook the deceivingly innocent quest, it was not without its trials. Theft from the uninvited hand plagued our caravan, and even before it all began, everything had been turned on its head. Several thousand dollars later, a semblance of balance had returned, and just in time for a whirlwind of unexpected journeys.

Troy is the birthplace of 'Uncle Sam' and is naturally a hero of the city. A meat packer during the mid 1800's, Sam Wilson became a small legend that eventually transformed into the image commonly portrayed in the recruitment posters during the first World War.

Beneath the shadow of his legacy, the city shaped me in its own unique way. Early during my stay, I joined a local swing band, and through it I was able to perform in the Albany 'Egg', a performing arts venue that one night held a silent auction to which I livened, and Rensselaer's Experimental Media and Performing Arts Centre (EMPAC), which is pictured below.

In the small hours of the night, I realized my love of the stars, using one of the largest public telescopes in the northeast. Being able to see the craters of the moon and the cataclysmic destruction that rent its surface Ages ago was not only mesmerizing but also a curiosity I saw every day without every paying the respect of notice. Due to the moon's lack of atmosphere, smaller gravitational field, and unique composition, the largest of the scars bore a fascinating anomaly. When a meteor collided with the surface, the rock was liquefied and, like a droplet of water, pulled back towards the centre from the surface tension. As a result, the crust hardened in that position, leaving a needle-like island in the middle of a tremendous crater.

Although there are countless treasures nestled in the city, one of my favourite places in Troy is The Brown Bag, a small burger joint that serves the best food I have ever eaten. Combined with the friendly faces that make it like a second home, The Brown Bag stays open through the night, making it one of the few places for a midnight meal. The owner, Terry, became a friend and served up the last meal I had in Troy.

While not in the city, Troy offered something else to me that I will never forget. The mountains. Part of the Appalachian range, the Adirondacks became a place of calling for me, and in the two years I ventured out into them, I hiked 15 of the 46 High Peaks. Fostering both my love of the outdoors and a growing interest in photography, they were my first real taste of mountaineering that has only just begun a lifelong passion of adventure.

When I could not make the long drive north, the last four years also developed an old hobby of climbing. In my youth, climbing was one of my favourite things to do. Whether rock walls or trees in the back yard, it did not matter. Around a year and a half ago, a few friends and I became more serious with climbing when we found a great local wall. The Edge, outside of Albany, is the best I have ever been to (admittedly few as they have been). With over 50 top roped walls and a bouldering island, we grew from climbing 5.7 and 5.8 walls to 5.11+ in the time we had. Being able to find the control and patience in the sport is something I will surely miss in both the absence of the sport and the friends who joined me in it.

Contrary to the mountain heights, delving into the depths of the underworld became a more recent but no less appreciated passtime. Caving is a curious thing. Approaching a crack in the ground and knowing that an entire world exists beneath your feet is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. Wrapped in utter darkness, supported by pillars of rock and carved by water of the centuries, so much lies there that so many will never experience. In the span of the past two months, we visited three caves, each of which holding their own special beauty and lure.

Looking back on those four years, I realize now that I have come to do things which I never would have imagined possible when first setting foot on the road that led me there. Three years ago, and I find it difficult to believe so much time has already passed, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in DC, which to this day is one of the most surreal memories I have. Running beside tens of thousands of others along the National Mall was like nothing I have ever experienced before or since.

In those years, I have travelled three countries and sailed both the Atlantic and Pacific, 15 states and a dozen others between. Through the opportunities afforded to me I embarked on warships and flew in attack helicopters, rode in nuclear submarines and ran in bomb suits, trained with the Marine Corps and with them, was able to fire M203s and AT4s.

Encouragement from the greatest professor I have ever had, I was able to undertake the writing of 4 novels and, more importantly, develop my own sense of identity. Although she left the institute over a year ago now, the impact she made on me will remain for the rest of my life.

Beside the friends I have made and the countless experiences I have had, there remains one that will ever be more than that. Three years ago I had a second calling to the world of craftsmanship. More specifically, smithing. Blacksmithing and bladesmithing, cartography and to a lesser degree bowyering and leatherworking, woodworking and armouring, have opened so many doors into the most soul nourishing experiences of my life. The craft itself fills something that, in its absence, I feel hollow, but it is the people- the brotherhood- that has made the most significant difference. In the passing years, I have made friends who have made such a profound impact on my perspective on life and spirituality, on understanding and in the sharing of this journey with humanity. Despite the condemnation of experience to fade into memory, the bonds they have formed and the foundation they serve as will never be forgotten.

The last four years have led me to the corners of the world, to knowledge and wisdom and life experience that is worth to me more than words can describe, and now I must move on once again. Out into the wilds of the world and the corners of the oceans, to wherever the winds blow, to those who I have come to know and must now leave behind, though our parting is but an ending, it is not the last.

I bid you all a very fond farewell, and may we meet again.

Following Seas

For months now, I have been trying to think about how to word this post, and each time I was left unsatisfied and decided to return at a later date. Now, time has worn on and, however apoeticaly, I have decided it has been long enough.

The process of creating stems deeper than the simple transformation of materials into other objects; the heart and soul of the maker is poured into it. Limited time and space led to my limited ability to work, but those things I was able to work on held their own special meaning.

In the interest of preservation and reclamation of materials, I set forward to forge a pair of knives that would go to two of my good friends at their wedding. For as long as anyone can remember, they had been together, and since I met them, acted as though they were already married. Such relations are rare to come by, and when they happen across you, you can but stand aside and watch.

I have been to a number of weddings, but I can say with all truth to it that this was the most beautiful weekend I have ever seen. Without trying to exaggerate the days we had leading up to, including, and following the ceremony, everything was virtually perfect. There ran a deeper sense of friendship and commitment not only between the husband and bride, but also between them and the group of friends they developed. In my ignorant youth I failed to understand that it is the people in life that make the most significant difference. How wrong I have never been. 

Come next week, I will be moving down south where my own path has led me, and from there to wherever the winds blow. 

To my friends, Fair Winds and Following Seas, and may we meet again soon.

For those who care, I will also write a little about the knives I made to accompany them through the ides of life. The first of the pair began as a laminated chopping knife where the other layers were given to me in the form of an old architectural spike from another friend of ours. As the blade took shape, an interesting emerged from the old steel, akin to wrought iron.

The second of the two was intended to be an opposing twist pattern welded steak knife. Long into its creation, the steel refused to behave and instead of holding to its design, the layers smoothed into a straight laminate. Labouring in the hour hours of the summer, I drew on the foundation of my limited experience and pushed the boundaries of my skill as a craftsman. The technical level of the knives, although much better than the other blades I have made, are not without their faults. On each, I used a piece of mokume gane from years past, the bolster of the chopper and the handle of the other. The remainder of the handle of the chopper is purple heart, burnished in places to darken it while the remainder will turn with age.

With each new knife, there come with it a number of new techniques practised. One of the products of finishing a tenth the knifes I forge is that the finishing is the hardest part. The chopper is the first hidden tang knife I ever handled, as well as the first I have ever bolstered. The plunge cut, although a bit off, is also the first I have done, and turned out better than I thought. Similarly, the laminate and the pattern weld are the first I have successfully finished, all others being mon-steel construction. As my journeys through life take me elsewhere, I will hold to my roots and carry on in this path of craftsmanship, and in it the hopes of bringing the process to others.