The Old Man

I met many eccentrics in the UK. Britain seems to breed them. There was an old man who would often frequent the convent. I'll have a lot more about him. He would come there for peace and relaxation. I've forgotten his name, and I am certain he is long passed (I met him when he was 80). He was extraordinary, and had many tales. He came from London, worked in a Dutch shipping firm in Egypt, and knew 15 languages. He married a German woman before the war (he was fluent in German). His wife was extricated back to Germany and he was drafted and sent to Greece since he knew Greek. Then he fled to Crete after that was invaded. Finally, he was captured and sent to a POW camp in Germany just 5 miles from away from his wife. His father-in-law visited once - the Kommodant told him, "You can see him once. But this never happened. Think of this favor after the war and bring him whatever you want." He later made a crystal radio in the camp out of used gum wrappers, and it is now in the British Museum. He was then liberated. I wouldn't have known any of this until we were watching TV together. "Call him J̌uḡašvili! His name was NOT Stalin!" after we watched a documentary. Then, I started to ask questions...

Cover and Introduction

The cover of Galehaut (or Gallehaut as I sometimes called it).  Someone once defaced it with a coffee mug. The pattern is based on  a William Morris design (I drew all of it).. I was a  member for the Morris Society for years. And I had the privilege to stay in many rooms of the Manor where they had original Morris wallpaper.

The second page. The wreathing calligraphy in the middle says "Meleager"

Now will I weave white violets, daffodils     With myrtle spray, And lily bells that trembling laughter fills,     And the sweet crocus gay: With these blue hyacinth, and the lover’s rose         5     That she may wear— My sun-maiden—each scented flower that blows,     Upon her scented hair. Right. Now I can get on about how I delivered the flowers and got my clothes clean.

Galehaut - Page 1.

The first page of Galehaut, my secret diary.

Roughly translated, it reads:

"Catharsis" (so named after Katharina)

"I, according to my good memory and copies, have done set down in print to the intent that noble lovers may  see and learn the noble acts of love. The gentle and virtuous deeds that were used in those days. Humbly, all noble lords and ladies, with all other estates, of what estate or degree they be, shall see and read in this said book and work that they take the good and honest acts in their remembrance and to follow the same therein. They shall find many pleasant histories and renowned acts of humanity, gentleness, and chivalry."

More to come soon as we translate. I hope you enjoy it.

Ah. The Key.

Right. Another brief note from the editor. This is, according to "Davy" the key to his diaries.

It is in English, Greek, German, French, and Hungarian. If anyone could help me out, I would be grateful.

It was a hastily taken picture.

Another Brief Note From the Editor

Hello.

"Davy" - the author of this diary - is now sleeping in his chair, right over there. Just something I slipped into his tea. I've taken this opportunity to grab his laptop (by that I mean computer) and tell you some facts.

We had been spending this lovely Autumn evening in front of his fireplace, transcribing and translating his diaries. I do this as a favor. And perhaps I am a bit voyeuristic.

But it has been truly maddening. Microscript, idiosyncratic, and written in boustrophedon style. Do you know what that means? It means each line left to right and then right to left. Backwards.

Now here are the facts. I am of a certain station, one perhaps "Davy" cannot comprehend. I have status. I have privileges and obligations. I still have 400 hours of court-ordered community service picking up trash on that damn road.

So, as we sat there, "Davy" with Galehaut in hand and that incessant shit-eating grin that nostalgia brings, I lunged. I grabbed his precious Galehaut and held it over the fire.

"I am not for free!", I screamed. "My time! This insane text! You will find a way to repay!"

I'm not ashamed. I am beyond shame. I threatened to burn his entire past unless...

And now there will be ads. Oh yes. I will "monetize" this blog. I need my share. He cares little for the material world, but I do. And I am crucial to this journey.

So. You will soon see a "Pay-Pal" link. Ads - we will have no control over their content. Apparently the algorithms scan the text and try to match up something appropriate. Perhaps "1 Weird Trick For Lumbago" (Oh! Lumbago. How I love that word, it sounds like a secret ingredient for the perfect pesto. Add oregano, rosemary and lumbago).

More likely, as we get further into his diary, you will see the strangest juxtapositions of ads. Prophylactics here, bibles and lexicons there. I care not.

So. Back to his tale. Much has already been written.

The Editor.

Note From The Editor

Hello.

I am helping "Davy" transcribe his diaries for this tale. He has provided me with a long glossary and a Greek dictionary. I am "The Editor". I have been given access to this blog and will from time to time comment on his posts.

We have received some complaints that his style is "enigmatic". That he is "guilty of the twin sins of omission and elision." Thank you for your comments.

Please be patient. All will be revealed. These diaries, especially that goddamn "Galehaut", are incredibly cryptic. We will translate and paint the picture soon.

In the meantime, I suggest you read this "blog" with some equipment:

- A Bible.
- A copy of the "Decameron" by Boccaccio.
- A copy of "The Divine Comedy" by Dante.
- A dictionary.
- Pepys would help. He was also an abnormal diarist.
- "Repetition" by Soren Kierkegaard. There will be much "ressentiment". Look both quoted words up.
- Internet access, of course.
- Perhaps a good stiff drink. Things will not get pretty.

Thank you. The Editor.

Ah yes. And soon that story of how he arrived. And why he needed, immediately, to depart from another in Waterloo Station.

  "Be inconstant, nonsensical; do one thing one day and another the next, but without passion, in an utterly careless way that does not, however, degenerate into inattention, because, on the contrary, the external attentiveness must be just as great as ever but altered to a formal function lacking all inwardness."

My Room

Right. That above is actually a good likeness.

Up the stairs. Then my room. I would change and then Angelika would clean my new suit.

Across from my chamber lived another gardener. We will call him "Gaz".

Gaz was a trainspotter. No, not the kind in that horrid film (I think they were referring to heroin tracks, not the railroad). Instead, he was a young man who would spend his free days at the local train-station. Binoculars in hand and a notebook, he would record every train he saw. He had memorized schedules - this habit was actually quite handy for everyone in the Convent.

"Gaz, when is the next one to Flexmore-End?"

"12:43"

"Bristol?"

"7:18"

Always right. He had a massive toy train layout in his room that he would play with. Sometimes, I would walk past his door and I would hear "Choo-Choo," and then agonizingly later in broad Yorkshire, "Choo". More about him later, since he would become a champion for me, of sorts.

My room. I opened the door. Nothing like the Oriel Chamber in the Manor. No. This was a closet - a very tiny room. Instead of stained glass, I had a narrow arrow slit that barely held back the rain. Sometimes I was dripped on, despite the fact that thing (the leaded glass) was wedged behind three feet of stone. No light at all. The one saving grace was a fireplace (no central heating there, reader). I also had a desk and an armoire.

The bed. Mattress concave and uncomfortable (perhaps from many previous poundings, I supposed). A crucifix with a bleeding Jesus stamped firmly above.

Sometimes that crucifix needed to be covered with a towel. When I did this, I was always reminded of my grandmother. She turned around that portrait of the Kaiser in her kitchen during the entirety of the Great War. There are just some things you don't want the Guy to see, and sometimes you don't want to see the Guy.

So I changed. I would bathe. My clothes would soon be clean.

S.D.G.