I want to believe that there are still unexplainable wonders in the world. I just want a resonable explaination for them.
It would thrill me no end to believe that there is, as the Norse used to tell, a dragon of fearsome size and unthinkable power who dwelt in the Earth and constantly chewed at the roots of the World Tree Yggdrasil, the ash tree that is the center of the Universe. The dragon's name was Nidhogg, Norse for "Eater of Corpses," and it's intention was to destroy Yggdrasil so that life could no longer spring from it. That would be wonderment pure and simple, no room for science.
John Boorman took the idea of Nidhogg one step further. He had Merlin the Sorcerer tell the young Arthur that The Dragon was visible all around, that it was the land upon which they walked and the mists that enfolded them was The Dragon's breath. Merlin further told Arthur that to see The Dragon entire would destroy a man and drive him mad, and that the best we could hope was to see only tiny bits of The Dragon, and thereby save ourselves from destruction.
What a marvelous idea. I sometimes tell myself that seeing Nidhogg these magic-less days has become an admixture of both; something sinister that would utterly destroy someone were they to see it entire. I like to think that seeing the Dragon now happens when we come face to face with the truth behind what we see as real. There comes a time for each of us that we finally glimpse the wheels of the machine that runs the Universe, when we see behind the curtains, and it's not a cheerful old man with a grey beard pulling levers, yelling into a microphone.
I have yet to see the Dragon in it's entirety, and hope never to, but I think today I saw just a bit of It, and It made me slip a mental gear.
If you've been keeping up with either Vulger Wizard's or my blogs, you know we've been patiently waiting for the new office to be set up. Right now we're ready to go, holding only on the graces of BellSouth and Executone to put in our T-1 connection. Today we realised that we're literally about 100' from that goal, that being the distance between the building's pole and the pole on the highway. The line is up to the street, and the lines out of the building are ready, but there's no connection between the two poles, and there's a lot of finger-pointing and blame-placing, but what it all comes down to is one guy has to come out and bury some conduit from pole to pole.
And this, Gentle Reader, if you have stayed with me thus far, is where it gets crazy. This is where we see a bit of the Dragon.
Before BellSouth can dig, they have to make sure where the water line is. Makes good sense. This afternoon we had three BellSouth trucks in the parking lot. If memory serves, we had an engineer, a project manager, an installer, and a construction guy, and they all spent their time standing around waiting for the guy from the water company to show. When he drove up let me assure you that he was the pride of Boyce, because out of the Official Vehicle stepped a redneck poster child: black West Coast Chopper's T-shirt, blue jean shorts, and with his Caterpillar boots on he might have tipped the scales at 90 pounds. "Scruffy" did not even being to do him justice.
So with the arrival of this shitkicker angel everyone trooped out to the road, ignoring the blowing drizzle, anxiously awaiting old boy's next move. Which didn't take long--he reached in his toolbox and pulled out a black handle, and telescoped out about two feet of silver antenna from it, at a right angle. Holding this handle in his hand, rod pointed out directly in front of him, he started walking back and forth across the grass verge alongside the roadway.
Has everyone caught this yet? He was dowsing. I kid you not. Apparently RIWA employs only the finest Water Witches for their field staff, and this practicioner of the ancient art was being followed by a whole pack of BellSouth hounds, each hanging on his every turn.
The worst part of it? It worked. I stared enraptured by this glimpse into corporate occultism. I gasped and recoiled in horror when the silver wand twitched sideways in old boy's hand, and I watched incredulously when, with utter gravity and seriousness, he marked the spot on the ground with orange spray paint. He walked parallel to the highway about twenty feet and started in again, walking back and forth across the area. The pack followed him like a herd of sheep until the wand twitched sideways again, and with the same somber pomp and circumstance he marked a second orange blot, sighted down the two marks, pointed them out to the onlooking BellSouth employees, and walked back to his truck.
My jaw could not have gotten any lower without me standing on it. I had just watched a city employee WHO JUST HAPPENED TO BE A DOWSER mark the location of a CITY WATER MAIN for a bunch of professional people. Silly me, I thought they located water mains using maps and theodolites, not malnourished, three-toothed occultists with strange sensitivities and a taste for banjo music. I mean sweet heavens, at least use a tape measure, even if it's just for show. For me it was tantamount to watching a taxi-full of business-suited retail executives ask a Maori witch doctor for investment advice.
So I've had to face the facts--I have finally seen a good-sized bit of Nidhogg, and lived to tell the tail. Er, tale.
Brain says strange things now.