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jeudi, décembre 11, 2014

Vikinges Go Berserk

Whyle goinge through my copye of the Elder Edda, Ich dyd fynde a seccioun yclept 'The Younge Persones Edda,' the which hath verye gentil and mirthful poemes for children concerninge the deedes of valiant warriors, and eek of the Tree of Givinge that Ys Callid Yggdrasill, and eek of the Aesir and the Vanir and the Beares of Caring. Belowe, Ich have typed yn my favorite of thes fyne poemes. Enjoye, gentil folk of the blogosphere.

The Eddic Poem of the Vikinges Who Do Go Berserk


Oon Vikinge, al aloon
Carveth a bynde-rune on a bone.

Two Vikinges heed the calle
And steer their longshippes to hys halle.

Thre Vikinges, thankes to Thor,
Bringe along anothir four.

Fyve vikinges arryve decked yn sylver and gold.
Six vikinges showe up wyth a mightye troll.

Seven vikinges arryve aftir a sack.
[Manuscript defectif, prose interpolation addid: The saga at thys poynt also doth saye that on thys night eight vikinges crept wyth great stealth through the entrance yn the back.]

Nyne vikinges enter bearing swordes of Weylandes werke.

ALL THE VIKINGES GO BERSERK!

While the sunne doth shyne al nighte
Vikinges feest wyth great delighte.

But as everye joye ys followid by woe,
Yn the morn the vikinges must go.

Nyne vikinges and a mightye troll
Joyne eight moore for sea patrol. 

Seven vikinges yn shippes sayle west
And leave six vikinges wyth bitter jests.

Fyve vikinges go to playe hnefatafl
Whyle four vikinges to the east head off.

Thre vikinges go to straunge landes to seeke their glorye.
The last two vikinges are no longir menciouned yn thys storye. 

Oon Viking, al oon oones moore,
Doth yearn for the othir fortye-four. 

jeudi, mars 20, 2014

Maken Melodye on Whan That Aprille Day


Friendes,

Yt doth fill my litel herte wyth gret happinesse to invyte yow to a moost blisful and plesinge event.

On the first daye of Aprille, lat us make tyme to take joye yn alle langages that are yclept ‘old,’ or ‘middel,’ or ‘auncient,’ or ‘archaic,’ or, alas, even ‘dead.’ 

Thys feest shal be callid ‘Whan That Aprille Daye.’ 

Ich do invyte yow to joyne me yn a celebracioun across the entyre globe of the erthe. Yn thys celebracioun we shal reade of oold bokes yn sondrye oold tonges. Eny oold tonge will do, and eny maner of readinge. All are welcome. 


Ye maye, paraventure, wisshe to reade from the beginning of my Tales of Caunterburye, but ye maye also wisshe to reade of eny oothir boke or texte or scroll or manuscript that ye love. Ye maye even reade the poetrye of John Gower yf that ys yower thinge. 

What are sum wayes to celebrate Whan That Aprille Daye?

Gentil frendes, yf yt wolde plese yow to celebrate Whan That Aprille Daye, ye koude...

• Maken a video of yowerself readinge (or singinge!) and share yt on the grete webbe of the internette.

• Yf ye tweete, sende tweetes wyth the haschetagge #whanthataprilleday

• Make sum maner of cake or pastrye wyth oold wordes upon yt, and share yt wyth good folke and share pictures of yower festivitee.

• Yf ye be bold, ye maye wisshe to share yower readinge yn publique, yn a slam of poesye or a nighte of open mic. 

• Yf ye worke wyth an organisatioun or scole, ye maye wisshe to plan sum maner of event, large or smal, to share writinge yn oold langages.

What ys the poynte of Whan That Aprille Daye?

Ower mission ys to celebrate al the langages that have come bifor, and alle their joyes and sorrowes and richesse.

Ower mission ys to remynde folk of the beautye and grete lovelinesse of studyinge the wordes of the past. And eke ower mission ys to bringe to mynde the importaunce of supportinge the scolership and labour that doth bringe thes wordes to us. To remynde folk to support the techinge of paleographye and of archival werke and eek, ywis, the techinge of thes oold langages. To remynde folk of the gret blisse and joye of research libraryes. For wythout al of thes, the past wolde have no wordes for us. 

Ower mission ys also to have ynogh funne to last until next Whan That Aprille Daye. 

Note that thys event doth also coincide wyth Aprille Fooles Daye, the which ys fyne by cause we do love thes langages and alle who love are yn sum maner also fooles. 

Ich do hope wyth al myn herte that that sum of yow good folke will joyne me on thys April first for readinge and celebratinge and foolinge. Lat us maken melodye. 

vendredi, août 23, 2013

XIII Wayes of Regardinge a Litel Woolen Hatte


Heere ys a newe poeme from todaye. Yt ys inspired by a verye wondirful adaptacioun of a verye wondirful poeme

XIII Wayes of Regardinge a Litel Woolen Hatte, a poeme by Galfridus Chaucer

I

Amonge XX busye customes deskes
The onlye thinge nat movinge
Was my litel woolen hatte

II

Ich was of three myndes
Lyke a haberdassheres stalle
On the which do hange III litel woolen hattes

III

My woolen hatte flewe off yn the wynde,
Alack! That hatte was ful wel expensif.

IV

A gentil and a churl
Are one.
A gentil and a churl and a litel woolen hatte
Are one.

V

Ich ne knowe nat which to prefer,
The beautee of sentence
Or the beautee of solaas,
The litel woolen hatte being put on
Or just aftir.

VI

Isekeles did fille the greate wyndow
Wyth glas rough and ungentil.
The shadwe of the woolen hatte
Dyd crosse yt, hider and thider.
The hattes wearer
Traced yn the frost
A vers aboute a kankedort.

VII

O thin men of the Guildhall
Wherfor thynke ye upon golden hattes?
Marken ye nat how the litel woolen hatte
Suited ys ful wel
For a cold daye?

VIII

Ich knowe of noble romaunces
And fayre, delitable vers yn heigh style,
Yet eke wel Ich knowe
That the litel woolen hatte ys woven up
Yn what Ich knowe.

IX

Whanne the litel woolen hatte was loste,
Yt marked the beginninge
Of anothir chidinge by Philippa.

X

At the sighte of litel woolen hattes
On the heades of tale-telling pilgrims
Even John Gower
Wolde crye out sharplye.

XI

He walkid alle arounde London
Yn uncomfortable shoon
Oones, a great thirste took hym
Yn that he mistook
The shadwe of hys woolen hatte
For a barrel of ale.

XII

The river ys movinge
Let nat the hatte falle off of the syde of the ferryboate.

XIII

Yt was Aprille alle afternoon
And ther felle soote shoures
To percen the droghte.
The woolen hatte
Sat upon myn heade.

jeudi, février 14, 2013

Tinye gifte for Valentynes Daye: Amour Ys Lyke a Potel of Wyne

O gentil rederes of my blog, how grete the peynes smerte that come to me whanne Ich thinken upon my lakke of updatinge. Swich grete busynesse hath fallen upon me that oft Ich do thynke myself nat worthy of the titel of 'blogger.' And yet twittre hath been of sum comfort, for ther Ich do tweete of litel jestes and japes at @LeVostreGC.

But to the poynte, todaye ys the daye of Saynt Valentyne, the which ys a daye that ys right speciale to me. And for a gifte, a litel, tinye gifte, unto yow, Ich have ytranslatid the grete balade of The Feeldes of Adamantyne Force from their langage ynto myn owene.

May love quite yow yower meede, goode folk.

Happye Valentynes Daye, or woful, or funne, as yt maye suite yow,

-Le Vostre GC

HEERE BEGINNETH GALFRIDUS CHAUCERES TRANSLACIOUN OF THE BALADE OF EXTREMELYE FITTINGE COMPARAISONS MADE BITWENE LOVE AND AN INTOXICATINGE BEVERAGE, MAAD FIRST BY THE FEELDES OF ADAMANTYNE FORCE

Yt astonyeth thee, yt doth thee ynne,
Yt maketh thee overthinke thine hardinesse,
Yt tourneth thee to trespass and to synne,
Yt maketh thee speake sans feare of redresse.
‘Tis ful wel smal, of glas and pearle,
And overlye treatid yn verse romaunce
Yt transformeth gentil unto a churl
And maketh fooles clayme grete sapiaunce.
Yt maye make thee cryen welawey,
Or dasshe and daunce yn thy fyne hose,
‘Tis pryced higher than folk sholde paye,
Yet no equal kan man propose.
Thei keepe yt yn a strengere tour
The oldere and moore pure yt groweth,
Yt hath of yts owene a dull colour,
Yet rich-dyede tapestries yt to thee showeth.
Thou mayst fynde yt solde upon Fisshe-strete,
Or ye maye fynde yt at Guildhall,
Yt maketh langage on thy tonge swete,
Maketh sonne to shyne and tempestes falle.
Thou mayst nat drynke, by no engyne,
Moore than thei ynto that space pour.
Amour ys lyke a potele of wyne
Yet a potele of wyne nys nat lyke Amour.

dimanche, avril 15, 2012

A Long Tyme Agoon in a Shire Far Away

Gentil rederes, longe tyme hath it been syn Ich have been able to take reste and wryte upon this blog. Right fullye occupyed Ich have been with the makinge of poetrye, and eek wyth keepinge my Lord Kyng Richard companye.

My Lord the Kyng ys reallye into spelunkinge, and he maketh me go wyth hym every weekende. The while we are downe muckinge about yn waiste-high watere and almost fallinge over ledges, my Lord the King speketh moore and more of how "appealing" revenge semeth to hym. Ich saye to hym that revenge is never a good idea. To convince hym of the evils of revenge, Ich have written a tale of Melibee, and yet everich tyme Ich do yive it unto hym to rede he semeth to falle yn to a slumber. Ich did aske hym if the tale helde no solas for hym, and he did saye ful curteisly and kingly unto me, "Nay, think nat so, Geoffrey. It ys merelye thys newe imported feather bedde of myne from Calays that ys so softe and pleasaunt unto me. It maketh me to sleep everich tyme I do laye down on yt to rede of yower tale. Indeede, thys feather bed ys so envoluping it semeth that a man koude esily be slayne by it." And then he looked out ynto space.

Swich is My Lord the Kinge thes dayes. And yet, a tetchy kinge notwithstandinge, finallye Ich have hadde a litel space of myn owene for to maken of verses, thogh Ich feare nowe nobody doth lyke verses eny moore. Helas, for Ich am super psyched to maken severale lynes followe oon anothir for hundreds of pages, and yet it semeth everichoon thes dayes loveth oonly to twit and tweete and maken up a gret swarme of quippes and linkes. A blog semeth about as cuttinge edge as a sworde buryed in a mounde. Thogh Ich have made an accompte of twitter, Ich knowe but litel how to maken of a fyne and retweetable tweete. Litel Lowys doth mock me dailye with a fiers mockinge, sayinge “watching yow trye to tweet, Dad, ys lyk watchinge Archbishop Arundel trye to keepe hys cool a a Lollard support groupe. Helle of awkward!” The tweet so short, the crafte so longe to lerne!

And yet Ich have had comfort in myn art. For Ich am composinge a narratif about folke who are togedir ythrowne by the windes of fate and goon on a journeye.

Naye, Ich nam nat spekinge of the Tales of Caunterburye, the which Ich have temporarilye putte on hoolde, but rathir of a newe set of tales. Thinketh of this: the image of the viage of an erthely pilgrimage ys but a maner of shewinge the wey of thilke parfit glorious pilgrimage into the celestial spheeres of the skye, in which we shal weare awesome shinye clothes and have swooshie laser swordes and eek have snappye dialog and sweepinge orchestrale bakkeground musique as we flye arounde the sunnes and moones and thinges-that-are-nat-moones. And thus Ich am writinge nat of pilgrimes on erthe but of pilgrimes -- wayteth for yt -- IN THE STERRES!

Yt is but in bittes and pieces as of nowe, but yt semeth good to share my descripciouns of the characters wyth yow, my goode rederes. Ich wolde be right glad to heare of yower feedback. And eek, please lette me knowe if sum oon hath alredy made eny fable or ficcion that yn eny waye doth resemble thys oon.

***

NOTES OF CHARACTER SKECCHES FROM THE GENERALE PROLOGE OF
THE PILGRIMES IN THE STERRES


Ther was a SMUGGELERE, and he the beste,
Wyth gowne of whit and snazzye litel veste.
He hadde a shippe that was a noble vessel
For in twelf parsekkes it had yronne the Qessel;
At customes houses nevir did he pause –
For resoned he ther was but litel cause:
To paye a tax or impost made hym wood,
And I seyde his opinioun was good:
Why sholde hys labour fatten up the paunches
Of bureaucrates that sitte upon their haunches
And tak their paye from honest merchauntes werke?
This good man kepte the officiales in the derke
And oft he wolde in his shippes floore hyde.
From oon ende of the sterres to the other syde,
He hadde yflowne, and seene many a wondere,
And yet he hadde no feare of Goddes thondere.
He seyde hys destinee was hys to make
Wyth blastere or wyth sleight or wyth wisecrake.
Of goold and eek of love he had a thirste,
In altercaciouns he ay shot firste.

A WODWOS hadde he, and servantz namo,
A goodly furrye man, from hedde to sho.
Hys lokkes were longe and brown as aren a bearys,
Wher he hath sat, a man may knowe – there hair ys!
A bandolier he wore about hys sholdere
And of bowcastre boltes yt was the holdere.
He was a worthy frende yn tymes of stresse,
Thogh yif a man sholde beate him atte chesse
This gentil beest wolde th’arme rippe from the winner;
Therefor he wonne as oft as Bobbye Fischer.

And ther were wyth thes two good men, on shippe,
By plotte-twist yfalle yn felawshippe,
Fower otheres, of which I shalle anon yow telle,
(And all but oon shal lyve until the sequelle).

A TRANSLATEUR was with hem, maad of goold,
He knewe ech langage newe and ech tonge oold.
A conversacioun right wel this man koud carrye
Wyth vaporators d’eaux in tonge binarye.
And yet he timorous was, and oft wolde hyde
If daunger or if batel did betyde.
Whan men did fighte, for feere he almost breste.
An oyle bath he loved al the beste.

And wyth hym cam a smal ARTIFICER
Whos armour was as azure bright and cler
And eek as whit as ys the whales boon.
Althogh men have two eyen, he had but oon,
In maner of the creatur hight cyclopes.
He was so gret a clerk that ther no pope ys
That koude so muchel of calculaciouns
And ars-metrik, and werkes of alchemie,
And al the divers calculaciouns
By which to maken navigaciouns.
He was a verray parfit killer app,
And ofte in joye he cryed out “bweep, er-dap!”

A WHINY YOUTHE cam nexte, barleye a man,
With yelwe haire, tunique, and farmeres tan.
But aquaculture litel did he love,
He wolde been a pilot al above
And bullseye oump-rattes yn a nimble craft.
Saye, have ye evir been upon a rafte
And herde the wynde blowe fast over the wave
So that the winde did seme to sighe and rave?
Wyth just swich fierceness sigheth thys yonge man,
And whineth eek, and whingeth whan he kan,
For he ne lovede nat his occupacioun
And he wolde rathir go to Tashi stacioun.

And wyth hym rood an oolde EREMITE,
Who knew the crafte of armes more than a lite;
He loved the forse syn he a youngling was,
And eek trouthe and honour, and kickinge arse.
Ful worthy was he in the auncient werres,
For in thos tymes he foughte on manye sterres:
At Theed citee he was, whanne it was won,
And many a metal foe he had outdon;
And eek he made the stande at Jeonosis
(the which, I trowe, was nat a bunch of roses!);
At Rhin-Vare had he foughte, and Terre Sool.
From Corpusant and Utapaux al hool
He cam aweye, unnethe wyth a scracche
Thogh on Mustphar he nerely met his macche.
A saber loved he beste, and thoghte it faster
And moore gentil than eny randome blaster.
Ful wys he was, no action-hero merely,
Thogh of paternitee he spak unclearlye.

dimanche, décembre 25, 2011

Ryddles for the Holidayes

As ye knowe, my grete freende the writere Virginia Wulfstan doth love tradiciounal literature, and she hath devoted herself to gatheringe bits of oold literature and publisshing them for the Hrothgar Press. And alwey she ys pilinge manuscriptes and oold bookes upon my doorstep. Al thogh she hath nat convynced me of the gretenesse of the alliterative long lyne, Virginia speketh trewe about the grete awesomeness of muchel of the earlye literature of thys countrye, althogh yt oft soundeth lyk unto a Klingon wyth a stomach compleynt.

Oon the best bookes that Virginia Wulfstan hath to me y-loaned ys ful of grete riddles. Thes are thinges of muchel pleasure, for ye the redere must guess the answere of the thinge. Ryddles are totallye a waye to passe the tyme at awkward familye dinneres, and thei maken me to thynke that the Anglo-Saxones must have had many awkwarde familye situacions to endure, what wyth the feudinge and all. And eek peraventure ryddles were a waye to breaken the ice whan meetinge othir riddle enthusiastes duringe holidaye travel.

For yower pleasure, Ich have found sum of the riddles yn the old booke of Exeter yiven me by Virginia Wulfstan, and Ich have translatid those concerninge thys festive seson of the holidayes. No answirs shal Ich pooste, for Ich wisshe nat to ruine yower fun.

THE RIDDLES OF THE EXETER BOOKE CONCERNINGE ASPECTS OF THE HOLIDAYE SESOUN, TRANSLATID YNTO PROPER ENGLISSHE BY G. CHAUCER

Ryddle:

Everye familye hath me yn a separate forme;
My bodye ys made of bacones companioun,
And sprinkled wyth spicerye that kan spinne straunge visions.
Were thou to looke on a liste of my partes
A cake thou might thynke me, or confeccioun swete,
Yet wyth the addicioun supplyed by adults
Ich kan crusshe down alle earth-dwellers as no cake evir koud,
Nor no bundt hath a byte as brutal as myne.
Ich am unholye unguent, uncles bane – what am Ich?

Ryddle:

A man crepeth yn and taketh me from the crawelspace,
Thanne setteth me up yn ceremonye, yet no sylver doth he circle round me.
Ich heare many harde wordes, and watch manye wrestlinges.
Thogh neyther green nor graythed wyth golde, grand am Ich,
Talle do Ich stande, thogh no armes nor no legges Ich ne have:
Ich am for the rest of us: saye nowe my name.

Ryddle:

At a tabel thei pulle at my heed and my feet.
Ich perisshe wyth a pop, yet presentes Ich bringe:
A crowne for the cruel oon who cleaved me in twayne.
Yet thogh crowned lyk kinge, he shal know muchel care:
For yn the scroll of my bodye are writ woful puns,
And thogh he looke longe, laughe shal he nevir.

Ryddle:

An enemye murdered me, made me molten,
Shaped me in castes, cooled me and set me.
In me he set splendors manye, spelles to werke,
The newefangle conjurations that make nerdes rich
And paie for manye a prius yn the baye area.
He gave me a wyde face, on which ys writ
Alle that any crafty one mighte wisshe to knowe.
The shapes of my word-scars are made wythout winges --
No sky-fowles need feel death-sore to craft my chapters.
Ich shal leave no meal for the sound-moth,
No warm place for the page-worm,
For Ich am a cold castel, thogh called a fyre.
Ich am yiven as a gift this yeere, a default item
For relatives that seeme to have everythinge els.
Hippolytas daughtirs made me, hard ys my shell.

Ryddle:

Yonge and oold wayte for me
For Ich come oonly on one daye.
Sum tyme Ich bringe regeneracioun,
And sum tyme Ich bringe tales of sharkes that flye.
Yet no sharke evir shal Ich jumpe,
For Ich am eterne.
Who, who, who, am Ich?

Ryddle:

Ich am a human as thou art, thogh part somethynge els –
Yower shape Ich weare somewhat, yet straunge ye wolde fynde me.
In waste and fastness Ich lyve, and Ich wish warre upon yow.
No room yn my herte for the glee of the harpe,
And yower singinge doth spur me to hatred and plots.
Saye my name soothly, yt beginneth wyth G.

Ryddle:

Ich broghte merciless shame upon a grete myth
Many yeeres bifor the poyson of prequels appeared.
Thos heroes ye love look hilarious within me,
And even a queen bea kan nat make me swete.
Yet ful often sum fannes fynde mirthe yn my madnesse,
Thogh Ich make them itchy and lumpy, thei love me yet.
And thei traded me yn tapes that thei took to convenciouns
Until the yeares of yetube whanne al kan see me with eye.
On thys daye of lyf, on thys special daye of sterres,
Telle me, force wyth yow, what ye thynke Ich am.

Ryddle:

A fyre-brand Ich beare, on the boss of my brain-shield,
Before me a bright beacon to blynk in the nighte.
Yif ye gazed on my head-prow, that it glewen ye wolde sweare.
Thogh al my stable-feres did laugh me to scorne,
And lefte me no leave to laughen in their lapp-horses games,
Yet oon morninge whanne erthe-breathe stuck thike to the welkin,
The proud-furred man cleped me to the front of hys teame.
He needed my flame, the fierce shyne of my sneeze-door.
Ich did leade the warband that nighte. What ys my name?

A Holidaye Uppe-Date

My gentil rederes,

Long tyme hath it ben sithen Ich have upon my blog yposted. Ywis, many a thinge hath been afoot chez Chaucer. Yif ye wisshe for some japes and games for the holidayes, ye maye turne the leef and skippe to the next poost, but for newes of yower Chaucer, rede on.

O gentils, ye looke nowe upon the wordes of an EX-clerk of the kinges werkes. Ich have that office y-quit, the which Ich have held for quite a while nowe. By seynte Martin, that job demaundid the verye clothes off my back! Whanne Ich was not consumed wyth the bisynesse of construccion and logistiques, Ich was beinge robbed and audited. Oftymes Ich knewe nat whethir yt was a robberie or an audit, so litel ys the distinction bitwene the exchequer and a derke forest ful of brigandes.

But farewell clerkeshep! Ich have rendered my notyce of thirty dayes unto My Lord the Kyng, and am nowe a free man. The drainage of the area bitwene Greenwich and Woolwich kan take the hekke care of ytself, by Jesu, and eek kan the manye and varyed requestes that a clerke of the werkes doth receyve dailye from My Lord the Kynge, includinge the creacioun of the moost elaborate allegoricale model raylroade yn Europe (“The Greate Traine of Being”) and eek a crystal palace cunninglye devysed ynto which no rumors or newes concerninge Justin de Beibre kan evir passe. To the laste requeste, Ich threwe my handes ynto the aire and seyde that Ich ne was no Dedalus nor no Pythagoras, and yif the kyng wanted me to do the impossible he sholde sende me to wizard school.

Soon Ich shal looke for a newe job, but for the nones Ich am enjoyinge sum tyme to followe my hobbyes. Ich have taken up ayein my grete avocation – the subtil and excellent sporte of parkour. Yt ys a thinge of muchel blessedness to scalen the walles of breweryes or merchauntes houses and to leape and jumpe about lyk unto a very agile smal deere or verye powerful rabbit. Sum tyme my Lord the Kyng doth joyne me for my practise of parkour. We have grete pleasure yn clymbynge to the toppe of steeples or gret toweres whereupon eagles do perche, and we beholde the gret beautee of the contree al aboute us, and thanne oft we dyve down into a conveniently placed cart ful of hay. This oon tyme we ran ynto an Italien yclept Ezio in ower cart, that was from Florence, and he and Ich talkid a litel bit about ower favourite partes of the Purgatorio.

And what wyth al thys leapinge and jumpinge (the which hath in deed caused me to lose some weight, thogh Ich am stille far from the state of my youthe), Ich have had but litel tyme for to bloggen.

But alwey Ich do wake earlye in the morninges in thys festive sesoun, and thus Ich thoghte Ich wolde with yow gentils share sum mirthe for the holidayes. Ye maye fynde yt in the next poost.

Wyth al of my greete love and affecioun, and grete and good wisshes for yow and yoweres,

Le Vostre

GC

mardi, septembre 20, 2011

A Message from the Pardoner About Synneflix

Gentil rederes,

Ye maye have noticed that many thinges have chaunged wyth the "Synneflix" servys of the Hospital of St. Mary of Rouncesvalles ovir the past monethes. And yet todaye hath born a thinge of grete joye. BSR! (By Seynt Ronyon!) for the Pardoner himselfe hath written an emayle ful of grete care and wo and muchel language of lamentacioun, lyk unto the worke of Margerye Kempe. And in thys message he doth share al the conseil of his compayne Synneflix regarding the divers varietees of penaunce thei do nowe offere. Ich do use the magique of cutte and paste to putte the emayle heere, if ye have nat yet gazed upon it.

Very busye, but love to yow alle,

LVGC

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AN EMAIL FROM THE CHEEF PARDONER OF ST. MARY ROUNCESVALLES (i.e. SYNNEFLIX)

FROM: CHIEF PARDONER OF ST. MARY ROUNCESVALLES, AND LEDERE OF SYNNEFLIX
TO: OWER LOYALE BRETHREN AND SISTREN
RE: TRADITIOUNAL PENAUNCE VERSUS INDULGENCES VIA SYNNEFLIX

Mea maxima culpa. Ich moste maken explanacioun unto yow alle. Ich do wryte thys emayle aftir Ich have walked twelve tymes the roade from London to Canterbury and back wearinge no shoon and IV hayre-shirtes.

It appeareth from the feed-backe over the laste fewe fortnightes that many feythful soules did thinke we at Synneflix lakked in dignitee and humbleness by cause of the maner in which we did announcen the separacioun of tradiciounal penaunce and ower newe sale of indulgences, and eek the chaunges of donacioun required for ech different mode of achievinge spiritual helthe. Swich a thing was nat ower entente, and Ich do praye yow all may me pardon. Nowe Ich shall telle yow of how this cam to pass.

For many a yeere, my gretest feere for the Hospital of St. Mary Rouncesval and ower compaye of Synneflix hath been that we wolde nat maken the chaunge from success in regular penaunce to success in indulgences. Moost hooly orderes that have a knakke at sum thinge – lyk Cluny at beinge verye solemn or the Cistercianes at clearinge forestes – do nat become grete at noveltees that the folke desyre as the yeeres do passe (for us, this thinge is indulgences), by cause thei have greete feere of harminge their initiale actes of devocioun, or, as Odo of Cluny seyde, "ruininge the brand." In the ende, thes orderes com upon the realisacioun too late that thei have nat yiven enough labour to the development of newe practises, and thei lose all donaciouns and patronage and then sum newe order taketh ovir and getteth all the glorye, lyk the Franciscans.

Heere at Synneflix we are makinge a ful faste trasmutacioun, and yet Ich have nat written unto yow, deere brethren and sistren, and in that Ich have synned gretely ayeinst yow. Forsake nat yower spiritual kindred at Synneflix, that have alwey cared deeplye about removinge synne from yower soule and sylver from yower purs.

In the eye of my minde Ich see that as thes chaunges did come in ower systemes, Ich was soore tempted unto pryde by cause of the grete spirituale victories of the past. Long tyme, our hous hath thryved by makinge bettir ower servyces of penaunce, without muchel communicacioun from me to yow, our customers.

But nowe me peyneth soore that Ich have nat come amonge yow, in yower parisshe churches, and yiven unto yow, goode men and women, a justificacioun of the resons wherefor we aren separatinge tradiciounal penaunce and indulgences, and charginge moore for both. And eek if I do come to yower churches Ich also have some hoolye clawes of a velociraptor that, whenne plaunted in the grounde, do cause alle croppes to growe wyth grete vigor.

But ynogh about velociraptores: herkneth, lordinges, and Ich shall explayne our conseil and ower acciouns as in this caas. For as every soule doth knowe, radix malorum est absentia bonarum publicarum relationum.

Many goode soules love ower penaunce servyce, as Ich do, for it covereth nearlye everye synne that humankinde kan devise, and several othirs knowne oonly to Carolus de Sheene. We at Synneflix want to advertise the breadthe of ower incredible tradiciounal penaunce so that folk in every shire of Engelonde knowe that yt ys stille heere, and is a grete option for thos who wisshe to have their synnes absolved wythout a shadewe of a doubt. True penaunce in the olde style perchaunce may nat enduren for aye, but we wisshe yt to laste as longe as yt mighte. At leaste that ys what we are sayinge.

Yet Ich have grete love for ower indulgences, by cause thei are integrated ynto my TV, and Ich can receyve pardon a pena and a culpa eny tyme Ich do desyre. The benefits of ower indulgences are of a different and moore lucrative nature than the benefits of tradiciounal penaunce. We feele the neede to focus on rapid improvement as indulgence and pardon technologies evolve, wythout havinge to mayntainen compatibilitee wythe ower tradiciounal penaunce servyse.

So we did come to the realisacioun that penaunce and indulgences are becominge two busynesses that have bitwene them a grete diversitee, wyth verye different cost structures, different benefits that need to be marketed in different wyse, and different theological, eschatological, and liturgical implicaciouns, and we need to let ech oon growe and function on its owene. Yt is a soore thynge for me to saye this unto yow aftir many yeeres of yiving esy tradiciounal penaunce wyth pryde, but we we thynk it is necessarye and beest: in yet a few weekes, we shal yiven a newe name unto ower tradiciounal penaunce servyse, and we shal clepen yt “Slothster.”

We did choose the name “Slothster” for that it maketh reference to the sloth of which ye are guiltee if ye com nat to penaunce. We shall kepe the name Synneflix for indulgences aloon.

For me, the practys of traditional penaunce hath always been a thynge of joye, especiallye by cause our customers have putte their sylver into niftie red envelopes to signifien the payne of their sadnesse at their sinne. O, Ich do love thos red envelopes. How thei do tend to pyle up in the treasurie! Ower Slothster servys shal stille involve alle of thes steps, including the red envelopes.

And yet why nat consider indulgences? Reallye, seriouslye. Thei aren muchel faster, and ye can even purchas them upon yower Exboxe CCCLX.

Ye maye wisshe to purchas an indulgence eftsoon, for peraventure aftir redinge of thys message ye shal comen upon a peinture of a kitten wyth a lightsaber and ye shal laughen so harde that ye shal perisshe from this worlde. And then thy soule shal crye in helle for thou hast nat purchased an indulgence from us. Trewleye, ye shalle be ROTFITOD, or "rollinge on the floore in the outer darknesse."

Some theologians will likely thinken that we sholde nat splitte traditiounal penaunce and indulgences, for that it playeth faste and loose wyth doctrine. And sum "penaunce one poynt oh" folkes may saye that we sholde nat rename our tradiciounal penaunce “Slothster” for that swich a name tendeth to maken tradiciounal penaunce sound less attractif.

Ower viewe is that with this divisioun of the busynesses, we shal spreade moore blessedness thurgh the sale of indulgences, and we shal sprede moore blessedness thurgh tradiciounal penaunce. It may hap that we shal fynde we have chaunged too hastily – yet that lieth in the future and no man may know aught of it. Goinge forward, Slothster wille continue to runne the best tradiciounal penaunce servys, while Synneflix wille offer the best indulgence for many maner of synnes, hopefullye thurghout the globe of the erthe thurgh the succour of Brother Broadbande and Suster Aethernet.

It trewely doth myn herte good, moore so than a draughte of moyste and corny ale, that so many of yow brethren and sistren did sticken wyth us, and Ich aske grete pardon of thos who felt that we were despitous or shewinge of hoker or bisemare in ower treatement of them.

Wyth alle love and affecioun, and many a kisse of felawshep,

Le Vostre

PARDONER IN CHIEF

P.S. Wolde any of yow wisshe to purchas the undershirt of screen legend Anthony Quinn? Yt is a thinge of grete value and ich kan guarantee yts authenticitee. And eek ther are also a fewe of the holy grayle for sale as well.