As a rule, we connect shadows with a lack of light, but in truth, the clearest shadows are cast by the strongest light. Thus, light and shadow exist as complementary parts in the same chaotic development process, where the two participants wax and wane, growing and shrinking constantly. In this way it appears that shadows delight in creating a magical kingdom which is ambiguous and playful. When we travel through this region in earnest, then, in dreams or nightmares, will we see the shadows themselves? Or, instead of that, will we transfer to them emotions and ideas, fears and desires, filling them with images and symbols of all kinds? The latter is true, for the majority of people, apparently. And of course, this allegorical place is the ideal blank canvas. As a result, it would not be incorrect to say that this place is the land of the imagination, populated, for example, with portraits showing our selves interacting with other selves; with flexible pictures of reality; and with visions of things that could possibly be. And there we can experiment, tasting new and strange experiences, without having to commit to any of them, necessarily.

 

Here’s an Old Soldier who desires to become a Wizard {Shadow-Father}. He has been wandering about his manor-house, the ancestral pile he owns at the moment, at least, whilst the others ferret about for something very important. And what with all the confusion, and the never-ending pain, he sows the seeds of chaos in his wake, until the whole bad-tempered family (apart from Fred the faithful old retainer) get fed-up with the performance. As soon as he’s almost escaped through the back door for the third time, the ministering angels have to give him a plentiful dose of calming snuff in a copper goblet full of hot mead. And then they sweep off to the local hostelry, The Lost Sheep, for a long afternoon of counselling and meditation, and to drown their worries in a gallon or two of the Fake Ambrosia, leaving their patron under the caretaker’s eagle eye.

 

By some unlucky twist of fate, however (for some, at least, divine or diabolical intervention assisting human weakness, perhaps), the employee is feeling exceptionally tired after gulping down a dozen special cakes that were cooling on the hob. As he enjoys the sleep of the blessed, let us hope, in a hammock in the conservatory, like some dozy red monkey, the devilish teacher awakes from his uneasy slumber at just the right time and slips through the hidden tunnel towards the cellar of his hide-away on the bank of the sweet-smelling river. He’s an old hand with the drugs in truth, of course, and an excellent actor to boot, in his own opinion anyway. Having escaped from the dismal prison of the Rosy Fortress he is invigorated, to some extent at least, and is intent on broadcasting one last message to his wretched family before beginning the Great Work in earnest.

 

So, lads and lasses, here am I, sitting alone, in an old cottage, lifeless and rickety, amongst the merciless past’s noisy shadows which are chattering incessantly [*]. And I’m just a broken old tutor (Jack) about to die, who ran off to be a soldier and try to save this Hobbling World (most unfortunately known as Jak or Ivan abroad, on occasions), when I (John) had failed so terribly at being a lover, and who dreams of becoming a Wizard (Yandrim will be my first name, although you'll never guess my magical middle name), before I imminently depart in perpetuity.

 

These spectres do nothing but remind me, on the one hand, about lost love and the tortures of warfare, and on the other hand, of a career poisoned by the tribulation of administration, damn them to the Nw Yrth! {Remembering} And, having done that, they leave me hanging between living and dying, in some odd condition, almost unconscious. Ooh, there’s only Rhisiart Rhuddygl on the box, keeping me company! He’s prattling on about variegated Wintertide vegetables and their invigorating characteristics, from inside his ‘spacious, enchanting, modern, countryside cottage.’ What a load of old nonsense. It would make me puke, if I wasn’t already. The puddin’! 

 

Or is that name-calling unfair? Should you keep hatred like that for self-appointed saviours of civilization, like the one called Mr Iago Olew who’s just appeared in my scrying-glass, looking a bit like a whale stranded on the beach? In my study, my cellar, my womb, my grave, am I now, relaxing – ha, ha – before starting on the last part of the final ceremony. It’s nine o’clock, one fine Summertide eve, Fireday, to be perfectly correct. So, I turn the volume on the sound-transducer up whilst extinguishing the sound on the TVS for the time being. And that’s instead of trying to put my fingers on the keyboard to crystallize my most important experiences up to now, to confess, in a way – as if I didn’t want to set down my last report in writing. 

 

Why in the Two Worlds do they let celebs talk nonsense about things they don’t know anything about, like politics and education? There’s the old J B Grossmann now on his show ‘State of the Nation,’ of all things, chatting on as if he wanted to rule the land as Benevolent Dictator, or something. He’s a good one to talk about morals and how to behave, having run off with the wife of some other poor fool who was an old friend of his at one time, leaving his own behind. Hearing his name cuts me to the quick, not to mention recognising his voice prattling. A liar, and trickster, and toady, that’s what he is, like every politician, talking-head, and fake-personality, like all the manufactured talent. I hate to admit this, though, but I find myself agreeing with him about lots of points, on the program at least. Although I hate him with a vengeance, to be perfectly honest. That’s dying for you, s’pose.

 

[Grossmann] “Here am I speaking on behalf of us all, all the subjugated folk, the disenfranchised who are under heel. Unnoticed by the nobs, we all live from hand to mouth by now, in a fickle, furtive, pusillanimous world, which is full of tribulation caused by unnecessary exams, extortionate taxes, overbearing priests, meaningless qualifications, and unbelievable red-tape. Here, always and everywhere the catchphrase resounds – Educate Learn! Succeed! Earn! Buy! Pay! And so, undoubted equivocation pretends to be rigorous understanding. At the same time, slow-witted babes are forced to swallow, without protest, torturous excess. They guzzle down endless plates of the blackest ideas, fed to them, most of the time, by uncaring educationalists on terrible pay.” 

 

 

I know, I understand – I’ve left it until the very last minute, as usual, but that’s the least of my worries by now. And what’ve I spent the last seventeen years – Oh, there’s a special number for you – doing? Well, let me tell you. I’ve been forced to try to push one thing into the heads of the apathetic, awkward, and obtuse students who’ve flocked in through the welcoming doors of my classroom and off out again, from one year to the next. And here’s the lesson for you – ‘Do not leave things until it’s too late!’ – after all, time is of the essence, isn’t it? Of course, it’s fallen on deaf ears every time. 

 

[Grossmann] “And then there’s those – the programmers of purple prose, as proud as peacocks, prudent but preoccupied – who need answer to no-one save the two old, oppressive pay-masters named government and finance. Practitioners of the black arts are they, and they allege they are independent, full of individuality and understanding, incorruptible and uncorrupted. By doing this they fashion insufferable illusion at the best, but cause, at the worst, complete confusion and awful anarchy.”

 

Anyway, I’ve been casting a glance back over lots of topics in a vague and undeveloped way during the week since I set myself this one last task. In the end, the one thing I’ve been interrogating myself about most is this, right? I think I should append ‘to be perfectly honest’ here, to shoot straight at your hearts. Oh, the pain’s so intense, my mind’s not working right! But as I recall fragments, little by little, just this instant, I must say, I comprehend without asking the metaphor, the image, the simile, that was blossoming to carry my meaning. And suddenly I realise that we’re nothing but some species of cheeky monkeys. We wander through life without a care in the world, as we don’t reflect on things. But all the time we could be producing the biggest pile of fruitful manure, better than any drug, in our case, by using our imagination to max. So, I ask, in truth, do I give a damn about being completely correct about language and expression, about including all the appropriate facts? Or, would I prefer just to say my piece, and the rest, the ridiculous details, can go to the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers? 

 

[Grossmann] “This is a dying world, sunless, full of illusory shadows, which promise everything based on nothing in particular. Here, desire is the wage that the anti-creative calculus offers. We live in a disloyal and discomforting world, which proliferates only pessimism, defeatism, and despair. And here, we are caught in a honey-trap kept in place by iron fists wearing silken gloves, wielded by politicians most often. These want to force upon us abominations like compulsory operating standards, ultimate quality control, perfect instantaneous accountability, clinical transparency for every process, militaristic anti-elitism, unfair equality, and positive discrimination favouring the lowest common denominator. They pretend that there is need for all this to safeguard the sacred system, whilst they govern it for their own end, now and forever.” 

 

Well, enough’s enough, mate, and that’s true if anything is! This exercise won’t be a waste of time in the end, probably, although I can’t say for certain. Maybe solving problems like that is work for the reader rather than the author. What I mean, basically, is this. On one hand, the faithful reader makes all the difference by thinking clearly, by interpreting in detail, by refusing to accept at first sight the lies spread by the piece’s creator. And of course, that’s work that takes a long time. Or perhaps it’s a task that’s preferable for a fickle browser, who gobbles rapaciously, enjoying letting the secrets and hidden meanings flow over him. And having digested the meal of words and ideas, and fallen asleep as it were, he’ll produce fresh images by paying attention to uncalled for pin-pricks of intuition.

 

[Grossmann] “In such a system, everyone and everything must limp in a perpetual cycle fashioned from foolishness and guilt. All of this is financed by cripplingly high payments from users of the services, by consumers of the products, which become coupled with feedback indexes measured by interminable, intrusive questionnaires. And then it’s necessary to try and satisfy every whim imaginable on the part of those who sup from the poisoned educational chalice, by means of scornful satisfaction surveys, the results of which cannot be used practically due to their complexity.” 

 

Anyway, the strangest thing, as I was saying, or writing, or typing, rather – now then, what was I talking about – Oh, right, there we are – that’s this concept of ‘voice.’ Perhaps I feel – how can I say this – that I’m being deceitful when I record all this stuff, believing that I’d enjoy creating one iota of my scattered essay. But I think that my biggest problem is that I’m frightened I can’t depend on you lot to work hard enough. How’d things wind up if you were left to your own devices to work all these verbal gymnastics though to their conclusion without my constant support? And that’s because I’m a cheeky old monkey who’s travelled around the World several times, spreading peace, and love, and magic, as it were, and becoming a Wizard for my troubles. 

 

[Grossmann] “Every aspect of life, thinking, and behaving is overseen by inexplicable numbers of officials including civil servants and committee chairpersons. The captains of the quangos, the tin-pot dictators, are over-zealous, and have become bitter and twisted from a lack of joy in their jobs and their lives. They need to pretend to be independent to satisfy the so-called Representatives of the People, those deceitful parliamentary panjandrums. And then the respected members ascend the greasy pole by fair means or foul, perhaps by whatever means possible. And the Old Gods save us, one of them shall be Foremost Statesman some day, having stabbed every one of the others in the back. They are answerable in theory at least to an ineffective collection of unelected, degenerate reprobates lurking in the Green Chamber of our nation’s renowned Headquarters, which stinks of pestilent patronage. Some of these are blustering but useless, whilst others are sorrow-laden but hard-working. In general, of course, all the political class floats in an aquarium of alcohol, located in the baneful kernel of Government House" [**].

 

But time to talk seriously now, this next point’s very important. Indeed, it’s the crux, the nub, the essence of the matter. As time passes, self-expression like this has become much more natural to me, this man called John Procter. I am a man who’s has some degree of success. I was a soldier, a hero, could we say, although I wouldn’t use the word. But although I saved a friend from burning in a conflagration, he lost control of himself later on. I’ve quaffed my share of drugs because of the nightmares I have all the time now. And then again, when I was a teacher, I gave help to a one particular lad who wanted to end it all. I’m surprised by the fact that I don’t care really, writing down everything about myself, and sharing it, mostly, with all you lot. 

 

[Grossmann] “The societal slaughter-house is worse than any battle-field. This is the sacrificial altar where the future’s most worthwhile hopes and dreams are set in order and regulated. And here, righteous anger is the only practical response available This world is full of predatory institutions, under the authority of cannibalistic chiefs, governed by objective statistical outcomes. Thus, do servants to the idols of the age deceitfully devise measures of facility which are completely meaningless. And then these are used to promote bullying and self-harm, to inculcate angst, to stir up wretched worry, and to awake feelings of deepest distress.” 

 

Here we are then, folks – we’ve reached the terrible truth. I can’t get rid of those hateful thoughts even now – if only I could. How much I wish it had never happened. Well, maybe talking about it – about her – will help. There was one little girl – I used to teach her brother – I used to know her – she insisted on borrowing some pamphlets about magic in linguistic patterns I’d written – for fun, she said. Name of Hebé – how insistently she pursued me – she was a beautiful creature, but, poor thing, she was such a troubled soul – she used to say she could hear my voice when she read the words – and that she would be in ecstasy. And then I took the bait – although she was a student studying to be Master of Science in Technical Studies in Aberdydd Poly-varsity. I was enchanted by her, I suppose – so proud of my didactic, academic voice was I. My sister could see that I was gazing wantonly at the girl, and she disapproved, to say the least. Indeed, she screamed blue murder, but I’ve never paid her any heed, more’s the pity. I was tempted. I tasted the forbidden fruit. I fell from grace. And now I have been condemned.

 

I lose consciousness for a while, I think, but for how long I don’t know, and then come to my senses again. I must be thinking at the moment, anyway, if I’m not completely with it, how could I be communicating like this otherwise? But then again, I doubt I exist on the Eyrth at all from one second to the next. To be perfectly honest, on the part of one idea at least, one character, one soul, I am torn between two feelings, whilst hanging in the balance, oscillating from hatred to infatuation and back. 

 

I was spending loads of time abroad seeking my wife, who’d been stolen from me by that devil of a man after she gave birth to a little girl. And truly I wandered from the West-lands to the Eastern Territory, from the Ice-castles of the South, to the Burning Forests in the North. We have to note the following here: throughout this period, I was always battling against the evils of the Eyrth in the guise of the Old Soldier. Oh, I laugh still to think that some say that I was an Old Holy Warrior. Everyone at home in Aberdydd believed my family’d died in a tragic accident due to my chemical experiments, and I said nothing to the contrary. I found them, the fake family, in the Independent Eastern Commonwealth, that vale from where no-one returns as a rule. Despite all my efforts, I couldn’t get close to those I love more than life itself. I reached out to the one who should have been my girl, but who’s another man’s child, through dreaming about her, concentrating as hard as I could, and imagining what could have been. At the time, I didn’t succeed, the ramparts were too strong. Terribly disappointed, I returned to the old family estate after many adventures, to lick my wounds and look forward to living for ever. 

 

But now the past has caught up with me. She’s been visiting me during the night, the girl who’s related to me in some way, although I’m not completely sure what the name for our relationship would be. I awake and there she’ll be squatting over me on the bed. I’m sure that these impure visitations by the succubus in the form of Kiande Amedha have caused my health to deteriorate quickly, as my mind fails too. This is a young lass, who appears exceptionally beautiful from afar, to beguile you, but who reveals her hard flesh, her sharp talons, and her barbed tail later on! It’s as if the she-devil is sucking all the life out of me. And as she attacks me like this, she recites to me mantras written on the walls of the sand-palace of Etneksha, including the one that goes, ‘Let your body become soil; let your blood become water; may your soul be the way they return to us.’ I shudder whilst remembering Dendrah the Assassin enchanting Sorakados the Prince in the caves of the obsidian spiders under the Yellow King’s Castle, according to the Red Book of Rust and Blood.

 

I must confess that I am terrified that she’s united the forces of the three Old Goddesses, Tefnuth, Hebé, a Nebesh – the girl, the woman, the grandma – the killing tiredness, the unruly storm, and the saddest stream – to interfere in the death of the Wizard and prevent him from completing the Great Work. I can see that her mental powers are very strong, as if she’d learned not just how to command the legions of elemental symbols and organise the swarms of deceitful images, but also how to connect with that most terrifying realm which boils and bubbles so violently under the surface of the reality we perceive every day without almost anyone knowing. Really, it’s like she’s succeeded to analyse the meaning hidden in the oldest names, winning authority to command the living and the dead, and so she sings raucous songs, full of music so easy to understand, about living a lustrous life, and loving with your whole heart, and dying whilst fighting for your principles. 

 

She weaves words full of fire and elegance, as majestic as the Song of Tefnuth that brought Lushfé back to life despite his terrible wounds. By holding forth like this, she has accomplished miracles, encouraging people of all kinds to feel this way of that by breathing into their ears nothing but fine words. It’s as if she’s reciting the names of all living things as the power of every creature under the Sun develops in her womb. But despite all that, I hope against hope, whilst entreating the Seven, that she’s not fallen in love with that stupid boy. He’s a useless lump, although he’s terribly powerful! Oh dear! That would mess up my plan to ascend to glory for sure. 

 

Oh, by Swtakh! It was necessary to provide a vessel for the Wizard’s effective spirit. I’ve whistled and she’s come, without a doubt. Recently she, the little girl who disappeared so long ago, but who has come of age by now, has come here to claim her right to inherit everything, although there’s not much to be had anymore. She says that she’s having a baby whose mind is so clear, compared with the rest of humankind, who are as stupid as the blind beetles loitering under the rushes by the River of Tears. I want to accept her, well her son at least, as flesh of my flesh in one sense, because he’ll be playing an all-important part in my continued existence if the plan succeeds. But my sister, Mrs Grossmann who used to be Miss Procter, desires to oppose the girl for definite. She feels you should earn your crust under your own steam.

 

And on top of that, Grossmann is the surname the girl had from her Father, and my sister believes that everything should stay with the flesh-and-blood Procters. One can understand her feelings, after all, her cad of an ex-husband’s father to the girl. But I’m too weak to argue and fight any longer! So, I shall leave to her the shares for the pig farm in the Kunmar Kudu Settlement I bought years ago. They’ll be worth a considerable bit now. That should shut her up anyway. And her half-brother, Steffan (although she doesn’t realise the fact yet) shall be trustee for the kid, who’ll get everything else. Of course, Lushfé knows what’ll happen if the magic succeeds in its aim. My mind’s still wandering, I can’t concentrate or remember what’s what. 

 

I’ll never understand this unique girl completely, she’s like some kind of wild creature howling at the moon, whilst standing guard over her whelp with holy ferocity. But undoubtedly, she’s setting down roots now, slowly and surely, and here she’ll stay like a putrid vine wrapped around the place, declaring the purpose and the fate of everything within her reach with the words of the old Threefold Charm: ‘With salt, I summon you; with hair, I compel you; with blood, I bind you.’ And having cast the rwnen in accord with Woodley’s Occult Sequence, I believe that that will happen, whatever shall be the destiny of the World beyond. 

 

I must be strong whist crouching here in the Blue House, this great home for the fed-up deceased, the tiny prison made of pure Prysfenni stone, built on a cemetery established during the Keltic Twilight. Here, there’s a gate to the Nw Yrth according to the ancient histories. As everything on the Eyrth comes to an end in a flaming bonfire, with the light of the harsh moon glittering outside, I shall go into the quiet territory, to the kingdom of gloom, full of wealth and good things that are of no worth to anyone who dwells there. And then in the end I shall win the proper prize. I shall be welcomed by Tefnuth, Goddess of the Dead, the oldest and fairest enchantress, who shall be wearing a black bonnet, red shoes, and a dress of white lace. We shall fly together on the wings of the wild wind from the Eyrth to the Other World, where the Lady who left her husband after giving birth to their child always watches from her perch, the troubles of the living, and the funerals of the dead too. And then, without a mote of doubt, Tefnuth’s fierce horses shall bring my lost wife to me so that we shall rule as King and Queen of the Two Worlds for ever.

 

[Grossmann] “Now me must concentrate on out Venerable Institutes of Higher Education. Everyone, unfortunately, knows that two types of them exist, that is, the Poly-varsities and the Unitechnics. But no-one understands what is the purpose of the first, not to mention the second. In them, trainees should be taught about crucial subjects like civic numerology, hidden principles of nature, governing and disciplining the masses, manipulating religious and societal lies, and language for political ends. But it is not this that happens, not at all. And that is because all the masters are always too busy at their other tasks, those determined by the financial superintendents and the multi-disciplinary staff-experience agents. Imagine the time they spend on essential institutional administration, compulsory directed study to further discipline, and weekly introspective self-flagellation. As a result, there is not a second left for the craven teachers to follow their personal interests. Such actions are as bitter as wormwood when they succeed, since the drudgery never ceases. There is no praise nor renown to be had for all their labour, either. But it is worse than ever if they do not reach the pinnacle of achievement and thus lose finance and patronage, their jobs, and, who knows, even their lives!” 

 

Oh, to the Seven with it! Coming to my senses is like being born in some Brave New World. Where was I? Time is the best healer, they say, but despite that, driven forward by lack of love, and back again, I’ve become more of a wizard than a soldier, who believes in the magic of words, although I don’t agree that a writer has to be completely truthful all the time. I've thrown myself in at the deep end, writing to try and avoid the distress caused by the scandal and the bitter words. I’ve had a stab at weaving a finely-textured plot, and, Oh, what worlds I’ve created in my imagination. I’ve been a baby in the womb, singing some kind of prayer before birth, which is also paean to a beloved child I’ll never know as Father.

 

[Grossmann] “All too easily we are tempted by rhetoric full of fine words. Only too quickly we yield to the magic of slippery and hypnotic oration. Through our heedlessness, then, we become enslaved to the political machine, so violent towards humanity, in the heart of our society and our culture, which is charged with creating the future through rewriting the past. In the guts of this device, all, without exception, must win educational prizes. And this will turn out only feeble brains which have not been nourished enough. Thus, we shall all pawn the years to come, and disenfranchise the younger generation from the inheritance which has been promised and deserved. Having said that, there is one thing in this system that’s unavoidable by nature. Only those born blessed in the first place, who are already preternaturally wealthy, and miraculously blessed, can expect to be successful as a matter of fact, in the long run. The fate of the have-nots will be to remain on the dung-heap whence they originally come. They’ll sing for their suppers day without end without being fed. They’ll not own the song even, nor the fruitful manure either, that’s hellish expensive.” 

 

Where do I go from here? I’m not sure, to tell the truth. I want to wave a magic wand, create a new life like in the stories, abolish everyone’s pain. But on the other hand, I have no plan that holds water. Time doesn’t stand still, it’s going past so quick. Now I can’t learn more about the details to do with narrative, character, or behaviour. And there’s the shameful thing regarding the Grossmann family, and my wife who ran off with one of them. Well, that complete nightmare means that reason and hope have disappeared too, a long time ago. So I sit here, with my goblet of mother’s ruin in my hands. I’m almost dying of a need to transform myself, man! I know that it’s only me who can do that. Maybe I should get on with it and start in earnest. But it’s much too late. Shadows on the lungs, they said in the hospital, so sadly but with such finality. And now the cancer’s metastasized. The pain’s torturous. 

 

[Grossmann] “Oh, citizens of our fair land, I ask you from the bottom of my heart – How on the great Eyrth can we educate our children so well about the cost of everything, but at the same time teaching them next to nothing about the value of anything? The price of this process is that their spirits will be seared with the Scarlet Seal of inhumanity. And that will make their stomachs churn, and cause heartache that cannot be cured. Those enduring such torture today cannot bring forth anything of worth, no, nothing at all, not a single damned thing. In the end, they shall not know anything at all about values that are true, ordinary, warm, or loving. And be sure they’ll come to understand this lack unambiguously, and unfailingly, later on. Oh, we must safeguard our silly lambs, shouting together, unanimously, and with one voice – No! No, no, no, no, no!” 

 

Well, I’ve had a gutful of Grossmann, not to mention life, and it’s finished now anyway (Grossmann, thank goodness, my life in this vale of tears will be coming to an end in due course). I put off the SoTra again, then, and give click after click on the old, enormous remote-control thingummy with a lazy thumb, whilst browsing through tens of channels full of rubbish on the box. P’rhaps I’ll have to be satisfied with all those horror films, full of mummies, or extra-terrestrial zombies apparently, in stories that don't hit the mark, not by a long way. But I’ve been watching them all the time in my bedroom back in the old mansion, anyway, I could recite all the scripts off by heart, almost. Whilst the squeaky voices on the really old TVS keep wittering on, I keep on staring at the black and white pictures that flash on the screen in front of me. And there’s the scarabs’ ceaseless sound, ‘chep – er – chep – er – chep – er,’ which feels like it’s coming from within me myself. It’s quite reassuring in a way, all the chanting, man! 

 

As a result of all this, here I am, washing away sin with grief. I quaff the cocktail of pills – the ones for blood-pressure, arthritis, and insomnia – as well as the sundry anti-inflammatory tablets, the steroids, the morphine, the tonic water (the quinine’s very healthy), the deadly nightshade, and so on. I’ve mixed everything in a goblet with an enormous tot of gin, as I love the taste of junipers. The unrelenting scraping issuing monotonously from the devilish box in the corner of the room’s like a clock that threatens to overpower my heart-beat. I remember that time lost is never regained, but that’s a noise that’ll be extinguished in a while, along with every other one. In due course, the time-switch on the ad-hoc incendiary bomb I’ve made will light the fuse in it. And that’ll sweep away every trace of my abysmal life.

 

This is my farewell missive – this electronic manuscript – every letter of it – disseminated with an ironic click of the mouse. Oooh, how sad is that! In this way, I’m telling you through my last words about a life I feel I’ve imagined without experiencing it fully. Thank you, dearest readers – whether you’re members of the Baxter clan (all the men are losers and bullies, though the women are decent), the Grossmann family (yuck – ‘nough said!), or my own tribe (“Selastaluvamin liltesaseziví marambavan; Bilderalin ilentídeniví ivímal” is our motto, of course – “While Symbols govern one and all, It’s Images that trap 'em,” how wise) – for paying attention, assuming you’ve done so. I’m sorry, I can’t help but moither on, that’s how it is, excuse me. But despite that, I’ve not a completely unreliable narrator, although I tell lies unawares, to some extent, like everyone else. I was only fighting the good fight, and the time’s quickly arriving when I’ll be passing on the baton to the next generation. I hope my name lives on forever, p’rhaps, whether you’ve enjoyed my outpourings or not – you can all go to blazes!

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] This monologue appears in “Necessary Discomfiture and Undeserved Joy” by John (Jack) Procter. It includes a transcript of John Grossmann's speech ("The Inexcusable Failure of Education in Contemporary Society") broadcast on the International Day of Truth and Light some years ago. — P.M.

 

[**] An Infrequent Informative Footnote by Prof Jelena Pekar. So, here we are again. Yewl. The most depressing time of year that would once have been known (roughly) as the old Wýkingren’s “Gathering for the Homecoming of the Howling Halfmen.” And then, for them, the shape-shifters or were-creatures were supposed to come back to the community to speak with them, feast, get pissed as farts, tell blue jokes, shag like wild beasts, and slaughter. But instead of that spine-chilling but enlivening possibility, we’re actually submerged in the Midterm of Mirthless Musing. Isn’t it interesting how the EGO filched the ancient blood-letting jamboree and all-out orgy and twisted them to be the middle of the Season of Long Repentance? Anyway, I’m not in the best of spirits at the minute (no surprise there!). But, talking of reprehensible conduct, nothing comes close to the antics of Leskov’s administration, which callously – almost gleefully, and certainly negligently – presided over the most atrocious disaster in Pretanic history not caused by enemy belligerence.

At the height of Leskov’s Insidious Pulmonary Inflammatory Infection (that is its lowest point), the Human Haystack purged his contemptible cadre of all those suffering from what he maintained to be the “seven shameful shortcomings” of being acquiescent, cerebral, collegial, deferential, subservient, unquestioning and unjudging. Instead, he gloried in surrounding himself with those who were cocky, disobedient, lowbrow, obstreperous, refractory, renegade and skeptical. He decreed that the “chummy chaps” must communicate using only the basest and most pejorative and hyperbolical invective since he postulated that this was the only way to use the ephemeral medium of speech creatively.

He promised blazing comprehension, unparalleled thoroughness, and perfect communication from an institution that would de drenched in participatory-ness, passion, and transparency. He swore to eliminate the secretive lies, the private pilfering, and the deep-rooted corruption in the heart of the government; to reveal every bad deed and share all his comrades’ sins; so that the populace could come to know the public servants and heal the rifts between them and the new, caring-sharing administration. Truth be told, Leskov and his cronies took every advantage of the adversity and the enfeebled folk to bring about the complete opposite. It was as if they’d opened a shitty chute leading to a sea in the Eyrth’s centre, where they flung millions of the dispossessed to fill the collective consciousness with their high-pitched squeals as they drowned. I could hear them then, and I’m ashamed to say that I still hear the pitiful keening today – even worse now that he’s departed.

Well, never mind about all that for a minute. What with the abstruseness of his ideology (if indeed he gave credence to anything other than for convenience’s sake), the floridity of his discourse, the unkemptness of his appearance, and the idiocy of his behaviour (all utterly contrived, plenty said), Leskov was slain and reborn (metaphorically speaking) several times, each time sprouting up again like a brutish, reeking weed from amidst a grave of festering ordure in the zombified realm of celebrity statecraft.

Later, reporters at Leskov’s trial for Unpardonable Perfidy in Meryk-land (including myself) noted sagely how even the “Great Deceiver” had been hoisted by his own petard and betrayed in the end – and completely deservedly and not before time, for all that. That’s what comes of trying to foist the completely useless “physio-audio-moleculo-vibratory cross-dimensional translocator” on a land already steeped in civil war and on the verge of bankruptcy. Many of his former closest (that is, most treacherous) friends, most hated (and cleverest) enemies, and least faithful allies (the list is almost endless) were falling over themselves to shower opprobrium on his personality and his political reign alike.

Proceedings for the prosecution were opened by the Most Bumptious Grey Eminence Tovinikhyak Kamŵnw (who was by then Proctor for Parliamentary Pay, Privileges, Pensions, Passions, Peccadilloes, Perversions, Penalties, Punishments, and Parking). He was aided (or frustrated) by his kimono-girl the Lady Konkbayndë Bedmeykë (the fruitful goat with myriad kids). A vast Heladic chorus of virtual entities was assembled – representations of the souls Leskov’d sent to oblivion through neglect, arrogance and stupidity – and ghosts of those he’d actively had despatched to further his would-be world-domineering career.

Final, damning, and exceedingly verbose statements were accepted from the Contemptible Cabinet in power during the Catastrophic Coughing Crisis: Yakùtsí Magëhreth (Administrator of the Unit for the Prevention of Uncertainty and the Eradication of Unintended Eventualities); Madhàymi Taynítodjë (Investigator into Persistent Societal Injustices and Extinguisher of Public Ill-health); Waytwosh wan-Helmzwil (Praetor the Promulgation of Homeland Values and Imposition of Loving Discipline); Elswen Faynbod (Overseer of the Administrative Bureau for Management of Cities, Communities, Countryside, Crises, Culture, Education, Employability, Entertainment, Environment, Faith, Food and Housing); Tshomin Hravna (the First War-lord and Last Peace-monger); Pátákilá Prethí (Realizer of Future Ambitions and Eraser of Past Failures); H’mtshyel Kowë (Impartial Inspector of Internecine Interdepartmental – and Illicit Interpersonal – Relations); Khaymé Clowverzly (Secular Steward for Sacerdotal Sustenance and Soulful Superabundance); and Leysvayth Rotenletis Bayndup (Officer-general for Specific Generalities and General Specificities).

These infernal wastrels had never asked for extra supplies of anything at all (in terms of brains, conscience, morals, honesty, sincerity or empathy, at least) – and indeed they had received a dearth of these troublesome virtues at birth, it would appear. They professed that Leskov and his co-crooks were the worst shower of inept, legally-sanctioned psychopaths, lacking in the merest sliver of integrity, professionalism, responsibility or accountability, ever to steer a nation’s ship on a disaster-heading into seas of misrule, anarchy, lawlessness and massive life-loss.

In his defence, Leskov Loose-loins said it was obvious to him (and his latest wife as well as a hundred and one of his multitudinous children) that he had done his bally level-best in the Inexcusable Emergency. He whined like a spoiled brat that his character, motivations and actions had been misunderstood, swearing that the hours spent colouring in children’s colouring books, partying, constructing model people-transporters from old wine-crates, and pretending to pen immortal works of fictive faction (his own words)  during the most critical periods of the calamity aided him in assuaging the pain and angst of having to preside over the deaths of millions of innocents. He further asseverated that throughout his life he’d given the Nation, the Continent, the Planet, and the very All-World everything they needed and more. Some report that his public humiliation, torture, and eventual execution were long-drawn-out, excruciating, and extremely undignified, although I am very sorry to say I could not be present for the whole shameful performance.

I was trying to get to grips – in vain, more’s the pity – with the secrets of Thorlin life in terms of mysterotronic concepts such as, “necessary existence needs nothing extra.” But, having failed entirely, I’ve come to the conclusion that the lucidity of day needs the secrets of the night because ceaseless light blinds a woman and will burn her alive sooner or later. And the mental struggle’s made me realise something that seems utterly obvious, now at least. We can’t do without the spectres of unknown and imaginary things, no matter how hard we desire it, since only by comparing with these do we measure and calibrate what we believe we know for sure – such as it is, anyway.

 

Fel rheol, byddwn ni’n cysylltu cysgodion â phrinder golau, ond mewn gwirionedd, teflir y cysgodion egluraf gan y goleuad cryfaf. Felly, mae golau a chysgod yn bodoli fel rhannau cyflenwol yn yr un broses ddatblygu gaotig, lle bydd y ddau gyfranogwr yn mynd ar gynnydd ac ar gil, gan dyfu a lleihau’n gyson. Fel hyn yr ymddengys y bydd cysgodion yn ymhyfrydu mewn creu teyrnas hudol sydd yn amwys a chwareus. Pan deithiwn ni trwy’r fro hon o ddifrif, felly, mewn breuddwydion neu hunllefau, a fyddwn ni’n gweld y cysgodion eu hunain? Neu yn lle hynny, a fyddwn ni’n trosglwyddo iddynt emosiynau a drychfeddyliau, ofnau ac awyddau, gan eu llenwi â delweddau a symbolau o bob math? Yr ail sydd yn gywir, o ran y mwyafrif o bobl, yn ôl pob sôn. Ac wrth gwrs, y cynfas gwag, delfrydol yw’r fan ddamhegol hon. O’r herwydd, nid anghywir fyddai dweud mai gwlad y dychymyg yw’r lle hwn, wedi’i phoblogi, er enghraifft, â phortreadau yn dangos ein hunain yn rhyngweithio â hunain eraill; â lluniau hyblyg realiti; ac â gweledigaethau ynglŷn â phethau a allai fod, o bosibl. Ac yno y gallwn ni arbrofi, gan flasu profiadau newydd a rhyfedd, heb fod arnom angen ymrwymo i’r un ohonynt o reidrwydd.

 

Dyma Hen Filwr sy’n dymuno dod yn Ddewin. Mae wedi bod yn crwydro o amgylch ei blasty, yr honglad cyndadol y mae’n perthyn arno am hyn o dro, o leiaf, wrth i’r lleill chwilota am rywbeth pwysig iawn. A rhwng y dryswch oll, a’r loes ddiddiwedd, mae’n hau dannedd y ddraig yn ei sgil nes i’r holl deulu drwg ei dymer (heblaw Ffred yr hen was da a ffyddlon) syrffedu ar y perfformiad. Unwaith y bu bron iddo ddianc drwy’r drws gefn am y trydydd tro, mae rhaid i’r angylion gwasanaethgar roi dogn helaeth o snisin lleddfol iddomewn gobled o gopr yn llawn medd poeth. Ac wedyn dyna nhw’n ysgubo i ffordd i’r dafarn leol, Y Ddafad Golledig, am brynhawn hir o gwnsela a synfyfyrio, ac i foddi’u pryderon mewn galwyn neu ddau o’r Ambrosia Ffug, gan adael eu noddwr dan lygaid barcut y gofalwr.

 

O ganlyniad i ryw dro anlwcus ar fyd, fodd bynnag (o ran rhai, o leiaf, ac ymyriad dwyfol neu ddieflig yn cynorthwyo gwendid dynol, efallai), mae’r gŵr cyflog yn teimlo’n eithriadol o flinedig ar ôl llyncu dwsin o deisen sbesial oedd yn oeri ar y pentan. Wrth iddo fwynhau cwsg y rhai cyfiawn, adewch inni obeithio, mewn gwely crog yn yr ystafell wydr, fel rhyw fwnci coch cysglyd, dyna ddihuno’r athro cythreulig o'i gwsg anesmwyth ar yr union amser ac ymlusgo drwy dwnnel cudd tuag at seler ei loches ar lan yr afon beraroglus. Mae’n hen law gyda’r cyffuriau mewn gwirionedd, wrth gwrs, ac actor gwych ar ben hynny, yn ei farn ei hun beth bynnag. Wedi dianc o garchar angladdol yr Uchelgaer Rosliw mae wedi'i fywiogi, i ryw raddau o leiaf, ac â'i holl fryd ar ddarlledu un neges olaf i'w deulu anobeithiol cyn dechrau ar y Gwaith Mawr o ddifrif.

 

‘Lly, lanciau a llancesau, dyma fi’n eistedd ar fy mhen fy hun, mewn hen fwthyn heb fywyd a simsan, ymhlith cysgodion swnllyd y gorffennol anhrugarog sy’n berwi fel cawl pys [*]. Dim ond hen diwtor musgrell dw i (Jack) ar fin farw, a redodd bant i fod yn sawdiwr a thrio achub y Byd Baglog hwn (yn anffodus iawn, gelwid fi'n Jak neu Ivan dramor, ar adegau), pan wnaethwn i (John) fethu mor goblynedig â bod yn garwr, ac sy'n breuddwydio am ddod yn Ddewin (Yandrim fydd fy enw cynta, er na ddyfalwch fyth fy enw canol hudol i), cyn i fi ymadael yn agos dros byth.

 

Dim ond f’atgoffa i wnaiff y rhithiau ‘ma, ar y naill law o gariad colledig ac ar y llaw arall, o yrfa wedi’i gwenwyno gan drallod gweinyddiaeth, i’r Nw Yrth â nhw! Ac wedi ‘neud ‘ny, fe adawan nhw fi’n crogi rhwng byw a marw, mewn rhyw gyflwr od, bron yn anymwybodol. Ww, dim ond Rhisiart Rhuddygl ar y bocs sy’n cadw cwmni i fi! Mae’n clebran am lysiau amryliw’r gaeaf a’u nodweddion bywiocaol, oddi mewn i’w ‘fwthyn helaeth, gwledig, modern, hudol.’ Am lwyth o hen lol! Fe fyddai’n ‘neud i fi gyfogi, os do’n i’m yn ‘neud ‘ny eisoes. Y pwdryn!

 

Neu ydy’r difenwad ‘na’n annheg? Ddylai dyn gadw casineb o’r fath ar gyfer iachawdwyr hunanbenodedig gwareiddiad, fel yr un o’r enw Mr Iago Olew sy newydd ymddangos yn fy nrych sgrio, yn edrych yn dipyn bach fel morfil wedi mynd yn sownd ar y traeth? Yn ‘yn myfyrgell, ‘yn seler, ‘y nghroth, ‘y medd, dw i yn awr, yn ymlacio – ha, ha – cyn dechrau ar ran ola’r seremoni derfynol. Mae’n naw o’r gloch un noson braf o haf, nos Wendid-ddydd, a bod yn fanwl gywir. A dyma fi’n troi’r uchder ar y sain-drosdderbynnydd i lan wrth ddiffodd y sain ar yr SD am y tro. A hynny’n lle ceisio rhoi ‘mysedd ar y bysellfwrdd i grynhoi ‘mhrofiadau mwya’ pwysig hyd yn hyn, i gyffesu, mewn ffordd – fel ‘swn i’m moyn dodi’n adroddiad ola' mewn ‘sgrifen.

 

Pam yn y Ddau Fyd dyn nhw’n gadael i slebs falu awyr am bethau dyn nhw’m yn gwybod dim byd amdanyn nhw, fel gwleidyddiaeth ac addysg? Dyna ‘rhen J B Grossmann nawr ar ei sioe ‘Cyflwr y Genedl,’ o bob peth, yn sgwrsio fel petai fe eisiau rheoli’r wlad fel Gormeswr Caredig, neu rywbeth. Un da yw e’n siarad am foesau a sut i fihafio, wedi rhedeg bant gyda gwraig rhyw ffŵl truenus arall, oedd yn hen ffrind iddo ar un adeg, gan adael ei un ‘i hun ar ôl. Mae clywed ei enw e'n 'mhrifo i i'r byw, heb sôn am 'nabod ei lais yn gwag-siarad. Celwyddgi, a thwyllwr, ac ysbeiliwr, a chynffonnwr ydy, fel bob gwleidydd, pen parablus, a ffug-bersonoliaeth, fel yr holl dalent wnaed. Mae’n gas ‘da fi gyfadde’ hyn, ta be’, ond wy’n ‘nghael fy hun yn cytuno ‘da fe am lawer o bwyntiau, ar y rhaglen o leia’. Er mod i’n gasáu fe â chas perffaith, a bod yn hollol onest. Dyna i chi farw, sbo.

 

[Grossmann] “Dyma fi’n areithio ar ein rhan ni i gyd, y werin oll wedi’u darostwng, y rhai wedi’u dadryddfreinio sy dan draed. Yn ddisylw gan y bobl fawr, dyn ni i gyd yn byw o'r llaw i'r genau erbyn hyn, tu mewn i fyd llwfr, llechwraidd, a chwit-chwat, sy’n llawn trallod wedi’i achosi gan arholiadau afraid, tethi gormodol, offeiriaid trahaus, cymwysterau diystyr, a biwrocratiaeth anhygoel. Yma, adleisio bob tro ac ym mhob man wna’r hoff ymadrodd – Addysgwch! Dysgwch! Llwyddwch! Enillwch! Prynwch! Talwch! Ac felly bydd amwysedd diamheuol yn ffugio ei fod yn ddealltwriaeth lem. Ar yr un pryd, bydd babanod araf eu meddwl yn cael eu gorfodi i lyncu, heb brotestio, anghymedroldeb arteithiol. Dyna nhw’n slaffio i lawr lond platiau di-ben-draw o’r drychfeddyliau dua’, fwydwyd iddyn nhw, ran fwya’r amser, gan addysgwyr anystyriol ar gyflogau gwael.”

 

 

Rwy’n gwybod, wy’n deall – dw i ‘di’i gadael hi tan y funud olaf un, fel arfer, ond dyna’r lleia’ o ‘mhryderon erbyn hyn. A beth dw i wedi treulio’r ddwy flynedd ar bymtheg – O, dyna rif sbesial i chi – o’r blaen yn ‘neud? Wel gadewch i fi ddweud wrthoch chi. Rwy ‘di cael ‘nghorfodi i geisio gwthio un peth i bennau’r myfyrwyr twp, trwsgl a difater sy ‘di heidio drwy ddrws croesawgar ‘yn ‘stafell ddosbarth a bant ‘to, o’r naill flwyddyn i’r llall. A dyma’r siars i chi – ‘Peidiwch â gadael pethau nes bydd hi’n rhy hwyr!” – wedi’r cyfan, mae amser yn hanfodol, on’d yw e? Wrth gwrs mae ‘di syrthio ar glustiau byddar bob tro.

 

[Grossmann] “A dyma’r rheiny – rhaglenwyr rhyddiaith ryfeddol, cyn falched â pheunod, pwyllog ond pryderus – sy ddim angen ateb i neb ac eithrio’r ddau hen dâl-feistr llethol, o’r enw llywodraeth a chyllid. Ymarferwyr y celfyddydau duon ydyn nhw, ac maen nhw’n honni’u bod nhw’n annibynnol, yn llawn unigoliaeth a dealltwriaeth, yn ddi-lwgr a heb eu llygru. Drwy ‘neud hyn fe fyddan nhw’n llunio lledrith annioddefol ar y gorau, ond yn achosi, ar y gwaetha’, dryblith llwyr ac anhrefn ofnadw’.”

 

Be’ bynnag, rwy ‘di bod yn bwrw golwg yn ôl dros lawer o bynciau mewn modd amwys ac annatblygedig drwy’r wythnos oddi ar i fi osod yr un dasg ola’ ‘ma i fi’n hun. Yn y pen draw, yr un peth rwy ‘di bod yn holi’n hun amdano mwya' yw hyn, iawn? Rwy’n meddwl fe ddylwn i atodi ‘a bod yn berffaith onest’ yma, er mwyn mynd yn syth i’ch calonnau. O, mae’r boen mor ddwys, dyw’n meddwl ddim yn gweithio’n reit! Ond wrth i fi gofio tameidiach, bob yn dipyn, ar y funud ‘ma, raid dweud, rwy’n dirnad heb i fi ofyn, y metaffor, y trosiad, y gyffelybiaeth oedd yn blaguro i gludo’n ystyr. Ac yn sydyn dyma fi’n sylweddoli bod dim ond rhyw rywogaeth o fwncïod hwyliog ydyn ni. Crwydro drwy fywyd ‘nawn ni’n hollol ddibryder, achos fyddwn ni’m yn ystyried pethau. Ond drwy’r amser fe allen ni fod yn cynhyrchu’r domen fwya’ o achles ffrwythlon fel ‘naiff ein cefndyr blewog, yn well nag unrhyw gyffur, yn ein hachos ni, drwy ddefnyddio’r dychymig i’r eitha’. ‘Lly ryw’n gofyn, mewn gwirionedd, ydw i’n malio’r un daten am fod yn hollol gywir o ran iaith a mynegiant, am gynnwys y ffeithiau priodol i gyd? Neu, fyddai’n well ‘da fi ddim ond dweud ‘nweud, ac i’r Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd gyda’r gweddill, y manylion gwrthun?

 

[Grossmann] “Dyma fyd ar farw, heb haul, llawn cysgodion lledrithiol, sy’n addo popeth ar sail dim byd o werth. Yma, awydd yw’r cyflog mae’r calcwlws gwrth-greadigol yn gynnig. Dyn ni’n byw mewn byd anesmwyth ac annheyrngar, sy ddim yn amlhau ond pesimistiaeth, gwaethygiad, a gwangalondid. Ac yma, dyn ni’n cael ein dal mewn magl fêl wedi’i chadw mewn lle gan ddyrnau dur yn gwisgo menig sidan, a drinnir gan wleidyddion gan amlaf. Mae’r rhain eisiau gorfodi arnom ffieiddbethau fel safonau gweithredu gorfodol, rheolaeth eithaf ar ansawdd, atebolrwydd ebrwydd perffaith, amlygrwydd clinigol o ran pob proses, gwrth-elitiaeth filwriaethus, cydraddoldeb annheg, ac anffafriaeth bositif yn ffafrio’r cyfenwadur lleia’. Maen nhw’n coegio bod gofyn am hyn oll i ddiogelu’r system sanctaidd, tra byddan nhw’n rheoli hi i'w dibenion eu hunain fyth a hefyd.”

 

Wel, digon yw digon, ‘achan, a dyna’n wir os unrhyw beth ydy! Nage gwastraff ar amser fydd yr ymarfer ‘ma yn y pen draw, siŵr o fod, er dw i’m yn gallu dweud yn bendant. Falle fod datrys problemau o’r fath yn waith i’r darlledwr yn hytrach na’r awdur. Beth rwy’n olygu, yn y bôn, yw hyn. Ar yr un llaw, fe fydd y darlledwr ffyddlon yn gwneud yr holl wahaniaeth trwy feddwl yn glir, trwy ddehongli’n fanwl, trwy wrthod derbyn y celwyddau a gaiff eu lledu gan grëwr y darn ar yr olwg gynta’. Ac wrth reswm dyna waith fydd yn gofyn amser maith. Neu hwyrach taw tasg sydd orau gan borwr chwit-chwat ydy, fydd yn llowcio’n rheibus gan fwynhau gadael i’r cyfrinachau a’r ystyron cêl lifo drosto. Ac wedi treulio’r pryd o eiriau a syniadau, a mynd i gysgu fel petai, fe fydd yn cynhyrchu delweddau ffres trwy dalu sylw i bigiadau pin di-alw-andanyn-nhw o sythwelediad.

 

[Grossmann] “Yn y fath system, mae’n rhaid i bawb a phopeth hercian mynd mewn cylchred gwastadol wedi’i lunio o ffolineb ac euogrwydd. Mae hyn oll yn cael ei ariannu gan daliadau uchel andwyol gan ddefnyddwyr y gwasanaethau, gan brynwyr y cynhyrchion, fydd yn cael eu cyplu â mynegrifau adborth a fesurwyd gan holiaduron ymwthiol, diddiwedd. Ac wedyn bydd yn rhaid trio diwallu pob mympwy a ellid ei ddychmygu o ran y rhai sy’n yfed o’ r caregl addysgol wedi’i wenwyno, drwy gyfrwng arolygon boddhad gwatwarus, mae’u canlyniadau dydyn nhw ddim yn gallu cael eu defnyddio’n ymarferol o achos eu cymhlethdod.”

 

Ta be’, y peth mwya’ od, fel ro’n i’n dweud, neu ‘sgrifennu, neu deipio yn hytrach – nawr ‘te, am be' ro’n i’n sôn? – O, reit, dyna ni – dyna’r cysyniad ‘ma o’r enw ‘lais.’ Falle mod i’n teimlo – sut alla i ddweud hyn – mod i’n bod yn dwyllodrus pan fydda i’n cofnodi’r stwff ‘ma i gyd, gan goelio byddwn i’n mwynhau creu’r un mymryn o ‘nhraethawd gwasgarog. Ond rwy’n meddwl taw ‘mhroblem fwya’ yw mod i ofn alla i’m dibynnu arnoch chi oll i weithio’n ddigon dyfal. Sut fyddai’n dirwyn i ben ‘sech chi’n cael eich gadael yn llonydd i weithio’r holl gampau geiriol ‘ma i’w terfyn heb ‘nghymorth cyson i? A dyna achos taw hen fwnci ewn dw i, sy ‘di teithio o gwmpas y Byd sawl gwaith, gan daenu heddwch, cariad, a hud, fel petai, a dod yn Ddewin am ‘yn holl lafur.

 

[Grossmann] “Dyma bob agwedd ar fywyd, meddwl, a bihafio wedi’i oruchwylio gan niferoedd anesboniadwy o swyddogion yn cynnwys gweision sifil a chadeiryddion pwyllgorau. Mae capteiniaid y cwangos, yr unbeniaid pot jam, yn orselog, ac wedi mynd yn chwerw a gwyrgam o ddiffyg llonder yn eu swyddi a’u bywydau. Nhw a fydd angen esgus bod nhw’n annibynnol i fodloni Cynrychiolydd y Werin bondigrybwyll, y pwysigion seneddol, celwyddog ‘na. Ac wedyn fe fydd yr aelodau parchedig yn esgyn y polyn llithrig drwy deg neu drwy hagr, falle ym mhob dull a modd. A’r Hen Dduwiau a’n gwaredo ni, Gwladweinydd Blaenorol fydd un ohonyn nhw ryw ddydd, wedi trywanu pob un o’r lleill yn ei gefn. Nhw fydd yn atebol mewn theori o leia’ i gasgliad aneffeithiol o adynod dirywiedig, anetholedig yn llechu yn Siambr Werdd Pencadlys hyglod ein cenedl, sy’n drewi o nawddogaeth niweidiol. Mae rhai o’r rhain yn frochus ond anfuddiol, tra mae rhai eraill yn athrist ond gweithgar. Yn gyffredinol, wrth gwrs, mae’r dosbarth gwleidyddol i gyd yn arnofio mewn acwariwm o alcohol, wedi’i leoli yng nghnewyllyn adwythig Tŷ’r Llywodraeth” [**].

 

Ond amser siarad o ddifri’ nawr, mae’r pwynt nesa’ ‘ma’n bwysig iawn. Yn wir, craidd, both, hanfod y mater ydy. Gyda threigl amser, mae hunanfynegiant o’r fath wedi dod yn fwy naturiol o lawer i fi, y dyn ‘ma o’r enw John Procter. Dyn dw i sy ‘di cael cryn lwyddiant i raddau. Fe fues i’n filwr, yn arwr, ddywedem ni, er fyddwn i’m defnyddio’r gair. Ond er i fi achub ffrind rhag llosgi mewn coelcerth, fe gollodd e arno’i hun yn ddiweddarach. Rwy ‘di llyncu ‘ngwala o gyffuriau o ganlyniad i’r hunllefau wy’n cael bob tro bellach. Ac eto i gyd, pan o’n i’n athro, ‘nes i estyn cymorth i lanc neilltuol oedd eisiau rhoi pen ar y cwbl. Rwy’n synnu ar y ffaith 'does dim ots ‘da fi’n wir, ‘sgrifennu popeth amdana i’n hun, a’i rannu fe, gan mwya’, gyda chi i gyd.

 

[Grossmann] “Mae’r lladd-dy cymdeithasol yn waeth nag unrhyw faes cad. Dyma’r allor aberthol ble bydd gobeithion a breuddwydion mwya’ gwerth chweil y dyfodol yn cael eu gosod mewn trefn a’u rheoli. Ac yma, dicter cyfiawn yw’r unig ymateb ymarferol ar gael. Mae’r byd ‘ma’n llawn sefydliadau ysglyfaethus, dan awdurdod penaethiaid canibalaidd, wedi’u rheoli gan ganlyniadau ystadegol gwrthrychol. Felly fe fydd gweision i’r delwau sydd ohoni hi yn dyfeisio’n ddichellgar fesurau medr sy ddim yn ystyrlon o gwbl. Ac wedyn fe fydd y rhain yn cael eu defnyddio i hybu bwlian a hunan-newid, argymell ing, ysgogi gofid gresynus, a dihuno teimladau o ofid dyfna’.”

 

Dyma ni ‘te, bobol bach – dyn ni ‘di cyrraedd y gwirionedd erchyll. Dw i’m yn medru cael gwared ar y meddyliau ffiaidd ‘ny hyd yn oed nawr – ‘swn i ond yn gallu. Cymaint wy’n dymuno doedd e erioed wedi digwydd. Wel, falle bydd sôn amdano – amdani hithau – yn helpu. Yr oedd un ferch fach – fe ddysgwn i ei brawd hi – ro’n i’n arfer ei ‘nabod hi – fe fynnai hi fenthyg rhai pamffledi am hudoliaeth mewn patrymau ieithyddol o’n i ‘di’u ‘sgrifennu – o ran hwyl, meddai. ‘Neno Hebé – dyna daer yr oedd hi’n ‘nghanlyn i – roedd hi’n greadures hardd, ond, druan ohoni hi, enaid mor gythryblus oedd hi – dywedai hi gallai glywed ‘yn llais i pan ddarllenai hi’r geiriau – ac fe fyddai hi mewn gorawen. Ac wedyn deintiais i’r abwyd – er bod hi’n fyfyrwraig oedd yn astudio i fod Meistr yn y Gwyddorau mewn Astudiaethau Technegol ym Mholy-ysgol Aberdydd. Ges i ‘nghyfareddu ganddi hi, rwy’n tybio – mor falch o’n llais academaidd, didactig o’n i. Fe fedrai’n chwaer i weld mod i’n taflu llygad gafr ar y ferch, ac roedd hi’n anghymeradwyo, a dweud y lleia’. Yn wir, gaeth hi ffit binc, ond dw i ‘rioed wedi rhoi sylw i’w chyngor hi, gwaetha’r modd. Ges i ‘nhemtio. Fe flasais i’r ffrwyth gwaharddedig. Fe gwympais oddi wrth ras. A bellach, rwy wedi 'nghondemnio.

 

Dyma fi'n colli ymwybod am sbel, greda i, ond am faint o amser 'dwn i'm, ac wedyn dod ata'n hunan 'to. Rhaid mod i'n meddwl ar y funud, ta be', os dw i'm yn synhwyrol a chall, sut allwn i fod yn cyfathrebu fel hyn fel arall? Ond eto i gyd, dw i'n amau dw i'm yn bodoli ar y Ddaear o gwbl o'r un eiliad i'r llall. A bod yn berffaith onest, o ran un syniad o leia', un cymeriad, un enaid, dw i'n cael 'yn rhwygo rhwng dau deimlad, wrth hongian yn y fantol yn pendilio o gasineb i gariad ffôl ac yn ôl.

 

Ro'n i'n hala amser maith dramor yn ceisio 'ngwraig, oedd wedi'i dwyn oddi wrtha i gan y dyn cythreulig 'na ar ôl iddi esgor ar ferch fach. Ac yn wir ro'n i'n crwydro o Diroedd y Gorllewin i Diriogaeth y Dwyrain., o Gestyll Iâ'r De i'r Coedwigoedd Llosg yn y Gogledd. Rhaid cofnodi'r canlynol yma: drwy gydol y cyfnod 'ma, ro'n i'n brwydro drwy’r amser yn erbyn drygioni'r Ddaear yn rhith yr Hen Filwr. O, dw i'n chwerthin eto o feddwl bod rhai'n dweud taw Hen Ryfelwr Llwyd o'n i! Roedd pawb gartre yn Aberdydd yn credu i 'nheulu farw mewn damwain drasig o achos 'yn arbrofion alcemegol, a do'n i'm yn dweud dim byd i'r gwrthwyneb. Ges i hyd iddyn nhw, y teulu ffug, yn y Wladwriaeth Ddwyreiniol Annibynnol, y dyffryn 'na o ble dyw neb yn dod yn ôl fel rheol. Er gwaetha'n holl ymdrechion, do'n i'm yn gallu dod yn agos at y rhai dw i'n caru'n fwy na bywyd ei hun. Ro'n i'n estyn dwylo at yr un a ddylai wedi bod yn ferch i fi, ond sy'n blentyn i ddyn arall, drwy freuddwydio amdani hi, canolbwyntio mor galed ag y gallwn i, a dychmyg beth allai fod wedi bod. Ar y pryd, lwyddais i ddim, roedd y rhagfuriau'n rhy gadarn. Wedi'n siomi'n enbyd, fe ddychwelais i i'r hen ‘stad deuluol ar ôl llawer o anturiaethau, i lyfu 'mriwiau ac edrych 'mlaen at fyw am byth.

 

Ond erbyn hyn mae'r gorffennol wedi dal i fyny gyda fi. Mae hi wedi bod yn ymweld â fi yn ystod y nos, y ferch sy'n rhyw lun o berthyn i fi, er dw i'm yn hollol siŵr be’ fyddai’r enw ar ein perthynas. Fe fydda i'n dihuno a dyna fydd hi'n swatio troso i ar y gwely. Rwy'n sicr taw'r ymweliadau amhur 'ma gan yr ellylles ar ffurf Kiande Amedha sy wedi peri i'n iechyd i gyflym waethygu, wrth i'n meddwl i fethu hefyd. Dyma lances ifanc sy'n ymddangos yn brydferth eithriadol o bell, er mwyn eich denu, ond sy'n datgelu'i chnawd caled, ei chrafangau miniog, a'i chynffon fachog yn nes 'mlaen! Mae fel petai'r gythreules yn sugno'r holl fywyd ohono i. Ac wrth iddi ymosod arna i fel hyn, mae hi'n adrodd wrtha i fantrâu wedi'u hysgrifennu ar waliau palas tywod Etneksha, yn cynnwys yr un sy'n rhedeg, 'Gad i'th gorff ddod yn bridd; gad i'th waed ddod yn ddŵr; bydded i'th enaid yn ffordd iddyn nhw ddod yn ôl atom ni.' Dwi'n crynu wrth gofio Dendrah Leiddiad yn rheibio Sorakados Dywysog yn ogofâu'r corynnod gwydrfaen dan gastell y Brenin Melyn, yn ôl Llyfr Coch Rhwd a Gwaed.

 

Rhaid cyffesu taw arswydo ydw i, ei bod hi 'di uno grymoedd y tair Hen Dduwies, Tefnuth, Hebé, a Nebesh – y ferch, y wraig, a’r fam-gu – y blinder sy'n lladd, y storm afreolus, a'r nant fwya' trist – i ymyrryd ym marwolaeth y Dewin a'i rwystro rhag cyflawni'r Gwaith Mawr. Dw i'n gallu gweld bod ei phwerau meddyliol yn gryf iawn, fel 'sai hi 'di dysgu nage dim ond sut i orchymyn y llengoedd o symbolau elfennol a threfnu'r heidiau o ddelweddau twyllodrus, ond hefyd sut fydd cysylltu â'r fro dra brawychus 'na sy'n corddi a byrlymu mor chwyrn dan wyneb y realiti fyddwn ni'n dirnad bob dydd heb yn wybod i bron pawb. Yn wir, mae fel 'sai hi 'di llwyddo i ddadansoddi'r ystyr wedi'i guddio yn yr enwau hyna', gan ennill awdurdod i orchymyn y byw a’r meirwon, ac felly mae'n canu caneuon croch, llawn miwsig cyn hawsed i'w deall, am fyw bywyd disglair, a charu â'th holl galon, a marw wrth frwydro dros d'egwyddorion.

 

Mae hi'n gwau geiriau llawn tân a cheinder, mor fawreddog â Chân Tefnuth a ddygai Lushfé yn ôl i fywyd er gwaethaf ei friwiau enbyd. Drwy areithio fel hyn, mae wedi cyflawni gwyrthiau, gan annog pobl o bob math i deimlo’r naill ffordd neu'r llall drwy chwythu i'w clustiau ddim ond geiriau teg. Mae fel 'sai hi'n adrodd enwau bodau byw oll wrth i bŵer pob creadur o dan yr Haul yn datblygu yn ei chroth. Ond er hynny oll, dw i'n gobeithio ar 'ngwaetha' wrth erfyn ar y Saith dyw hi'm wedi cwympo mewn cariad gyda'r llanc gwirion 'na. Hwlcyn diwerth ydy, er nerthol ofnadw’! O diar! Fe fyddai 'ny'n 'neud cawl o 'nghynllun i esgyn i ogoniant, i sicrwydd.

 

O, myn Swtach! Rhaid oedd wrth ddarparu llestr ar gyfer enaid effeithiol y Dewin. Dw i 'di chwibanu ac mae hi wedi dod, heb os. Yn ddiweddar mae hi, y ferch fach a ddiflannodd cyhyd yn ôl, ond sydd mewn oed erbyn hyn, wedi dod yma i honni'r hawl i etifeddu popeth, er dyw fawr i'w gael rhagor. Mae'n dweud taw hi fydd yn dwyn baban a’i feddwl mor glir, o’i gymharu â gweddill dynolryw, sy mor ffôl â'r chwilod dall yn loetran dan y brwyn ar bwys Afon Dagrau. Dw i eisiau'i derbyn hi, wel ei mab hi o leia', fel cnawd o 'nghnawd i ar ryw olwg, achos fe fydd e'n chwarae rhan hollbwysig yn 'y modolaeth barhaol os bydd y cynllun yn llwyddo. Ond mae'n chwaer i, Mrs Grossmann, hynny yw Miss Procter a fu, yn dymuno gwrthwynebu'r ferch yn bendant. Mae hi'n teimlo dylech chi ennill eich tamaid ar eich liwt eich hunan.

 

Ac ar ben 'ny, Grossmann yw'r cyfenw gaeth y ferch gan ei Thad, a'r chwaer yn coelio dylai popeth aros gyda'r Procteriaid cig a gwaed. Fe all dyn deall ei theimladau, wedi’r cyfan, mae’i chnaf o gyn-ŵr yn Dad i’r ferch. Ond rwy'n rhy wan i ddadlau a brwydro mwyach! Felly fe adawaf iddi'r siârs ar gyfer y fferm foch yng Ngwladfa Kunmar Kudu 'nes i'u prynu flynyddoedd yn ôl. Fe fyddan nhw'n werth cryn dipyn bellach. Dyna ddylai roi taw arni hi be' bynnag. Ac fe fydd ei hanner brawd hi, Steffan (er dyw hi'm yn sylweddoli ar y ffaith ‘to) yn ymddiriedolwr dros y crwt, fydd yn cael popeth arall. Wrth gwrs, Lushfé a ŵyr beth fydd yn digwydd os bydd yr hud yn llwyddo yn ei amcan. Mae'n meddwl i'n dal i grwydro, dw i'm yn gallu canolbwyntio na chofio beth yw beth.

 

Fydda i fyth yn deall y ferch unigryw 'ma'n hollol, mae hi fel rhyw fath o greadur gwyllt yn udo ar y lleuad wrth warchod ei chenau hi â ffyrnigrwydd glân. Ond yn ddi-os mae hi’n gwreiddio’n ara’ deg bellach, ac yma fe fydd hi'n aros fel gwinwydden fudr wedi'i lapio o gwmpas y lle, gan ddatgan pwrpas a ffawd popeth o fewn i'w chyrraedd gyda geiriau'r hen Swyn Triphlyg, 'Â halen mi rwy'n eich gwysio chi; â gwallt mi rwy'n eich cymell chi; â gwaed mi rwy'n eich rhwymo chi.' Ac wedi bwrw'r rwnau yn unol â Dilyniant Cudd Woodley, rwy'n credu taw hynny fydd yn digwydd beth bynnag fydd tynged y Byd y tu hwnt.

 

Rhaid i fi fod yn gry' wrth gwtsio yma yn y Tŷ Glas, y cartre’ mawr 'ma i’r ymadawedigion blin, y carchar bychan wedi’i 'neud o garreg bur o Brysfenni, a adeiladwyd ar fynwent wedi'i sefydlu yn ystod y Cyfnos Keltig. Yma mae porth i'r Nw Yrth yn ôl yr hanesion hynafol. Wrth i bopeth ar y Ddaear ddod i ben mewn coelcerth fflamllyd, tra mae' r olau’r lleuad lem yn disgleirio tu allan, fe af fi i mewn i'r diriogaeth dawel, i deyrnas gwyll, lawn golud a phethau da dydyn nhw'm o werth i neb sy'n trigo yno. Ac yna yn y pen draw fe ennilla i'r briod wobr. Fe ga i 'nghroesawu gan Tefnuth, Duwies y Meirwon, yr hudoles hyna' a mwya' glandeg, fydd yn gwisgo boned ddu, ‘sgidiau cochion, a ffrog o les wen. Fe fyddwn ni'n hedfan gyda'n gilydd ar adenydd y gwynt gwyllt o'r Ddaear i'r Byd Arall, ble bydd yr Arglwyddes a ymadawodd â'i gŵr wedi rhoi genedigaeth i'w plentyn nhw'n gwylio o'i chlwyd bob tro ofidiau'r byw, ac angladdau'r meirw 'fyd. Ac wedyn, heb rithyn o amheuaeth, fe ddaw ceffylau ffyrnig Tefnuth â 'ngwraig golledig ata i nes y byddwn ni'n rheoli fel Brenin a Brenhines y Ddau Fyd am byth.

 

[Grossmann] “Nawr fe fydd yn rhaid i ni ganolbwyntio ar ein Hybarch Sefydliadau Addysg Uwch. Mae pawb, yn anffodus, yn gwybod taw dwy siort ohonyn nhw sy’n bodoli, hynny yw, y Poly-ysgolion a’r Prifdechnigau. Ond dyw neb yn deall beth yw pwrpas yr un gynta’, heb sôn am yr ail. Ynddyn nhw, fe ddylai hyfforddeion gael eu dysgu am bynciau hollbwysig fel rhifoleg ddinesig, egwyddorion cuddiedig natur, rheoli a disgyblu’r dorf, trin celwyddau crefyddol a chymdeithasol, ac iaith at amcanion gwleidyddol. Ond nage hyn a wnaiff ddigwydd, dim o gwbl. A dyna achos bod y meistri i gyd wastad yn rhy brysur gyda’u gorchwylion eraill, y rhai wedi’u pennu gan yr arolygyddion ariannol a’r gweithredwyr profiad staff amlddisgyblaethol. Dychmygwch yr amser fyddan nhw’n wario ar weinyddiaeth sefydliadol hanfodol, astudio gosod gorfodol i hybu disgyblaeth, a hunan-fflangelliad mewnsyllgar wythnosol. O ganlyniad fydd dim eiliad ar ôl i’r athrawon gwangalon ddilyn eu diddordebau personol. Fe fydd y fath weithgareddau mor chwerw â’r wermod pan fyddan nhw’n llwyddo, achos fydd y slafdod byth yn dod i ben. Fydd dim clod na bri i’w cael am eu holl lafur, ‘chwaith. Ond fe fydd yn waeth byth os fyddan nhw’m yn cyrraedd brig cyflawniad ac felly colli cyllid a nawdd, eu swyddi, a, dyn a ŵyr, hyd yn oed eu bywydau!”

 

O, i’r Saith â fe! Mae dod at ‘nghoed fel cael ‘ngeni mewn rhyw Fyd Braf Newydd. Ble o’n i? Rhag pob clwyf eli amser, meddan nhw, ond serch hynny, wedi ‘ngyrru gan ddiffyg cariad, ac yn ôl unwaith eto, rwy ‘di dod yn fwy o Ddewin na milwr, sy’n credu yn hudoliaeth geiriau, er dwi’m yn cytuno bydd yn rhaid i awdur fod yn eirwir oll drwy’r amser. Rwy ‘di taflu’n hun i’r pen dwfn, gan ‘sgrifennu i geisio osgoi y gofid achoswyd gan y sgandal a’r geiriau chwerwon. Rwy ‘di rhoi cynnig ar gyfrodeddu plot o wead cywrain, ac, O, am fydoedd rwy ‘di’u creu yn ‘nychymyg i. Rwy ‘di bod yn faban yn y bru, yn canu rhyw fath o weddi cyn genedigaeth, sydd hefyd yn fawlgan i gariadus blentyn na fydda i’n nabod fyth fel Tad.

 

[Grossmann] “Yn rhy hawdd dyn ni’n cael ein denu gan areitheg lawn geiriau teg. Yn rhy gyflym dyn ni’n ildio i hud iaith lithrig a llesmeiriol. Drwy ein dihidrwydd ni, felly, fe fyddwn ni’n mynd yn gaeth i’r peiriant gwleidyddol mor dreisgar at ddynoliaeth yng nghanol ein cymdeithas a’n diwylliant sydd â gofal dros greu’r dyfodol dryw ailysgrifennu’r gorffennol. Yng nghrombil y ddyfais ‘ma, fe fydd yn rhaid i bob un yn ddieithriad ennill wobrau addysgol. Ac fe fydd hyn yn troi allan ddim ond ymenyddiau eiddil sy heb eu maethu’n ddigon. Drwy hyn fe fyddwn ni oll yn gwystlo’r blynyddoedd i ddod, ac amddifadu’r to sy’n codi o’r etifeddiaeth wedi’i haddo a’i haeddu. Wedi dweud ‘ny, un peth yn y gyfundrefn ‘ma sy’n anochel wrth natur. Dim ond y rhai gaeth eu geni’n ddedwydd yn y lle cynta’, sy eisoes yn gyfoethog annaturiol, a breintiedig wyrthiol, all ddisgwyl bod yn fuddugol fel mater o ffaith, ym mhen yr hir a’r hwyr.Ffawd y rhai diriaid fydd aros ar y domen o ble maen nhw’n hanu’n wreiddiol. Fe ganan nhw am eu bwyd beunydd beunos heb gael eu bwydo. Feddan nhw ddim ar y gân hyd yn oed, na ‘chwaith ar y tail ffrwythlon sy’n uffernol werthfawr.”

 

Ble fydda i’n mynd oddi yma? Dw i’m yn sicr, a dweud y gwir. Rwy eisiau chwifio hudlath, creu bywyd newydd fel yn y straeon, diddymu poen pawb. Ond ar y llaw arall, ‘does ‘na'm cynllun ‘da fi sy’n dal dŵr. Amser nad erys, mae’n mynd heibio mor gyflym. Yn awr alla i’m dysgu mwy am y manylion yn ymwneud â thraethiad, cymeriad, nac ymddygiad. A dyna’r peth gwarthus ‘na ynghylch y teulu Grossmann, a ‘ngwriag a redodd i ffwrdd gydag un ohonyn nhw. Wel, mae’r llanastr llwyr ‘na’n golygu bod rheswm a gobaith wedi diflannu ‘fyd, amser maith ‘nol. ‘Lly eistedd ‘ma dw i, a ‘ngobled o laeth lladron yn ‘nwylo. Fi sy bron â marw o eisiau ‘nhrawsffurfio’n hun, w! Fe wn i taw dim ond fi sy’n gallu ‘neud ‘ny. Falle fe ddylwn i dynnu’r ewinedd o’r blew a dechrau o ddifri’. Ond mae’n rhy hwyr o lawer. Cysgodion ar yr ysgyfaint, medden nhw yn yr ysbyty, mor drist ond mor derfynol. A bellach mae’r canser wedi tyfu ar chwâl. Mae’r dolur yn arteithiol.

 

[Grossmann] O, ddinasyddion ein gwlad deg ni, dyma fi’n gofyn i chi o waelod fy nghalon – Sut ar y Ddaear fawr allwn ni addysgu’n plant ni mor dda am gost pob dim, ond ar yr un pryd eu dysgu nhw fawr o ddim am werth dim byd? Pris y broses ‘ma fydd iddyn nhw gael serio eu hysbrydoedd gan Sêl ‘Sgarlad cieidd-dra. A dyna fydd yn ‘neud i’w stumogau gorddi, ac achosi loes calon na ellir ei gwella. Y rhai’n diodde’r fath artaith heddi’ sy’m yn gallu dwyn dim byd o werth, nage, dim oll, ddim yr un peth melltith. Yn y diwedd fyddan nhw’m yn gwybod ‘run peth o gwbl am werthoedd sy’n gywir, cyffredin, cynnes, na chariadus. A byddwch chi’n siŵr byddan nhw’n dod i ddeall y diffyg ‘ma’n ddiamwys, ac yn ddi-feth yn nes ‘mlaen. O, rhaid i ni garco’n ŵyn gwirion ni, drwy weiddi gyda’n gilydd, yn unfrydol, ac ag un llais – Na! Na, na, na, na, na!”

 

Wel, rwy ‘di cael llond bol ar Grossmann, heb sôn am fywyd, ac mae ‘di cwpla bellach ta be’ (Grossmann, diolch byth, fe fydd ‘mywyd yng nglyn y dagrau’n dod i ben maes o law). Dyma fi’n diffodd yr SDDd drachefn, ‘lly, a rhoi clec ar ôl clec i’r hen fechingalw pell-reoli enfawr gyda bawd diog, wrth bori drwy ddegau o sianeli llawn rwtsh ar y bocs. Falle bydd yn rhaid i fi fodloni ar ‘rholl ffilmiau arswyd ‘na, llawn mymïod, neu sombis arallfydol yn ôl pob golwg, mewn straeon dydyn nhw'm yn taro deuddeg, nid o bell ffordd. Ond dwi ‘di bod yn gwylio nhw bob amser yn ‘yn ‘stafell wely’n ôl yn yr hen blasty, ta be’, fe alla i adrodd yr holl sgriptiau oddi ar ‘ngho’, bron. Wrth i’r lleisiau gwichlyd ar yr SD hen iawn ddal i rygnu arni, rwy’n dal i syllu ar y lluniau du a gwyn, sy’n fflachio ar y ‘sgrin o’ mlaen. A dyna sain ddi-baid y sgarabau, ‘chep – er – chep – er – chep – er,’ sy’n teimlo bod hi’n dod oddi mewn i fi’n hun. Mae’n eitha cysurus mewn ffordd, yr holl siantio, w!

 

O ganlyniad i hyn oll, dyma fi’n golchi ymaith bechod gyda galar. Dw i’n llyncu’r coctel o fils – y rhai ar gyfer pwysed gwaed, gwynegon, ac anhunedd – yn ogystal â’r amryw dabledi gwrthlidiol, y steroidau, y morffin, y dŵr tonig (mae'r cwinîn yn iachus iawn), y codwarth, ac yn y blaen. Rwy ‘di cymysgu popeth mewn gobled gyda joch enfawr o jin achos mod i’n dwlu ar flas meryw. Mae’r crafu diarbed yn tarddu’n undonog o’r bocs dieflig yng nghornel y ‘stafell fel cloc sy’n bygwth trechu curiad ‘nghalon. Dyma fi’n cofio taw amser a gollir byth nid enillir, ond dyna sŵn a gaiff ei ddiffodd yn y man, gyda phob un arall. Maes o law, fe fydd y switsh amser ar y bom dân dw i ‘di ‘neud i’r diben yn cynnau’r ffiws ynddo. A dyna fydd yn ysgubo ymaith bob ôl ‘ mywyd alaethus.

 

Dyma’n llythyr ffarwél i – y llawysgrif electronig ‘ma – pob llythyren ohoni – wedi’i wasgaru gyda chlic eironig y llygoden. Www, dyna drist yw ‘ny! Fel hyn, rwy’n dweud wrthoch chi drwy ‘ngeiriau ola’ am fywyd rwy’n teimlo mod i ‘di ddychmygu heb ei brofi’n llawn. Diolch i chi, ddarlledwyr mwya’ annwyl – a ydych chi’n aelodau o’r Baxteriaid (collwyr a bwlïod y dynion oll, er bod y gwragedd yn lân), y teulu Grossmann (ach a fi – tawed y calla'!), neu’n llwyth i’n hun, y Procteriaid (“Selastaluvamin liltesaseziví marambavan; Bilderalin ilentídeniví ivímal” yw'n harwyddair ni, wrth gwrs – “Symbolau a reola bawb, Delweddau sy’n eu dal nhw,” dyna gall i chi) – am dalu sylw, a bwrw’ch bod ‘di ‘neud ‘lly. Mae’n flin ‘da fi, fedra i’m peidio ffwndro, dyna fel mae hi, esgusodwch chi fi. Ond serch ‘ny, nage traethydd hollol annibynadwy mo fi, er mod i’n ddweud celwyddau’n ddiarwybod i ryw raddau, fel pawb arall. Dim ond ymdrechu ymdrech deg ro’n i, ac mae’r amser yn cyflym gyrraedd pan fydda i’n pasio’r baton ymlaen at y to sy’n codi. Gobeithio bydd ‘yn enw i’n fyw am byth, falle, a ydych chi ‘di mwynhau ‘nhywalltiad, ai peidio – ac i ebargofiant â phob un ohonoch chi.

 

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[*] Ymddengys yr ymson hwn yn “Annifyrrwch Anhepgor a Llawenydd Anhaeddiannol” gan John (Jack) Procter. Mae'n cynnwys trawsysgrifiad araith John Grossmann (“Methiant Anesgusadwy Addysg mewn Cymdeithas Gyfoes”) a ddarlledwyd Ddydd Rhyngwladol Gwir a Golau rai blynyddoedd yn ôl. — P.M.

 

[**] Troednodyn Addysgiadol Anfynych gan yr Athrawes Jelena Pekar. Wel, dyma ni wedi cyrraedd Yewl ‘to. Cyfnod diflasa’r flwyddyn adwaenid unwaith gan yr hen Lychlynwyr fel “Cynulliad at Ddychweliad y Hanner Dynion Udol” (mwy neu lai). Ac wedyn, o’n nhw’n credu, fe fyddai’r ffurf-newidwyr neu fwystfil-bobl i fod i ddod yn ôl at y gymuned i siarad â nhw, gwledda, mynd yn feddw gaib, gweud storïau coch, cnychu fel bwystfilod wyllt, a lladd. Ond yn lle’r posibiliad iasol ond bywhaol ‘na, dyn ni wedi’n soddi mewn gwirionedd yn Hanner-ffordd y Pensynnu Prudd. On’d yw’n ddiddorol sut dygodd yr EGO ddathliadau hynafol y gollwng gwaed a’r orji lwyr, a’u hystumio’n ganol Tymor Edifarhau Hir? Ta be, wi’n ddrwg ‘yn hwyl ar hyn o bryd (dim syndod o ran ‘ny, sbo!). Ond a sôn am ymddygiad anfaddeuol, does dim byd yn dod yn agos at gastiau gwrthun llywodraeth Leskov a lywyddai – yn ddienaid, yn orfoleddus bron, ac yn esgeulus i sicrwydd – dros y drychineb enbyta yn hanes Pretania heb fod achosi.

Ar anterth Haint Llidiol Ysgyfeiniol Llechwraidd Leskov (hynny yw, ar ei waethaf), fe gaeth y Das Wair Ddynol wared ar bawb o’i garfan gywilyddus yn diodde (yn ei dyb e) o’r “saith gwendid warthus,” sef bod yn anfarnol, colegol, digwestiwn, iswasanaethgar, ufudd, ymenyddol, ac ymostyngol. Yn lle hynny, fe fu’n ymfalchïo mewn amgylchynu ei hunan â rhai oedd yn amheugar, anghydffurfiol, anufudd, anystywallt, cythryblus, haerllug ac isel-ael. Fe orchmynnodd byddai’r “bois braf” yn gorfod cyfathrebu trwy ddefnyddio dim ond y coegni brynta a mwya dirmygus a gormodieithiol, am ei fod yn credu taw hon oedd yr unig ffordd o ddefnyddio cyfrwng byrhoedlog llafar yn greadigol.

Roedd e’n addo deall llachar, clirdeb heb ei ail, a chyfathrebu perffaith gan sefydliad fyddai’n orlawn o gyfranogiad, angerdd, a thryloywder. Fe dyngai lw i ddileu’r celwyddau cudd, y lladrata preifat a’r llygredd dwfn yng nghalon y llywodraeth; i ddatgelu pob gweithred ddrwg, a rhannu pob pechod eu cymrodyr; er mwyn i’r boblogaeth nabod y gweision cyhoeddus a gwella’r rhwygiadau rhyngddyn nhw a’r weinyddiaeth gyfranogol, ofalgar newydd. Mewn gwirionedd, fe ddaliodd Leskov a’i ffrindiau ar y cyfle’n codi o’r helbul a’r boblach nychlyd ‘r i gyflawni’r gwrthwyneb llwyr. Roedd fel ‘sen nhw wedi agor llithren gachlyd yn arwain at fôr yng nghanol y Ddaear, ble taflen nhw filiynau o’r rhai difreintiedig i lenwi’r ymwybod cyffredinol a’u gwichian fain wrth foddi. Fe allwn eu clywed nhw bryd ‘ny, ac yn cywilyddio gweud mod i’n dal i glywed dolefain torcalonnus y gorthrymedig heddi –hyd yn oed yn waeth nawr iddo fe ymadael

Wel, anghofiwch am 'ny oll am funud. Rhwng astrusi’i ideoleg (os coelio mewn unrhyw beth a wnâi – ac eithrio er mwyn cyfleustra), blodeuogrwydd ei araith, blerwch ei olwg, a hurtrwydd ei ymddygiad (hollol ffug bob un, meddai digon), fe gâi Leskov ei ladd a’i ail-eni (yn drosiadol) sawl gwaith, a bob tro fe flagurai fe ‘to fel rhyw chwynnyn drewllyd, anwaraidd oddi mewn i fedd o dom bwdr yn nheyrnas sombïaidd gwleidyddiaeth gan selébs.

Yn nes ‘mlaen, yn ystod treial Leskov yng Ngwlad Meryk am Annheyrngarwch Anfaddeuol, dwedai gohebyddion (yn fy nghynnwys innau) sut gaeth hyd yn oed y “Twyllwr Mawr” ei ddal yn ei fagl ei hunan a’i fradychu yn y pen draw – a hynny’n gwbl haeddiannol a nage cyn pryd, ‘fyd. Dyna fydd yn digwydd trwy geisio gwthio “pell-symudwr traws-ddimensiynol materol-glywedol-folecwlaidd-ddirgrynol” hollol aneffeithiol ar wlad sy eisoes yn boddi mewn rhyfel cartre ac ar fin torri. Roedd llawer iawn yn baglu ar draws ei gilydd i ddangos eu hamarch tuag ato, o ran ei bersonoliaeth a’i deyrnasiad wleidyddol fel ei gilydd – yn cynnwys ei hen hoff ffrindiau (hynny yw, y rhai mwya bradwrus), ei gas elynion (sef, y rhai clyfra), a’i gefnogwyr lleia ffyddlon (mae’r rhestr yn ddiddiwedd, bron).

Cychwynnwyd yr achos yn ei erbyn gan y “Dylanwadwr Cudd” Mwyaf Hunanbwysig Tovinikhyak Kamŵnw (erbyn hynny, Proctor dros Seneddol Gyflog, Breintiau, Pensiynau, Blysiau, Camweithredoedd, Gwyrdroadau, Dirwyon, Cosbau, a Pharcio ydoedd). Fe’i cynorthwyid (neu’i rwystro) gan ei ferch gimono, yr Arglwyddes Konkbayndë Bedmeykë (yr afr ffrwythlon â gafrannod fyrdd). Cydgynullid côr Heladig dirfawr o endidau rhithiol – cynrychiolwyr yr eneidiau oedd Leskov wedi’u gyrru i ebargofiant trwy ddiofalwch, traha a hurtrwydd – ac ysbrydion y rhai y trefnodd yntau iddyn nhw gael eu lladd i hybu’i yrfa rheoli’r byd bondigrybwyll.

Derbyniwyd datganiadau terfynol oedd yn ddeifiol a hirwyntog tu hwnt gan y Pwyllgor Pitw fuodd mewn grym yn ystod y Salwch Pesychu Trychinebus: Yakùtsí Magëhreth (Gweinyddwr yr Uned dros Atal Ansicrwydd a Dileu Canlyniadau Annisgwyl); Madhàymi Taynítodjë (Ymholwr i Anghyfiawnderau Cymdeithasol Parhaol a Difodwr Afiechyd Cyhoeddus); Waytwosh wan-Helmzwil (Praetor dros Ledaenu Gwerthoedd y Famwlad a Gorfodi Disgyblaeth Dyner); Elswen Faynbod (Goruchwylwraig y Biwro Gweinyddol dros Reoli Adloniant, Addysg, Anheddau, Argyfyngau, Amgylchedd, Cefn Gwlad, Cyflogadwyedd, Cymunedau, Dinasoedd, Diwylliant, Ffydd, ac Ymborth); Tshomin Hravna (y Prif Arglwydd Rhyfel a’r Tangnefeddwr Olaf); Pátákilá Prethí (Cyflawnydd Uchelgeisiau Dyfodol a Dilëwr Methiannau Blaenorol); H’mtshyel Kowë (Arolygydd Amhleidiol Perthnasau Ymddinistriol Rhyngadrannol – a Rhai Rhyngbersonol Anghyfreithiol); Khaymé Clowverzly (Stiward Seciwlar dros Gynhaliaeth Sacerdotaidd a Helaethrwydd Ysbrydol); a Leysvayth Rotenletis Bayndup (Swyddog Cyffredinol dros Gyffrediniaethau Neilltuol a Nodweddion Cyffredinol).

Doedd yr oferwyr uffernol ‘ma ‘rioed wedi gofyn am adnoddau ychwanegol o fath yn y byd (o ran deall, cydwybod, moesau, gonestrwydd, didwylledd neu empathi o leia) – ac yn wir, prinder o’r rhiniau cythryblus ‘ma oedd ganddyn nhw o ddydd eu geni, ymddengys. Er eu bod nhw’n rhan ohono, fe haeren nhw taw’r criw diffaith gwaetha o seicopathiaid di-glem wedi’u hawdurdodi gan y gyfraith oedd Leskov a’i gyd-ddrwgweithredwyr, heb y tamaid lleia o ddidwylledd, proffesiynoldeb, cyfrifoldeb, nac atebolrwydd, oedd erioed wedi llywio llong cenedl ar lwybr trychinebus i foroedd camlywodraeth, anhrefn, terfysg a cholli bywyd dirfawr.

Ac achub ei gam, fe wedodd Leskov Lwynau Llac ei bod yn amlwg iddo fe (ac i’w wraig ddiweddara hefyd, yn ogystal â chant a mil o’i blant dirifedi), iddo neud ei blydi gore glas yn ystod yr Argyfwng Anesgusadwy. Fe naeth e gonan fel crwt wedi’i ddifetha drwy’r achos oll fod ei gymeriad, ei gymhellion a’i weithredoedd wedi’u camddeall, gan dyngu bod yr oriau a dreuliodd yn lliwio llyfrau lliwio plant, gloddesta, neud modelau o gerbydau trawsgludo pobl o hen gratiau gwin, ac esgus sgrifennu gweithiau anfarwol yn llawn o ffeithlenni ffugiol (ei eiriau yntau) yn ystod cyfnodau pwysica’r cyfyngder yn ei helpu i leddfu’r boen a dioddefaint yn codi o orfod goruchwylio marwolaeth miliynau pobl diniwed. Fe honnodd ymhellach iddo roi i’r Genedl, y Cyfandir, y Blaned, a’r Holl Fyd ei hun, trwy gydol ei oes, bopeth oedd arnyn nhw ei angen a mwy. Roedd ‘na rai’n traethu taw hirfaith, echrydus, a diurddas iawn oedd ei ddarostwng cyhoeddus, ei arteithio, ac yn y pendraw ei ddienyddio, er bod hi’n flin iawn da fi weud na allwn i fod yno drwy’r perfformiad cywilyddus i gyd.

Ro’n i’n trio mynd i’r afael – yn ofer, gwaetha’r modd – â chyfrinachau bywyd y Thorlin yn nhermau cysyniadau rhyfeddomatig fel, “nid oes angen ar fodolaeth angenrheidiol ddim byd ychwanegol.” Ond, o fethu’n llwyr, ro’n i wedi dod i’r casgliad taw clirdeb dydd angen dirgelion y nos am fod golau di-ball yn dallu menyw a’i llosga’n fyw’n hwyr neu’n hwyrach. Ac mae’r stryffaglu meddyliol wedi neud i fi sylweddoli rhywbeth sy’n ymddangos yn hollol amlwg, bellach o leia. Dyn ni ddim yn gallu hepgor rhithiau pethau anhysbys a dychmygol, ni waeth pa mor galed dymunwn ni, am taw dim ond trwy gymharu â’r rhain dyn ni’n mesur a graddnodi’r hyn gredwn ni ein bod yn w’bod i sicrwydd – fel y mae, ta be.