In which the author speaks of childhood castles.

Let Us Speak of Building Blocks

I built castles when I was younger.

And so I dreamt of becoming an architect – for that was the profession that was allowed to “play with blocks” when you grow up.

At first, I largely raised the same castle – over and over again – as I did not have a great variety of blocks to work with. And endless repetition to children is not the terrible burden that adults feel. Later on, when I saw Star Wars, I built spaceports and battle stations. Then strongholds for my G.I. Joes to ward off Cobra’s tanks. With Jurassic Park, I staked out Dinosaur paddocks – from which my pack of “Velociraptors” (they’re Deinonychuses, whatever the movie says) leapt forth with murderous glee.

These were the playgrounds of my imagination.

Places, structures – they have an elemental quality. They are foundational, for stories need settings. And I played with blocks more than any other toy because I loved story more than any other game.

But the making of a new country is not the place alone. A wind of power must blow through it. It must have a spirit. The grim fortresses that I wrestled from the earth, they called to me that I might invest them with my magic.

And so, I breathed my power upon them and made them live.

My castles and their kingdoms were filled with knights and dragons and wizards. This was my Sherwood Forest, my Narnia, my Middle-earth. Every beast harkened to my call. Every monster served at my whim. Armies mustered when I lifted my hand.

No mystery was beyond my understanding, for I was the creator of every one.

Here my rule was absolute. And I decreed that my country would be forever wracked by war. These castles and the fields about them would be the sites of desperate battle. They would become the fields of strife that I strode about.

I, the unseen Master of Fate.

But I am not God, t0 create with a word. My childhood mind was a factory of marvelous magic, but it yearned for materials and patterns to work upon. And so I devoured what was required.

Prince John’s mother’s castle is the final, decisive setting of the conflict in Disney’s old animated Robin Hood. I loved those vulture-men, one with a halberd and the other with crossbow. The wolf archers that pad along, loosing as they come (probably why they never hit anything). Even the Sheriff, looming up with his torch as he finally corners Robin.

And the castle burns around them.

Ralph Bakshi’s 1978 animated Lord of the Rings – a classic! We had it recorded from TV on a VHS. I thrilled to that film, so evocative, such a force to my imagination. It is incomplete, flawed – and there is a part of me that loves it far above Jackson’s work. The Nazgûl!

The Orcs!

(There is more of the Dark Faerie in Bakshi’s work than any B-Horror special effects Jackson can conjure.) All so potent. Yet, it was the Battle of Helm’s Deep that fired my imagination with images of war and sorcery.

And so again and again, I ran to my building blocks. And then, later, my Legos. I marshaled ranks of little warriors on the kitchen tiles, ready to brave the hail of arrows from the battlements, all for the chance to bring steel to the killing reach.

But the battle was always over all too quickly, and so men and monsters would be lifted from where they lay slain to dance again for my pleasure.

My worlds will never die.

The poem quoted above in segments is "Sequence from Childhood," by Elizabeth Jennings. It seems few remember her today – this is a small step toward remedying that loss.

Here is a single volume containing her collected poems. It is a rather hefty book but there are other ways to enjoy her poetry, if you are so inclined.

Ah, Dear Reader, here we must let the matter of childhood imagination rest for now. I hope that this letter finds you well.

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Best regards,

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Bryan