The Hunkypunk

1/25/2014

The Hunkypunk

I am a hunkypunk. If you do not know what that is, I will tell you shortly. I consider it important for you to know what I actually am and what I am not...especially the latter.  Now, i live in a garden in Vermont-- a quiet garden on a hillside. How and why I got here I am not sure myself but I will share what I know and you can decide if I am telling the truth.

So, sometimes people visit the garden where I sit and they inevitably say, “Oh, what a cute gargoyle!”  If I had blood, it would boil at those casual and  careless words.  I strongly suspect that gargoyles and I stem from a common ancient ancestor but we have evolved quite differently, like men and monkeys, we being the men, of course.  People like you know a little bit about gargoyles from pictures or travels to old cities in Europe. Humans seem to be fascinated by gargoyles but let me assure you that even the most celebrated gargoyles are nothing but old drainpipes. You find them on the eaves of aging cathedrals and churches, collecting rainwater in their hollowed-out backs and spewing it out and away from the mortar and walls of the cathedrals built to stand for eternity. All those hollow empty monsters do is drain water, laced, I am sure, with lots of pigeon poo, off the roofs of those old edifices.  Occasionally, one tumbles off an eave and strikes dead some unsuspecting soul on the ground.  Gargoyles are nothing but potentially deadly, pigeon poo spewing sewer lines.  I would never, ever want to be a gargoyle.

The word “gargoyle” itself is interesting, though. It comes from an old (i.e.. not modern) French word that referred to the throat. The word and the action evoke gurgling or gargling. If you are quite young, you may not be familiar with gargling but most babies do a fair amount of gurgling so you can get the picture of what I mean. The word simply evokes the sound of the water flowing through the throat of the gargoyle, a kind of onomatopoetic experience, if you will.

The legend tells us that a 7th century nobleman captured a terrible firebreathing dragon and brought it to the Merovingian king of France for slaying.  They set the dragon on fire to destroy it and burned it up, except for the head and neck of the dragon, which had been long tempered by all the firebreathing it had done over the millenia. The king just stuck the head and neck up on a church as a warning to evil doers. Thus the concept of directing dirty water off the roofs through the mouths of monsters was born. To be more historically correct, if one can be that regarding myths, the ancient Egyptians and Greeks used similar devices to drain water away, but as there is a lot more rain in Germany and Belgium than in Egypt, the Europeans really elevated the intimidating drainpipe to an art form through the dark ages and medieval times.

Anyway, I am proud to be a hunkypunk, NOT a gargoyle. I acknowledge physical similarities but my family lineage has never been attached to any roofline.  I am considered to be purely decorative, serving only to remind the bold and the timid that both good and evil exist in the world and we must be aware of both states. Yup, that is my job and I love it. 

My name comes from the West Country of England... Somerset, to be precise. I prefer to use my English name of Hunkypunk.  There are indeed other names used to label my genre. Those would include Chimera, Grotesque, and Kirkegrim.  Chimera, though pretty enough, is foreign sounding and likely to be mispronounced, as well as sounding ghostly and insubstantial. The term Grotesque is just....mmm.. grotesque. I use it to describe gargoyles and you already know how I feel about them. The words Kirke-grim bother me much. It is all right to be associated with a church (kirke). It is our tradition. But the word “grim” is all wrong. It means “ugly” or “nasty” and I am neither.  I am unique, I am ancient, I am a hunkypunk, a gentle spirit to please the eye and I offer my protection to those who love me.

“How so?” youi say. “you are a stone statue.”  I must respond that I work through the power and mystery of the magic that lingers even in today’s technological and cynical world.  Note my wings, a clear indicator that I am descended from dragons and what is more magical than dragons, I ask you? True, I no longer breathe fire. On a cold day I cannot even produce a little steam from my mouth or nose. But there are those times of the day when magic strengthens and when it wanes, mostly at the edges of night. I know this. The edges, all edges of worlds, are amazing... the edges of day and night, of forest and field, of life and death.. where magic is most mysteriously powerful and transitions are imminent and anything is possible. 

Next, see my ears, like those of a bat or a fox, those creatures of the night, not unlike me.  Like these creatures, my eyes are keen in the darkness and I see everything... everything. And I hear everything. So when night deepens and all the lights go out in the house of my garden, I am freed from the cold stone and I can roam the gardens and fields and barns to keep this hill safe from the weasel, the fox, or the owl. The cat can come out for a little mouse hunt or love match without fear because I will protect her.  The hens can roost in the knowledge that they are safe from raccoons. The lambs can sleep and dream next to their mothers, safe to grow another day. Then as I hear the dawn arriving on the song of the lark, or when the lights go on in the house, I return to my place among the tomatoes or between the lilies, wherever they have placed me.  It is about the magic and spiritual mysteries on earth, but especially the magic. And that is my job now, and I am glad.

There is more to tell-- there is always more but today I will sit in the sun by the lavender and roses. And now you know a little bit about hunkypunks.  And you must promise me to never, please, ...never call me a gargoyle.