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These posts are from no later than 1993-May-02, but may be somewhat earlier.
Since the were posting in a public forum, they probably lie in the public
domain, although Seiran might appreciate a note if they're used somewhere.
The original headers from the first article (except for the missing date)
were as follows:
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.sex,alt.romance,talk.religion.newage
Subject: Elven Pickup Lines
Summary: Article on Top Ten Elf Pickup Lines misleading.
Reply-To: erlkonig@daisy.cc.utexas.edu (Gillecriosd Fionn Alasdair Domhnull)
Organization: Tha mi gu trang a'cluich. Ca`it a bheil an cla`rsach?
Keywords: sidhe elves fair-folk
The quotes from David Letterman in the first article:
Second hand quote from David Letterman, edited
>"I'm down here"
>"Just because I've got bells on my shoes doesn't mean I'm a sissy"
>"I can get you off the naughty list"
>"I have certain needs that can't be satisfied by working on toys"
>"I'm a magical being. Take off your bra."
>"No, no. I don't bake cookies. You're thinking of those dorks over at Keebler"
>"I get a thimbleful of tequila in me and I turn into a wild man"
Fionn continues the first article by objecting to the Elven Pickup Lines,
on the basis of the trivialization
of elves as derived from the keltic daoine siodhe archetype:
(Enter bard. Note: "daoine sidhe" is sometimes pronounced as "theena shee")
The daoine sidhe, and those mortals of the blood.
Imagine the tall, fair-maned, strong, slender, glorious, noble Kelts.
Vainglorious.
Now imagine their teachers, even more so.
Empathy, pure, powerful.
Imagine a sensual kiss of elemental force, with enough empathic feedback to
knock a small baile and all its inhabitants to their collective knees.
Imagine one of the fair folk dreaming of a sharing with thee. Dreamed
fingers in thy hair, crossing the small of thy back, brushing the fine
skin inside thy thighs.
Imagine the catch in thy throat as the magic pools between thee and the
elven dreamer, burring deep in thy core, that magick. Running across thy
silvered skin like blue-green witch-fire.
Borders fled, identity only half-remembered in the coming storm.
Captured in a dream of love and power, bursting and glowing with
the rush of eldritch magick, willingly caught, more real than life.
An the morrow comes, a new name to claim.
Awake thee in thy workplace, having become damp, having become steeped in
the sweet reek of thy loins, having cried out unknowing, having writhed,
having sighed, having been taken by a dream from afar, in a way
inexplicable.
Truly you are mad, they whisper.
And feeling that sweet elf awaken in thy heart, eyes of the sea
watching in wonder, strange heart's-love.
Time resumes...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
And what mortal shall seek the love of Eald?
Would that seeking be foolish or wise?
For there is more than a little truth in this tale, noble readers.
Seiran replies to Fionn in a subsequent article,
in the same forum and following a surprisingly short interval,
with superlative poetry based upon actual experience:
The elven need no imagining for me, o silver-tongued flaxenhair.
Long has it been now that I have skirted the tenuous edge
of the realm of Faerie--
a wicked delicious dance that fires my existence.
Mortal I am, and maid I was when first that white-green fire
filled my ever-wide blue eyes.
Imagine thee what worlds were then opened.
Oft times now I see with rose-crystal clarity...
yet the faerie fire
once clouded my vision with madness.
(Too easy still, to succumb to that.)
I spun (as maids are wont to do) a web of dazzling magic,
blocking my sight,
surrounding me...
mistake me not, for this mad reverie holds ecstasy.
Yet one need not even be loved by the Daoine Sidhe
to surrender to their most glorious charms.
For the Fair Folk live by caprice,
and blessed thou art if they should find
in thee diversion.
And mayhap cursed as well.
An elven creature espoused a trembling maid
unto her womanhood, betwixt
the Beltaine fires and the flowers of Litha.
And there was nought save pure enchantment
to be found in that night.
Of that coupling I need say nothing, for no mere mortal tongue
can bear the truth of such magics.
Strong, fierce magics were they, magics of which
some only dream, aflame with the moon's ivory fire
and the red blood of a virgin.
And bear in thought this creature merely cared for me,
never speaking once of love--
except in admonition for my sanity.
As woman grown I have seen the darkness such magic brings.
--and pity surely to be given to those whom it has vanquished.
Glad I am to say I am not among their number.
Yet I have lost my heart (or perhaps a portion)
to that beautiful creature,
he who unwillingly bound my heart while willingly
unbinding my soul.
When at the last I depart forever the borders of Eald--
for no mortal may remain and hope to see her world again--
there will be a white-green place where once was only
mortal maiden's heart.
Would that all may have such wondrous passage unto themselves.
--Seiran ferch Annora
It's both beautiful and frightening how base dreck can inspire high art.
:-)
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