The writing was on the wall the day the circus came to town. In fifteen foot high, pink neon letters, painted in a primative tribal style (not at all in tune with the rustic surroundings or sophistication of Canadian circus act, Circ du Solei) it spelt "trouble" with a capital 'T'. It was while noting the usage of this particular capital that Lapse Dingwall reared in terror at the sight of a mountain exploding from what used to be a building sight about a mile and a half out of town. He had seen some strange folk aound out that way for a while now; strutting Violins, bombastic cigars and unspoken elephants, painfully obvious to all; but this was different. "Mountains don't just come from nothing" Lapse exclaimed to St. Climactus,
"No" replied St. (Barry) Climactus, town hero, "they usually are the result of techtonic plates shifting over the course of millions of years, or perhaps the thawing of massive glaciers, but" his voice dropped to a dramatic whisper "can it be that either has transpired while we were at lunch?"
The Mayor strode to St. Climactus while the room rung with warm applause and said, pinning a meddle on him, "Well done, St. Climactus, you are our hero." Everyone cheered as St. Climactus acknowledged the appreciation with a wave of his hand and a nod of his head. Lapse re-read the word 'Trouble' anxiously. The new name of the town had been approved in order to increase tourism; no-one had used the words 'self-fulfilling prophecy' at that meeting, yet these words were echoing around Lapse's mind like a megaphone in a tin tunnel.
"Come everyone, let us visit the mountain" commanded St. Climactus and the whole town cried 'Hazaar!' and followed in his assured footsteps. Their walk was full of hope and adventure - there was a true sense of wonder in the air. As they passed under the shadow of the mountain the air grew colder; the confidence drained from their step and only st. Climactus maintained the light touch of optimism in his voice as he spoke easilly with the mayor and little Timmy Tylor. He was interupted by a cry;
"HALT!" Three Clowns faced them in the road "Who goes there?" They were Canadian.
Climactus stood with his hands on his hips, his feet spread broadly "It is I, Bartholemew Climactus. What do you know of the mountain?" he asked, taking control. The Clowns whispered in French, then one immitated Climactus' stance while another pushed him over. The third did a ramshakle handstand, falling into the Saint's prone impersonator, who then rasped a death rattle while the other two juggled Yorkshire Terriers. The message was clear enough - Circ du Solei had claimed the mountain for their own. The crowd was taken aback as Climactus stood forward to confront the clowns, only to be pushed into an impossibly small car that the clowns then followed him into.
Out from the car stepped the ringmaster with one hand cocked in his belt-buckle. He addressed the townspeople in a monstrous shout, his fist pumping the air with every other syllable:
"We are the creators of this mountain - we have the power to move worlds - we are superhuman in everyway, we are Circ du Solei" his voice ringing from the crags and caverns of the mountain, his face distorting in rage, his moustache becoming two thin rectangles above a thin lip. "Your hero will be punished, you will be put to work for this Circus and nation after nation will fall into our glorious Sun!"
As the crowd looked around they realised they were surounded by skinny but heavilly muscled girls, bouncing up and down on what looked like elm poles, held by large clowns. Timmy's dog barked and tried to run at one of the clowns, but a bouncing gymnast landed on it hard and the clowns cruelly hosed it with water from lapel flowers. Nobody laughed now; there was no escape for them and there is nothing funny about a wet dog.
Lapse Dingwall stood forward "You've gone mad with power! The mountain is for all of us; not just for your French-Canadian freakshow!" his panic was obvious, but his words were obscured by a howl from the mountain. The sky turned black, electicity licked the air and the earth shook like a train derailing, sending tiny gymnasts spawling and clowns commically colliding face to face as they tried to run in opposite directions. The part of earth the townspeople stood on was solid and steady, but Lapse ran to find his friend Climactus. He peered into the impossibly small car and saw nothing but a plastic seat, a primative steering wheel and a set of stick-on dials.
Lapse pulled away in disbelief, before swinging round to view the previously dominant facist oganisation of the Circ du Solei; gymnasts had become two dimensional, making them limitlessly flexible but invisible from all but one angle; clowns were incapable of performing the simplest task without utter, hopeless frustration (later many would die though grissly but hilarious 'misadventure', while others took jobs in the civil-sevice) and the Ringmaster sat panicing in an endless job interview: "What skills do you have?" his mysterious interlocutors challenged him, whilst he stuttered into eternity.
The townspeople retreated to Trouble where it was safe and they could build a statue for their departed St. Climactus. The mountain lay brooding in the night.
Thursday 21 June 2007
Wednesday 13 June 2007
Ace Cavalier: The Magic Carpet
Ace wandered the streets at night, trying to find a place where he may drink in comfort and good company. He wished to feast with his bare hands, ripping some pig or boar or deer to pieces and gorging himself on its freshly dead, hastilly prepared meat at the same time as quaffing large quantities of beer and wine, singing songs about heroes and kings and brave dead men. On reflection, however, he knew no such songs and had never feasted from a kill of his own. The best he could hope for was a pub with a pool table where no one talked.
It was while shaking his head in regret that he noticed the rug: it was lying in a heap, propped up against an ugly looking tree. Obviously some fool had decided it was surplus to their requirements, or was otherwise undesirable. Shunning the tree for its ugliness, Ace investigated the cause of the Rug's apparent rejection. He opened it out under the streetlights and surveyed its impressive expanse, expecting some tears, bloodstains or cat piss stench, but found none of these things. In fact it just looked like a damn nice rug.
Ace rolled it into a coil and heaved it aboard his shoulders, proudly bearing its weight the half mile to his house. He found himself quite unexpectedly flushed with the anticipation of slapping that rug right down and standing on its exciting patterns, curling his toes into its rich depth. His room (dump) however did not offer it any space, so he propped it up and went to sleep, dreaming of quality floor-coverage.
Upon waking he had a cup of tea and planned out manoeuvres; "this will be tricky" he thought. Execution of the plan was challenging but by sustained effort he managed to have bed moved, computer tucked away, table dismantled, speakers reorientated and amp situated in preparation of the money shot: Rug placement commenced with little less than religious zeal, after rug beating had taken place in the street with a ritualism some would doubt possible of an act that Ace had never before performed. Its proportions could not have fitted more perfectly to the contours of his room; its colours brought life to what had been, up to this afternoon, a grim and deathly carpet of corded, grey, worn, filthy, thin material.
Ace spent the next three days vacuuming his beloved rug and ignoring all other pressing concerns, both financial and personal, that might distract from the enterprize of room-centered floor-space improvement. Deep within him something ancient had been satisfied.
It was while shaking his head in regret that he noticed the rug: it was lying in a heap, propped up against an ugly looking tree. Obviously some fool had decided it was surplus to their requirements, or was otherwise undesirable. Shunning the tree for its ugliness, Ace investigated the cause of the Rug's apparent rejection. He opened it out under the streetlights and surveyed its impressive expanse, expecting some tears, bloodstains or cat piss stench, but found none of these things. In fact it just looked like a damn nice rug.
Ace rolled it into a coil and heaved it aboard his shoulders, proudly bearing its weight the half mile to his house. He found himself quite unexpectedly flushed with the anticipation of slapping that rug right down and standing on its exciting patterns, curling his toes into its rich depth. His room (dump) however did not offer it any space, so he propped it up and went to sleep, dreaming of quality floor-coverage.
Upon waking he had a cup of tea and planned out manoeuvres; "this will be tricky" he thought. Execution of the plan was challenging but by sustained effort he managed to have bed moved, computer tucked away, table dismantled, speakers reorientated and amp situated in preparation of the money shot: Rug placement commenced with little less than religious zeal, after rug beating had taken place in the street with a ritualism some would doubt possible of an act that Ace had never before performed. Its proportions could not have fitted more perfectly to the contours of his room; its colours brought life to what had been, up to this afternoon, a grim and deathly carpet of corded, grey, worn, filthy, thin material.
Ace spent the next three days vacuuming his beloved rug and ignoring all other pressing concerns, both financial and personal, that might distract from the enterprize of room-centered floor-space improvement. Deep within him something ancient had been satisfied.
Monday 4 June 2007
Ace Cavalier: The Tragedy of Enlightenment
Ace Cavalier sat on his bed smoking a cigarette. His back was rested on the window where powerful daylight fell in, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The time ticked beyond two-thirty in the afternoon, yet still he had not dressed beyond the blue flannel dressing gown he wore to the toilet. The hall he traversed in the process was no wider than a doorway; the stains on his gown were indescribable.
Ace considered his options; he could look for a job. He knew the dangers, the pluses and the minuses and so forth. What held him from it was the feeling in the pit of his stomach when considering the prospects of either success or failure. Neither tempted him greatly. He could read, but he never really was the type for books or study and even the Guardian seemed thick and impenetrable at times; the excitement of sudoku had deserted him long before this bright afternoon.
He was a simple man. He needed challenges of a more substantial nature than the marshaling of nine numbers into seemingly endless variation, however tricky it could sometimes be. He needed to fit the purpose of his action into one single word; be it 'revenge' or 'love' or 'glory', yet the world wasn't like that. At least not anymore. No; he had to trace the meanings for his actions down thin and treacherous paths, saying "I have to do X to get Y which will lead to Z in spades which might possibly get me back to A, hopefully."
The worlds of literature and philosophy beckoned from his impressive bookshelf, but he shuddered at all their fine words and laborious endeavor in the transcendant sphere. Spurning the advances of the world beyond, he re-read yesterday's sports pages, worrying that reading at all damaged his eyesight.
Ace considered his options; he could look for a job. He knew the dangers, the pluses and the minuses and so forth. What held him from it was the feeling in the pit of his stomach when considering the prospects of either success or failure. Neither tempted him greatly. He could read, but he never really was the type for books or study and even the Guardian seemed thick and impenetrable at times; the excitement of sudoku had deserted him long before this bright afternoon.
He was a simple man. He needed challenges of a more substantial nature than the marshaling of nine numbers into seemingly endless variation, however tricky it could sometimes be. He needed to fit the purpose of his action into one single word; be it 'revenge' or 'love' or 'glory', yet the world wasn't like that. At least not anymore. No; he had to trace the meanings for his actions down thin and treacherous paths, saying "I have to do X to get Y which will lead to Z in spades which might possibly get me back to A, hopefully."
The worlds of literature and philosophy beckoned from his impressive bookshelf, but he shuddered at all their fine words and laborious endeavor in the transcendant sphere. Spurning the advances of the world beyond, he re-read yesterday's sports pages, worrying that reading at all damaged his eyesight.
Friday 1 June 2007
Springstein and the Rose bush
It began when I tramped down the stairs early one morning to find Bruce Springstein sat hunched in the corner of my hall, accoustic guitar in lap. He was finnishing a song. I remember the last words clearly:
"And though all the people say
'its a bad name'
I call
my daughter
Hugh"
He sang, dignified and proud, like a 1920's railroad worker laid off in the great depression. I wondered what brought him to my shabby abode. His reply came at some length, consisting of a story I could not follow, in a language I did not understand or recognise. It was strange how I became enrapt in its telling; the shear power of his husky voice continues to haunt me, even to this day.
I gave him a cup of tea and went outside to smell the roses that grow in my garden. No garden in this city is as overgrown or as chaotic as mine, a point I find pride in. But the roses are the sweetest smelling I have ever cupped and raised to my nose. Springstein came outside and ripped the rose bush out of the soil with one great tug. I stood, paralysed with fear and shock as he twisted the stem around my head, eliciting blood that poured down onto my chest and arms, the thorns cruelly ripping through the thin skin that covers my skull. My crown in place, he strolled out into the street wiping my blood from his hands on faded blue levis. He was gone without a word.
I sometimes wonder what could have brought Bruce to my home and what meaning there was in his actions and his story. The rose bush has since started to grow again and most of the scars on my head have healed - almost all are invisible under the hat I now wear. I took a month off work and claimed 'loss of earnings' from the government. I received several thousand pounds.
"And though all the people say
'its a bad name'
I call
my daughter
Hugh"
He sang, dignified and proud, like a 1920's railroad worker laid off in the great depression. I wondered what brought him to my shabby abode. His reply came at some length, consisting of a story I could not follow, in a language I did not understand or recognise. It was strange how I became enrapt in its telling; the shear power of his husky voice continues to haunt me, even to this day.
I gave him a cup of tea and went outside to smell the roses that grow in my garden. No garden in this city is as overgrown or as chaotic as mine, a point I find pride in. But the roses are the sweetest smelling I have ever cupped and raised to my nose. Springstein came outside and ripped the rose bush out of the soil with one great tug. I stood, paralysed with fear and shock as he twisted the stem around my head, eliciting blood that poured down onto my chest and arms, the thorns cruelly ripping through the thin skin that covers my skull. My crown in place, he strolled out into the street wiping my blood from his hands on faded blue levis. He was gone without a word.
I sometimes wonder what could have brought Bruce to my home and what meaning there was in his actions and his story. The rose bush has since started to grow again and most of the scars on my head have healed - almost all are invisible under the hat I now wear. I took a month off work and claimed 'loss of earnings' from the government. I received several thousand pounds.
The Creation of the Oversized Mountain
Towards the back of the room sniggers could be heard. Some wag had made a joke about 'Carnap' and sleeping in your automobile. That was the crowd: they were like that, you understand. Two representatives of the brand new religion stood up and introduced themselves.
"I am Studly Crimes" said the one who was made of wax.
"And I'm 'The Supine Dream'" said the other, a feminine shade of purple. "We'd like to introduce you to Metaphorical Trans-Substanciation." There was shock.
"Yes, you become what, in truth, you already represent" Crimes proadly explained.
"I, as an feminine abstract, have become a woman" the warm but strong shade of purple indicated her own obvious femininity.
"And I, as a candle, became a man. You see, I represent you in your own mind. Many a man has looked at a candle and, perhaps obliquely, identified it with himself. Now that candle has become the man." A murmur ran through the whole place.
"We are the external embodiment of your internal identification motion..." 'The Supine Dream' tried to explain further, though she could sense there was unrest in the air. "Our bodies match the metaphor which, to you, we are...". Her voice faltered. An argument broke out. The crowd became angry and started throwing rotten fruit at 'The Supine Dream'. Studly Crimes bravely shielded her.
"Why do you hate us? What are we but what you have made us?" he despairingly spoke, striking a match from the ground.
The crowd pressed around them like a mine caving-in and their shouts echoed from all six walls of the new hexagonal church. The building shook with their fury. "Its not true!" they seemed to say "You're impossible liers!" The mouths of the crowd widened massively and their foreheads became course and rough, like grannite.
"We're not meant for this world, Crimes; they just won't accept us here" panicked 'The Supine Dream', clutching the candle close and preparing for the inevitable.
"I've always loved you, darling" confessed Studly Crimes, criminal in nature, putting the match to his wick.
The hexagonal church of Metaphorical Trans-Substanciation suddenly fell silent, before a great roar ripped through the air. There was a blinding flash and the church was snapped like a twig by the ferocity of its own creation; its walls never fell to earth.
In its place stood a barren mountain of unchanging stone lit by a bright and bodiless purple flame.
"I am Studly Crimes" said the one who was made of wax.
"And I'm 'The Supine Dream'" said the other, a feminine shade of purple. "We'd like to introduce you to Metaphorical Trans-Substanciation." There was shock.
"Yes, you become what, in truth, you already represent" Crimes proadly explained.
"I, as an feminine abstract, have become a woman" the warm but strong shade of purple indicated her own obvious femininity.
"And I, as a candle, became a man. You see, I represent you in your own mind. Many a man has looked at a candle and, perhaps obliquely, identified it with himself. Now that candle has become the man." A murmur ran through the whole place.
"We are the external embodiment of your internal identification motion..." 'The Supine Dream' tried to explain further, though she could sense there was unrest in the air. "Our bodies match the metaphor which, to you, we are...". Her voice faltered. An argument broke out. The crowd became angry and started throwing rotten fruit at 'The Supine Dream'. Studly Crimes bravely shielded her.
"Why do you hate us? What are we but what you have made us?" he despairingly spoke, striking a match from the ground.
The crowd pressed around them like a mine caving-in and their shouts echoed from all six walls of the new hexagonal church. The building shook with their fury. "Its not true!" they seemed to say "You're impossible liers!" The mouths of the crowd widened massively and their foreheads became course and rough, like grannite.
"We're not meant for this world, Crimes; they just won't accept us here" panicked 'The Supine Dream', clutching the candle close and preparing for the inevitable.
"I've always loved you, darling" confessed Studly Crimes, criminal in nature, putting the match to his wick.
The hexagonal church of Metaphorical Trans-Substanciation suddenly fell silent, before a great roar ripped through the air. There was a blinding flash and the church was snapped like a twig by the ferocity of its own creation; its walls never fell to earth.
In its place stood a barren mountain of unchanging stone lit by a bright and bodiless purple flame.
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