COME TOGETHER: Chapter 23 – MA & MR GOG or FILI O’ SOL? or REACH FOR THE SKY or BLOOD & NEUROSES OF MYSTERIOUS UNION or BAE-WOLF or ERGO (T) – By Kevin Barry Partridge

COME TOGETHER: Chapter 23

MA & MR GOG
or
FILI O’ SOL?
or
REACH FOR THE SKY
or
BLOOD & NEUROSES OF MYSTERIOUS UNION
or
BAE-WOLF
or
ERGO (T)

By
Kevin Barry Partridge

 

‘She’s like a Queen Bee with her pick of the drones’: Rear Widow.

‘Peace, love and a hard cock’: Tori Amos – Professional Window.

All the Poets studied rules of verse’: Lou Reed – Sweet Jane.

‘Oh, my illuminated one, down by Avalon. Oh, my common one’: Van Morrison – Summertime in England.

When I was young I cared a great deal about my appearance. People, perhaps, might have called me superficial. So one day I made a Wish: to obtain some depth, some substance, perhaps even a little Wisdom. I know now, that these gifts only come with suffering, hardship and the overcoming of adversities. There have been many difficulties, but I do not regret my Wish. No-one can remain unchanged by onerous experiences, but these are not the hardest tests a person has to face, that – as we shall all discover – comes much later.
PART 1: NEITHER FISH, NOR FOWL, NOR GOOD RED HERRING.
The History of Mankind is a Story of Outcasts – according to Three, or perhaps even all of the Worlds Four Major religions: [0] Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden for eating the forbidden fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and Our ‘Odyssey’ as descendent’s of those Original Sinners (Whatever their True Names may have been) [1] is a journey of redemption, back to Our former Paradise. But the road has been made hard, and there are many Gates, the final one guarded by the Angel with a Flaming Sword – and ultimately – Everyone travels alone! There are no group bookings! Because nobody’s going to thank you if you turn up in Paradise with a bunch of arseholes, except the arseholes – and why would anyone want to be thanked by them. But there are comforts to enjoy along the Way, and the vague Hope that an ‘Immortal Beloved’ will somehow have managed to make their own way there, and be waiting.

In some ways the history of Great Britain is also an account of outcasts, and of the energizing/revitalizing force these schismatic outsiders can exert: many have been homegrown, prophets without honour in their own land, who were suppressed or exiled, driven to madness or suicide. Exuberant, rhapsodic individuals Seeking only to impress, before the Egress. Like the Romantic Poets…Britain’s least Glacial Erratics, torn from the land and placed on high by the Forces of Nature, elevated whilst trying to save Humanity from the dehumanizing onslaught of the industrial revolutions impending age of machines and from the tyrannical tick tock of the clock. They were Scholastic, Iconoclastic – Masters in the expressions of Transgressions – Silver Tongued and shunned! The ecstatic Percy Bysshe Shelley – (S)he of the unburnt Heart, eternal returning his forebear of ‘El Corazón Invulnerablé’ and Proto-Outsider; Dionysus ‘The God that comes’. [2] The tender Poet mirroring the Liberator’s euphoric love for Ariadne as beneath the flourishing vine he pleads to accede to the creeds of Eleutherios’s Mystery cult – clinging, lovelocked in the arms of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin at Midnight in the graveyard of St Pancras Old Church, deflowering her on her Mothers tomb – feeding the dead with offerings of blood. Both lovers surely feeling that somehow they’d found their untamed ‘other’ in this, the widest and wildest of Worlds. Merging/emerging unified and epicene through some sanguine sowing of words, some NecRomantic entanglement – the Old ‘Evoe’ – before the long heave-ho. Thus sparks Zarathustra! Mary would sends sparks flying again, to horrifying effect, but only after She & Shelley and Claire Clairmont were forced to flee these shores – Vilified – the most desirable of undesirables . The Erotic Lord Byron: the Grand Panjandram of Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma’am – [3] [4] likewise had to slink, swishing through the shadows of swanky Piccadilly, and absconding – just ahead of the mob. The Mystic Samuel Taylor Coleridge (none Truia) blowing through the canyons of his mind, foot-furrowing – intaglio – the ‘Tragliatella’ Labyrinth into the ridges of his brain – rotationally routing his route by rote within that fine boned pleasure-dome – so bedraggled and opium addled that he and Wordsworth would be accused of being French spies and chased from their rural idyll by the pitchfork-handed locals. The Gnostic William Blake eager ever for England’s Angels of Peckham Rye but – mocked, knocked and eventually locked in mortal battle with the ‘Miller of Eternity’ – the Totemic turned to Polemics. The beatific/poetic John Keats – fir born little fox, unfeted and evacuated – fever-fled by his fickle fervid friends. The Quixotic John Clare, the poster boy of outcasts – Mad as a Marching Hare – on toes tips: Trips – Traipse – Traps.

The idiosyncratic Irishman Oscar Wilde; pro-scribed, alas – ex liber-alis – due to his hubris and man’s malice at the ‘malus Malus’ that sustained him. Resting now in Parisian soil – laid low by trial and retral – bedded down below the Sphinx he loathed so much.

Then there were Irish Nationalists like the Aristocratic Lady Gregory, Augusta, who would up the ante by advocating the withdrawal of the whole of Ireland from the United Kingdom to become an Independent Sovereign State, partially succeeding with the Partition of Ireland in 1921 and the Republic of Ireland seceding from the UK in 1922.

She would be joined in the ‘Celtic Twilight’ by the Author of the fundamental tome, the Celtic/Cultic William Butler Yeats – another ‘Eleutherios’ of Irish Isles, smiling now I hope – who’s Harmonic Theories of ‘The Belle Carousel – La Passionnel’ – would vibrate Time, [5] undulating Feathered Ouroboros into Oscillating Cyclic Waves and infinity symbols – Seeing Leda’s Ravishment by the Swan and Marys Dove descended Conception of a Holy Son reverberate and blur down through the Ages of Aions trip, with ‘His Nibs’ and his ‘Twin’ – Leo Africanus Masked and See-sawing their way through time, preter-teeter-tottering for the love of the Rose ‘Alchemica’, rising and falling on the waves of her Love – flowing on the Fulcrum of her Affection – Seafarer’s on the Shuggy(one-upman)Ship, both ‘Seekers’ of Love and Truth and Art – the Tessalating Antithetical Enantiomorphs.

But the Aesthetes would not be shunned and shamed alone, the Rationalists and the Analysts would fare no better. The Scientific Alan Turing, recurring Adam – biting the apple – in a fittingly poetic reference (for a Logician?) [6] to his own taste for forbidden fruit. [7] The fruits of his labour having been plucked, placed in a gift basket and handed to the Americans.

Many researchers and experimenters, of course, ran into trouble for challenging the teachings of the Church, often risking banishment and excommunication. The Eclectic Polymath John Dee, having already overturned charges of ‘Calculating’ and ‘Treason’ would not have survived without Royal patronage. Although devoutly religious, the renowned Alchemist (and Scientist) Sir Isaac Newton (who was equally familiar with the fall of Man and the fall of Apples, although he would – presumably – have attributed each to different forces) was accused of Blasphemy for his description of the Universe as ‘The Sensorium of God’ AND of heresy for his rejection of Trinitarianism. Charles Darwin was accused of Apostacy, of course, for ‘The Origin Of Species’ – the church considering any theory ‘Evolution’ heretical.

But the Scientists fared far better than some of the earliest exponents of a methodical system of Arcane Knowledge, the several Thousand Holistic Women killed on these Islands during the Witch-Hunts which were carried out between the 15th and 18th Centuries. In the early years of the 20th Century, Women – half the population – would again be ostracised and men-aced, this time for requesting a basic Human Right with the Prognostic Suffragettes being branded ‘Terrorists’ – for demanding the Vote. [8]

In William Shakespeare’s old Parish in Southwark there is a patch of unconsecrated Earth called the ‘Cross Bones’ which was used as a burial ground for the ‘Winchester Geese’: prostitutes from the numerous local brothels of ‘The Liberty of the Clink’ and afterwards used as a paupers graveyard, for people too poor for the prophet of the Church. The Bard would have known these ‘Pariahs’, and there are times when I suspect that even he was probably not well liked in his time – people probably thought that he was a bit full of himself. I wonder if anyone who hadn’t felt the sting of contempt could have written Sonnet 29?

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

I could go on – I really could – but however many Homegrown Mavericks I can think to thank, Our Greatest debt of Gratitude will always be to those actual Outsiders who have traveled here from afar, the strangers to these Srange Lands Who have contributed so much to ‘The Culture’ and Who brought so much to the Communal Table. Even our Patron Saints, are Mainly Migrants – The Emblematic St George: the Patron Saint of England – that ingénue of derring-do – performed his baby peekaboo’s and ballyhoo’s in the shadows of those fine Fairy flue’s; the Hoodoo’s of Cappadocia. [9] St Andrew of Scotland astrally travelled further still, for he was born in Galilee and even St Patrick of Ireland wended Westwards from the Welsh though he was by then ‘more an antique Roman’. The United Kingdom ‘is’ fundamentally an Archipelago of Immigrants (of which much more later)…(and with the possible exception of the Cornish – They, I expect, are from Cornwall). There is However one more Native son, that I really must touch upon.

…So slowly now approaching – in a sequence of Quickening ‘Coppola’ intercuts: Black Panther, prowling through the undergrowth/Peter Cushing – crucifix raised, Masturbation/Humiliation, Cunnilingus/close mouthed Confession, Sucking-Fucking/a bellyaching priest, the wide eyed Eating of the Apple/a Communion Cup falling to the Floor and smashing as the Music swells and the Devils words are heard – ‘I WILL NOT SERVE!’ (delivered with an soft Irish lilt) – cums the King of the Outsiders, [10] a Man who – to paraphrase Groucho Marx: ‘wouldn’t join a club that would have ‘anyone else’ as a member’, the Truistic – James Aloysius Joyce. Rarely has a Man rejected so many or so much – friends, family, lovers – all just Grist to Grind and Torch. Every relationship reduced to ash by the fire of his Genius, with him then proffering the burnt offerings to the Communal Feast, all now just oblations and immolations. But tendered to Who’s Altar? Not Gods – though perhaps some other Abomination’s! All save one, She was fuel for a different fire, ‘Blistering Blue‘…Flames to turn the air Blue. Fucking Nora! But the Paternal let-downs, the drab debaucheries of Night-town, the betrayals he gleaned – and breakdowns, the way too many low-downs on the old Hometown, the trials of his inevitable renown – all – however intimate – intimated, the wreckage just part of the path of destruction left in Finnegans wake – Tattle-tales told/Imbattled-books sold and ‘Himself’ – Exiled – an Emigré now in Trieste, Zurich, Paris – where could even deserve him? As his Mother lay dying She begged him to take the Holy communion, but James Joyce knew – the Churches Communion is intended only for those in a state of Grace and he knew that much like himself and the Original Eponymous Hero of his most famous book, that boat had sailed….or did he maybe know that he had already taken a different Communion, with a rival Sacrament?

(I must clarify a point here, made hastily before: Adam and Eve were not in fact cast out of the Garden of Eden because they had eaten from the ‘Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil’ they were cast out to prevent them from Eating the Fruit of the ‘Tree of Life’ – because, with their newly acquired knowledge of Good and Evil, eating of that ‘Fruit’ would have made them Immortal – and they would have been as Gods).
Part 2: THE SACRAMENT
Now, of course, the Holy sacrament is a simple standardized wafer of unleavened bread – the purported preternatural Transubstantiation of Christs living flesh into a parsimonious padulum crystallizing either at the pronunciation of the ‘Epiclesis’ or the ‘Words of Institution’ depending on the Geographical location of the eager recipients Church, an example of the great Christian divide of East and West. Such, we are supposed to believe, is the Power – bestowed from on High – of an increasingly atheistic priesthood and the efficacy of the ‘Divinely’ infused language that they employ – still forceful, despite their shocking lack of belief. Every salesman knows you don’t have to believe in the product to make a sale – you just need to know a little about human nature, utter suitably imbued words, look confident as you say them and enunciate, well…a little flamboyantly. Priests are taught the hyperbolic tongue in Seminary school – of necessity – in a Globalized market how many would still choose such spartan fare when they could go the way of James Joyce, the delights of the pastry shop being widely available and so, so tantalizingly close: cream horns, jalebi, danish pastries, bear claws, ma’amoul, eccles cakes and éclairs, apple strudel, pain aux raisins and baklava etc – but then of course the wafer is so much more than just a wafer. Drug dealers all over the World pull a variation of this same trick: “This is strong stuff!” they say, staring into your eyes while you gratefully hand over your money – ‘well that’s like hypnotizing chickens’ I think somebody may once have sung. The priests I could argue – unlike ‘some’ of the drug dealers – are peddlers of a variation of ‘Stone soup’ with each beneficiary bestowing a wealth of theoretical/theological seasonings onto the churches frugal fat and floury tabula rasa. Perhaps I could make such an argument, but I would never doubt the combined dynamism of the placebo effect, the communal feast and really good embroidery, my faith stretches that far…and of course some wine always helps. The embroidery is important, if the early proponents of the English reformation could have gazed into the future they surely would have realized that stripping the church of the blessed Virgin, of ritual and Majesty, of all that gold leaf and golden thread – of the glorious theatricality of the Catholic faith in favour of halfhearted beratement in austere white churches by men of dubious moral fibre and deviant sexual preference would eventually become unappealing – even gluttons for punishment have their limits. Of course men with similar persuasions and of the right class would – soon after the reformation be able to join the newly established ‘Freemasons’ and indulge those lost pleasures at their leisure, they’d even get to wear some of that gorgeous fucking garb…and oh, and look at all those beautiful Whigs. [11] Obviously they would have to call the Virgin by her older name and they would, in truth, maintain a somewhat…duplicitous relationship to her: ‘Osiris?’ says they ‘Don’t know where he is, haven’t seen him in ages – but Set’s been with us all the time’ – [12] Oh lad’s, if the Widow only knew…but then again….

Doubtless the wafer was a necessary refinement on the earliest roots of Religion – those times when the Great Goddess still reigned supreme: The Universal Mother – represented on Earth in her earliest incarnations by a Matriarchal High Priestess of the Moon; ‘the serene Queen’ – AKA Selene – but then, with the tarnishing of time ‘the something in between Queen’ – and eventually just ‘was that another fucking scream, Queen?’ (well, I have heard that women in power sometimes over compensate, but any self respecting ‘apis regina’ should surely understand the relative charms of Honey and vinegar). The last of those Queen Bees sometimes called ‘The Morrigan,’ [13] [14] ruthlessly ruling her hive, presiding over those heady days when the flesh of the male deities/drones – her Seasonal consorts, the dueling twins; the King of the Oak and the King of the Holly, [15] (freeform regional riffs on the themes of Tammuz/Enkimdu and Set/Osiris; the Fool Kings of the corn or wheat) and in England’s once and future past, John Barleycorn (that other half man/half biscuit) – really was the flesh of the male deities/drones, annually/biannually ripped apart by the tribe like poor Actaeon by his own hounds: torn asunder by men and women [16] for getting the briefest glimpse of the unveiled, naked Goddess – [17] a ritual known to the ancient Greeks as the ‘sparagmos’, his eviscerated blood soaked body the holy sacrament of fertility – the devouring of his flesh, a union with the life of the fields and a vital spur to the health of the crops – a sanguine feasting wassail known as the ’omophagia’: so beautifully portrayed in Pier Paulo Pasolini’s ‘Medea’ – what a face She had for film and what a voice, that Enchantress: Maria Callas. Queen Bees everywhere still miss those crimson tinted afternoons: Singalongs, nibbles and a good hard cock – ‘Kill him while he fucks me’ echoing through the fever-dewed countryside like the churchbells of…St ‘Lily on the brow’ – serenading the congregations rhythmic tessellations: real gone girls. But they still pipe away the days in A flat somewhere and spray those pheromones around. They even managed to maintain the hive mind, in part at least among the weak willed – but the entrail strewn nests, liberally decorated with the jawbones of hapless lovestruck poets, the heads of the ex-Rex and the Pontifex and the cocks of quondam beau’s are, they lament, a thing of the past. Perhaps a Praying Mantis is a better analogy than a bee…..and on the radio Scott Walker sings: ‘’Cause I’m immune, to you dubious charms’. But of course the Catholic church openly acknowledges the connection between the victuals and the victims, the bread and the dead, the aliment and the innocent, their word for the Eucharist or communion bread: Hostia translates as ‘Sacrificial victim’.

But there was a time between times when the body of the God was a very potent morsel indeed – a revelatory catalytic chariot able to transport the initiate to a floriat and flowery deep blue Heaven or a Hell of indescribable torments. In those far off days the Divine Intercessors had to be good, these things were life and death, to the tribe at least – and the difference between madness and sanity for the initiate – and they were Good, though the story of their journeys into Greatness would be Millennia in the making.

PART 3: THE AMELIORATION OF THE SYNCRETIC HERETIC.

 Great Britain – having been only variably inhabitable during the wild temperature fluctuations of the Glacial/Interglacial periods, [18] [19] of the last Ice Age, was – until the start of this our current interglacial: ‘the Holocene’ some 10,00-15,000 years ago periodically de/repopulated [20] by the ebb and flow of Mesolithic hunter gatherers who traveled here from mainland Europe following migrating herds over the no longer extant ‘Garden bridge’ of Doggerland. [21] These wandering opportunists mingled with the soft Southern idigenes for thousands of years until that connecting span became submerged at around 6,500 BC. The (now stranded) inhabitants of these shores maintained a hunter-gatherer, scavenger-forager way of life until they were, in time largely supplanted by Neolithic Pelasgian farmers who landed on the West coast of Ireland at around 4000 BC by ship, and who may well be the primary source of the Legends of ‘The Tuatha Dé Danann’. [22] [23] Originating in the Aegean (Greece and Anatolia) [24] [25] these early forerunners journeyed entirely by sea, following what would eventually become the main Phoenician coastal trading route then via the Iberian peninsula. The majority of their compatriots would take the slower Mediterranean route of dispersal eventually crossing the Sea from Northwestern Europe. [26] They brought with them their: Agrarianisms, Altruisms, Animal Magnetisms, Aphorisms, Arborealisms, Classicisms, Dynamisms, Egalitarianisms, Ergotisms, Euphemisms, Feminisms, Fetishisms, Gnosticisms, Hedonisms, Liberalisms, Lyricisms, Mysticisms, Organisms, Optimisms, Paganisms, Pastoralisms, Supernaturalisms, Symbolisms and the earliest and most profound roots of all the Worlds religions – veneration of the still nebulous, amourphus ‘Mother Goddess’, [27] [28] of the fertile crescent. [29] [30]

‘Mamma from Heaven’ and a Boon of hoped for continuity to the Women who had guided a Mesolithic society that had been Matriarchal for thousands of years, due largely to Womans sophistication in communication, her superior social skills and some astutely honed abilities in complex stratagem. [31] Perhaps though also , in part because of her near Mystical blood connection to the Moon and thereby to the Seasons and the life of the land. [32] Now, as the World began to turn from Superstition and Animism [33] to Religion, [34] and from the intuitive thirteen cycles of the Lunar Calender to the unassailable logic of the Babylonian Solar Calender’s twelve divisions, [35] [36] these Woman would most assuredly welcome the reassurance of some ‘Divine’ Feminine reinforcement (even if they were sure this new ‘She’ was largely a matter of vernacular semantics). Perhaps they even thought they would even be able to mold the New Gods in their own image and take charge of the coming Succession.

The progressive travelers from the East also brought with them advanced systems of astronomy and a long tradition of Megalithic architecture, [37] [38] their journey’s here can be traced in the Stone circles found throughout Europe and along the Atlantic coast, area’s they seeded with the beginnings of Civilization, [39] Myth, [40] and Religion. [41] The descendants of their/our people on these islands are responsible for Stonehenge, Avebury etc. Heartfelt thanks folks! In about 2,450 BC, these agrarian/pastoral land artists and the surviving idigenes were joined in this Great Melting Pot by an inflow of the Bell Beaker people from the Lower Rhine, [42] and later still; at around 700BC the Celts arrived on our shores via a process of Tran-Cultural Diffusion from Central Europe bringing with them an Old Brythonic/proto-Celtic language – which had been derived largely from the Phoenician Alphabet – and that was used all over the Atlantic fringe and much of Europe to trade copper, silver and tin and which would co-exist with the Pelasgians earlier ‘Orphic’ idioms based on an Alphabet of Trees which had survived here, having been largely supplanted in Europe with the coming of the Sun Gods. The eventual lingual mix would diverge into Cornish, Cumbric, Welsh, Breton, Pictish and the Goidelic Languages of Irish, Manx and Scottish Gaulish. [43] And so the Pelasgians influence waned, but the Artisans of the Earthworks stone legacy remained – immutable – [44] even as their other bestowals – less solid than rock: the Troy Games, their Arboreal Locutions – the crazy Mazy Crane Dances – all those tried and tested Aphorisms and the songs of their Funky Old Time Religion slowly wove with newer modes and drifted like Chinese whispers, down through the ages – a mystical, colloquial, swirling homophonic haze of Moonbeams and Mondegreens.

Our story now is established in the Great Age of ‘The Battle of the Trees’ – [45] as the ‘Sun God’ finally arrives fully formed on these already Bright and Shining Shores so Beloved of Our local Goddess. Still some 400 years before the birth of that later Icon otropic ‘Son of God’ – [46] ‘The Great Eggcorn’ from which the tree of Christianity will eventually be constructed from the remnants of the Sacred Groves of his Ancestors, [47] providing lovers of English wordplay, [48] such simple joys – on the fringes of the area that will subsequently become the Riverside City of London. [49] The Romans – those OCD builders who, like most builders take longer than you think and end up being more trouble than they’re worth – will not be bothering us for a few centuries and Britain is an Idyll – having become increasingly well connected, as the Bronze age progressed, with what is now called Europe, and beyond to the Mediterranean and from there to the wide World. The land bridge is long gone, but tin being constitutive of that alloy and rare, these ancient isles have have managed to maintain their intricate networks of trade with all the concomitant connections of culture, language and belief – the Blue Beads of Egypt adorn our finest ladies, and ideas from the Brahmin’s of India, the Mystics of the East and the schools of Pythagoras are debated by Our Greatest Philosophers. During this period Britannia is even afforded a certain renown – the craftsmen of Albion being considered amongst the greatest metal workers of this age with many of the Swords and Torques used in Europe being forged on these Shores. Our Metallurgists even produce some of the finest bronze Ritual, Ceremonial and Votive objects in the new and evolving La Tène style, [50] found in the Museums of the now distant Future.

Sadly, however those Museums will be utterly devoid of artifacts representing the source of Albion’s greatest cultural distinction of this period: The Great Schools of Druidism – the Teachings of which are widely conducted in Groves, Caves, Roundhouses and the remnants of the Pelasgians Stone Circles, but few artifacts and even fewer facts will survive into the looming Modern Era. Of the Classical accounts Julius Caesar will Provide the clearest report of the ‘People of the Oak’ and their Schools: ‘The Institution of Druids is thought to have Originated in Britain’ he will write, and ‘There they (the Druids) are said to learn thoroughly a great number of verses. On that account some continue at their education for 20 years’ though a period of Twelve years is a more accurate gauge of the period of training. Whilst the Druids are able to write in many Languages their Tradition is a purely Oral – teachings are transmitted verbally, learned by rote and preserved Solely in the memory of students. The abhorrence of the written word apparently stemming from a belief in the corruptibility of text, and the threat of the dispossession of Secrets and with them the Druids Power. As the students courses progress, the Scholars are gradually streamed into three main ranks of Specialized function, according to prelation: the Druids, Bards and Seers. Their duties could be defined thus:

Druids: Shamans, Sages, Shape-shifters, Natural Scientists, Knower’s of the Ways of the Oak , Magicians, Herbalists, Healers, Waylayers, Arcane Arbiters, Profane Arbitrators, Lawmakers, Wizards, Clarifiers and Befuddlers, Masters (Dilators) of Time, Wearers of the Robes, Bearers of the Periwinkle, Sacrificers of the White Bull, Moon-Cutters of the Mistletoe, Inscribers of the Picture on the wall, Spinners in the Virtuous Spiral Ascent, Receivers of the Trigonal Bounty of Zalmoxis, Brigid’s Horsemen of the winged Horse-sense, Hiders of the Easter Eggs, and always, always the intermediaries between Man/Woman and the Gods/Spirits/Ancestors…..and also, let’s be honest – probably politicians.

Seers: Masters of the Threefold Divinations; Teinm Laida, Dichetl Do Chenaib, Imbas Forosna, Heralds of the Unseen Cycles, Visionaries, Soothsayers, Augurs, Intuitores, Spacialists, the Profound of the Underground, Prophets of the upcoming Catacombs, the Perceivers of the Wheel, Conduits of the Arcane Perspicacity, Agents of Change, Interpreters of the Picture on the Wall, the Adept at Adaptation, Readers of the Ripples on the Lake, the Divers in the Dark, Prognosticators of pertinent Perceptions, The Searchers in the Sky, Evaluators as to the Assignations of the Indications, the Second-Guessers, Mavens of the Ravens Wing – Keepers of the Keys to the ineffable Gateway of Future memories.

Bards: Poets, Storytellers, Master Musicians, Troubadours, Intimates of Awen, Weavers of the Mythos, the Doyens of Folklore & Fable, Emissaries to Kings, Bureaucrats, Custodians of the communal Memory, Guardians of the Language, Composers of the Lamentations, Complicators of Cryptography, Brandishers of the Brichts and Shades, Observers/Preservers of Humanity, Molders of the Tribal Identity, Broadeners of the Parochial Aspirations, Fabulists concerning the Picture on the Wall, Singers of the Sacred Sounds of the 7 Mystagogues, [51] Knights of the Dactyl, Warriors of the Waters of Hippocrene, Masticator’s of the Laurel, The Sonorous of Voice, Intoners of the 7 vowels, Conveyors of the Supernatural Cadence, Wielders of the Weirding Wail, Teachers of the Madman’s flight, Chroniclers of the Tremendous Deeds, Bearers of the Silver Bough of Our Lady of the Underworld, Oath Keepers.

In his: ‘On the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish,1873’ – Author Eugene O’Curry provides a
An example of a Curriculum of Bardic Training;

Year 1: 50 Ogams or alphabets. Elementary Grammar. Twenty Tales.
Year 2: 50 Ogams. Six easy lessons in Philosophy. Certain Specified Poems. Thirty Tales.
Year 3: 50 Ogams. Six minor lessons of Philosophy. Certain Specified Poems. Grammar. Forty Poems.
Year 4:The Bretha Nemed or Law of Privileges. Twenty Poems of the Species called Eman (Births). Fifty Tales.
Year 5: Grammar. Sixty Tales.
Year 6: The Secret Language of the Poets. Forty Poems of the Species called Nuath (Twins). Seventy or Eighty Tales.
Year 7: Brosnacha (Miscellanies). The Laws of Bardism.
Year 8: Prosody. Glosses (the meaning of obscure words) Teinm Laeghda. (Illumination of Song). Imbras Forosnai (Light of Foresight). Dicheltel do Chennibh (Extempore Incantation). Dindsenchas (Land Lore).
Year 9: A Specified number of compositions of the kind called Sennet(?), Luasca (Three oscillating springs over the Druids head?), Nena (?), Eochraid (keys), Sruith (Streams) and Duili Feda (Wisdom Tales). To master 175 tales in this and the next two years.
Year 10: A further number of the compositions listed above (part of the 175 tales).
Year 11: 100 of the compositions known as Anamuin.
Year 12: 120 Cetals (Orations). The Four Arts of Poetry. During this and the two years previous to master 175 tales, along with the 175 of the tales learned by the Annruth – 350 tales in all. [52]

The curriculum for Druids and Seers is just as rigorous, indeed the first few years are frequently identical, with courses diverging after an initial Panoptic Period. In every office, one capacity is essential – Memory: 150 Oghams (alphabets), 580 Tales, nearly 250 Poems can easily be Equivalent in volume to the Mahabarata. [53]

In his Theogony, Hesiod states that the Peremptory Phonetic Power of the Poets comes from their Esoteric connection to The Mother of the Muses: Mnemosyne. Both She and the Druids possess sacred pools of Memory in their respective Underworlds. The Druids immerse themselves in these waters on their Shamanic quests to access the Ancestral knowledge – the Universal Truths of the Tribes communal Memory – water being the lustrating liminal realm, the veil between Worlds. They are presided over Now and Here by Danu; meaning ‘the Primeval waters’ She is Worshiped by those who know as an Irish Goddess and Mother of ‘The Tuatha Dé Danann’ – but her Origins, as a primordial Vedic water Goddess are remember by One, the Rarest and most Mysterious of the Druidic designations: The Mystagogue!

Next: PHANTASMAGORIA.
© Kevin Barry Partridge 2019
0: In Judeo-Christian Traditions of course, but the Quran also acknowledges Adam and his wife Hawa, with Hawa being called ‘the Mother of Mankind’. Versions of the story also appear in the Hindu texts; In the Rigveda (1700-1100 BC), and the Upanishads (700-500 BC) – ‘Atma’ and ‘Jeevatma’ are Birds eating Fruit from the Tree of Jiva and the couple appear again in later texts as Humans – in the Brahma (Vaivarta) Purana and the Bhavishya Purana with ‘Woman’ called a variation of ’ Havyakavathi’ and with Kali sometimes playing the Serpent, though always without the concept of Original Sin.
1: Man, Woman and Serpent will feature later, in an another earlier form – if that makes sense. (See 39)
2: The twice born (or twice baked)?
3: Panjandrum! Artistic License!
4: Or Man, or Mum….probably.
5: There are many theories concerning recurring self-similar Historical Cycles. W B Yeats seems to have based his own on the duration of ‘the Precession of the Equinoxes – an approximately 26,000 year Cycle – possibly from precedents in Classical Sources. The Greek Stoics conceived of the concepts of ‘Ekpyrosis’ and ‘Palingenesia’: the recurring destruction and subsequent recreation of the Cosmos on a cycle of this ‘Great Year’. The Original Cyclic Traditions are even older, beginning in the Precepts of Ancient Egypt and the many creeds of Indian Philosophy, Hindu in particular. The Aztecs and the Mayans also viewed time Cyclically. In the West, Abbot Johannes Trithemius (1462-1516) espoused a repeating series of 354 year Epochs ruled and directed by the Archangels of the Seven Planets – Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn – citing the Thirteenth century Paduan Physician Peter d’Abano as his precedent (a pattern Rudolf Steiner would adopt). Giambattista Vico (1668-1744) proposed a sequence of cycles based on the Three Ages of Ancient Egypt. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831) in the ‘Lectures on the Philosophy of World History’ and ‘The Philosophy of History’, Flinders Petrie (1853-1942) in ‘ The Revolutions of Civilization’ and Hermann Schneider in his ‘The History of World Civilization from Prehistoric Times to the Middle Ages’ 1927 would all go on toconstruct their own versions and Henry Adams (1838-1918) in the ‘Degradation of the Democratic Dogma’ would reincorporate the Astrological tradition of ‘The Great Year of the Ancients’ into his interpretation. Oswald Spengler in his ‘Decline of the West’ (1918-1922) famously proposed a cyclic structure based on the Seasons of the Year, comparing Classical Greek culture to contemporary reference points in Western Civilization. but certainly the Most Well known proponent of ‘Eternal Return’ is Friedrich Nietzsche, who outlined his theories in his Book: Thus Spake Zarathustra. (1884)
6: Imaginative thinking being an advantage to Scientists: Einstein ‘discovered’ his special theory of relativity as a result of Daydreaming whilst he was still at the Patent Office – He Imagined he was traveling through Space in a spaceship. He also concluded that Space must be curved by imagining riding a Sunbeam and always arriving back where he began.
7: Of his time (Note to Self – rhyme fruit & compute).
8: In 1914 nearly 40% of men couldn’t vote either – because they didn’t own property.
9: How appropriate that he should come from Cappadocia, in retrospect, considering the contribution of the (soon to appear in this Narrative) builders in stone.
10: Though there will always be challengers.
11: The numbers 72/73 being here apposite – I.e. as represented on a One dollar bill – and those Numbers having been pertinent in previous chapters.
12: There is – I believe – a scurrilous theory that Freemasonry (officially founded in Britain in 1717 but active before) can’t (cant? Or as John Clare might Homo-phone in; Cunt!) actually trace their history ALL the way back to ancient Egypt and that they are in fact a Whig artifice, a contrivance concocted to help expedite the unpopular Hanoverian succession of Queen Anne by George 1st in 1714. (Which ironically sent – in keeping with my Narrative – the only Man capable of Satirizing such intriguing machinations; the Author of ‘Gulliver’ back on his ‘Travels’). Anyway, a scandalous rumour….utterly devoid of any of the self suggested romance conjured by the ‘unbekannten Oberen’ of the Knights Templar or Rosicrucians….although I suppose that would explain all those ‘Grand Masters’.
13: #Starfucker just like my daddy.
14: The Morrigan or ‘Phantom Queen’ is hard to define, but any Man (or Dagba) who’s attempted to date a menopausal woman will have some insight – as the stand up said – “Everybody has baggage, but hers was all crocodile.”
15: Known to some as the enantiomorphs – the battling Tweedledee and Tweedledum, with Alice growing accordingly in stature.
16: And yes the now venerated Alice’s ‘monstrous crow’s.
17: Though which of her three faces/masks the ‘Triple Goddess’ wore remains a mystery.
‘Diana in the Leaves Green,
Luna that so bright doth Sheen,
Persephone in Hell.’
The White Goddess(TWG): By Robert Graves – page 377.
18: The ice sheets ending most recently at the North/South divide and most severely at Swiss cottage – and extending westwards following the line of the M4.
19: There were Lions and Hippopotamus’s in Trafalgar square 120,000 years ago, their fossilized remains were found during construction.
20: Or desrespopulated? Too much?
21: Trawlers still regularly haul in the skeletal remains of Lions, Mammoths etc. As I publish this today – 11/06/2019 – I have Just read, in an article in the Independent, that the first signs of human habitation have been discovered – on the site of what the article calls ‘Britains Atlantis’.
22: Now of course ‘Danaan’ simply means ‘a Greek.’
23: Sometimes rumoured to have been Phoenicians or Chaldeans traders. Sadly the case for Atlanteans or Lemurians diminishes…although…..words, words, words.
24: Where Robert Graves places the origins of the Celtic peoples in his book ‘The White Goddess’ (TWG). Graves (citing Herodotus) argues that the Danaans fled their homeland after an invansionary force captured the shrine of the White Goddess ‘Io’ (lover of Zeus, who was transformed into a heifer ((crescent crowned)) by Hera) at Argos. New DNA evidence seems to be confirming many of the theories put forward in TWG (see 23).
25: Findings published in the journals; Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences/2016 and Nature, Ecology and Evolution/2019. (researchers analysed the genes of 6 Mesolithic hunter-gatherers found across the UK and 67 Neolithic individuals. Their results indicate that the majority – approximately 75% – of ancestry in all British Neolithic individuals could be attributed to Anatolian farmers, indicating a substantial demographic shift with the introduction of farming’).
26: Marija Gimbutas discusses this on the tape; ‘The Age of the Great Goddess’ and in her book ‘The language of the Goddess – 1989.’
27: Although the Lion flanked Female figurines found at Catalhöyäk 7500BC – 5700BC are fully formed, there is some dispute as to whether they are indicative of a Matriarchal society or systematic veneration of a Mother Goddess.
28: Eventually becoming in Ireland – Dana/ Mother – Brigid/Maiden – Anu(Danu)/Crone (known as the Mother of the Irish Gods) – Though Graves might argue the point.
29: Fertile crescent! Fertile/Mother, Crescent/Moon – Moon Mother.
30: William Blake would later conflate Ancient Albion’s Goddess’s with Divinities from the East – ‘When he later added to his Myth the fumblings of antiquaries who identified Eastern religions wjth ancient Britain, linked the Syrian Mother-Goddess with Avebury….’: William Blake – selected poetry. (TPPL page 13). (Venus is frequently called ‘The Syrian Goddess’ although the Original Syrian Goddeses were either Asherah ((Queen of the Sea)) or later Atargatis ((The fish tailed Goddess)) ).
‘There is a passage in Jerusalem which makes clear that Blake was thinking of Apuleius’s Isis (The Veiled Goddess) when he described Vala as a Moon Goddess, wife of the Sun (Osiris) and Mother of the Stars: “Is not the Sun thy husband & that Moon thy glimmering veil? Are not the Stars of Heaven thy Children? Art thou not Babylon? Art thou Nature, Mother of all?”:’ From Blake & Tradition, Volume 2. By Kathleen Raine. (page 176)
31: Less brawn, more brain!
32: The long hours of bonding in the ‘menstruation habitation’, probably explaining the previous points. Moon blood being a taboo in most primitive cultures.
33: Feminine: Moon, Mystical, Emotional, Artistic; etc – Left brain.
34: Masculine: Sun, Rational, Logical, Scientific; tec – Right brain.
35: The Story of Osiris being dismembered by Set by contrast reflects the use of the Thirteen month calender, the Thirteen pieces found by Isis representing the Months, the missing Phallus – the spare day. (TWG;p372)
36: Although some scholars link the divisions to Twelve (rather unscientific) episodes in the life of Gilgamesh – the Ram who destroyed the Bull – as the Ram would push the Bull out of the spring House in about 1800 BC. (TWG: p270/271)
37:See – Göbeckli Tepi; 10th – 8th Millennium BCE. Alacahöyük 5500 – 650 BCE
38: To honour the Ancestors, or perhaps they just longed to recreate the Fairy Chimneys of Cappadocia or the rock sanctuary at Yazilikaya.
39: Hattusa; founded 6th Millenium BC. Alacahöyük 5500 – 650 BCE (by comparison the Mesopotamian city of Ur is dated as being founded; c. 3800BC, Babylon c. 1894 BCE and Egyptian city of Memphis; before the 3rd Millenium BCE).
40: A (pre) Hattian relief at Catalhöyük 7500BC – 5700BC shows the Goddess Hannahanna giving birth to a Bull, an image that would – in a labyrinthine twist – later be attributed to the Minoans.
41: and arguably sowing the seeds of the Worlds modern religions – The Christian/Judaic/Islamic story of Adam and Eve being reflective of a the most famous Aegean Icon – a Moon/Woman, a Star/Man and a wise serpent sitting under a fruit tree, Man and serpent in seasonal/cyclical conflict for the Moon-Womans affections. (TWG: p279). The Crescent Moon(Woman) and Star(Son) symbolism becoming synonymous with Islam (and present day Turkey), their relative sizes indicative perhaps of their ancient origins.
42: Who would themselves have largely been the descendants (Neolithic farmers supplanting or assimilating Mesolithic Hunter-Gatherers being a consistent theme) of that same earlier migration from the Aegean in what would become a near continual flow of people from the same area. As a result of ‘the Late Bronze Age collapse’ c1200 – 1150BC for example.
43: According to Robert Graves.
44: If augmented.
45: TWG – page 283 and 490, Robert Graves argues that ‘Trees’ (varieties having been used in Sequence to represent an Alphabet) here mean Schools of Knowledge or perhaps Languages.
46: The ‘Sun God’s – Dionysis, Mithras and Apollo were also born at the Winter Solstice and worship of the Divine Child had been established in Minoan Crete Long before Christianity. The Origins of the Celtic ‘Fair Shining’ Belenus (associated with the Horse and Beltane) – an import from Italy – are important here.
47:Jesus (Symbolizing the Sacramental ((if Strange)) Fruit) hangs on the Cross (Symbolic of the Tree) – But of course the cross of cruciFiction is a Tree of Death, and as already stated; Jesus, representing the ‘Hostia’ would symbolize not Life but Death. I didn’t choose the Symbolism.
48: Or indeed lovers of Proto-Indo-European, Indo-European, Proto-Germanic or Indo-Germanic (All of which have their roots in oldest known Indo-European language Hittite ((of Anatolia)), according to Bedrick Hronzý) wordplay.
49: Specifically the vicinity surrounding what are known presently as the Chislehurst caves.
50: During the period known now as ‘La Tène A’.
51: As reported much later by Cyprian.
52: The Ancient Bards embody a similar role to the Griots or Arokins of West Africa (who are sometimes known as Bards). Francis Bebey writes in; ‘A People’s Art’: ‘The West African Griot is a troubadour, the counterpart of the medieval European minstrel… The Griot knows everything that is going on… He is a living archive of the people’s traditions… The virtuoso talents of the Griots command universal admiration. This virtuosity is the culmination of long years of study and hard work under the tuition of a teacher who is often a father or uncle. The profession is by no means a male prerogative. There are many women Griots whose talents as singers and musicians are equally remarkable.’ I would aver that the Griot Tradition continues – unbroken – not only in Africa, but Worldwide in the Culture of Rap Music. The closest Ancient equivalent to the Druidic Schools (predating the Universities of Ethiopia by Millennia) are the Schools of Indian Classical Music – which seem to almost be a perfect Analogue – and which have roots that go back to at least 1000 BCE, and may well have their prototypes. The Bardic tradition is also, perhaps reflected in the Traditions of the Merasi in the deserts of Rajastan and the many other Minstrel Traditions of India.
53: According to R.A.S. Macalister in; The Secret Languages of Ireland.

Chapter 22: ELECTRA’S COCKEYED VOODOO. By Kevin Barry Partridge.

Chapter 22
ELECTRA’S COCKEYED VOODOO.
By Kevin Barry Partridge

 

‘Heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads,heads……’ Tom Stoppard.

‘The phallic stage is the setting for the greatest, most crucial sexual conflict in Freud’s model of development. In this stage, the child’s erogenous zone is the genital region. As the child becomes more interested in his genitals, and in the genitals of others, conflict arises. The conflict, labeled the Oedipus complex (The Electra complex in women), involves the child’s unconscious desire to possess the opposite-sexed parent and to eliminate the same-sexed one.’ Brown University

‘The vampire who said he was you.
And a love of the rack and the screw.’ Sylvia Plath (Abridged)

 

 

A cluttered consulting room – encompassed by fully laden bookshelves and glass fronted cabinets crammed with of busts and figurines of every description – the floor is scattered with several bentwood chairs that are covered in folders and papers. In the middle of the room stands an imposing desk – piled high with more books and heavy with statues of Gods and Goddesses from every culture of the World. On a richly covered couch lays a young woman, talking and tugging nervously at the lap of her dress, while above her a large screen depicts in gaudy colours and strange costumes images of all that she relates. Sitting behind her, his face obscured by an angle-poise lamp is a figure, puffing on a large cigar. On the table beside him an elaborate display of dildo’s and vibrators is arrayed.

Ana – “I am asleep in a darkened forest, curled up on the earth and blanketed by a deep white mist. I am dreaming about: a lake, and just like my dusky wooded grove there are trees all around…and there are Swans on the lake, their necks – entwining – rubbing together and making shapes like love hearts which reflect and dissipate in ripples on the surface of the water. In the distance I can see a tall white tower, bathed in an ethereal light and all at once I am traveling fast towards that tower, – gliding through the air above the glassy surface of the pond – anxious for an unknown reunion…. Suddenly though I am awakened by the sound of a horses hooves – by their dull rhythmic thud on the forest floor. My body is tense now and I am scared – I would run if I could but I am frozen, stupidly thinking perhaps that if I am quiet and still I can remain hidden in the haze…but I know that he will find me, that he already knows – exactly where I am. My senses are heightened now – stretching out into the wildwood like feelers, I can hear the equine breathing and the wind blowing through the bare branches of the trees, and I can smell the woodland: dank and musty…but these things don’t bother me – the ground is comfortable and warm – I could almost be in bed. The season must be Autumn because there are a myriad of leaves on the ground in shades of yellow and orange, brown and red, and they are still new and whole and malleable, I can feel them under my hand like little sheets of thin veined leather – and there are mushrooms at the base of the tall white trees, strange phallic funghi – I think they might be made of suede… I can see the places where the nap has risen on the cap and vulva. Now I hear the click clack of metallic footsteps approaching and my heart begins to pound. Oh, how I long to run…to scream, but I can neither move or make a sound – and then, where the mist is most disturbed I see a brief glimpse of shining silver metal…and there is a smell – of fresh tobacco. I can feel the flow starting now, but only a little…not enough to notice, not yet. Now we are in a black castle and I am sitting at a table – suddenly a great hunger comes over me, I am absolutely ravenous. On the surface before me there is a plate, with one of those long sensual suede mushrooms on, glistening with butter and cream. The Knight stands opposite, he seems to be looming over me like a giant – with his ironclad fists on the mirrored tables top – glaring accusingly at me….he is still wearing his armour, but his helmet is off, I cannot see his face though – the light floods in so brightly through a window behind him that his face is obscured – he is just a silhouette. ‘Eat’ he says, and before I can stop myself I am gorging myself on the toadstool from my plate, frantically grasping the volva and the stem with my fingers, taking the cap deep into my hungry mouth – the clarified butter dripping down my chin – the taste is nutty and rich and satisfying. But as soon as I have finished I am ashamed, and scared that he has poisoned me, or that he has drugged me so that he can take me when I am senseless – I am sure that he will most certainly ravage me savagely while I am unconscious. I can feel myself getting very wet now, and so I reach down – just to make sure that the flow is not too strong, no-one must notice, that is important…I must not be found out, and HE must not see. I needn’t have worried about the toadstool, sickness has not overtaken me and I certainly don’t feel drowsy – I am quite awake, as alert as I have ever been – aware of every gesture and sound, the colours in the room seem so bright and the light streaming through the window is so intense that I can hardly bare to raise my gaze…like a searchlight pointing straight at me. Now the Knight speaks again, his voice strangely familiar: ‘Tell me sir, tell me all the secrets of your family’….I can feel his unseen eyes bore into me…’Tell me what you know I say, I demand to know your families secrets – do not anger me sir, my wrath is most swift’. My hand is still between my legs, my fingers deep inside me now – I am a man, I know I am: I can feel my penis, hard against my belly – but my fingers are deep inside my vagina…and somehow there is nothing strange in that….I…”

Therapist – “….This is good Ana, you have never placed so much emphasis on the Mushrooms before, I am beginning to see something of value here. Go on, tell me more about this reverie.”

Ana – “The knight is furious, because I will not talk….he thrashes about, upending chairs threatening me with grievous acts of brutality if I refuse to confess, but through all his rages I will not divulge any hidden thing to him.”

Therapist – “Are you sure Ana, are you certain that you have not told him about these things, perhaps you have forgotten.”

Ana – “Yes Father I am sure….”

Therapist – “You must not call me that Ana, not here.”

Ana – “Yes, yes of course…I’m sorry.”

Therapist – “Carry on with your story please.”

Ana – “I am thrilled by his fury, let him rampage ‘til the end of time I think – I will have my vengeance on him, for all the blows, for all the indignities that have come before. My pleasure rises with his anger until I must struggle to contain my joy at his frustration and hide the loathing and contempt I feel for him and his pathetic baby tantrums, but in the end I cannot – when he loses control of himself utterly he turns and sees my triumphant smile, perhaps even the burning lust for revenge in my eyes and he turns his iron fists against me…..he doe’s not hold back. You know the rest…do not make me tell you again – you know the whole story by now, you must, I have told you this tale a hundred times, more – every night for years and still there is no change.”

Therapist – “You know that this is a process Ana, there are no shortcuts – I’m afraid you are very sick my child, this will take some time. Now please finish your story, there is still some hope – today, I think, we are making some progress at last .”

Ana – “….In spite of all his threats and rages I will not tell the Knight our…I mean the ‘family secrets’ he so desires to know and so he ties me up, chains in fact, me to a column and beats me, with his fists at first and then with whips…even with chains and the harder he beats me the more I love and desire him – and the more I hate him as well. With each blow I masturbate harder , until as his frenzy peaks and I think that he will surely kill me – I come, again and again, in great waves of ecstatic pleasure…and that is the end.”

Therapist – “No! You have spoiled the story today Ana, you have rushed the ending, I can not help you if you will not commit to the process – the Devil is in the details you know – we shall have to start again tomorrow.”

Ana – “No, I am tired of telling you papa…this is enough. Never again”

Therapist -”Oh, really Ana, you are cured then and no longer need my help? How many times did you masturbate today, please tell me?”

Ana – “Three times.”

Therapist – “Three times…and always to the same fantasy!”

Ana – “Yes always.”

Therapist – “And in these daydreams, you are always a man! Do you not see the significance in that? Because if you do not then I surely do, let me assure you of that.”

Ana – “I…will not – I cannot change the dream now, the…roles – the details were fluid when I was six but they are fixed now. I could not reach…the climax if anything was changed. Anyway how can these fancies end when I love and hate my tor mentor in equal measure, maybe when my feelings have resolved themselves the fantasies will no longer be necessary and they will end themselves, maybe that is the point of these reveries. In any case where is the Harm, I suffer from no bruises, there are no welts on me where the lash has struck.”

Therapist – “Oh Ana, Ana – my little ‘vestal virgin’ – And are we to sit and wait while you destroy yourself? No, we do not have that long, I think, when you have already strayed so far from the true path. I had hoped that you would marry soon my dear little girl and that having a child might curb these impulses in you, but that, I think is a very far off prospect indeed, when you are still caught in this cycle of ‘infantile sexuality’ and underdevelopment. These sadomasochistic…and frankly homosexual – YES, YES, HOMOSEXUAL, make no mistake these reveries are aberrant homosexuality, even with these clitoral stimulations…..YES I can go so far I think…you have told me as much…even these clitoral stimulations are very definitely an manifestation of the homosexual impulse. Oh Ana, these fantasies are beyond anything that I have ever heard. – and you tell me that you are satisfied with them, that you hope they will continue – and never once in all these years have you told me that you are ashamed of yourself, never once have you spoken of the guilt that you must surely feel after you have debased…yes, yourself so completely. How can I treat you Ana, if you will not make some effort to change?”

Ana – “I know pa…maybe if I could talk, just talk – informally even – to another analyst, I could…”

Therapist – “No Ana, this is a family matter…I will sanction no outsiders! Or do you perhaps want to be locked up with the hysterics? Perhaps the prospect of ice baths and electric shocks appeals to you, because I assure you the reality will not live up to your twisted expectations – you will not find the asylum so titillating as you think, I am sure of that. Or, or, maybe you would like me to recommend you to my friend Dr Fliess, for some of his nose surgery – he will be most eager for new patients as his groundbreaking theories about the special connection between the nose and the female genitals gain new ground, and they surely will, I can promise you that – I need only mention a tendency towards ‘nasal reflex neurosis’ and then we shall see believe me. No, you are too unwell, nobody can know these things – ever. I certainly won’t have you ruining my reputation with your VICES, I have worked too hard and for too long for you to jeopardize my legacy. But – for Gods sake Woman, I don’t understand why you can’t just STOP.”

The actors fade and the screen is filled by the talking head of an TV expert in the field of psychoanalysis, a rough-hewn figure of Venus artfully placed in the background.

TV expert – “And thanks again to Ken for that dramatization. There are of course several elements worth our attention here, but we’re going to start with ‘transference’, which………”

“Resurgam!” In a high room – with a panoramic view of night-time London visible through a large window – a Man and a Woman, lay naked on a bed watching the bright image – cast from the 16K video projector above their bed – of the expert, chatting – unlistened to now – with a newly assembled panel of faux medical luminaries. ”You said that half an hour ago, I’m not in the mood now, your increasingly weird archive of oddities has quite put me off” scorns the Woman in mock shock. “You said you wanted something thought provoking, I think the word ‘taboo’ might even have been mentioned, surely that was a tick in both boxes.” counters the Man. “”Oh I’m provoked alright, he didn’t really put her through all that did he, not his own daughter.” Disbelief and quiet concern welling in her voice. “Every night for years apparently, just like She said in the film…I thought our Ken went a bit over the top with the uniforms – when didn’t he – but the rest I think is accurate.”…”Well I think that’s disgusting, didn’t ‘somebody’ once say that psychoanalysis is always erotic – that the bond between patient and analyst is always sexual – dirty old pervert. I’m going to need some time to recover, so you can put the ‘Little Dragon’ away for a while – I need some light relief – see what’s on the telly.” She says. “Are you sure? Random access of broadcast television is like practicing Bibliomancy using the Marquis de Sades, ‘120 days of Sodom’ – unlikely to end well. But, OK, if you insist.” Says he.

The remote control is found with the usual difficulty and a channel is chosen, the projected image on the blank white wall opposite the window changes to a news anchorman sitting entombed in a blue plastic set – he speaks solemnly: “Nu-punk band ‘The Reformation’ were gunned down today in New York at a press conference convened to announce the release of their new album: ‘Destroy all Icons’, ironically”……”NO!” screams the Woman “Quick, back to archive, damn every time I dip my toe in I get the same old shit. Give me that remote I’m going to choose something, you can go and be smug in the kitchen while you make me some coffee…AND I WANT PASTRIES.”

© Kevin Barry Partridge 2018

Chapter 21: ALBION FAYRE. By Kevin Barry Partridge.

Chapter 21

ALBION FAYRE

By

Kevin Barry Partridge

The scene: a crowded expanse which stands before London’s great Guildhall. The date: the first day of May 1595. A great fayre is taking place and the bustling area is encircled by stalls and tents with higglers selling food and drink: hot lambs wool cider, sherry and the various waters of life, also marchpanes, gingerbreads, humbles, thick greasy amulets, collops, roasted ox and mutton and kickshaws and nuncheons of every kind. Between them are low stages presenting entertainments and performance’s: boxing and fencing booths, jugglers, troupes of acrobats and renowned actors of the day presenting famous soliloquies. There are areas for 9 pin bowling laid out and covered lanes for archery. Zigzagging through the crowds are men on stilts and drum boats full of children being pulled by tiny ponies, and there are other boats attached to frames by ropes that swing – with some effort from the occupants – and out of which burst great screams of delight. In the very centre of the square a Maypole has been placed and many children dance and weave their way around, laughing and singing songs while great lengths of ribbon twist and billow in the wind. At a raised stage two men stand watching a grisly entertainment. A decapitated body lays twitching upon the floor, whilst the unconnected head sits upon a silver platter screaming at the gathered crowd like a costermonger drumming up trade.

 

K – “Come on now ladies and gentlemen, don’t be shy – let ‘John the Baptist’ answer any questions you might have…come on now, let’s be having you……. ”

S – “Scot was right, This Kingsfield is an absolute rogue…and therefore should be rogued, lest he go to seed and more like him sprout up to tarnish we true players with their…skullduggeries.”

D – “Oh gentle master Playwright, gentle sir – A wooden board, with two holes cut in the size of human heads hath kept this good juggler in ale and beef and mustard these twenty years, should we not at least applaud his economy of effort – and lo – he has the crowd. His bulls blood dough and smoky brimstone sparks may seem rough magic to you Master stagecraft, but he has not all the devices of the goodly Rose to furnish them, and I must confess that with age the very simplest things in life do grow in my affections. A fool I’ll grant you, but a stately one.”

S – “Stately – aye, but Churchly too…being a Knave.”

D – “Ha ha, you should try good sack with breakfast sir, a surfeit of verjuice is making you sour! Come, I would, for a haypnee piece test this block knocked Baptist’s wit.”

S – “Indeed I would, most happily sir, and even have a question. But I am not well versed enough in cant to converse with these cozeners in their native tongue of peddlars french. In any case I need me a Mimir, not a murmuring counterfeit crank. I know that noggin…and though he surely won’t be needed, the finest Al-Jeddi in Araby might reattach that dome without restoring any good wit within ‘cause well I know that none were there before.”

D – “This enquiry must be most burning to have forged such sharpness in your tongue good sir, let us find you an answer, hastily before – with a brabblesome quip – you cut your own head off, for then we shall have no more good plays to entertain us. Fear not – I think have the remedy – The Welsh they say are blunt and to the point, perhaps the prophetic pate of Bran, that hollow crown which lays – I’ve read – guarding England from invasion, beneath the high White Tower might sate your most urgent quest in lieu of any honest ‘John’ and dull your waggling cuttles edge to boot. Though no reports of miraculous ghostly speech have reached mine ear from those fearsome shining spires I hear that Ravens still are held in high esteem within those grounds so – though you are no Odin sir – you might still perchance commune with him in safety – crow to crow.”

S – “Haw haw. I am greatly saddened sir that you would have me so soon to the Tower, I having strived so hard to avoid that place – the East wind being most cruel there I hear. Alas though the journey would be wasted I fear – I am more Owl than Rook these days, being mainly now, nocturnal – and though both birds do hold their Parliaments – Bran, being worthy of his ancient birth – hath surely learnt to hold his tongue to all but kith and kin and thus he keeps his luminous plumes a snowy white, no gossip he.”

G – “That is a shame, you both being versifiers of some repute – the two of you together would have made for quite a ‘Storytelling’.”

S – “Indeed, you are a veritable ladder-doctor – you operate on many levels. Did you read that trulls scurrilous rag?”

D – “I did not. Though I am old I am not yet deaf and your name is heard even in Mortlake…..my daughter Katherine who nurses me in my ‘dotage’ is much took with you sirrah and therefore took much offense on your behalf. He was hardly a trull though, you surely wrong him there – I enjoyed his ‘Frier Bacon’ very much – the conceit of the shield-like wall of brass pleased me very much, even if his ’ frier’ was too lackadaisical to complete that task…well, what need does England have of a brass shield when She has the head of Bran and Gods good Tempests to protect her. I think that we can safely say though – he did prick us both, his’ Bacon’ seeming rather familiar to me…and more talking heads of course…we seem to have hit upon a theme! Forgive me my jibe, I could not resist and did not mean to sting.”

S – “…And you did not, I had long heard that Greene was the colour of envy and so was not surprised by the hue of his venting spleen. Unfortunately the fates – that quietus made before I had the chance to settle him myself. Personally, I found his ‘Bacon’ rancid…there being too much ‘Faustus’ in the flavour. But indeed good sir – touche! How should sharp tongue be met if not by equal blade? The keenest poniard wit has yet to inflict a lasting wound on me, laughter being a fine buckler to injury…and well I know that you are most surgical in your strikes – being a Doctor of good repute – and cutting only at those sickening parts most in need of healing. In any case, Master Physician, I am – in truth – disturbed not by propositions of the rapiers blade but by a vague premonition of the axe. My enquiry vexes me greatly, but I fear to ask of you, the query being delicate.”

D – “ well – ‘Absit Omen’ – but come sir, I have felt you building to a suit…if you think to question me do so now, sadly and yet gladly I am no Mimir, for I am also wary of the axe, but also well practiced at the avoidance thereof. So do not think that you might find me later – decollated – spouting secrets on the south side of the bridge…or “preaching from the pole”. ‘Tis true, I am no longer favoured by the Court – but the Queen in her mercy dispatches me to Manchester, where I am to be marooned with my beloved daughter on the island of ‘obscurity.’ My misdemeanors though many being grave do not travel well and so I think my head will ‘scape the spike, once and for all – God a mercy – and close though I’ve come. Gold – master Shakespeare, or rather a lack thereof hath paved my path Northwards post-haste. So again I pray you – if you have a question ask me now.”

S – “Very well sirrah. What know you of James of Scotland?”

D – “Ah, and now I comprehend the reason for your pussyfooting….well why not, Walsingham is gone and I am soon away. He is an Scholarly man and vain, though that can hardly be news. He is favored by the Cecils who look ever to the future and the furtherment of their own fortunes…though in fairness they have done some service to the Realm. The puritan zealots and indeed the hawks place much stock in him, though I think they will both be disappointed. He will I believe pour oil upon our troubled waters and will not strike a match to that which already lays – God be praised. Heads that wear crowns – Master scribe – uneasy lay and tend to take solace in the status quo, tweaking ‘bout the edges though they may, and believe you me, I most devoutly pray that I am right. I fear the puritans ever growing influence more than the first sweat of a summer sickness. Beyond that I know not much, nothing that might be imparted with impunity anyway, forgive me sirrah but your profession does proceed you, and one does not talk treason with the town crier. Personally I will be glad to be far from here, should the seeming inevitability – – which your enquiry seems to imply – come to pass. He is no friend to the Esoteric Arts and is, I hear, busy burning Witches up beyond the wall…Why ask you?”

S – “As you have touched on sir, I hear he is of late most distracted by the subjects of ‘Daemonologie’, Necromancy and Witchcraft, and is even now writing a book exposing the Black Magicians art…”

D – “Yes, I have heard as much…you look at me sir. Oh of course, did you think that I was a ass, that you could tempt my head into a noose and ride me all the way to Tyburn?”

S – “Indeed sir no…”

D – “I have been before the Star chamber sir – for treason – and that while I was still a youth, so believe me when I tell you that while – like Proteus – I may have learned to change my outward shape as needs arise, I will never be your ass. Do not test me sir – better men than you have coveted my head – ‘nemo me impune lacessit’ – now tell me plain – and in the name of friendship – have you been sent to do me harm?”

S – “No! And if I have offended you I pray for your forgiveness…I had not thought ‘til now how much these matters might touch on you.”

D – “ ‘Might’ touch on me….oh, please don’t plead your ignorance sir, you led me most well – that I should beg to see the very rope with which you sought to hang me, well there really is no fool like an old fool is there. I know the reasoning behind your accusing stare and rightly do assure you that bright “Apollo’s laurel bough” still grows within my breast and hath not yet been touched by flame. Yes, I know that work and was much saddened at the writers fate, though you must know he mingled with the most villainous mountebanks that England has to offer! He delved too deep and “jarred too far” – how could he ‘void the ‘reckoning.’ But think me not his ‘Doctor’ sirrah, even if on Dragons backs I rode – I would school you sir on the secret codes of Alchemy, were there more time…”

S – “Sir I…”

D – “…My ‘Spiritual conferences’ were conducted through a scryer and with the most devout religious observances of fasts and prayer and in these ‘actions’ Jesus ever was my guide. I spoke to you of troubled waters…you do not know what efforts I have made to reconcile the faiths – my only wish has been – ‘pro Deo et patria’ – to unify all the peoples of this good World in health and safety under a Brutish…I mean a British banner of Empire – Brutus you understand – ‘lapsus liguae’. What ‘deals’ Kelley struck I know not of and were sealed before I met him. Yes, I have learned to doubt him….his communications…his tricks – a rod he had….nay, not a rod – a hollow tube with grains of Gold hid in, which with some agitation then fell out – and that was how he falsely wrought his worthless art of alchemy, so – let him languish in a foreign jail. Perhaps I was mistook in him and doubtful though his confederates may have been – they touched me not…in truth I know not what to think of those events, they having ended badly. Nonetheless, cannot a bad actor still recite a good script? Come now, if you did not seek to draw me out on these dark arts of Necromancy, tell me why you have touched on this affair.”

S – “Fear sir, fear that I will meet with Marlowes fate…you surely know his Edward touched on James.”

D – “Aye, on James and on her Majesty as well, all Monarchs have their favorites.”

S – “…Indeed, indeed. Theatre…writing is the only life I know…I must go on but almost fear to tread, the crowd demands – abstracted chronicles of the times – so I now walk upon a narrow blade! I have been taught a lesson that I never wished to learn, as lessons often are – that Monarchs assume all things relate to them, even when they do not and I no longer know how or what to write. You are the most learned man I know, I hoped that you would help me negotiate the razors edge – that is all.”

D – “Speak on – ‘ad rem’.”

S – “ I have in Mind the bare bones of a Scottish play: a tragedy about…you know that ancient King – Macbeth – with much mystical mumbo jumbo planned as should enthrall a man whose eyes already have adjusted to the dark and find their comfort there.Though believe me sir not half so Black as ‘Faustus’ I watched that play and almost thought that Devils did appear, and not through stagecraft, though craft I know there was. But returning to Macbeth, I have even now hung a rough melody upon the staves, but knowing little of this James, I know not what tones to strike so that his executioner will not.”

D – “Hmm…..’Genius’ sir, is always the safest note, though high and hard to reach – ‘macte virtute sic itur ad astra’.

S – “…I…”

D – “…Come Master of Songs, no false modesty, I’ve heard you sing and know you scale those heights….show them wonders and delights the like of which they have never seen and you will be forgiven, almost, anything. However, should the Muses prove fickle, as oft they are…being Women – ‘honesty’ should suffice – so long as you are an honest man and willing to expose your heart, which is, I’m afraid, always a somewhat vulnerable position, for you will find that there are many eager daggers at the court. Failing that ‘flattery’, though by then you will find yourself already on your knees and therefore halfway to the block and failing that – ‘shock’ – which being as close to ‘block’ as ‘head’ to ‘dead’ leads unerringly to a fast horse and a faster ship and thence to a distant land in which case – safe journey sir. I think that you have learned a lot from Ovid, but he himself was taught that lesson, though none may know the cause. I would that your Marlowe had found that horse but he could not. He himself drove the stake into the ground and bound himself thereon, then like Maydays beetle was he forced to dance around the spike in ever decreasing circles, thus rounding on his fate. Forgive me – ‘fidus Achates’ – for my suspicions – spies and subterfuge have surrounded me too long and I am melancholy about my journeying…if you want to know of Marlowe think not on Monarchs – look to his own folly, and to Kyd.”

S – “ I thank you sir.”

D – “….Shall I tell you the truth Master of the stage – do not seek to please. Only twice in my life have I actively sought favor and both those times were disastrous to me: When I was a boy my greatest hope was just to be liked, you know, to have true friends.”

S – “There is no sin in that sir.”

D – “No, indeed there is not, though you cannot know the irony therein – but this desire in me was so eager that I gave to others full sway of myself and was most grievously treated – cheated and chastised – because I did not approach them as an equal they would not treat me thus, do you see. I was, perhaps a foolish child…and therefore suffered most severely….though they were just doing what boys do of course, and in truth their disdain was a great service to me because I hardened myself and started to apply the gifts that God had given me to studying…and almost as a miracle the World opened like a flower before me, so – there was some good I suppose. Then again when I was in my…middle age I felt my….I tell you this most secretly.”

S – “Of course.”

D – “…I felt my influence waining with the Queen. My rivals had a quiver full of arrows that they could fire on me at will, each with an unholy accusation written on – ‘Virgin’ Queens must appear untainted, I suppose – by the company they keep, even more than you or I and so her visits ceased. I do not say She was the Sun sir, but her presence yielded much warmth and light and I was sorry for her absence. So once again I sought favor, thinking some profitable and newfangled knowledge might return her love to me and that desire drove me hard into troubled times, and to the grip of troubled men, though freshly I am free. And so I tell you do not seek to please sir – none but yourself anyway – you will find more comfort and protection in ‘respect’ – therefore – ‘luceat lux vestra’.”

S – “Thank you sir for these words, you are the wisest man I know…the times, not you were out of joint.”

D – “ ‘O tempora’ – but you are most welcome sir, and welcome too in Manchester I have enjoyed our all too few conversations and would that they continued, despite the distance being great…and of course my diminished library is ever open to your use. In fact, I have set aside some books that I think you will find useful, which I will send them to thee. Write back, and tell me when you have them so I know they have arrived.”

S – ”I will… I was sorry to hear about your library, a terrible depredation.”

D – “This is England sir, did you not know, we are making a brand new tradition for ourselves – The sacking of our seats of knowledge. The Queens father, of course, started the custom – he always admired Rome – the theatricality, the vainglorious pomp – perhaps he was emulating Caesar in Alexandria. But my God, you would weep sir, if you knew how many exemplary and irreplaceable volumes and Manuscripts were lost with the ‘dissolution of the monasteries’ and the destruction of their libraries…all for the royal purse of course…we were busy a wooing and a warring at the time…I managed to save a few when I was still a boy, and many more of course were hidden and secured but umpteen went astray, and with them a good part of our history…and then of course the sickly Edward and his accursed Reformation extirpated innumerable ‘heretical and unsanctionable’ volumes that had survived… and now my own great library is also ravaged… and all while I was at my folly – so you see I am just part of our great new convention, one must stay abreast of the times. Certainly, though a wonderful thing about books is that there are often several copies of each volume…so the work survives. You toil in a venerable vineyard sir and – ‘in vino veritas’ . Writing seems to me to be a throughly democratic profession! Truly I have spent much time with Princes and learned men – and they are great hoarders of the common good – in books, I think, must lay the hopes of the ordinary man…..perhaps you might yourself one day be published, indeed I do pray that the day comes, for you are most deserving.”

S – “I thank you, I will strive to be so, sir.”

D – “Thank yourself sir, for already being so, I know how far you have climbed. Do you know the real reason why – on these Majestical islands – so much of our past will forever be obscured by the mists of time, Monmouth and Holinshed notwithstanding – our ancestors had an Oral Tradition – I should perhaps speak loftily about the Bardic consuetudes of the Welsh and Irish poetic guilds, their Gordian rhythmic shibboleths – the more so because I was myself much taken once with the need for secrecy and codes, having learned a certain…discretion from the Alchemists of old – from Bruno and Bacon – ‘abundans cautela non nocet’.

S – “One need only reflect upon our own conversation sir to conclude that discretion is often…the better part of valour.”

D – “indeed, but I do sometimes wonder if the point of all this secrecy is simply so that the very highest knowledge will always be reserved for a privileged few – do you see, the hierarchy – Kings and priests! Did the Druids ever write? They could, I read once that they had an Alphabet of trees, if you can believe that – but their tenets prevented them from setting anything down…doctrine you know, which was fine for the favored few until their praxis was disrupted and ultimately, broken by those who knew the value of the written word – organization – order – heritage! The pen, not the sword ultimately annihilated the Oak people, from their Irish stronghold. So now we must mount great egg hunts for their sorrowful bagatelle legacy and scramble for crumbs at their meager hypothetical feast…”

S – “…A humiliation of riches, sir?”

D – “Indeed…and all for want of writing – ‘verba volant, scripta manent’.”

S -” ‘Ars longa vita brevis’!”

D – “Ha, I have heard that you are to bear arms sir – you must include a lance upon your escutcheon – you joust most well. Tragic though, for I am sure the ‘Derwydds’ had much to teach us…you know there are times when I think that Language is a kind of Magic – intrinsically, dauntingly, master Shakespeare, you of all people must know what I mean…I would dearly love to be sure of some of the old words, to know they are from the source and unpolluted – ‘fons et origo’ – even one – ‘verbum sat sapienti est’.

S – “I have always found a great irony in the times of which you speak – that the Romans, upon leaving should sow the seeds – in Patrick and his Irish Monks – that would, in time return us to that same vice like grip of Rome, from which we are but newly free. Perhaps all roads truly do lead back to that – eternal city. However, strange and circuitous as that edifying passage was, surely we were incredibly fortunate that there was at least some overlap, in those chaotic times between the already dwindling ‘oral’ tradition of the Bards, and higher still the Lilis and the Ollam’s – who by their strict tenets had largely kept their stories unchanged for hundreds of years and those first few literate Monks, who arrived just in time to write them down before they were gone forever. I am not a devout man, but I confess that I almost see a Divine Hand at work.”

D – “You humble me sir, and I have been a devout man. Perhaps I wished to draw the curtain back too far, to see that shining hand. You are right of course, although I do question whether the Romans or those Celtic Monks set down a true image of those that they contended with.”

S – “Fascinating times…St Patrick must have made practically made love to the Blarney stone to have sweet-talked so many…unwashed Pagans.”

D – “Ha ha, indeed sir – though I do – from time to time think you might be correct to worry about the block, your sometimes going…too far. Truthfully though, I have been greatly concerned by legacies of late – the Oak seers, my own…there are solemn moments – master of simplicity – when I do fear my own works, written though they be are shrouded in so much mist that they will one day become – unintelligible – there are more diabolically Daedalean argots than peddlars french…but alas I begin to ramble. All will be well, I will doubtless find that there are bookstalls even in Manchester, and I shall browse them at my leisure, there are hopes yet for my Library, good sir. ”

S -”Indeed, and be of good cheer – ‘nulla dies umquam memori vos eximet aevo’ – there must be times when even the Misty Mountains tops appear clear to those high enough to see them…I would view them with you sir, if you should ever deign to show me…’til then I hope you have a safe journey to your rest.”

D – “ Rest…does rest exist? Well, perhaps I will find me some – cloistered in that city – though I know not what welcome we either of us should expect….Northern gentlemen I think are calib…excuse me – calibrated on less fine a scale than such as you and I and I do not relish going – I would gladly visit those peaks again with you, I can even remember some of the ascending paths – but I am commanded North – ‘alea iacta est’! In any case master of insults – so long as your pen does not grow as sharp as your tongue hath been this day you will be welcome. Kingsfield might be a loafer but he has a Royal name and if you will hold the mirror up to Monarchs sir, lay a little oil of your own across the surface – to idealize the reflections. Prince’s like to see themselves soft around the edges, and truthfully too sharp an image is a danger, they do have something of the Cockatrice about them after all – ‘id est’ – their looks can kill.”

S – “’Tis unwise to meet their eyes, that much is true.”

D – “Take comfort sir you have the advantage on all the Lords of England – the axe is so in thrall to your pen that you yourself have the commanding thereof – only the Queen can say as much – but, I beseech you, tread carefully – the tightened rope on which you walk gets higher every day, be careful that in your elevated state your hand does not begin to tremble from lack of air and with a slip you yourself cut your thread of life with that same pen. Apropos sir – do not become your own Atropos. The Cecil’s are ever watchful, and will never forgive you for the hunchback. But tell me master of words, does all the World pass though Bankside that you should know the business of the Scottish court?”

S – “…Aye sir, the weaving winds – now as ever – bring whispers up the Thames that sensitives such as you and I might know the workings of the World, and the stews of Southwark are spiced with flavours from every corner of this good round Earth, coney being the prime. I got this latest from some Danes…and much besides, whose land instilled in James this lust for Witches blood and current dark obsessions.”

D – “Alas, I have learned to mistrust those whispers. Does one ever really know from whence they blow?”

S – “No sir……I…..what know you of the days subterranean sports?”

D – “Being chthonic, if barely – they will be Pythian I think, I have seen the thousand arrows laid aside in case our fine young blades should fail in their appointed task…..though he that bears the bow to shoot them will be rather hard to find on such a murky a day as this.”

S – “Aye sir, and in these dark times. Basilisks and Basilica’s then, I know the game….though I was chased in moonlight and through forest in my youth and did not get to strike the fatal blow. But surely they should use St Pauls for such as this…where children are more used to being chased by monsters spouting brimstone from their lips and have become accustomed to the prospect of a fiery end.”

D – “Your wit speaks faster than your discretion sir, kindly moderate yourself – I am very nearly a Warden you know…ha ha, fear not. We good Christians do rightly hesitate to let a Dragon roam on sacred ground, they having roamed so long there. Of course St Pauls would be most apt – St Michael himself being the slayer of that foulest Dragon of all: the Devil – Satan….and in fact I have read that on that site once stood the temple of Diana – the mistress of the hunt, so…Primordial chaos is a Woman sir – ‘ab ovo’ – and rightly so because from chaos all things flow – The Babylonians had a name for her – Tiamat – I believe. She was like Echidna I think, and from her aphotic womb sprang the all the Dragons of the World, those simulcrums of moon and darkest night. Order, of course and reason are a man and so infact is light – the Germans have a word for this dichotomy: ‘chaoskampf’: and thus as we have touched on – Apollo, being light slays Python, or the night and Zeus, being order slays the Typhon of disorder….you know of course that these two Monsters in their earliest forms were not ‘Drakons’ but ‘Drakaina’s’. ‘Ergo’ now – and rightly so – Order, high above dark Chaos stands as on Diana’s trampled Temple St Pauls Cathedral justly sits and so…an apt site indeed. Should not the chaotic and Moonlit night so fear the Son of God?”

S – “Oh, aye sir aye – as the Dawn. Though I do truly wonder if we ourselves as men have not draped these once and future ladies in these dark and Scaly weeds…in these – enameled skins – and is not the Moon said to be a mirror?

D – “Aye sometimes, also the sickle of castration I think, there is much mystery in the bewitching Lunar phases.”

S – “Yes of course, Nights and Dragons ay….we should perhaps bedeck our hopefuls in the Spanish style so that ‘the Knight and Dragon’ Drake would more readily lead these worthies on a merry chase….indeed ’tis good of Queen and Spanish both to give ‘Sir Francis’ a quiet day off for these frivolities – between Armada’s – as twere”

D – “Ha ha! Aye, they come and go apace – well then, let us wish our ragamuffin band well, should they bag their beast we must have the church bells ring while we sow the teeth of the Drake – and grow us some more good and Reverent sailors.”

S – “True sir, for what else should grow from an admirals teeth than Mermen, and we will need them soon I think, the last lot laying dead of starvation in Margate’s gutters or still in Clink for the raiding of Bartholemew fair. Just let us hope that they do not expect to get paid.”

D – “God save us from the Spanish ire – they surely must be nearly out of trees……really if I could just reconcile religions I…but wait. Am I mixing up my Serpents, the ‘Spartoi’ did not spring from the mouth of Python, but from another mou..Myth? Oh I am getting old.”

S – “ Serpents sir I believe cannot be mixed for they are all the same. Do not worms – when cut in two – two lives take on and have our Myths not shown that them being cut a thousand times? All worms then must surely spring from that first worm, that worm that tempted Eve: The Cockatrice of Paradise.”

D – “Well said – though not so grand, a common or garden…common garden worm I think, he has surely swelled over time with his reputation as the famous and notorious are apt to do – God also save us from such temptations…but look, the children are returned…are you with…?”

S – “…’In loco parentis’ – as I was coming anyway.”

D – “I understand, well no more of Cadmus and his foe, I have remembered me the whole tale and would that I had not invoked that theme…..greetings all, how liked you your nuncheons and the mummers play.”

(Enter some Children)

Boy – “Very well sir…….Saint George was most Heroic and the Turk most villainous. But tell me who is Cadmus?”

D – “You have the hearing of a Coraniaid young sir! Oh very well, he was a hero when the World was young – he slayed a…Beast, a Beast beloved of the Gods and in so doing founded Thebes, but was himself eventually transformed…into the very image of that same Beast that he had slain. Many men child have become the Monsters that they once fought, the quest for blood doth cloud the vision shrouding even innocence with a threatening stain… but think not of Cadmus, St George shall be your model for the day.”

Boy – “Then you had better have some magic potion ready – good doctor, St George faired most poorly in the play, and had to be revived.”

D – “You little…go to, and mind you pay attention to your instructions…and good luck to all – you are called, as indeed I think are you and I Master Shakespeare. Greetings sir”

(Exit children, enter Mercer)

Mercer – ” …And greetings to both of you honourable gentleman, and indeed many thanks good sirs for your wonderful efforts on our behalf – to you Doctor Dee for your great work and of course your optics and light, which though you did explain we none of us can fathom. ”

D – “ You are most welcome sir, I have harnessed great ‘Phosphorus’ for you – ‘et lux in tenebris lucet’. I, like my Father before me – am most proud to be a member of your illustrious company and enjoyed the task you set me very much. In my youth I took the greatest pleasure in writing plays and designing stagecrafts of the most perplexing ingenuity… you did not know that sir I think.”

S – “Indeed no.”

Mercer – “…And to you Master Shakespeare for the use of your good master of props.”

S – “ You are most welcome, I have not seen the Beast but know he will suffice.”

Mercer – “Oh, he will indeed sir, he is most fearsome….I do rightly pity the poor children for he shall fright ‘em half to death. Well, sirs if you are both ready our ‘worshipful company’s’ great dinner begins anon.

(Exit Mercer)

S – “Come, Master of Wisdom the children to their sport and we to our feast – ‘nunc est bibendum’ – and after I beg that you would come with me to the Rose, I have a new work being previewed ‘ A Midsummer Nights Dream’ wherein you shall see that I surely am the Ass – for spending my days bent over, squinting through my legs and communing with airy evanescent’s. But at least, I hope, an ass worthy of great Apuleius – and in the evening and in keeping with this theme – ‘Lord Strange’ will be presenting fireworks at the Swan, the Queen herself may even come, if she is not yet about her ‘progress’. Please say you that you will come and I will send forth a boatman to fetch your daughter Katherine, If you so desire.”

D – “I will sir, most happily.”

S – “Then bag a seat for me, close to you and I will make arrangements.”

D -”Indeed I will, after I have surveyed this pleasant scene a while.

(’S’ exits stage right)

John Dee looked across the square and wondered if he had somehow been transported to the ‘Land of Cockaigne’. Last years harvest had been poor and produce was generally scarce in England, but here today there was such a great abundance, of food and drink certainly, but also of Joy and conviviality and he thought that he had probably never seen London so gregarious and happy. He was gratified too, that of all the ‘Great Twelve Livery Companies’, his own – ‘the Mercers’ had persuaded the usually cautious Alderman of Guildhall to allow such an unrestrained vision of happiness to take place within their grounds. The old man dearly loved this day, he had seen the modern ‘Trinovantums’ going out ‘a-maying’ through the night in Mortlake and watched them walking back along the Thames in early morning – arms laden with branches, the girls fresh faces newly scrubbed with morning dew. He looked over the heads at the Maypole, the coloured ribbons still twisting frantically around the trunk and remembered his own childhood: circling the spindle at St Andrews Undershaft and compassing the grand august pole on the Strand, and he took some pleasure in thinking that the zealots had not yet managed to banish these simple pleasures from England. How far had they sunk the shaft here, he wondered? Could he possibly be wrong? His mind turning to speculation upon his own lengthy calculations and experiments in Cartography…surely the workmen would have found something when they had drilled the hole wherein the giant Maypole sits – no probably not in the middle of the site – he might still be correct. Could a Roman Amphitheater really hide beneath this bustling square? Had Gladiators died in bloody battle a few feet below where childrens feet now pranced? Had Lions hunted human flesh, inches from where his own fantastical Beast would soon creep in emulation? How deep he wondered had they prowled, deeper than the base of the spindle certainly – ten feet? Twenty? Guildhall was slowly sinking, getting swallowed by the Earth, and that was only a few hundred years old so….Guildhall…should he check to see if his invention was still working – no, he could not conceive of any error, and they would surely fetch him were he needed. He hoped the children would enjoy his efforts and thought about all the things he had wanted to allude to in his text but did not: about how the Dionysian Cults had met for their secret rituals and festivals deep underground and their wild abandon – and of how their own descent would plunge them deep into the city’s past, leading inexorably to King Lud or Brutus and the giants. He was annoyed to have neglected Perseus rescuing Andromeda from the Kraken by using the petrifying Gorgons Head, having instead favored the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, this being a spring festival. Then almost without noticing he was thinking about how Venus was said to have been born from the severed Sex Organ of Uranus, how She did ‘rise up from the sea’…and how he had even heard once that there were, in distant lands, statues that portrayed her still transforming – mid-state – before She rose above the waves, how strange the primitives were…and then his mind turned back to the undercroft and the symbolism of the Beast he had envisioned – a pale umbilical to an ancient past he knew he could never reach, however many egg hunts he mounted. And last he remembered the eloquent ancient Irish bard who came to him in his Dreams and spoke words to him that he had never before heard as they walked through the night time city of his dreams, a city of lights and sound as vivid and detailed as the one laid out before him now, but far greater and which shined – even in the Moonlight – like a thousand exploding fireworks, frozen in midair and which he was slowly learning to map within his minds eye – but a city that he longed to view with waking eyes. He looked towards the sky, and saw – he could not tell what – a cloud? A portent? There floating through the pale blue heavens was a frail and slender trail shaped like a ghostly dissipating ladder.

D – “Resurgam!”

(he exits stage right)

The Crypt of Guildhall, dates like the Great hall which stands above to 1411, and is divided into two parts of equal size by a thick stone wall, though the halves remain connected by an ancient pointed door placed centrally within that wall. Each of these two wings – the East crypt and the West crypt – is about 72 feet long, 50 feet wide and some 13 feet high. Both crypts are divided into three aisles by two rows of clustered columns, from which spring the stone-ribbed groins of the vaulting, with further clustered half columns positioned flush against each wall, all composed partly of chalk and aureate stone. The principal intersections of these are covered with carved bosses of flowers, heads, and shields. The north and southern aisles have mullioned windows, today so extensively protected from without, that only a very small amount of light filters through them.The space is dimly lit, the torches on the columns being cold. Instead large candles have been arranged with some difficulty within the mullions of the window with the advantage that they cannot be easily dislodged.

At the Eastern end of the Eastern crypt a large and arched compartment has been built from Oak and placed in line with the central aisle, this box being four feet wide, with a depth projecting three feet from the wall and seven feet in height. This whole box is painted in the deepest midnight blue and well adorned with many golden stars and silver bolts of lightning as decoration. Upon the forward side of the compartment a large and wheel-like disk is centrally attached, the diameter being slightly greater than the boxes edge and into which three triangular holes have been cut – those being equal to the supporting struts between them. This whole disk is painted with a symbol of the Sun. Although near perfect in construction – a great, though hidden light seeps out from behind this painted Sun, turning the edges of the struts a startling white.

The air is misty with incense – though not like that of use in churches – the pot-pourri of Popery – musty and more ancient – Delphic and intoxicating – into which rise like recherché pleached perfected trees the clustered columns from the flagstone floor, that carpeted by a thick and heavy fog to the height of a child’s waist which gently drifts and undulates with changes in the air – the effect being so cloudlike that those within the grotto might almost think themselves deep within a forest nestled high upon a mountains peak.

Two great – fiercely armed and wicker armoured Giants – Gog and Magog – stand either side of the thresh-hold to the upper World, guarding the only entrance and escape.

Between them now a line of trembling boys is by a Wizard downward led, each with wooden sword and makeshift leather helmet on his head, and then the ancient portal between the stony crypts is cracked, with that other bisected abyss presenting a scene of ambrosial Arcadian bliss. Within this other realm dwell all the daughters of this World, dancing and singing sweet songs amidst flower laden drays, heavy with fruit and food laid out on embellished silver trays. Then quick, before the knock-kneed boys can find their strength or have their fill of gaping – three men and equal women enter through that door, and each side stand abreast and there begin to sing:

“Good gentles welcome to this tenebrous realm of dappled shade,

and listen well for your instructions lay hid within this our serenade,

So too the morals and the purpose of these heroic escapades.

Now do not be afraid within this stony glade, but raise your trusty blades,

for truely ‘tis said – ‘faint heart ne’er won fair maid’. Thus starts our Masquerade.”

As these words are spoken, Magog stretches a royal blue silken rope across the entrance stairs, blocking retreat – while at the word “Masquerade” the old wizard begins slowly turning the sun-disk wheel, revealing – at the sextus of a turn – an identical, though fixed disk behind. So that when the foremost spins and the apertures in both coincide the blazing light behind these disks bombards the entire East crypt with great pulses of terrifyingly bright illuminating light. Now things become confused, the boys, who had all been huddled near that source of light begin to scatter through the lightning bursts of space whilst in the other crypt a long, pale and serpentine form glides past the arched stone door and stops blocking the view of that pastoral paradise. When the view is clear again something new is seen, within that Vitruvian sylvan bliss, a young girl stands trapped within a Crystaline Chrysalis.

“And now good sirs, you see the purpose of our play,

As half remembered dreams seek the light of day,

the fearful Winter Dragon, her prey has gleaned,

and hath with Crystal breath immured our Summer Queen,

in you now rests her only chance to get away,

so go brave lads for you now must the Dragon slay.

In Albion ‘twas ever thus upon Mayday.”

As the madrigal begins in earnest the small choir is joined by two musicians accompanying them on flute and silver bells. Magog remains at the threshold whilst Gog moves to guard the connecting archway, preventing any ungallant youth from escaping into the temptations of the Garden of Delights, before he’s earned the right.

Now through that ancient portal thrusts the fearful feathered head, pale as a gleaming moonbeam in the night, filling the small boys hearts with dread. Four feet long from horns tip to rostrum, with three inch snapping teeth, and eyes of glowing fiery red. If looks could truly kill the children would surely be already dead! The creamy serpents feathery head darts forth again, jerking unnervingly through the strobing crypt, a pale white throne of terror snapping playfully at excited, terrified baby knights, followed by a snakelike trunk of pale twisting plumage, that glides eerily just above the fog. Instinctively the children seek the extremities of the room, terrified but knowing they must not yet strike.

“Through the misty cavern, the Dragon winds her course,

And biting tail reveals she is both ending and source,

Now shrouded within her clouds she will transform,

‘tis but a lull, brave knights – the calm before the storm,

and a timely moment to relate to you the rules,

So hark, for Gog and Magog – dispatch all cloth eared fools”.

White – Dee had decided was the only appropriate colour for the basilisk, as the Tudors – tracing their lineage from the Welsh – as he himself had done – had chosen to adopt both the colours and the Dragon of Wales as their own. Therefore, the wise old man had reasoned – a regal red and female Dragon being slain would surely get somebody hung, probably himself, therefore – White! The association with Winter had followed quite naturally, with his ideas finally crystallizing on twelfth night whilst sliding over the frozen Thames at the frost fayre.

Now the glistening hoarfrost beast ripples gently to the centre of the undercroft and makes a circle of her own long body, taking her own tail into her mouth and lowering herself gently into the recently agitated billowing mass of fog which slowly settles around the feathered serpent – nestling her in mist. The wizard slowing and narrowing the bursts of light until only a dull pulsing twilight irradiates the low stone crypt.

“The ‘apples of joy’ hang within Hesperides,

and you must be as brave as heroic Hercules,

To free the lady faye from her luminous cocoon,

and taste Apollo’s Golden apples, and silver of the Moon.

The Dragons gnashing teeth my dears, your flesh will flay,

and all the ‘dead’ movers and shakers Gog drag away,

if at the fearful ‘Dragons scream’ you do not freeze,

‘til only one remains: The ‘primus inter pares’.

Dee had found a reference to ‘the Dragons scream’ shortly after his initial consideration of colour in an old and incomplete Welsh manuscript concerning a great battle between a red and a white dragon on the first day of May and had been so pleased by the relevance that he had incorporated ‘the Dragons scream’ into his version of what was by now a fairly ancient game, though one with many variations and which was sadly, he thought, increasingly rarely played – the Puritans frowning most formidably at such hair-brained pastimes. He had carefully secured the battered manuscript into the utmost safety, so that, should any of his over zealous enemies at court ‘kick up a ruckus’ he could argue his intention to highlight the red Dragons undoubted superior claim and strength. He had also been most intrigued by a reference on the sheet to ‘Caer Lludd’ and ‘the silver hand’…but the velum was too damaged for him to clearly comprehend either of these tantalizers – beyond what he already knew from Geoffrey of Monmouth (if that was anything at all). In the end he had concluded that – in an emergency – the Queen would probably appreciate any reference to her Welsh ancestry and show favor, with the usual lengthy persuasion. The Latin form of ‘first among equals’ was risky, but rhymed most sweetly, and so….had been included.

He had been unsure as to the Madrigal form, made so popular by Masters Byrd and Tallis and had asked the choir master responsible for the days singers to do what he could with his self penned lyrics and simple tune that, he felt, had been ‘Divinely’ inspired, and which he had written neatly out for this purpose – the melody having been refined on a virginal, in deference to the Queen – thus:

(generally ascending, but descending on last D)

A,D,DD,D,AA,A,G,GG,A,D.

A,D,DD,D,A,AA.A,GFGA,D.

A,D,DD,D,AA,A,G,GG,A,D.

A,D,DD,D,A,AA,A,GFDCD.

He was gratified at being able to end all the phrases on ’D’, but had not managed to fulfill his early desire to achieve a 12/13 12/13 structure, symbolizing the solar and the lunar yearly cycles – eventually deciding on a progression of notes that seemed natural to his ear.

 

© Kevin Barry Partridge 2018

 

CHAPTER 20: THE BRAZEN HEAD OF DOCTOR MIRABILIS. By Kevin Barry Partridge.

CHAPTER 20

THE BRAZEN HEAD

OF

DOCTOR MIRABILIS

By Kevin Barry Partridge

 

Edith Sitwell, is that you behind the screen?

KBP

　February 23, 1923: Somewhere in London.

The Scene: A darkened, richly decorated room, with lushly embellished furniture pressed hard against the walls, making space for a large round table which has been placed centrally. The tables top is liberally sprinkled with fine rock salt which vibrates softly in sympathy to a low raspy drone. Six large church candles have been suspended just above the flat surface and arranged equidistant inside the circumference so that they illuminate the centrepiece – that being a mounted antique gilded skull. Behind the eye sockets and barely visible a large crystal glows faintly, fluctuating in brightness as the bony oracle speaks.

Brazen Head – “ E’en now the eldritch blade hangs heavy o’er heroes heart,

E’en now with entangling words the wayward Warlock weaves his wicked art,

The Woman bound, looks on aghast, at this sad, sepulchral stagecraft.

Does Monomyth end here, could waning wheel of Samsara

briefly cease the maudlin spin – Le fin? In this tenebrous theatre of macabre?”

1st Woman – “Can you see what happens to them?”

Brazen Head – “How pray do you suppose that I should know,

when you yourselves have pulled me from observance of this eternal show.

Intemporal drift I and into each cascading bead of time I scry,

like a man who dances round each pearling drop of rain and so stays dry,.

Untouched by them I freely see the scenes unfolding in their innerspace,

these globed beads fold time for me and each miraculous or mundane moment encase,

like the workings of your Spanish painter do. As film frames o’erlayed reveal the 4th dimension,

so through abstraction, refraction, reflection, projection and rotation does each conception submit to my comprehension.”

2nd Woman – “We don’t understand. Can you no longer see them?”

Brazen Head – “You yourselves have called me here and I am glaumed in Chronos’ dread embrace,

And though I know not how you summoned me I feel his barley fingers on my face,

I know not of the pantomime, I cannot scry from within a bead of time,

I could perhaps – based on the rhythms of the paradigm – extrapolate,

But me oh my, too tired am I to you these Mummeries communicate.

Away I pray, I cannot stay, 400 years since last I saw the light of day,

Desire I do to take my leave, and wend my timeless happy way.”

3rd Woman – “Great bone, wise and faithful oracle we do beseech you, tell us as much as you can about these events.”

Brazen Head – “….When last I looked the Thaumaturge though prone did seem at peace,

As though some sub-rosa surety he had as to their safe release,

and in truth that antithetical tone, in keeping is with fables revealed to this…‘Great bone’,

bifold narratives I’ve seen which while seemingly at odds in some ways justify his ease,

entwining leitmotifs I oft hear play: of life renewed, and dramas in dark towers with unforeseen reprieves.

Divine protection then for him and contiguous as duramen to sapwood is another theme,

Resurrection: the cyclic saga, for the daughters of Eve: life and death and rebirth – of wakefulness and dreams.”

4th Woman – “Sanguine seer, we do desire fresh news of these events. If we let you go…if we release you, would you deign to return to this place when once again we call to tell us what has passed in this drama since last you looked?”

Brazen head – “Release me….ha, I am not some Demon bound by Solomons Goetia,

I do not doubt the skill that you 12 sisters gathered here have with the arcane phonetica,

But when I take my leave – as soon I must – we will not talk again, your mystic mumblings – however strange,

won’t work, those calling codes have changed, the tumblers in the lock are rearranged,

and however great your need you will not guess the incantation, you do not know this otherworldly Alphabet,

And though Hero be in oubliette, you will not sing this supernatural motet, nor trace the geometric minuet.”

5th Woman – “ Then tell us bone, tell us what you can of these unfolding Mysteries and of what we can do…we long to help the players on their way.”

Brazen Head – “Bone….ha, if more you seek to know search ye among your sex, vex me no more, seek some speculating spaewife,

I desire me most to tell thee naught, deceivers thou art to brought, thy veins are wrought of sighs and lies, God save me from your endless strife.

Mistake Me not, your opposites I too eschew, those who used their strength and size your many Mothers to subdue, while accomplishing that ancient coup.

Fie, fie, did dare I mention the narrative taboo? Transcend that jeremiad and embrace the ‘Coincidenta oppositorum’ you were not built to fight but woo.”

6th Woman – “Herald, this ancient sisterhood does not deserve your scorn, we are lustrate in the silver light !”

Brazen Head – “I did not come here to admonish, but argentum like Womans virtue in vicissitudes, doth tarnish.”

7th Woman – “That great sage depends upon the purity of the silver. When you return from whence you came seek you the akashic records and know – our hearts are true, our consciences clear. But you have now touched upon a timeworn wound that many here feel deeply. I fear the branches of the olive tree lie out of reach, those antique injustices still cut deep.”

Brazen Head – “Beloved child, daughter of Venus, the healing balm you seek grows not in Gilead,

That soothing salve of solace did amid the Golden age drip like honey from the comb into mankinds myriad

Ruby cups sweet sympathy. Apropos now, heres how – these prudences I do avow: The heroes hands in that honey must be laved !

If womans airy sense and fivefold syn thesis desideratum are then Prana’s pitch via breathing by an octave must be raised !

Directly to the point: the flaming blades, in truth too sharp for hearts who know their sting, more aptly swing in theatres of the brave,

the Wizards wand, in sweet cups dip and up the caduceus let trip the sylvan swan from base to tip of wisdoms verdant stave.

Now the Quintessence: Know each minds maze doth harmonize the ways that these mainstays find balance, that equilibrium saved,

then guides the plays of Mothers, Maids, Kings or knaves and with the right assignment justly bathes the worthy in…illuminating rays!

And here lays the boon – within this light thou to thine own self must be true, as sure as nights and days. Forgive me Bard, for I do paraphrase.”

8th Woman – “We thank you Herald, for sharing this Wisdom with us.”

Brazen Head – “The wit that I have here revealed was whispered in mine ear, many Moons ago by a Woman,

and I do justly now acknowledge my debt. She fed me like the Pelican from her breast and shared with me her many visions.

So I to you a vision must impart – mine Eyes have been on Egypt, upon the gaping Tomb of the young King Tutankhamen,

Some plot I do detect, that I do fear our lovers narrative may yet infect. The youthful Pharaoh’s Osirian rod, another…’great bone’,

was shattered at the root and filched, and though I know not how, I feel that blackened staff doth play a part in this current great malaise.

That begetting ear of wheat is coveted by the biters of the devils confidence placebo – perjured and perfidious – the counterfeit followers of Rabelais,

I know not their purpose, though I feel their threat is real.- but men are so duplicitous now that this may yet all be a masquerade, some sort of….improvise Anglais,

but look you to the East, and never underestimate Yeats ‘Slouching Beast” – there is much mischief in their wanton wordplays, do not avert your gaze,

in league I think they are with players hidden from mine Eye – things of tooth and claw and horn – they too watch the East but never see the Dawn.”

9th Woman – “ We know of these men, and of these things – they will be watched…..did you know this place Augury – before them?”

Brazen Head – “I walked this Earth when the Goddess in every home did keep the hearths, I know her ways, her many branching paths.”

10th Woman – “Guide, many of those boughs remain broken to us, we struggle to know what once we were, so much was…wrenched from us we fear that many things may never be remembered.”

Brazen head – “I know that from the Heavens came a spark of the ‘elan vital’, and therefore that those shining treelike forms are beautiful and utile,

And like that lightning now I fork between two Worlds, the separating membrane is worn thin. I perceive you gentlewomen here as in a storm,

your faces strobe in flashes, the brash and timeless kingdom through the widening gashes dashes, gnashes through the gossamer and I again transform.

As well perhaps I drift – You are grown quite bright in mine Eyes -The Goddess lives in you and you in Her and in your fullness I am overwhelmed.

I should have known but had not seen ‘til now She spans all worlds, here, in my geminate state I see her Grace in you, and Hope is once again restored unto these Earthly realms.”

11th Woman – “Seer, you have given us hope, whatever seed is today here planted we will nurture. We thank you for your Faith in us.”

Brazen Head – “Sisters twelve, whatever fidelity is here survived in you, in you She found a place of Faith to dwell – and that space has proven fertile terrain,

As clear Celestial crystals deep in the tainted ground are found, so Divinity can find domain within the Heart of Hearts of even a Worldly Demi-Mondaine.

Likewise as a seam of purest gold within the lumpen rock is this – the sacred game – the ‘Hieros Gamos’, to mankinds troubled story, sorors restore your protective oaths,

the…… but lo, there is no time, I slide into the timeless realm, hear this in parting – The Innamorati’s truest task is just to restore the balance to this weary Earth………..guide them.”

12th Woman – “Prophet, if you can hear me still, I pray you give us some sign when you again take up your amaranthine watch as to the fate of these our imperiled lovers.”.

The once glowing eyes of the Golden skull now grow dark and the low drone fades to a hush – the salt that had throughout the discourse formed slowly shifting geometric patterns on the somber tabletop around the Head stops vibrating and consolidates into a gently curving twelve point radial design. Twenty four linked hands break their fingertipped touches and there is an audible, simultaneous exhalation of twelve linked breaths. For a long while there is only silence in the room, silence and searching glances of the anxious and expectant occupants. Then suddenly, briefly the low drone starts again and the salt again vibrates, resonates into a new and striking ideogram: a crescent Moon, and above – two shining Stars.

© Kevin Barry Partridge 2017

 

 

 

CHAPTER 19: CRUCIBLE.

CHAPTER 19: CRUCIBLE

By Kevin Barry Partridge

 

(Accelerando)
My companion and I are sitting in a first class Pullman carriage on the Southern Belle. The journey here was interspersed with bright beams of light – as the Sun occasionally emerged from behind fluffy white winter clouds, but now the canopy the Brighton Station has rendered that light dull and even and my usually buoyant friend seems somehow to have imbued himself with the pervading gloom. The steam locomotive pulling our car should cover the 51 miles between here and Victoria station in about an hour, more than enough time I hope to enliven my new playmate for our trip to London.

Girl – “How are you feeling?”

Boy – “I’m alright, bit tired really. Maybe we’ll be lucky though and have the carriage to ourselves. I might have a nap.”

Girl – “Am I that boring?”

Boy – “Not at all, I just think we should save some conversation for when we’re married, we wouldn’t want to run out of subjects.”

Girl – “Haha, no chance of that, subjects I mean, not marriage…actually, I feel like we never really finish a conversation, as soon as I’m away from you I think of another dozen things to say.”

Boy – “ I feel the same – actually I get frustrated sometimes, at having to leave you – Mum found me talking to myself the other day, you weren’t around so I thought I’d just finish the ‘debate’ on my own.”

Girl – “Oh, That conversation. How did that go?”

Boy – “Pretty well, I don’t really have your dry sense of humour though so…”

Girl – “…Isn’t there a saying about that? Something about first signs…?”

Boy – “ ‘Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry’. W B Yeats.
Actually, I’m hoping that process takes a while to bear fruit, because I’m still waiting for that particular dove to descend……”

Girl – “How on Earth do you remember all this stuff…these quotes….all those names of occult societies?”

Boy – “My weird Greek education – Simonides of Ceos specifically. I’ll teach you if you like, they’re simple techniques…Mnemonic memory recall, the sort of thing actors probably use nowadays. Let’s just chat for a while though….I thought what you said about the Wolves last night was interesting……about not being scary, just calling us back to the wild.”

Girl – “Well, isn’t that a fundamental dichotomy? Fear/freedom – maybe even the fear of freedom, you know – what would happen if the savage within was unleashed?”

Boy – “The terror of the Id…”

Girl – “You see these things in the papers occasionally, about feral children – like the Wild Child of Aveyron or…did you see that thing in the papers a couple of years ago about ‘the Abominable Snowman’,  I just love those stories….there was a piece about a wild man living in the Himalayan foothills – of Tibet I think – half man half ape – which got me thinking about those old fables, you know everything from Ovid to folktales about men with animals heads: Lions and wolves and things, I mean they’re scary aren’t they, but isn’t there a sort of faint yearning as well…for a lost wildness.”

Boy – “I always feel way too much sympathy for the monsters in those stories. Of course the earliest Civilizations, the Sumerians,  the Assyrians, the Egyptians thought of those Anthropomorphic creatures as Gods, or at least Guardians…we should definitely go to ‘The British Museum’ when we’re in London. Have you been keeping up with the excavations of the Tutankhamun Tomb?”

Girl – “Yes, incredible! They found the sarcophagus last week, didn’t they…I meant to buy a newspaper, but I was running late as usual.”

Boy – “Let’s pick up a copy when we get to London, hopefully there’ll be some pictures by now, we can have an investigatory peruse over lunch…..their culture just seems so….so – you know the English language is a constant disappointment to me, I really can’t think of the right word…ineffable?”

Girl – “Sublime!”

Boy – “Yes sublime’s good – If I’m honest that’s how far back I want to go – back past all the twists to something really authentic….I think they must have been comfortable with their Gods, like they were old friends. I feel like we’ve been robbed of our symbolic and mythical  inheritance – and therefore the emblematic intuition that would have guided us through the dangers and complexities of life, and I suppose – I feel like we’re replacing those profundities  with with a few trite platitudes, with trivia and etiquette.  So yes, we have thoroughly tamed the inner savage, haven’t we…..with all those genteel  games you find so confusing – of course without them civilization would probably descend into anarchy…then no Fitzrovia, no Bloomsbury or Crystal Palace…..no shopping for weird books and you can forget  lunch at the Cafe Royal. But I do sometimes wonder if there’s a quantifiable amount of Mystery and spontaneity that  would render life meaningless,  if removed. So, I know what you mean. Actually – although last night was nice –  I usually feel the same way about classical concerts…..”

Girl – “Yes, yes exactly…..”

Boy – “We all sit there politely listening to variations  on themes our ancestors would have danced round fires to…’The Rites of Spring’ as a spectators sport..”

Girl – “So let’s find the place where we can be wild again….Let’s dance naked round fires wearing animal masks, chanting.”

Boy – “Yes, absolutely and more, but lets be careful when we do and find somewhere safe.…witchcraft’s illegal you know. Get caught in the woods dancing round fires in your Birthday suit and you’ll be in trouble, we’re both pretty lucky, but as far as the law’s concerned we’re still basically poor….the courts ‘might’ just frown on us. I suppose that’s the reason the occult societies drift West with the money – the sanctuary of substance. I expect the really crazy stuff goes on in the grounds of large country houses, away from prying eyes.”

Girl  – “Their servants must see them.”

Boy – “And if they say anything, there are a few quiet words from the authorities to the people upstairs followed by some dubious petty theft and…the rest is silence, no – the last thing you want to do is go to the police about these impenetrable  proceedings, protection is the prerogative of the prosperous, at least for now.”

Girl – “Which is why I still think some of these groups might be interesting, if we need to find ‘somewhere safe’ let’s start there.”

Boy – “Again? I mean maybe, but I’m not sure you understand – these groups aren’t hidden from the ‘authorities’ – they pretty much  ‘are’ the authorities…these groups are what happens when rich people reach the limits of temporal power – they start to look elsewhere.”

Girl – “I think you overestimate them.”

Boy – “And I think you’re so eager to play chess you’re willing to start as a pawn in someone else’s game…start you’re own game, you’re a fucking Queen for Gods sake! Sorry that was a slip, not the sentiment,  the language…actually that’s just a terrible metaphor, because the implication is that you return to the board next game…and I don’t think that’s necessarily guaranteed. Do as you like though, I wouldn’t know where to start anyway. You’re a few years late for the ‘Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn’, noble as they were your conjurer friend put paid to them by dragging them through the courts. I doubt the Freemasons do much dancing round fires or anywhere for that matter and anyway, you’re the wrong sex – although, and as if to  illustrate my point –  I really do doubt they get raided by the police very often, so quite high on the safety scale – and as for ‘The order of Chaeronea’…well lets just say they probably wouldn’t have you……although you could at least learn something from them – when we get to the bookshops of Bloomsbury you can read for yourself what happens when the truly Wilde take on the ‘established’ establishment.”

Girl – “But you forget, I do know a place to begin.”

Boy – “Sorry I misheard that, did you say begin or beg in? Because you’d certainly be doing plenty of the latter so I’d hardly call that safe……..sorry, I’m short tempered this morning and I really didn’t mean to be, I was up late – can we change the subject please….actually,  the thing that strikes me about this conversation is that if you’re absolutely intent on being reckless there are better places to start – you know for example that a safe place for all manner of wild activities does already exist…. I believe ‘le boudoir’ might be such a realm.”

Girl – “Oh, and just when I was trying to raise the tone….I think some more courting Sir might be in order before we cross the threshold to that particular enchanted land.”

Boy – “Which is why I’ve determined to woo you with my new optimistic attitude, from now on I’m going to be up, up, up, no more moping about the past.”

Girl – “You think that will be enough do you?”

Boy – “I’m saving the big guns for London.”

Girl – “Not even a clue?”

Boy – “Let’s just say I hope you brought your dancing shoes, not that you’ll need them – you’re feet will barely touch the ground..I’m going to….”

Votp – “Room for another?”

Girl – “Yes, of course, please come in.”

Votp – “Sorry to intrude, they do say ‘three’s a crowd’ but these early London trains get so busy, I’m hoping that if I sneak in here I might at least have a little room to stretch my legs.”

Girl – “Are the other carriages busy?”

Votp – “Yes, terribly, I think perhaps the other passengers may have suspected a blossoming romance in this compartment and decided to allow you some space.”

Boy – “But such quaint considerations didn’t sway you.”

Votp – “Well, I’m a little late so I’ll just have to slot in where I can, won’t I. Are you traveling together?”

Boy – “Yes!”

Votp – “How nice, business or pleasure?”

Girl – “……Oh erm, a little of both I suppose……I should probably introduce myself…..”

Votp – “ ….No need dear Lady,  I believe we have a mutual friend….you were expected at a lecture a short while ago I think. Our friend was quite disappointed you didn’t come.”

Boy – “Oh….talk of the devil…”

Votp – ….“Were you? He will be flattered.”

Boy – “He may have been mentioned, though in the lesser meaning of that term I assure you – wasn’t that why you were dispatched  – to quell any potential for otic scintillation – or was there already so much smoke swirling around him that he hadn’t noticed that his aunt nells were on fire?”

Votp – “Well, sparks are flying….but of course that is always the danger when you play with fire –  I must say we’re off to a galloping start, I had expected some pussyfooting around before we got to the main event.”

Boy – “Which is?”

Votp – “Was that a question or a statement?”

Boy – “Let’s start with the question.”

Votp – “Look….I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m certainly not here with an agenda – my intrusion is quite innocent – I have business in London and the other carriages really are very busy…..”

Boy – “Then why expect any pussyfooting? Or is that just an occupational hazard – in your line of ‘Great Work’?”

Votp – “Haha bravo, and as to the young lady I was simply with our friend in the street a few days ago when he pointed her out…they had a brief meeting I believe, I left before proper introductions took place but that’s how I recognized her – so you see my being here is really only a very happy coincidence, I’m as surprised as you are…nothing sinister I assure you.”

Boy – “Ohh, are you the pratfalling accomplice?”

Votp – “I…I….”

Boy – “…Captain, might be the word you’re looking for. But very well, let’s say no more on the….”

Votp – “…Although, although – and I will get back to that later – while we are still on the subject, he is actually giving a….very informal  Demonstration in London tonight….I might just be able to arrange a couple of tickets…if you’re interested – no charge of course.”

Boy – “Thanks but we have plans…we have that thing – remember – that thing in – Blythe road.”

Girl – “What? Well, they’re not plans exactly are they…..a few vague notions really, we could always rearrange those matters, couldn’t we?”

Votp – “Splendid, say no more – I’ll leave a couple of tickets at the door, here’s a handbill with the details…..”

Boy – “….No, I think not.”

Votp – “oh, won’t you even take a handbill….as a sign of goodwill?”.

Boy – “ There’s no ill will I assure you…..customarily though you are supposed to provide the service before you present the bill….and I am tempted to say ‘I didn’t want to pay that much’  but apparently I’ve already flattered him once today, which is  – at least – once more than I intended. Nice Sigilization though, he must have worked hard very on that.”

Votp – “Yes, yes he did – he was working….Mmmn. Oh very well….. is that caution or fear I wonder? No matter….although I am a little vexed he did so want you to have that. Anyway,  let’s just say about 8 O’Clock – the address is: 67 Chancery lane…we’ll be in the basement…..I’m quite sure the young lady will remember the address: 67…”

Girl – “…Chancery lane.”

Vopt – “Perfect – usually there are drinks beforehand in the…oh I’ve forgotten the name of the pub – silly me – they’ve just rebuilt the place – anyway the tavern on High Holborn which is virtually opposite that end of the lane, splendid place – new but very ‘Old England’. Do you know Temple? A lovely part of London….very musty, steeped in the ancient Law and quite mysterious I always think.”

Girl – “That does sound nice, thank you for the invitation.”

Votp – “Thank you Lady, I’m glad to see somebody has manners. Whereabouts are you staying in London?”

Girl -” We’re a…”

Boy – “..We’re fairly central! You’re at the Cecil, no doubt.”

Votp – “Yes, yes I…am. Actually, that’s rather irritating, but I must say fairly impressive. How could you possibly know that?”

Boy – “An educated guess…that’s sort of my métier, one starts to spot the signs after a while.”

Votp -”Yes, yes of course, you’re in a service industry yourself aren’t you, fascinating work I expect –  I’d actually enjoy pressing you further on that but another time I think…we have a few things to clear up now don’t we. Well if we’re all so close perhaps we could meet up early – for cocktails?”

Boy – “I think not, as I said we have a rather  busy day lined up.”

Girl – “Not in the morning we don’t, you’re going to see your suppliers remember – so I could meet you before lunch, perhaps….”

Votp – “Splendid, I know a marvelous place for breakfast. I was planning on meeting somebody afterwards but no matter, I can always reschedule that – or you could just tag along, if you liked. Actually, you might both find that interesting – I must be honest,  I’m sensing more than a little hostility – not from you good lady, you are quite as charming as I expected – but most certainly from the young  Gentleman, and if I’m honest I can find no just reason, so I must assume that you are aware of our…Order – and that you  have some rather serious misconceptions about what we actually do, the meeting might prove instructive .”

Boy – “Perhaps your reputations proceed you’”

Votp – “Yes, well that is sort of the point. And of course – yours most certainly proceeds you.”

Boy – “Mine or Lord Byron’s? I sometimes wonder.”

Votp – “I don’t understand.”

Boy – “’Mad, bad and dangerous to know’.”

Votp – “Oh, very good – well, I suppose two out of three isn’t bad…we’re confident that with enough time you’ll go three for three.”

Boy – “Mmmn, well I’ve certainly got enough time but I  think that you’ll still end up disappointed.”

Votp – “Time – no doubt – will tell. Mad, bad and….dangerous? But surely that’s what you seem to be accusing us of being.”

Boy – “If I was…”

Girl – “Do you two know each other?”

Votp – “No, dear lady not at all…this is just – friendly banter, a little verbal cut and thrust to while away a long journey, no harm intended and I think perhaps too much has been said already…….”

The car that we are all in is a typical Pullman carriage, with comfortable deep buttoned upholstery and sumptuous wood paneling. Above the seats and below the long net shelving are fixed 6 rectangular panels, these panels are – clockwise upon entering from the corridor: a Birds custard advert, a mirror, a Lyons coffee advert and opposite a Blue Boar cigarette advert, a Mirror, and a Lyles black treacle advert. My friend sits beneath the Lyons ad now, staring distractedly out of the window, with me beside him and with the strange new interloper opposite and central beneath the other  mirror. The reason I mention this is because some strange trick of the light has just now conspired to give every impression of that mirror undulating slightly – as though a pebble had been dropped into the tranquil surface of a vertical lake causing several ripples to circulate, but nobody else in the car seems to have noticed anything so I must assume that I am more tired than I thought, and that my usual peculiar imaginings are running wild in new and unexpected ways. Still, that was strange. The tension in the carriage is by now quite palpable, so I decide to try and reignite the conversation.”

Girl – “…What you were saying, earlier – there’s still some time to while away before we get to London, perhaps you could rectify some of the misconceptions you mentioned.”

Votp – “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, if only I knew what the specific misunderstandings were. No, actually that’s disingenuous of me, I expect the young mans delusions are much the same as these cavils always seem to be – that we’re somehow involved in unsavoury practices: ‘Black Magick’ I believe is the usual accusation – which is sensationalist nonsense of course. But these fantasies do seem to persist – we’ve just suffered exactly the same denouncements in Sicily, without any justification I assure you – and for similarly prurient reasons no doubt.”

Girl – “Surely that’s understandable, your order, your ceremonies seem so mysterious. You can hardly be surprised that people don’t fully comprehend you.”

Votp – “There’s no reason why  they should understand us, the many rarely understand the few – we are pioneers after all. We have a saying: ‘Our method is Science, our aim is Religion!’ Which simply means – I think – that we are trying to reconcile the logic of science with the harmonies of Religion, I mean – does that really sound so bad?. Surely even you can have no objections to that sir.”

Boy – “I’m a firm believer in syncretism, but I believe that mathematics is the language of logic, as music is the language of harmony, I rather doubt that your ‘language’ has much to add to either…too many quirks.”

Votp – “Our ‘language’ is something quite new, and I think you Sir will find to your cost – rather pervasive. We’re finding at the moment for example that our ethos, our…mindset if you will is proving particularly attractive to the younger male, possibly because that particular demographic are feeling somewhat – disconnected…or better yet: uncoordinated  – in the aftermath of the war. There really was so much death wasn’t there, hardly surprising then that Father figures are in rather short supply. You see, young men, as I’m sure you’re aware can be something of a handful –  in the absence of paternal guidance. They need discipline! I would go as far as to say that sometimes a firm hand is required. We learned a lot of during the war, I suppose those lessons were always there in your history but there’s nothing like first hand experience to really bring things into sharp focus. What  I think they’re really looking for is leadership – we offer them that, within an aspirational structure, a system that is infact a very rigid hierarchy – and in so doing, we let them know exactly what their position in the pecking order is, and of course we offer them the hope that they might one day improve that position, if they behave themselves. You see there must be rules, even if those rules seem somewhat counterintuitive, or perhaps even cursory to the uninitiated.  I also happen to think – on a personal note – that there should be rather more deference for the established order of things, than I’ve seen of late. The war stirred up so many resentments that were best left undisturbed. This is something of a particular bugbear of mine but – rampant  individualism – is I believe, a cause for great concern in these chaotic times. Order is key, order and discipline. So yes lady, I accept that our methods may seem inscrutable, but I think that they could in time save society from a very great deal of quite disruptive….exuberance. You Sir, would be wise to…let’s mix metaphors a little shall we…you have proffered language and  I’m a chemist by vocation, so – ‘conjugate’ with us..at least then we could…lock horns  with some parity. Of course you’d have to start at the bottom, mmm yes – as a Neophyte, as an  ‘unentered apprentice’ our affiliates might say, although I doubt that would last long mmmn. And I do think that in all fairness  I should warn you that the initial period would almost certainly be rather…rigorous ”

Boy – “I have to say, I’m rather surprised you brought the war up, considering your master campaigned so fervently on behalf of the Germans…and from such a safe distance. As to your invitation – I have no objections whatsoever to crossing swords with you on equal terms – by all means ‘have at you sir! But of course, that isn’t really what you mean. You mean that you would like to choose the ground and the weapon, and I’ve got more sense than that….never argue with a Frenchman in French….

Votp – “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Boy – ”I mean don’t have a barney with  the Punch and Judy man in the vernacular unless you’re a fellow professor, or you’ve got a very blue tongue indeed – which I’m beginning  think you probably have .”

Votp – “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

Girl – “…I think he means that if you argue with Kruchenykh and Khlebnikov in Zaum, your going to lose.”

Boy – “Oooh, bravo, I have no idea what you just said but, oh boy – I agree with every word..”

Votp – “You’re quite the double act aren’t you.”

Boy – “Oh, we have a lot of laughs.You should see us ‘after’ rehearsals’”

Votp – “I rather doubt that all the rehearsing in at World would make you any more coherent..”

Boy – “Well ‘What can be explained is not poetry.’ William Butler Yeats told me that.”

Votp – “Really? Oh, yes of course –  the Blythe road reference…..how very clever of you”

Boy – “Just Skylarking, I don’t really know Mr Yeats…..I think the point stands though.”

Votp – “Is there a point? If you’ll forgive me for saying – a lot of what you say seems rather point-less. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve noticed that your thoughts seem somewhat unstructured. In point of fact –  I believe Mr Yeats speaks French rather well, most cultured people do – French is still the language of diplomacy after all – I’m sure the young lady pronounces impeccably….fascinating language really  – plus beau que Anglais – however, if I understand you correctly your Metaphor is flawed – the person of whom we are speaking isn’t using an existing language, he has invented his own.”

Boy – “Yes, just so he can argue with people in new and perplexing ways I hear.”

Votp – “You are well on your way to finding out I assure you…although I think perhaps a few grunts might suffice for you, so your lack of comprehension at the depth of his achievement is probably understandable…or perhaps I just don’t suffer Fools very well. And of course I might be biased because personally – I think that inventing a new ‘language’ is rather impressive.”

Boy – “Not if that’s the only way you can win an argument. Anyway, I thought he just took dictation….in 1904 I believe…..”

Votp – “Well, that’s partly correct in…infact…”

Boy – “Infact the substantive part of the dialect is ‘borrowed’ – isn’t that the latest ‘twist’ – stolen from other places – that Blythe road reference again….and where did that vernacular come from? Anna Sprengel, Westcott, Mathers…or further back to Eliphas Levi or further still – to the mysterious Secret Chiefs?”

Votp – “Yes, yes – I don’t understand how you can be so well informed, these things are…these things are…..”

Boy –  “You know you have a tendency to repeat yourself in moments of stress, although so far I have to say – that is the most interesting thing I can find about you. But let’s just take automatic writing for a moment…the process under which ‘The Book of the Law’ was written – actually I find automatic writing fascinating….in terms of – surely intention is all because…ahhh – I don’t really know how to express this – channels! Yes, channels  might be exactly the right word, conveying not only the process but also the absolute certainty of them being manifold…like radio stations…”

Girl – “…Oh, I think this is fascinating – I met a woman in Stockholm on holiday a few years ago, an artist and a medium who used clairvoyance in her work….Oh the paintings were just lovely. Anyway, we had a long conversation: the really interesting thing that came up was how this latest phase of ‘Spiritualism’ is concurrent too, simultaneous with – the development of radio.  She was talking about the Fox sisters, and how their ‘rapping’ was analogous to and contemporaneous with what was then the new mass communication system: ‘the electric Telegraph’ and  about how the evolution of Spritualism after them was synchronous with the increasingly sophisticated advancements in radio…as though a pure signal was slowly coming through both mediums…pun intended – with the zenith of each happening at about the time that, ohh I don’t remember what they’re called – you know, when the radio waves were discovered.”

Boy – “Etheric?”

Votp – “Hertzian!”

Boy – “Are you sure, I thought they were a type of elecromagnetism,,,,etheric seems right.”

Votp – “They are a type….I’m a scientist!”

Boy – “”Do you see, this is what I was saying yesterday: ‘Everything Vibrates!’ Everything has a frequency! And I suppose that’s what I’m asking: How do you know what you were tuning in to? Because  if I’m honest, I think you’re probably…you and your Master – really, really imperfect receivers. Frankly I dread to think where you resonate. So isn’t there a problem if you don’t really know where this ‘law’, these words come from, or who composed them or even what their original  purpose  was….how can you possibly understand a system of cause and effect when you you don’t really understand the cause….the etymology, to extend this metaphor?  Do you understand? Where do the  lipless words come from, and why have their authors crossed so many boundaries – space, time or indeed the very purlieus of death –  to have them mouthed? Are they unable now to utter them themselves? The real question of course is: Who wrote them – ‘The Ascended Masters’ or ‘The Great Old Ones’?”

Votp – “Great old Ones?”

Boy – “Oh,OK – thanks for…clearing that up.”

Votp – “No I….erm….”

Boy – “I just don’t comprehend how you can be so careless. You make yourself channels – that word again – but you have no conception of what you’re unleashing…of what you’re bringing into this unsuspecting World…”

Votp – “Yes well,, we all have our parts to play don’t we…’”

Boy – “Yes of course, and you’re all men of parts really aren’t you…but I’ve seen the consequences of the parts you play, we all have if only people had the wits to see through the smoke and mirrors….The tragic thing is you probably wouldn’t care even if you could decipher the timeline.”

Votp – “Should we?”

Boy – “You might, if you could at least perceive that the flames always devour the tinder. That seems like a pretty obvious lesson to me – how’s he doing, you conjurer friend – still holding himself together with Cocaine and Heroin? Perhaps he should have started with Dee, or rather Edward Kelly…but of course he did didn’t he, I recognized the language.”

Girl – “I heard something once – ‘The only way you know whether you’ve been visited by an Angel or a Demon is the way you feel afterwards’ is that what you mean?”

Boy – Exactly, and I know exactly how he felt after meeting ‘Aiwaas’. You were correct to pull me up on my attitude to Theosophy, you’re probably right, those teachings have inspired a lot of people…..but there is still the issue of ‘The coming race’ and ‘Vril’ and so forth.

Girl – “I can’t imagine why the Spirits or whatever they are would want to communicate with men at all…considering you’ve just spent years trying to blow the World up. I certainly can’t see why they would tell you anything that would increase your power to do so. Or don’t they have a choice? Is this like ‘The Tempest’, like the relationship between Prospero and Ariel – Master and servant? Is this really just Metaphysical  Imperialism? Because I really do doubt that would go very well. No, don’t answer…I already know. Oh God, he’s right isn’t he, you’ve let the Genii out of their bottles…and they’ve turned the tables on you somehow haven’t they….”

Boy – “ Well I’m not an expert, but…

Votp – “..We noticed..”

Boy – “..Ha,but I’m willing to discuss these things with a Woman, so I’ll have to do. There are ancient arcane books:The Keys of Solomon’,’ the lesser and greater keys’ – Grimoires that give instructions on these matters…King Solomon was said to have trapped 72 spirits in a bronze vessel – I need you to remember that number:72. The grimoires are said to explain how to gain power over them, how to bind them into servitude. But you should have no fear, these books have been around for hundreds of years and the tales for thousands. The World is still here.”

Girl – “But something’s different this time…no, you don’t have to say anything – I can see the difference on both your faces…..”

Boy – “Brass vessels can be found….War is always the perfect cover for a Quest…..as I understand things there are rules that govern these things, strict laws…and in theory they should work, I can’t in all honesty explain much further…..I suppose their authors made certain assumptions that would have seemed reasonable a thousand years years ago but  somehow the ground rules have changed over time, there have been so many advancements in recent years…electricity, the machines, people are beginning to adapt to this new…zeitgeist. I know you see these things – you may comprehend them better than I do, because I really don’t understand how any of these changes effect  things yet. Of course the truth may be, exactly as you’ve pointed out –  in any realm Slaves will eventually rebel against their Masters. I think perhaps Iohé Grevis should have been more diligent!”

Votp – “And I think perhaps you’ve said enough!”

Boy – “No, not nearly enough – I’m not a part of your mens club Omerta, I suppose really that’s been your grievance with me through all these years. I go to St Jame’s for my hats…not the conversation and my Great Queen is not so easily found on maps. The lady has every right to know these things…..’If women are expected to do the same work as men, we must teach them the same things.’ Plato…”

Girl – “…..I was thinking about ‘Scriabin’ in bed last night – another of our unfinished conversations – I heard something when I was in Paris, people were pretty excited by the idea at the time – even I was…well exhilarated really, I think your starting to guess why – but now I’m sort of terrified. Toward the end of his life – you know of course that he died, really just as the war was beginning – anyway, towards the end he’d started working on a grand project…maybe he’d always been working on the same titanic project – something he called ‘The Mysterium’, a great festival of light, sound, smell and touch and taste that would take place in the foothills of the Himalayas and was meant to trigger the Apocalypse and usher in a new era for an ‘Older’ and ‘Nobler Race’ than Man….”

Silence descends again and a bright beam of Sunlight cuts through the tension that once again floods the carriage, I can see the particles of dust  floating, swirling in the air,no not floating: zigzagging – I hadn’t expected this journey to be so fraught….and suddenly my eyes are drawn to the mirror opposite which once again appears to be flexing and buckling, the distortion more pronounced now. This time there can be no doubt, my Synesthesia  is not causing this – some strange force is causing the glass to bow, I am certain now of this because  as I look across the car I can tell from the alarmed expression on the disruptive strangers face, that the mirror above me must be undergoing some similar process. Slowly, a comforting hand reaches over from my left  and takes a firm but gentle grip on my slightly trembling hands.”

Votp -”Yes, would you  excuse me for a moment, I must just check on something. We really must make all the arrangements for our breakfast as soon as I get back.”

Girl – “Did you just see…?”

Boy – “Yes, think about something else for a moment, would you….”

Girl – “Thank God he’s gone, I don’t think I could have stood  that tenseness for a moment longer.”

Boy – “Really, I thought you’d found a new best friend…”

Girl – “Don’t, although I did actually think we were starting to get along pretty well, for a while anyway…I was even  beginning to enjoy the conversation, the end was pretty dark I suppose – do you really think, no – now’s not the time. I know you’re cross with me,  so….I even thought I made a pretty good case for his Science/Religion motto – with my….our – Radio/Spiritualism story, but I don’t think he noticed.”

Boy – “Yes, that was good, I’d like to hear more about the Woman you met, but not now… I’m not really cross with you just confused and…and yes, I am a little …piqued. You’re right though – the conversation was thought-provoking, Interesting things always seem to come up in arguments.”

Girl – “ ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head’.

Or a large Quartz Crystal in the case of our Spiritualist friends. Finally a smile – you are in a fine mood today, I must say…I can’t believe how rude you’re being.”

Boy – “Yes, and with good reason, how could somebody ‘want me to have’ a handbill if this whole preposterous charade is a coincidence, and…and – did you hear him – service industry….FUCK. How well do you know these people.”

Girl – “Hardly at all… not even that, I told you – I just met him once.”

Boy – “And why on Earth did you tell him we had no plans.”

Girl – “We didn’t, not really…surely we can just carry those things over ‘til tomorrow..”

Boy – “I had plans…..I had surprises, I had –  you have to get out of having breakfast with him.”

Girl – “I…I can’t.”

Boy – “You must…or I will, on your behalf.”

Girl – “You’re jealous!”

Boy – “Me? No! Although – breakfast? Anyway I’m pretty sure you’d be barking up the wrong tree…who knows though – I expect ‘needs must when the devil drives’.”

Girl – “What do you mean.”

Boy – “I mean we’re talking of a chap who…no longer chooses his own hats!”

Girl – “What you mean….how can you tell?.”

Boy – “Aunt nell ! Aunt nell’s how I can tell.”

Girl. – “I don’t even know who aunt Nell is.”

Boy – “Ears dear, ears. Listen, you’re a woman, so I expect you know all about predatory older men,  but I grew up in a half lawless seaside town because all the young men had gone to war and then conspicuously failed to come back so I can assure you that I do as well. I was probably the classic lonely child, wandering the streets on my tod, so frankly I spent a good part of my formative years learning how to dodge – predatory older men. Boys and girls aren’t so different in that respect. Maybe there was a time when people looked out for each others children but the war fucked that up…..yes, yes I know, sorry.  Luckily, when I was a kid  I’d spent a lot of time with the costers at the fish market…I’ve even got a honorary Kingsman, somewhere….by that point only the really old stall holders were still here, men that had been too aged to go to war – the thing is – and this is quite weird because  we were just talking about languages but , there’s a form of cant that’s shared by the strangest cross section of society you can possibly imagine, market men,  circus performers, theatre folk, fairground workers, thieves…and importantly in this example dilly boys – their clients and the wider ‘blue’ community. There are vocational variations but the basics are pretty much the same. Anyway, these old costers taught me this cant – I was pretty inquisitive as a boy, and there were a lot of hours in the day – actually they taught me a lot, nearly as much as the Greeks, but their views on pederasty were somewhat different, diametrically opposed infact and, well – forewarned is forearmed, so I learnt to listen and to be swift, lot’s didn’t….especially in this town……there really is an M.O: wealthy, influental – generous…captivating qualities to a kid, so  I rather doubt your nice new zhooshy HP was quite as quick on his lallie tappers as a chicken. If we ever get back to the subject of coming of age rituals lets talk about the Cretan, or Spartan rites, ceremonies your other new  friend the ensorcelling  ‘Erastes’ would doubtless advocate. I know that I’m being far too serious about this  but I don’t take these things lightly – I found his sales pitch pretty chilling, especially because they seem to know – that if you break the Child, you’ll rarely have any trouble with the Man. But look, I’ll explain the finer points of polari later, Right now  I have to think, he’ll be back soon.”

Girl – “Oh don’t worry about that, he’s sown the seeds of division – he’ll be letting us stew in our own juices, we have a moment.”

Boy – “Actually I think he was pretty wigged out, we all saw those mirrors buckle and I didn’t hear us going over any points or anything, that didn’t seem..natural. Nice mixed metaphor though. Anyway, if we’ve got a minute – perhaps you would be good enough  to explain why you’re playing along with this pantomime – I know you don’t actually want to have breakfast with him –  so what exactly are you doing?”

Girl – “I’m proffering you with the adventure you promised me.”

Boy – “No, your preventing me from providing you with my…errr -pledged peril…previously plighted.”

Girl  – ”….Preposterous! Anyway, I know where your adventure would end up – ‘Le Boudoir’.”

Boy – “Well, considering the alternative: ’Is this a dagger I see before me?’ I hardly think the bedroom would be the end of the World…haha.”

Girl – “What’s so funny? I’m surprised you can find anything funny at all about the ‘end of days’ considering the direction that  conversation just went in”

Boy -”Oh don’t worry I expect we’ll survive – as Dumas said: ‘Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting Deity.’ I just suggest that we find a pub and a bedroom as as quickly as possible….and not necessary in that order – certain liberties may have to be taken but don’t worry, I will get you through this…oh come on – that’s a pretty compelling argument! Actually, I was remembering what you were saying about ‘The Mysterium’ – I think there’s a very real chance that your famous  ‘Abominable Snowman’ might be Alexander Scriabin, wandering the foothills, feral now from the pressures of organizing a really fun packed  Armageddon.”

Girl – “Hahaha….and hoping for the  rapture-us applause he’s doubtless been promised. You’re a fool, but I’m actually beginning to hope you survive the day.”

Boy – “Haha. Nice! But I still can’t let you go! ”

Girl – “You really hate them don’t you.”

Boy – “No, as a matter of fact at this precise moment I don’t hate them at all…This conversation began with what you called a dichotomy: Fear/Freedom –  the terror of what would happen if the Beast within was unleashed. Well we’re talking of a man who emancipated that Beast completely, who set him free to wreak havoc, regardless of the consequences…presumably he hoped there would be some worthwhile boon to bring back from the ensuing carnage. Is that courage or folly I wonder…or just abyssmal self-indulgence?  I can’t say, but he may have been partly right because in doing so I think he’s revealed some great truths…..I find his explanation of the Aeons fascinating! You know we talk about the sublimity of ancient Egyptian Culture, but these people have made those Cultural beliefs central to their new ‘Religion’ and that is something. They may even have started a process that Western Civilization has needed for thousands of years and that might finally restore some balance to society. What I don’t know is how much is new and how much was already there..We have to get a book on Eliphas Levi from Atlantis…”

Girl – “Maybe William Blake was right:
‘The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom…You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.’
……Oh get over yourself, I bought a book!”

Boy – “Ha, I bought a few…you’re pretty hard to keep up with you know. Maybe you’re right about excess,  but I think he’s also committed some unspeakable atrocities…and I can’t separate the man from the work, usually I can, easily – but there were children involved and….and now I do…I do hate him again. You know, we talk about Great  innovators sometimes: Artists, writers, composers…I’ve known a few over the years and I think an appropriate trade motto would be ‘I may seem selfish but you have to understand that what I’m doing is the most important thing in the World!’ That’s the attitude that gets things done, the attitude that makes the omelette – but untempered also the attitude that leaves a trail of shattered bodies scattered in a landscape of utter devastation…I won’t see you broken and discarded, just more collateral damage. Artists, writers, composers are Alchemists really – they take their obsessions and…channel them into their work.  Tyrants prefer to see their obsessions played out in the real World. People think that evil must be incremental…that each escalating act is precipitated by a new decision to abandon morality. I never thought that, to me evil is a simple decision made with absolute certainty, just once and never questioned again: – ‘The end justifies the means’.”

Girl –  “So ‘Do what thou wilt’ can’t be the whole of the law! ”

Boy – “Not even close.”

Votp – “Oh, that’s a surprise.”

Boy – “I didn’t hear you come in……you look disappointed, problems with your arrangements?”

Votp – “No, no – no problems.”

Boy – “Well would you give us a moment then, we were on the verge of a rather beautiful moment.”

Girl – “He’s joking.”

Votp – “Well, you’re half right.”

Girl – “I think he’s calling you an ‘ing’.”

Votp – “Yes that’s very funny…look, I’d love to play around with you kids a while longer but London fast approaches and I think that our time together really has run out and so – young lady – I have to tell you some rather unpleasant facts: Your…boyfriend has doubtless spent the last few minutes regaling you with all of the spurious,and frankly rather delusional justifications as to why he’s absolutely intent on rescuing you from our doubtless nefarious clutches…the truth – I’m afraid – is somewhat more complicated. We have come to rescue you from him, and I’m afraid we must insist.”

The stranger now has fully entered the carriage and stands, looming and anxious in the corner of the car as I hear,  to my right  the sound of the carriage door creaking open again. There are black, smoking Lichtenberg figures spreading across the mirror now then the sound of glass breaking as the looking glass opposite shatters.
© 2017 Kevin Barry Partridge.

CHAPTER 18: C, F♯, B♭, E, A, D

CHAPTER 18

C, F♯, B♭, E, A, D

By Kevin Barry Partridge

The Octagonal concert hall is surrounded on all sides by beautifully proportioned pillars – cross-braced at intervals by struts and axially secured with Ornate Oriental Roses – the columns themselves are crested with Geometric floral webs – delicate as lace – that interlock to form arches supporting narrow balconies overhanging all sides but one, that housing a low stage crowned with hushed ornamental carillons. All is made up of cream cast iron, rising like an idealized abstract iron forest from the sprung wooden floor, hidden now by chairs. The encompassing windows are misty, with heat and breath from the gathered bodies, rendering the glass opaque and adding to the feeling of being inside a gigantic frosted Wedding cake, with features not of metal but spirit spun from icing sugar and egg whites, with marvelous meringue minarets.

 Sitting high amongst those spires on our little arboreal balcony opposite the stage the sound of the orchestra saturates me – Debussy is my favorite composer and ‘La Mer’ is my favorite piece. The music is just wonderful and my companion is attentive but silent, which is nice, the French like to whisper during concerts. There are colours of course, but they come to me like old friends in tinted veils, they caress and nurture me. When the piece ends they fade and there is a peal of jagged purple applause. The next piece is by Alexander Scriabin: ‘Prometheus – The poem of fire,’ no choir for this performance but I did bring my very own private ‘Clavier à Lumières, so as the music starts I am once again enveloped by the evening as a ethereal haze of sound and colour washes over me. When I finally re-emerge from my daze I’m surprised to find myself walking along the seafront.

Boy – “Thank you for that, I can’t begin to tell you how lucky we were tonight, usually the repertoire is pretty staid, I think the musical director might have found the key to the liquor cabinet again…he’ll probably get the chop.”

Girl – “Haha, you’re welcome…I mean you paid really, didn’t you – the job and all…but yes, the music was just lovely. I was a bit overwhelmed by the end to be honest…have I been in a trance?

Boy – “You’ve been perfectly charming, as always.”

GirI – “I heard Daddy came to see you, was he ferocious? I’m sorry, I really didn’t think he’d actually want to talk to you.”

Boy – “He was fine…actually I only introduced myself, Mum did the rest – I thought that looked better. Afterwards She said: ‘Well, usually when I offer somebody a job I’ve done the interviewing.’ Then She laughed.”

Girl – “Sorry, he means well…he’s rather protective.”

Boy – “Very proper I expect – touching that he cares so much – and all for the best – She must have charmed him, he’s letting you come to London with me after all, and we haven’t exactly known each other for long have we….are you all ready for Tomorrow?”

Girl – “Yes, I think so…he does trust me you know….but he’ll still check with the Hotel to make sure that we’ve got separate rooms.”

Boy – “Well as long as he doesn’t burst in in the middle of the night screaming ‘AHA’, I’d expect nothing less.”

Girl – “I wish we could stay longer – I do so love London.”

Boy – “So do I, I like looking at the faces…there must be every kind of face in the World in London. Have you noticed that there’s a particular ‘type’ of face in Brighton. They’re good faces – Heroic even – but I can definitely see the similarities sometimes, London’s just so diverse.”

Girl – “You mean you like looking at the women! I can’t blame you really – so do I. And you’ll take me to those bookshops?”

Boy – “If that’s where you want to go, there’s a new place just opened, by the British Museum – ‘Atlantis’!”

Girl – “Oooh, you’re favorite theme – that sounds perfect for you.”

Boy – “I know, I’m sort of excited – I’ll check into the Hotel with you first thing, then go on to Billingsgate and the Phoenix Wharf to see my suppliers, shouldn’t take long, I can use the underground trains most of the way, so you can do some conventional shopping in the morning and with luck we’ll manage a late lunch at the Café Royal and some unconventional shopping in the afternoon….”

Girl – “Lovely, and in the evening we’ll do everything – I want to go to Bloomsbury and Fitzrovia….and to the Crystal Palace.”

Boy – “Well, lets see how much we can squeeze in, I seem to remember promising you some danger.”

Girl – “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, we were just playing weren’t we.”

Boy – “Cold feet?”

Girl – “Oh really, alright then – anything you can throw at me, I’m game…..You don’t have to walk me all the way you know.”

Boy – “Actually I do, that was a condition your father made – you must be ‘accompanied to the front door at anytime after 10pm’ – I expect I’ll stick you in a hansom cab most nights, but they aren’t always about so we might still be making this walk quite a bit, I might as well find out where you live. Do you think he’s figured out why you want the money?”

Girl – “Probably, I don’t know. Paris feels like a long way off at the moment.”

Boy – “I still haven’t figured out why I’m providing you with the means to leave when all I want you to do is stay.”

Girl – “We’ve got the summer, if this were London I might stay…but Brighton in the Winter is just too dreary, I need the Theatre and the Museums and the Galleries. I need the heat of a million bodies.”

Boy – “And the intrigue…don’t forget that – all those cabalistic coteries, lurking in the basements of Notting Hill.”

Girl – “Why Notting Hill?”

Boy – “I like to imagine that London adheres to some of Freuds theories: if the East represents the cities wild ‘id’, then the West most certainly represents London’s ‘Superego’. Most of the societies have their bases in the West I believe.”

Girl – “Really? That’s strange.”

Boy – “Not really, follow the money.”

Girl – “You really don’t think much of them do you. Is that why you never joined a….what did you call them? A cabalistic coterie, there must be some…even in the provinces.”

Boy – “I expect there are a few…I’m a Mystic I suppose, so I guess I think that studying someone else’s mystical experience is sort of missing the point….Mysticism being about personal gnosis.”

Girl – “Well I realize that, but I thought what you were talking about last week was a sort of Perennial Philosophy, isn’t there some commonality of experience that we can learn from.”

Boy – “A Philosophy centered on Nature can only really be perennial I think, mine has a healthy dose of Animism thrown in for good measure I suppose…personal preference…but Nature seems to me to be like Music – there’s no argument – ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, a note by any other name would sound the same’: do you see what I mean? Universal truths, there’s just no point arguing! Occultism seems more like language, specific to location and custom, and the potential for conflict is inherent because dialects vary, in that particular case I’m starting to think the rules of business demand that they must, but with much higher stakes than commerce – like…mini Religions – men argue, kill each other because they have different words for what is essentially beyond language, even though they have different words for everything else as well and that doesn’t seem to bother them. I’m not sure if that makes sense to you, as usual I’m not explaining myself very well. Also of course any prescribed Occult system leads you down paths that have already been trodden to known destinations.”

Girl – “I don’t understand what your saying!”

Boy – “I’m saying – This is an adventure! How can an adventure be an adventure if you’ve been told where you’re going and what to expect on the way. Isn’t the point of entering the arcane forest to experience something ‘wild’.”

Girl – “That’s a bit rich coming from you, you were telling me last week that there are wolves in the woods, and that I should be careful, these people, these systems you’re dismissing are the people who’ve already made some pathways – those safe passages you seem so fond of…isn’t the safest way through the woods to just follow the paths that are already there?”

Boy – “Is that what you do when you go to the woods….stick to the paths? Of course you don’t, you explore, probably you head for the deepest part of the forest first of all, because secretly you want to find somewhere nobody’s ever been – the place with no footprints – because you’re not a follower you’re an adventuress…..look, I don’t actually believe the Wolves can hurt you, or me, or anybody really….but being told that and knowing that are very different things, and in the meantime they can certainly stomp around and howl and look menacing….and you might just scare yourself to death worrying about them….which is sort of the point of course, but that’s complicated….. Anyway how do you know you want to go to the places the paths lead.”

Girl – “We’ll, you look at the work of the path makers and make an informed decision.”

Boy – “Yes great – read the adverts and choose – the menu isn’t the meal, and the advert certainly isn’t the product, and don’t expect any customer reviews….silencio – look, in theory I could say whatever I liked on the menu of the restaurant, because the first step is to get you through the door….in practice I have to be honest because the dining ‘experience’ is instant, so any wild exaggerations wouldn’t last long, and I have to offer choice because people are different – some people love things others hate, I wouldn’t last long if I told you what to eat…..this is a terrible analogy….music’s better…what would you do if somebody told you that Debussy was a really bad composer.”

Girl – “I’d tell them they’re wrong.”

Boy – “But what if you’d never heard his music?”

Girl – “I…..”

Boy – “And what if they never mentioned him at all, and just never took you to a Debussy concert. You’d be missing out right? I don’t want to close myself off to their knowledge, I just don’t want to close myself off to anything else either, and surely to accept any system is to reject many others.”

Girl – “So you think I should just ignore people, their opinions?”

Boy – “If that means finding your own way, probably….yes.”

Girl – “Including yours?”

Boy – “Oh I couldn’t recommend that….and that isn’t really what I meant….I mean certainly you could…..”

Girl – “…Oh I’m so glad you said that because I thought what you were saying last week was totally wrong, and even tonight I can’t really agree with you.”

Boy – “Really.”

Girl – “Oh goodness yes, I mean, not wrong exactly – I can’t fault your logic or even the depth of your knowledge – but talk about a glass half empty……Wow!”

Boy – “Really?”

Girl – “YES – We’ve had a difficult time, I’m not denying that, a terrible decade, so terrible that maybe we can’t quite see through the pain just yet….but even during the war artists still made art, and musicians composed and people still fell in love, and you know the war has been over for quite a while now. I understand why you have so many doubts about these groups, considering what you think their influence was on that insane conflict, I mean the German esoteric societies, that peoples vanity can be manipulated, that good intentions buckle under power, but you’re just sooooo pessimistic, surely now’s the time for joy, a chance to blossom – look at Theosophy’s influence on the arts: Colour theory for example – I heard this in Paris – Theosophic theory assigns meaning to the colours…so in terms of the Primary colours: Red represents Strength, and Will, Blue is about Love and Wisdom and Yellow is to do with Creativity and Intelligence, so then to generate the secondary colours you have to mix the primaries, I mean not just the actual colours, you have to mix those innate attributes and then with the tertiaries you mix again and so on, and then of course because there’s an inherent meaning classic exemplars can be attached to the colours, Gods, Goddesses, Mythological hero..ines, Zodiac signs, and then maybe you can begin to organise the colours, like, maybe…..a clock face and then there are angles in between and the…have you ever seen a colour wheel? No, no of course not…well anyway – Paul Klee and Wassily Kandinsky and Piet Mondrian are all influenced by these theories and that seems pretty interesting to me because that’s the type of art I’m interested in now and….”

Boy – “..Yes, I agree….very interesting…”

Girl – “…so then what about music, do you realize that last piece of music tonight…the Scriabin: ‘Prometheus,’ do you know how influenced Alexander Scriabin is by that same Theosophic colour theory? That piece is supposed to be accompanied by a ‘Chromola’….a colour organ that actually turns the music into a visual experience, sound into colour – so everyone can see what….so that’s why I’m so interested in the occult at the moment, and that’s just one aspect, there are so many inspiring ideas – so many springboards for the imagination, I’m just fascinated by the whole thing really.”

Boy – “but those ideas didn’t start with Theosophy – Isaac Newton looked for the same correspondences, with seven colours I think…even the ancient Greeks studied the relationships between sound and colour…the theory I believe is that everything vibrates, everything has a frequency – this is old knowledge, maybe something we knew once that has been hidden from us – and nowadays reference to that arcane knowledge is mistaken for innovation on the part of the very people who hid these things.”

Girl – “Or kept them safe in dark times.”

Boy – “Perhaps…look, you could learn a lot I don’t doubt that..about cyphers and magic squares, about sigils and spells….you’d certainly learn something about Mesmerism, although I’m not sure you’d enjoy that lesson, not all action at a distance is nonsense – you were lucky before….you have some strength, I’ll give you that, but…I’m not sure how any of those things would help you write music for films, you might just distract yourself for years when you could be doing real work….do you even know how complicated this stuff is? And you might learn just as much from Jung as from Occultists, he seems to me like a fellow Mystic, and his theory of archetypes seems to me to overlap many of the Esoteric doctrines.””

Girl – Yes maybe, but surely they’re just different exemplars, different ways of describing the colours of the rainbow….I mean, I can see what you mean about Jung, he does seem like a safe point of entry…and I suppose he does sort of seem like a Mystic, more than a scientist anyway…so does Freud really – I mean does dream analysis seem ‘scientific’? But they’re strange choices if your really that concerned by mesmerism, and you’re also contradicting yourself, yours is the philosophy of individual experience, what did you say? ‘Personal gnosis’ – So how then can a Mystic espouse a ‘collective Unconscious’….how can there even be Archetypes if experience is purely personal?”

Boy – “That’s a good question, maybe the pivotal question that all these groups are trying to answer…although for me the Beauty of Jungs theory of Archetypes is that they’re so amorphous, they are open to endless interpretations…..they inspire rather than impose…..and I do think Occult groups impose, even your wheel….where does the circle start? What colour is C? Do I get to choose? I sometimes wonder if they aren’t just working on the ‘Classic with a twist’ model of commerce…you see the ‘twist’ is the USP…er…the unique selling point, you change a few names, alter an altar, rearrange a ritual slightly, basically – spin the colour wheel – claim a superior provenance and suddenly ‘this’ is the group to join because you have something more authentic.”

Girl – “then what’s authentic? What is ‘Classic without a twist’?”

Boy – “Now that’s the right question. The point before abstraction? You studied Philosophy, you tell me.”

Girl – “I don’t know yet, I just know that I have to go deeper.”

Boy – “I know, you’re standing on ‘The Threshold’ in a society that seems to have forgotten that the threshold even exists. The threshold can be a dangerous place you know…I think that’s what I was trying to say that first night, in my stupid clumsy way, you know about going to that lecture, the threshold can be…exposed – like a water hole in a forest – but what can you do, you have to quench your thirst for answers once you’ve asked the question….there are so many questions.”

Girl – “Like what?”

Boy – “Oh I don’t know, this is your adventure – what do you think?”

Girl – “Well the obvious ones are: What do I want to do? Where do I want to go? How do I get there? Is the journey as important as the destination?”

Boy – “Should you travel alone or with a friend, or in a large company?”

Girl – “What do you think?”

Boy – “I think they’re all good questions. For me: Physically? I’m happy where I am, I actually like the restaurant, although I do also like to spend time in London as well, but that’s pretty easy now and I could travel a little further afield in the Winter if I liked, I have to say you’ve encouraged me to think that broadening my horizons might be a good idea….I’ve always been fascinated by Cappadocia…you know – in Anatolia, not far from Mount Taurus I think . Philosophically? Maybe I’m like you, still looking for a suitable path…I would definitely say the journey is as important as the destination though. But we were talking about thresholds weren’t we, growing up – the Truth is – in my fumbling attempts to leave Boyhood behind I behaved pretty atrociously, the War had just ended, my Father was dead and I knew I was meant to be the Man of the house…I didn’t even have an active group of peers to learn from really, because I wasn’t at school and hadn’t been for long time, going away to college wasn’t an option – I had to stay with Mum – so for some reason I decided that…’overcoming’ my Virginity would be my route to Manhood. I expect that path is well trodden, but I treated a few women with somewhat less respect than they deserved…and I regret that. Of course afterwards I felt the same – after a few hours of grinning like an idiot – so I started reading – searching for answers, I’m still searching. Does that sound shocking? I want to be honest with you.”

Girl – “No, not at all..I’m glad you are, at least I understand you…the rest of society seems to be engaged in some strange game of manners, with rules I can’t comprehend. I suppose Graduating was supposed to fulfil my need for some sort of transition, but I’m like you, I felt the same after. Maybe I should have had a ‘coming out’.

Boy – “Yes, what a strange phenomenon that is….a fathers invention surely, could Mothers be that ‘pragmatic?’ To tell the truth I always wondered if Women didn’t have some secret ceremony, you know Mother to Daughter…maybe that’s what I meant when I was talking about ‘Haxan’, I’m sure these coming of age rites are part of our heritage, safe passage across the threshold…floral bunting and all – something the Roman/Christian Patriarchy…I wonder if there’s a difference…saw fit to curtail.”

Girl – “Honestly, the way you think. When I got home on Valentines day I spent an hour wondering if ‘The Wizard of Oz’ was some sort of cautionary tale, with a radical feminist slant….you know – impotent Wizards encouraging us ordinary folks to destroy the terrible Wise Women.”

Boy – “Haha, You should write that down, I think that’s an interesting interpretation. I guess I just find things like that interesting: Old ways, Cunning folk, strange aunts….I suppose I wonder if those days have really disappeared..I always think the great thing about the British is that there’s always someone somewhere that remembers. If there is, now might be a good time to come out of hiding, because the wolves lay in wait at the watering holes, ready to scare the bejesus out of you – they know everybody gets thirsty eventually.”

Girl – “Maybe they aren’t trying to scare anyone…perhaps they’re just calling you back to the wild.”

Boy – “Or touting for business, anyway they’d be a bit late…I’m pretty much feral already. I think perhaps there are just better things to be than wolves…what’s that saying: ‘going to the dogs?’ No thanks…..but you see the analogy is accurate – if you want to join the pack you have to accept the established hierarchy – you have to defer to the leader – The Alpha, and generally within the framework we’re discussing – probably the Alpha because of superior access to Arcane Knowledge, real or invented.”

Girl – “Or superior intuition, or deeper study…”

Boy – “… or maybe they just bark louder.”

Girl – “You know something about this don’t you….you’re talking about ‘Rites of Passage’.”

Boy – “Mmm, I know something….I’ve got a book, from flicker alley actually – Watkins – I’d love to recommend them, but I can’t – they’re always more of a hindrance than a help, but the book is pretty interesting….I really hope Atlantis will be better…anyway I’ve got this book:’Rites of passage’ by Arnold Van Gennep – Fascinating stuff: Basically he postulates that these rites follow a three step structure:

Preliminal rites – The initiate suffers a metaphorical death, I won’t go into detail – you can read the book if you like, suffice to say – realism is vital.”

Liminal Rites – A Master of Ceremonies leads the initiate through a carefully structured ’Ritual’ that takes him….or I suppose her – across a threshold and into a new stage of life. These Transitions can be pretty intense.

Postliminal Rites – The initiate is reintroduced to the society as a new being, frequently with a new name. I suppose from a societal point of view the purpose is to bind the new being to a new set of rules with a new status.”

Girl – “Sounds like marriage…all that being carried over the threshold stuff….”

Boy – “That’s good, I like that…..new name and all. Anyway from what I’ve read – Occult societies follow a similar theme, I suppose the point is…..blind trust in your travelling companions.”

Girl – “Loyalty, through interactive theatre – a one man show….or a show for one man – If they decide to let you in.”

Boy – “Oh I think getting in’s easy…..getting back out again seems to be the hard part….all those – Unique Secret Procedures….all that Silencio.”

Girl – “I’m right here.”

Boy – “OK then, next stop London I suppose.”

Girl – “Well we’re still at the seaside at the moment, so – ‘Kiss me quick,’ and I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Don’t be late….and wear a nice suit”

(kiss)

Boy -” Goodnight gorgeous….nice house, nice neighbourhood, I always loved that White tower…reminds me of something.”

© 2017 Kevin Barry Partridge.

 

 

CHAPTER 17: RARA AVIS

CHAPTER 17

RARA AVIS

By Kevin Barry Partridge

“Sigmund Freud has often stated

dreams and drives are all related,

Zip, I’m a firm believer.”

Rita Hayworth

….Is he curious? That’s a good question…..you’ve got to be curious to grow…”curiouser and curiouser”…Oh shit, that was a bit close, I’d better concentrate……How big is a bundle anyway? Cut as many bundlesas you like he said, but he didn’t say how big a bundle is…….probably thought I’d ask….doesn’t really matter then I suppose – ten quids worth, however much that is…… a lot I hope – I’ll just keep going ‘til I get enough ‘Dum Dum Da Dum’ there’s a song in there somewhere. Would have been nice if he’d helped though, do people really have dinner this early…oh actually…fuck I should be picking her up in an hour……she won’t mind if I’m late, not when she sees what I bought her, and she’ll have probably calmed down a bit….but I’m gonna need a bath now as well, and then she’ll probably want to faff around – so we’re gonna be late and I actually want to see the films. This is hard bloody going, I don’t blame him for fucking off…he probably thought lazy bloody Londoner, If I leave him alone he’ll give up after fifteen minutes and I’ll have made ten quid for nowt…..sorry mate I’m gonna need my moneys worth..still not convinced this is going to work though, how will I ever have time….well, I’ll stay up late….and I’ll start earlier…do the labyrinth ritual early……I still need to get candles…the fliers said six, so ceremony at seven, make a start by eight…..this might even make the view a bit easier, I’m always happier if my hands are busy…I might not have to explain what the work ‘means’…ooh, what was that word I liked…”intertextuality“ I’ll just say that a lot…”Neo expressionist intertextuality“……..the references in the ‘script’ are fairly hard to decipher anyway: all those contranyms……keep ‘em guessing….is ‘conduct’ a contranym…..and if I buy another case of red people’ll stay…as long as there’s free wine people will stay….even if they have to lend a hand…all night if necessary – especially musicians….fuck, that’s a terrible thing to think…..probably true, and I’ll have paid them for the gig anyway so…Sleep late on Halloween, straight to Frestonia for the party, van load of musicians probably – fine!

Shit, I’d better cut a lot. This is fucking crazy though, standing in the middle of a forest in the dark,weilding a machete and a pair of shears, chopping away with a torch between my legs….I suppose I’vedone weirder, but not by much….well, anything in the name of art. Damn I’m glad I stopped smoking grass, I’d have had a leg off by now, or forgotten why I’d come….yeah, like you’d have gotten this far..“toomuch hassle man“. Come on stay positive: Perseverance, when you make a decision you keep on keeping on, ‘til the end, whatever happens, or you never get anything done – CUT – this could be good – we did basket making at school….rattan creeper…smells like……yeah, I remember that smell – same basic principal just……bigger, and without the wooden base……..errr, don’t rule out a base…just to start, that really did make the whole process pretty easy….and that heavy duty cardboard should be perfect – CUT  away once you’re started….stop by the library in the morning figure out the edges – CUT – this might…this might even be fun . Dome-like would look good I suppose, like a large low wicker skep, or a little woven wooden igloo…without the tunnel…..Yes? No, that sounds shit….maybe a Sphere would be better….with awhole in the front..like a….Hobbit hole? No….oh fuck, what are those chairs called…..oh, come on – ” I’mnot a number, I am a free man”…ball chairs – Mmmm, that’s a lot of wood, bit ambitious as well probably -first time, especially for a group effort….there is a bird that makes nests like that though – weaver birds?Maybe…I’ve even seen chairs a bit like that in…‘Habitat’, they hang I think…couldn’t manage hanging,not without a metal frame….Habitat……..why is Conran hanging round the island so much – CUT – why do you think…..white flight, urban blight – London? Still a fucking bombsight…which means: There’smoney to be made…for those with money to start with – CUT – half of London’s going cheap, mainly the bits blocked off by chain link and corrugated iron – where the scuffknee kids stillset fire to tyres and look for unexploded ordnance to whack or stack in deadly Priapic displays.(they’ll be lucky, we thwacked what our brothers missed years ago) – which frankly is a lot, vast swathes ofthe South – and if you go far enough East – frankly is most….will they ever finish rebuilding the East? CUT – Travelling East always feels like going back through time to me – which I suppose is the opposite of the truth, adhering  to the principles of longitudinal Meridians anyway – but there are just so many layers…so muchdust in the East – North of the river especially, down past Sherlocks lesser Bete Noir: Whitechapel – where the real ‘Bete Noir’ once stalked in his beautifully embroidered bloodsoaked ‘leather apron’, black eyed, on his way back from that strange side basement at ‘The Great Eastern’ – crowds and power stuff – CULT – if only Van Helsing had arrived there a few years earlier – Whitechaple: epicentre of the Garment trade then (he probably tailored locally….Great Queen Street being a hike) and the Jewish quarter – 95% Yiddish speaking in parts at fin de siecle…all through Brick lane and up via the gates of the Red Church to Bethnal Green and what was ‘The Nichol’: the Black and Blue of Charles Boothes social strata maps:the worst of the worst of the slums then, probably typical little terraces now, if they hadn’t beenknocked down to make way for Arnold Circus: the first council estate – built for the poor but somehow just out of reach to them….the locals left to skirt the edges, the whole area increasingly Bangladeshi now, thanks in part to Terry ‘Prince of the Ghetto’ Fitzpatric’s sledgehammer foot and George ‘they ain’t all bastards’ Tremlett and back down to Shadwell and to Cable Street – CUT – where the people of the East cried “No Pasaran” to the ‘Chemise Noirs’ – and held back the Monster- like modern Gandalfs pitchingpepper and marbles instead of spells in a joyous ‘Anor’ed Circus of defiance – Communists, Jews, labourparty supporters, trade unionists – TUC – Irish Dockers and the Children of the Eastend exclaimed “You cannot pass” to the Fascists and the police in Shadwells finest hour – CUT – and still further down the Thames to Sherlocks other ‘lesser’ Bete Noir  – Limehouse – Where the river starts to smell like the Sea again and the – “What shall we do with the drunken sailor” – whiff of Opium still lingers on the breeze –  drifting past ‘The Phoenix Factory’ all the way to Mr Charles Dickens very particular Bete Noir: Canning town: birthplace of Betty May ‘the Tiger Woman’….the ever redoubtable and much embellished, another Heroic  Cocks Egg willing to take on a monstrous black hearted ‘Beast’ – CUNT – strange, they usually love a Bete, the cockneys (somebody should write a book about artists models, there be tales of  woe and er…brio, tales to make you laugh and weep and dance…the never forgotton Muses) and further still to Pennyfields. Limehouse might have been where the junk landed, thanks to the Blue funnel line, but Pennyfields was where the good stuff ended up…in stuffy smoke filled basements….more obscure, less…‘touristy’ than the Causeway and ‘Ah Sings’: which while hardly the ‘Studio 54’ of the day was none the less frequented by the Nobs. Dickens, one feels would have known the difference – would have known wherof he embellished – CUT – he was very partial to ‘The aspirin of the nineteenth century’ and those ‘Edwin Drood’ research sojourns Eastwards may have been a little more ‘in depth’ than he ever let on.  Mr Holmes would certainly have had reason for his doubts about the area: His ‘Journey’s to the East’ would have been rather more fraught than most more….baggage – CUT – and always the fear that this time the temptation would be too great, he’d liked the Morphine a bit too much, weaned off on cocaine perhaps, but according to Watson: “the fiend is sleeping, not dead” and in the East his “drug mania“ must ever have beckoned.   Sherlock would have been a very discerning customer, and Pennyfields would have provided him with the best, from Turkey and from Persia….”No shit Sherlock!” – CUT. But the Luftwaffe put paid to Pennyfields and the Limehouse Causeway – the Easts original ‘Chinatown’ – the fucking bastards – CUT. Of course neither Dickens or Conan Doyle would have had to journey far beyond the delicately carved feet of their local Phoenix……and the Apothecary to procure their drugs. Phoenix? Yes, yes, perhaps….strange to think that the notoriously ‘uptight’ Victorians could legally procure: Prostitutes, laudanum, Ether, Morphine, Cocaine and the many derivitives of the Gentlemans drug of choice – Opium: Kendal Blackdrop, Mother Baileys quieting syrup, McMunns elixir or the tincture named to send extra shivers up poor old Harry Palmers cold sweat back: Dalbys carminative  – all derived from Opium: the Chinamans revenge – because of course we tried to fuck them up with ‘the midnight oil’ before they ever returned the favour, we even sent the Navy in to back up our dealers….pretty much business as usual for us – makes you unavowed to be British really….so you could hardly begrudge themtheir fetid basement shadenfreude – ”taste of your own medicine doctor?” and now we‘re ‘the market’, again the inner cities once  more flooded with cheap – CUT – heroin to line the coffers of the new ‘Empire’!

Of course the other bits of London are up for grabs as well…and the Docks must seem oh so seductive,speculatively speaking: 83,000 P45’s were put in the post the day  ‘Containerism’ was invented, they may have taken a while to arrive but that‘s not unusual, not for the British post…and some of Londons best buildings emptied, virtually overnight. But there was no money around, or no confidence…if there’s a difference – so the Artists and the dancers moved in: Bankside, St Katherines Dock, Shad Thames, and things have been pretty fucking great…for a while now  – but  the incantations on the Docks have changed…..CUT….the words of power have shifted – CUT – and a new charm: “Riverside development” is going to end Butlers Wharf’s cultural revival – CUT –  just like St Katherines a few years ago and….look at the state of that  – for a while at least…I expect most of the people on the island’ll drift Eastwards..like Sherlock and Edwin Drood….but looking for a different kind of fix -CUT!

That’s the thing about London, you can feel the Strata…not just the ever present, oh so English strata of Charles Booths divisions by class, but the strata of the ages, subsiding into each other with the combined psychic weight of history and great literature, and celluloidian spooks…..with the seepage of time: The layers all mixed up now….as if some great…cosmic Mrs Hudson opened a window and gave London a good goingover with the feather duster and all those carefully preserved depthes of dust just started…floating, dancingin the beams of light between the buildings, conjuring Ghosts from the peoples Pareidolia: Ancient British, Celtic, Roman, Elizabethan, Sakespearian, Victorian, Dickensian….fuck, I feel the Dickensian all the time…on those wellworn narrow wooden stairs…at MacCulloch and Wallace…in Peacock Yard…around the wharf: Where Oliver and the Artful Dodger surely must have played…between jobs…..where the  – CUT -Scherenschnitte spectre of Sykes still hangs – maybe The Thames is the real ‘Solaris’….amplifyingmy daydreams, my neuroses…like that episode of ‘Star Trek’ where memories become real. Certainly thereare Ghosts on Canvey Island, but the Thames is wider there…the influence stronger. and the Expectations – perhaps – Greater – CUT! What was that thing  Dickens said about his writing…oh yeah – streaky bacon, that…marbled meat: light then dark then light again, comedy then tragedy: that’s London alright – streakybacon – Georgian  to ghetto to Garden Square in 5 minutes flat: Penthouse to pavement. So I suppose there’s a certain glamour in the desolation…holes in every  fence, the ‘Haunted’  Mansions of my youth still there…still beckoning…still beguiling to those of us who never really “put away childish things” – arethere still bombs to chuck things at somewhere? Maybe, In the dark Satanic Mills of Silvertown perhaps.Further East than that and the silt and the mud would surely just swallow them up….I don’t know really, beyond Silvertown is a mystery to me. I‘ve heard things of course – of Canvey’s ‘Lobster Smack..of ’The Goldmine…and  further on: of The Martian Tripods, caught mid sneeze on Shivering sands, the Maunsell Army Forts, they call them now….do some of us remember? After them foggy furrowed paths to ‘The Mysteries of the unknown Earth,’ and – CUT – ‘The Heart of Darkness.’

Even the center of the crazy near bankrupt city’s all but abandoned,   Soho and Covent Garden boarded up, hardly any clubs…The Roxy shone brightly, but briefly…. and I suppose there’s The Blitz and Billys…and there’s still the Blues in Notting Hill and those ‘Raves’ at Butlers Wharf might be the start of something – CUT – I guess I should be the last person to complain, I’ve been lucky, a half abandoned city is exactly what I need…what artists and dancers and film makers need – space to develop new ideas, to experiment…empty warehouses for exhibitions – for parties…Art School parties are always the best anyway. I suppose this is the cycle: industrialization – deindustrialization, people come – people go, Growth and decay…..what would ‘Chauncey Gardiner’ say…..something about seasons probably……the crazy bastard was right .

Half abandoned‘s great but some money about would be nice, then there might be an art market…and some nightlife – but most nights – want a night out? Pub rock in the suburbs and a lock in sir, suit you, shit they have to lock you in… I’ve had nights where the highlight of the evening was the power CUT….no wonder ‘The Wasteland’ is floating about in my subconsciouss…is there a little layer of ‘Arthurian’ dancing in the dust……is this still the land of ‘The Fisher king’: is Percival still searching? Is he sifting, ever hopeful through the 20ft piles of rubbish in Leicester Square, still searching for ’something’ on his half remembered quest, humming ‘10.15 Saturday night‘, trying to remember the name of the band…..the Fisher King/Kingfisher – CUT – Maybe I should just make a nest, The Princess would probably be happy….and she’d look great laying there in her mask – tight leather trousers: Barbarella…“couchant” – or the story of…Oh fuck, that is a photo I’d like – CUTE – but I’d be cutting wood all night. Although….that stirring in the loins might make the effort worthwhile, shit, I think I might have developed a kink: “The Papagano Fetish is thought to have originated in Papua New Guinea where the wearing of brightly coloured feathers is a long established element of traditional costumery and spread, via Carnivali…….” I hope that mask is glued firmly…there may be some rough handling…..come on, come on….a nest is a good thought, maybe get some swans feathers from Queens Park…bound to be a few laying around – I could probably just buy some ……and use a few of hers – black and white: yin and yang – complementary, no conflict: Balance is the Key….don’t want to get too Manichean here – this isn’t fucking ‘Star Wars’, – I won’t be able to use the Shelley quote though, not if I  make a nest….although there is that Lion Headed….he has wings…pretty obscure – CUT – or Griffins…no,obviously not. Well the Shelley is sort of incongruous in these days of punk….something about birds then….that works, the paintings are sort of bird like if I think about them: Allusions to Rainbows……spectrums…a specrum of…Swallows…..Shags…..Swans ? White light……white bird! Why a Raven? Oh yeah, Poe….”Purity of essence?” Ravens were white once: according to Ovid…those tenebrous tattletales – black feathers could be from a Black Swan I guess….is that a sign, that she’s a black bird? I did think that…that first night “ Odile and Odette”……is the battle finally over? Did the black swan win again. No, a mask is just a mask, let her wear as many as She likes, I know what’s beneath them: ‘ The sweetest girl in all the World’, not that She’d like anybody to know…and maybe that’s right. maybe those moments should be brief and rare and private..the rest of the time we’ll stay strong….for each other…..but a white swan would have been better…more like…wedding bells – CUT!

They may be coming anyway, I wonder if she is pregnant….maybe she had read Joyce and took offence at the context….the Blazing affair…no, I think I just chose the wrong quote…..bring more books next time…..and no point worrying anyway – no way of knowing…but then, no way of not knowing when tomorrows date is seared on a thousand flyers ready to work back to, even inadvertantly…..and you’d still never know…not without the test, and then the trust’s gone…they just say…..”premature” don’t they….“by a whoooole month”…”good weight though”…and then all that communal feigned feminine  suprise…..they can be sisters when they have to be…. to maintain the…illusion. Quietly call him an idiot but maintain the niceties…well, nobody wants to let – or allow anybody else – to let the side down……is society the same? When I was a kid I wanted the conventions to cease – CUT – the contrivences….for people to just…’Be Real’.

I suppose this is the sort of thing that prevents that..the little lies that keep the cogs turning…and if she was, would I leave? I honestly don’t know…and if I didn’t how would I feel in eighteen years, after she’d taken my balls and gotton me ‘that job’ at the post office or wherever….”because ‘The Art’s’ not really bringing in enough, not now the baby’s getting bigger.” Fuck, how must somebody feel that takes those whole eighteen years of comprimise to finally realize…his whole life was just to convenience somebody else……only to be kicked out as the nest empties –  well, not kicked exactly, just prodded ‘til he gives her a decent excuse – “Whatever’s expedient at the time” the words She never said – CUT – but did She ever think them? And then she’s lied, so everybody else has to lie for her, but the lie’s just…’there’, and everybody knows…do they have to enjoy lying though? When the last veil falls – what are you left with…..oras Harry Flowers so eloquently asked – “At the death, who’s left holding……” No! That’s verbiage too far “Words still have meaning, even in these days of the computer.” Well, come what may – CUT – ( amidst a flurry of startled willow tits) Oh Christ is that an omen? Are the augurs auspicious, ‘The Madonna of Childbirth’ was full of birds in that film…is the sound of the Carpenter heardagain in the land……actually, that’s a great film: “How can we get to know each other?”asked Eugenia“By abolishing the frontiers between states” answered the Russian Poet….well we did do our best to abolish the frontiers last night….first time I just wanted to climb inside another person…and….. feel safe, just for a moment, be that close that…together….‘Within mine eyes he makes his nest, his bed amidst my tender breast.” – that poetry book’s working already….and She said She felt the same – ’Dreams within Dreams‘, oh fuck…..my costume: I’ll be alright – If I have enough time I should be alright. keep working with: What would ’The Cabaret Voltaire’ do on Halloween? I mean that seems like a good question, in the absence of an actual surrealist costumiers manual….the Swiss clubnight, not the industrial noise band….they’d probably just change their jumpers. Actually I don’t really know what ‘The Cabaret Voltaire’ would have done on Halloween but I did see those pictures of the ‘Bauhaus’ fancy dress once……thedesign school, not the neo Goth outfit……although….those guys can fucking dress – CUT – come on that’s enough wood, lets load up the van, thank the guy and get on the road……those driving instructions look likethey might need some interpreting.

Eventually I find the address scribbled on the paper the Princess had given me earlier, but by the time Iarrive  she’s alone – the ‘Cat’s  playing an early gig somewhere, which is great ‘cause I can have a bath and some coffee and relax a bit while I help finish cutting the cardboard piece’s for my costume…

W – “I’m not even going to ask what these are for…but I got the things you wanted.”

M – ”Thanks, and thanks for doing these, how far did you get with your’s.”

W – “All but done my dear, just waiting for the glue to dry. Hers was already finished so I had an extra pair of hands…we had such a nice day, the weather was lovely and sunny so we took all the paraphenalia to the graveyard over the road – which is just beautiful by the way – you know, to sew and glue and things, but the strangest thing happened – there was a man there reading to the dead.”

M – “Oh wow, weird….what was he reading?”

W – “I don’t know, I did ask him but he was a bit hard to understand. I think he said the book was by ‘Aristophanes’ but I don‘t think he said the title. I could hear him reading, but I couldn’t understand much, he was reading in Latin I think….my teachers would be furious with me…I’m so rusty…he said the word “Ave” a lot so I think he might have been reading a prayer….he didn’t seem like he wanted to talk to us really – he was very nice – but he was happy just reading, apparently he’s there most days. “

M – “I think that’s sort of beautiful…but surely Aristophanes was Greek…..I suppose Latin makes sense… a dead language…for the dead.”

W – “Yes, quite. How about you, how did the gallery go.”

M – “ Yeah, pretty good….I have a gap though. Did I tell you I was going to do another painting? Well anyway, I was, and the last one was sort of pivotal, but obviously events overtook us so I’m …hoping you’ll help at the View….Maybe wear your costume a day early?

W – ”Why, what are you going to do?”

M – “ Well I thought there could be a sort of arcane ceremony –  all done in great solemnity – and then I could build you…..a nest.”

W – “YAY, a nest…I’d love a nest. Oh you aren’t a brute after all and I do love you…a nest is just what I need. But how will you ever get the wood.”

M – “I’ve got about a hundredweight of willow sticks in the back of the truck – all wrapped in a plastic sheet ready to go….and I got you this – to say sorry for this morning.

W – ” Whats this? Eumig: Viennette 3, is this…a super 8 camera…thank you, this is fantastic.“

M – “There’s some film in the horsebox, I got lot’s….I thought you might be able to save the British filmindustry.”

W – “Oh. no pressure then….and with a super 8?”

M – “Stranger things have happened….are happening. well anyway – Happy filming.”

W – “Thanks, but…..are you sure the Industry needs saving?”

M – “Er yeah, I’m fairly sure…..I mean there have been a few highlights but the last few years have been pretty…..’Eskimo Nell.’

W – ”Oooh, that sounds deliciously low….well done.”

M – “Low as I go baby….and about as much as I know on the ‘phenomenon’ of the British Sex Comedy .Come on let’s load this stuff up and get going.”

W – “OK, but be careful with the mask though the glue’s not dry.

M – “You said.”

I get a nice warm kiss for the Camera, and a little grope and we load up the truck with her impedimentia and spend a few minutes organising the increasing messy backbox, all done with as much brushing up against each other as possible.“

W -”Come and have a look at the graveyard”.

M – “We’re gonna be late you know.”

W – “You’re such a worrier, I’m going to teach you how to relax one day – they won’t start the films ‘til really late….come on I want to do something in the cemetery, but be quite, we’ll have to climb over the gate.”

M – “What do want to do?”

W – “I want to fuck you.”

 

 

A couple of hours later and we’re walking through Brighton. At night the decline seems more obvious: the peeling paint, the broken bulbs – this place used to shine like a city carved from Moonstones and Pearls, but Package holidays are starting to take their toll. We walk past a ramshackle old Cinema that’s seen better days, the films on offer: ‘Apocolypse now’ and the picture were on our way to see – on the Poster Heathcote Williams face shines serene through the gaudy golden ‘Monas Hierogliphica’ of John Dee. As we walk the Princess tells me the backstory of our destination.

Apparently the Cinema closed a few months ago but – typically these days I guess – the projection equipment and seats etc are still here…I mean someone would actually have to want to buy the stuff for anything to leave – and somehow – somebody got hold of the Keys for a few quid from a disgruntled former…. or said disgruntled hid in a cupboard when they finally locked up, or a ladder was procured and….anyway – these people are here and they’ve been putting on arts events for a while now but the layout is still basically ‘CINEMA’  so  they’ve decided to reintroduce the ‘all nighters’ The Classic was known for – albeit with a slightly more experimental program –  50p in for a night of – Films: Whatever was left in the tins in the  projection room or they can borrow from other cinemas for a few hours (everyone knows everyone in this town and this place opens when the others close – so…). Plus they scatter a few 16MM and Super 8’s around the venue…there are plenty of nooks and crannies. Music: little live ensembles, like the band from the Hand in Hand between films, or during if appropriate – whatever they can get probably, gradually getting weirder and more esoteric the higher you climb up  the building. Performers: Adagio pairs, dancers, contortionists, circus acts….(whoever turns up) – and a bar that you have to pay for with raffle tickets…bit weird, and sort of strange for them to worry about a license, but better safe probabably . All done with a lot of imagination..and very little money…not unlike an average day at Butlers Wharf really, but with a different, slightly more windswept and littoral cast…same films though – Tonight Derek Jarmans ‘The Tempest’ is the main feature (start time – whenever the cinema down the road closes presumably) with excerpts from something called ‘The Falls’ by Peter Greenaway  proceeding and  various short films spread about the place. I’m enthusiastically told they’ve  also reintroduced Saturday Morning Pictures….a free version for the kids, but as all the other cinemas are open at that time, rendering the latest offerings uncaggable, the film is invariably the last they ever officially showed, and obviously forgot to give back:’ King Arthur and the Spaceman’, which I’m also reliably informed could well make an appearance tonight in the wee small hours, I literally can’twait.

So 50p each and we’re in..I’m not really in the mood, the days dilemmas and the impending basketry workshop being more than enough for me to get on with, but the venue looks big so I can probably find a quite spot to think. She knows more people than me anyway so…..obviously we’re late – I have to say graveyards at night are sort of magical but – sometime in July next time I think – and then she wanted to change and eat and walk here so by the time we arrive we’re close to midnight, quite a few people are shuffling around the foyer and the nights obviously been going on for a while. There’s some music playing…some old frenetic bebop: Charlie Parker probably and the smell of popcorn, alcohol and hash fills the air. I don’t really know anybody but the Princess is all smiles and introductions so I just sort of stand around saying “Hi” to various people, mainly musicians at the various stations of Bohemia. The Cinema’s great, a real ’Picture Palace’, plush and pretty much intact, these guys must literally have got in before anybody had a chance to dismantle anything….apparently they aren’t gonna be here long though, people are saying that the cogs are already turning, somebody wants to build a supermarket or something…I’m not really listening and I’m sort of restless so I say I’m gonna find the bar and wander off to have a look around. There are purple paper arrows pointing to a long wide corridor which leads to screen One, the walls lined with classic film posters: ‘The Maltese Falcon’, ‘The Birds’, ‘One flew over the Cuckoo’s nest’, ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’…‘The Warriors’. Entering the auditorium I can see that only the seats at the rear are still in place, leaving room at the front on the sloping expanse for whatever floor shows they might have, so there have been some changes but this is still a great space, classic Art Deco decor, and big enough for about 200 people. There are only about forty people in here at the moment though, lounging around on the seats, or the large cushions scattered in front of them – watching some sort of documentary about a pair of twins. The Princess is probably looking for her friend by now so I  walk round the room puting fliers on the empty seats and cushions then sit down and watch…I’m pretty tired. The tone of the commentary is kind of hard to guage: on screen there’s a plane going round in circles with a bird on the tail, but no clues really about the subject. Then that section ends and the number 17 appears with a strange name below and suddenly the screen is filled with illustrations of birds and trees.The tone is still pretty ambiguous,  sort of straight faced tongue in cheek, this section seems to be about some sort of event called ‘The View’….wow, that’s weird. 18 now and another weird name, then lots of pictures of light on water and something about a woman who’s a human waterfall..is this….Golden Rain? The images are great but I still don’t really understand what I’m looking at…is this a comedy? 19: A very vibrant woman is naming as many birds as she can in thirty seconds:…”Blue Tit, Coal Tit, Willow Tit…..”

W – “I’ve got something to tell you, let’s get that drink.”

M – “ OK, I don’t have any raffle tickets though…don’t we need to have tickets?”

W – “You can get some upstairs.”

Film – “….Whooper Swan……”

M -”This place is great. If they had more time good things could happen here. You should ask them ifyou can do some filming, while they’re still here, filll the place with candles and do a dance piece in frontof the screen maybe, big spaces are getting hard to find.”

W -”Yes maybe…yes, that’s a good idea – did you ever go to the ‘Arts Lab’ in Covent Garden?“

M – “ You mean the ‘Art Meeting Place’…yeah of course.”

W – “No, the Arts Lab….. a long time ago, like ten years maybe?”

M – “No, I was still in the commune…you must have been a kid, how did you find the Arts Lab?”

W – “My parents, they knew…know a lot of people, they took me everywhere when I was young.”

M – “Great, I wish mine had.”

W – “We had a flat in Covent Garden and after they showed me where the place was I used to go all the time…after school with my friends….we‘d all dress up like grown ups…they put films on all the time…the weirdest stuff….just like this, I loved that place, people were always so kind to us”

M – “ Great…..what do you want to tell me?”

W – “ Well ask really, the band want to come to the party, is that alright – there are 7 of them.”

M – “Yes of course, I thought they would, they can just go in the back. Tell them we’ll start after lunch on Halloween, I can pick them up if they’re bringing their instruments….but all together somewhere, otherwise we’ll be all day”

W -”Did you say there was a theme to the fancy dress?”

M – “Yeah ‘The Masque of Anarchy. ”

W – “ Really? Do you think they understand the irony of that.”

M – “Yes I think they probably do….you think they’re poor don’t you: The squatters. They aren’t, they’re like you: well fed and well educated’”

W -”Brute, get me a drink.”

M – “ Sure, actually I was going to use that quote you told me as some Graffiti, you know the ”Rise like Lions after slumber…“ but things seem to have taken a different turn….hence the nest…..which, I’m sort of worried about, so do you mind if we don’t stay very late tonight ? I’d really like to get some rest – there’s not much going on here late anyway…only that kids film.

W – ”Oh no, they’re showing ‘The Warriors’ instead, I just heard”

M – “Oh fuck, I love that film – I just saw the poster….the ‘Katabasis’ – maybe we should stay…..oh hi, how do these tickets work please?”

I have to buy a fixed number of tickets so I buy enough for a couple of bottles of wine, get one bottle of red and pour a beaker full,  giving the bottle and a peck on the cheek to the princess, who whispers to me to put some fliers on the counter then disappears with a wiggle, a wink and a weird indecipherable hand gesture, an esoteric hand jive.

I’m higher now and as promised the music is getting stranger: There’s a little free peace using some old electronic….and I mean old – fucked up even  – equipment, an old wood sided synth and two tape decks which together produce a kind of repetitive background loop while a trumpeter plays a muted out of tune ‘Fly me to the Moon’ over the top. Actually they’re pretty great but I’m too intrigued by the film to stay so – back down the stairs and back to the flick, which must be ‘The Falls’ I‘ve realised (all those strange names begin: F.a.l.l.) but…I’ve come back at a particularly hectic moment, fast cut images and staccato  dialogue so I’m not even going to bother trying to decipher anything yet. 24: ‘Castenarm Fallast.’  – OK, I’m getting this now: Birdsong –  there’s been a cataclysm: A ‘Violent Unknown Event’….oh: VUE not View…the epicentre of which was ’The Raven’ pub, on the Goldhawk road….fuck that’s weird…and as I’m watching – here comes the Raven again…of course. How does She do that, every fucking time: The Sove of Syncronicity.

W – “What are you watching”

M – “The ‘Greenaway’ I think, same thing as before anyway…you should stay and have a look, this is good.”

W – “No, I’ve got itchy feet. I‘ve told the band they can come, so If you want an early night, I think we should go, there’s something I still want to do tonight. Tomorrow’s obviously going to be busy and I want another adventure…another transgression before we leave Brighton. This time with the Super 8.”

M – “You’re kidding. We just fucked in a graveyard, how transgressive do you want to get?Do you see what I’m saying now, this is what I meant…the curse of the British Film industry! Two hours with a camera and already the urge to start making softcore sex romps is becoming overwhelming. Where on Earth do you want to go next?  Besides we only just got here…I’ve still got like 5 of those Raffle tickets.”

W – “Oh we still need the wine, I doubt we’ll find a bar at the next place and…softcore? Anyway, don’t flatter yourself. I haven’t decided yet if you’re worth filming “In Flagrante Delicto’.”

M – “ Oh really, that Latin you remember…..I ‘m pretty sure they haven’t outlawed sex yet.”

W – “You don’t know where we’re going.”

M – “Well if you do decide I am worth the price of the film, just shout “ACTION”….you know me I’m always ready….just call me ‘Woody’….oh, and if you decide your girlfriend is you should definately let me know – I might be able to help…with the cinematography.”

W -” Ooh, nicely shoehorned, bet you’ve been waiting to squeeze that in for a while…inuendo unintended – I’ll let her Know….Mmmm, just wait ‘til you see her in the Catsuit.”

M – “Just let me see some of ‘The Tempest’, I don’t need to watch the whole thing, just a half hour or so, I’ve never seen a film version before. You should watch some as well, this all ties into Frestonia…”

W – “OK, I think this is nearly over anyway…apparently he hasn’t finished this yet. See you later lover.”

Good, I’ve been looking forward to ‘The Tempest’ all day. I liked his last film: ‘Jubilee’: Elizabeth and John Dee’s time travelling ‘State of the Nation’. A nice companion piece to something like ‘A hard days night’ I thought: same fun tone – but a new generation – with a different attitude…what an episode of ‘The Monkees’ might have looked like if Charles Manson had gotten through the audition…I mean I always thought the Beatles….even someone later, some old prog rocker from three years earlier who’d been out of circulation for a while would arive at 1977 and be bewildered: Nihilism, anarchy, Dystopia. surely they’d think: “Weren’t we on our way to Utopia…hadn’t we almost fucking arrived?” Apparently not, not according to the film anyway – they’d just think: “Those fucking guys in Marketing….that’s the problem when the counter culture’s funded by the Mainstream I guess. I don’t know how ‘real’ Punk was, but the ethos is real….want a gig – find a space, want an exhibition – find a space, there are plenty about….there were plenty about. I suppose that was what was worrying me earlier, I can feel the ‘Growth’ phase coming, and as those abandoned spaces are redeveloped how do we go on, how do we continue to grow? Those were the spaces that gave birth to the 80’s….whatever that’s going to look like.

The film finishes a few scenes later – there will be 94 segments in the complete film we’re told by an announcer and then that – “Derek Jarmans: ‘The Tempest’ will start at 1.23am.” half an hour to go, I’m so tired I could almost take a nap, but I get up and decide to explore a little more. How weird could the top floor possibly be? There’s plenty to see as I wander around looking for the stairs upward: 8mm Charlie Chaplin films screening in mysterious little rooms with frenetic flute  sountracks. Poetry readings over 16mm swirling psychedelic images projected onto scrunched up tinfoil screens (great effect). In a long corridor I find a beautiful young black girl with an afro reading what I can only guess is a fairy tale, a strange story of glass mountains and ‘The Golden Castle of Stromberg’. As to how weird the top floor might be…..Pretty fucking weird: There are some people sitting in a fairly large dark room adorned like an autumn forest: Leaves on the floor, cut branches hanging from the ceiling, paper birds on every branch – all sitting around a low table covered in candles which surround what looks like a metal pate covered in salt or sand, with an old fashioned microphone hanging from the ceiling.The metal plate is balanced over a speaker cone and the seven singers are holding hands chanting in a circle, but the chant is strange: monotonous and monotone, shifting slowly as the various participents seem to try to synchronise into a steady drone. All stare intently at the metal plate upon which the grains are starting to vibrate.

W -”Come on Sherlock the films about to start.”

M – “Oh, OK I’m coming.”

We walk back downstairs and I manage to get phone numbers for the three piece and thefairy story girl, there’s always stuff happening back in London and performers are always welcome,anything that adds to the flavour – my companion assures me she can contact the people up top.

The main feature – as expected – is great! In the end the Princess is happy to sit through the whole thing with me. Heathcote Williams is completely believable as a very stoical Prospero, his tone reassuringly conversational. And Toyah? I won’t hear a word against her, the adversities that woman overcame to play the Magicians beautiful Daughter are extraordinary…and how could she blossom so much in a year? Afterwards we wander happily around  the Picture House for a few more hours, chatting, collecting phone numbers and giving out more flyers for the private view. We even manage to catch the last half hour of ’The Warriors’ – Swan and his woman safe again on their island.  When we finally leave the morning’s chilly, so I put my jacket around my true loves shoulders and we drift slowly down towards the Sea, me shivering slightly in my checked pegs and old Gabicci top as the Princess’s night/morning of transgression gradually begins to unfold.

The West Pier has been closed for a few years now, another casualty of those Spanish holidays I expect butis still – according to the Princess – “Easy Peasy” to get onto – One day the late 70’s  will be looked back on as the Golden Age of transgression – nothings ever guarded….I mean nothing – ever. We’re getting pretty good at the silent assail by now so a few leg ups and some jumps and we’re over the barriers and onto the Pier. There’s enough light to make sure of our footing as we run along the wooden slats towards the still black Horizon, trying to keep low…next time I’m coming up with the plan so she can look at my arse while we maraud (I’m really not moaning, I just feel like I should come up with a plan occasionally). The Princess obviously knows where she’s going and eventually we come to the biggest building on the pier. The large double doors at the front are locked but I hear her say “This way” so I follow her round the hall to a back entrance that gives way with a firm push. Now we’re in a very large space, large and pitch black. Even after our eyes have adjusted to the darkness there’s really no way of being sure what the floor’s like and we’re both aware that beneath us is a web of ironwork and below that the cold cold Sea. I really think we should leave, get back to the pepperpot and get a few hours sleep, but She won’t be persuaded, there’s something She’s determined to do at first light, something that apparently is very important to her, so we make our way over to a raised platform and sitdown, my back against a pillar with the Princess infront – nestled between my legs – her head on my chest.

M – “You know, I bought a book of poems yesterday and found this:

’ Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

his bed amidst my tender breast’.”

W – “That’s lovely.”

M – “I was looking for something that got close to expressing how I felt about our night together, before that silly note.”

W – “The note was fine, I just wanted you with me…sorry I was moody. There‘s something I remember from school, well, memorised actually – Shelley again –  I was honestly beginning to think I‘d never get to say these words to anyone:

’ The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion:

Nothing in the World is single;

All things, by a law divine

In one spirit meet and mingle.

Why not I with thine’?”

M – “Yes”

She turns and kisses me, and I realize finally what a Fool I‘ve been for worrying. However She‘s come to me I’ll stay with her and thank God everyday that She did come back. I’ll look after her whatever the situation…I have to – I love her. There’s still an hour ‘til Dawn, somewhere in the sky Venus will be rising, over what could easily be our own little island Paradise. In the darkness I pull the cork from the last of the wine we brought from the Cinema and pour us a beaker each as we wait for the Sunrise in silence: drinking, holding each other and listening to the sound of the Sea.

© Kevin Barry Partridge 2016

chapter 16 THE SEVEN RAYS By Kevin Barry Partridge

CHAPTER 16

By Kevin Barry Partridge

THE SEVEN RAYS

 

“ Zip, I was reading Schopenhauer last night,
Zip – and I think that Schopenhauer was right!”
Rita Hayworth

I’ve had a few perfect moments in my life – moments when the World weaves wonder – wangles magic from the elements and conjures a quintessence of light and matter, sound and feeling that makes the  substance of the Earth shimmer with the promise of a new and better day. I don’t know how many there have been, they are unpredictable and transient – ephemeral – they must be, the grimy veils rarely shake off their soot and part, from care of blowing our minds.

The last time I really remember was on one of those fantastical beaches – whose twice transported sand startles then perplexes – transported first on barges from who knows where to the foreshore at Tower Bridge: ‘The Childrens Riviera’ and thence through time and tide upriver to the treasure trove shores of the South Bank. That night I’d seen Bill Bryden’s ‘The Mysteries’ on the stark fallingwater terrace of the National Theatre and decided to walk back through the frowzy desolation that flanks the Thames to my studio on Jacobs Island. Standing on that Misty margin enveloped in “the violet hour,” the floodlights of St Pauls mingling with the mirrored Moon on low tide Thames was a rare and radiant point in time, a fleeting moment of euphoria, those two shakes of the lambs tail when joy floods the senses unrestrained, and one thinks one might just…burst with the unfolding ecstacy of life on Earth…….”Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long”……..how curious, do I remember now some other beach? Yes, what strange dreams I had last night…..”but at my back in a cold blast I hear the rattle of the bones”……that‘ll teach me for adulterating a perfect moment with ‘The Wasteland’….after all this time – still pissing in the stream – no, that isn’t fair, theres beauty there nestled in the muck….like the legends of the Lotus….is there anything left that’s still completely pure?

Aldous Huxley might say I had seen as  Adam had “on the moment of his creation – the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existance.” William Blake – that I had cleansed “The Doors of Perception” and seen beyond the Caverns chinks……no that isn’t right….that I had suddenly understood that the cavern is only a convenient illusion….a contrivance for survival? No, I’m slightly scared of that………..that the cavern is infinite: all encompassing? Close but not really right…can infinity be encompassed? I suppose that’s the point, laying here I can no longer imagine anything without an edge or an end, everything seems……bounded somehow. I experienced a communion that day: A concord, a harmony…there are no walls, no doors in that place, no seperation of any kind – but now those words are just words, I know what they mean but I no longer understand them – the barriers have returned. Am I the cavern? Am I back in the nutshell, trapped in my own skull…watching shadows projected on  the bony walls and thinking they are real. Babies, I have read, can’t tell the difference between themselves and anything else…I mean they don’t know where they end and everything else begins, that – I think – is what I mean….and maybe thats why I can’t remember…..the armours back on, thank God perhaps……..I know the feeling was real, I did experience some kind of spontaeneous ‘Henosis’ – I felt the connection…the beguiling illusion of seperateness fell from me all too briefly and I knew my place in the Universe: Right at the very centre – or – everywhere, all at once. I‘m not expressing myself very well, John Donne did better perhaps:

“Our bodies why do we forbear?
They’are ours, though they’are not we;
we are the intelligences,
they the spheres.”

But then, if I could think like John Donne I’d probably be up by now, conceit defined, coffee made, ready for a new day, I doubt I’d have had that lean year either… “charm the habit off a nun, that man” – alas for me…….”thought is a bird of space”….not sure even a Metaphysician of Johns standing could do justice to last night. In London I had been alone, but last night…….these aren’t Kodak moments, they can’t be captured, not easily anyway.

Waking up next to the Princesss in our beautiful travelling oaken den is definately a perfect moment, or rather an reveried resonance of perhaps the most perfect I’ve ever known, the space is warm and cosy ….. and her face shimmers in the soft glow of the stove, free finally from the troubles that had cast dark shadows  over her features. She’s still asleep – and too peaceful to wake – so I decide to get some food. Those midnight swims will give you quite an appetite. breakfast on the pebbly beach seems best so I’ll keep the truck here. The Lanes are way over to the West so, after plagiarising a brief and poetic note, I climb – slightly bewildered (I should never do anything before drinking coffee really) – the high cliffs back into Kemptown and scour the area around St Georges road for freshness and fruit, and early birds.

Breakfast scrambled from a dozen stores I stagger back – head in haze – to fucktruck, to beach and to beauty, risen now and making coffee and tidying the nest and looking bleary and vague and….content? There, in morning silence, a sort of autoshediastic fruit salad is concocted, croissants are warmed and gather we to dine and opine.

W – “I woke up and you weren’t here.”

M – “Sorry, I thought you’d be hungry.”

W – “I am hungry, but after last night you should have woken me up, you should have taken me into your arms and told me that you loved me and kissed me, you should have told me that you’d be back soon….last night was lovely, but this morning you’ve made me sad – so now I’m cross with you…..if you want to keep me you better learn these things.”

M – “You looked too beautiful to wake, and too sleepy. I really am sorry, did you get my note? I thought that was enough, obviously I was wrong. Next time I’ll know….I guess I was sort of distracted, I’m a bit frantic this morning, I’ve got to start getting ready for tomorrow, I’ve got to get the paintings to the gallery, ready to be hung”

W – “Well alright then,but I’m still cross – men are rubbish – you never understand
….you woke up and I was all sleepy and dozy, and I bet you looked and thought  how nice I looked and how perfect everything was – I woke up and you were just…..gone, which means you’re a brute today…….but I’ll help you if you like”

M – “Thanks, that’d be great….what about our Halloween costumes though, shall we just…rent something?”

W – “No, I making mine, I told you I was – you never listen – I already know what I’m doing.”

M – “ What are you two going as again?”

W – “We’re going as ‘Tales of Mystery and Imagination’ by Edgar Allan Poe , well I’m a poem I think – ‘The Raven’ and my Sapphic squeeze is ‘The Black Cat’……oh don’t look grumpy, but you had  better think of something good – what about ‘The Tell Tale Heart”…no that story’s a bit horrible and too easy for you anyway…you like abstraction – why don’t you go as ‘ A Dream within a Dream’? .

M – “ Mmm, maybe – that is certainly slightly harder to visualize, I’ll consult my surrealist
costumiers manual….how come you aren’t going as ‘The Black Cat’?

W – ”Because I wanted something with feathers”.

M – “ Well anyway, we should make a start on them, there’s not much time. We’ve got that Film thing tonight, tomorrows gonna be crazy and Wednesday I just want to sleep late if we’re all going back to London for the Party – The Gay Mafia’ll probably turn up and you know what an effort that lot make, so yes, I do want us to look good but no,I don’t want any extra faff on Halloween, I just want an easy day……things always take longer than you expect”

W – “I’m going shopping then…I still need to find a balaclava, and a black polo neck and then I’ll go to my friends and start my costume, shouldn’t take long the feathers come on a sort of ready made trim…you know ….on a strip in rows.”

M – Errr…oh, that’s..good then. Listen, I think I know what I’m gonna make –  if you’re bodding about today anyway could you do me a favour and get some things.”

W – “Of course darling, what would you like.”

M – “Some nice cardboard…you know, from outside shops, old boxes I mean….clean though…plain surface, single ply, with those nice sine wavy bits in the middle, don’t worry if you can’t, I’ll look later, but definitely:  Some PVA glue, some masking tape, a box cutter…. oh and some clothes pegs and a steel ruler, I’ll write all that down – I think there’s a Millets up by the Art shop, so you can probably get a balaclava there, here’s some money.”

W – “Oooh, Old cardboard boxes? I didn’t know we were going posh”

M -” Oh, I’m taking this seriously…..black cat indeed.”

There’s some more organizing to do, addresses to scribble, maps to sketch and I quickly inscribe some templates for the cutting of card: 8 1/2” equilateral triangles and some carefully angled wing like struts, which The Princess promises to cut multiples of – if she can – to save me some time…because I’m her busy boy. Right now though I can see that She has taken on the impatient “don’t stop me I‘m being efficient” air she dons when there are things to get done, so with a quick kiss I agree to pick her up later….from the Cats. (I should explain: the reason I call her ‘Princess’ is because I met her on the corner of Princess Road, Primrose Hill. She was holding a rather large Arcadian painting and every time she shifted position (because of the frames weight) the picture swayed a bit and I got a partial flash of the road sign – PRINCESS – as if the Universe was signposting her for me – letting me in on a little secret. I still love that painting and indeed the artist – a mister Edward Calvert….because obviously I offered a gentlemanly hand and thereby got to know the lady (our social circles being somewhat different.)

Now I’m busy – back to the pepperpot to pick up the paintings – load the truck, strapping them flush to the wooden walls and a fast slowdrive to ‘Rushtons fine Art’, careful on the corners….again. Quick cup of coffee and do my best to look relaxed whilst chatting to the Gallery people,  and soon I’m alone in the gallery space…Bliss – This is what I enjoy…this is where I can start to luxuriate in my own peculiar brand of OCD Feng shui – I know the narrative – the visual flow – I know how I think they’ll look but I have to see them – in situ – before I can really begin to relax…..a little smaller than I remember – epic memory – not so worried now about that missing picture now – could I have found time? I don’t know how, I didn’t know she’d come, certainly not with a back story like that anyway. Still none the wiser, as mysterious as ever, I don’t even know why she dissappeared, why she found some guy more…..more – posh probably, silver spoon, piano lessons, Eton – bullied, buggered and Bullingdon – opened that place on his parents penny. I bet, back with them now …..good, “not very good with money”, I bet he fucking wasn’t.. why would he have to be, he’ll be alright, test run probably…”A little Real World experience…..a brush with the Natives” before they dish out the real cash…. rich people, if you dig back there’s always dirt – traded with the nazi’s, highland clearances….worse – I’m certainly not going to worry about him. Cheeky though, asking me to clean up some other…….and now shes got a girl….actually I don’t care about that, different with a guy but somehow a girl just doesn’t seem to bother me, endless possibilities, I might even ask…….come on mate …actually do something, no point just standing here, just to bring the pictures in and put them roughly where you think they should go….

M – “I’m going to prop this door open, just while I bring them in…sorry about the cold.”

Windy, Brightons always windy…that isn’t true, the seafront’s windy…the parade can be like a fucking disaster movie and a few roads back – calm as can be, unless there’s freezing fog….fuck! I hate that fog. lucky with the weather though – amazing for October even with the wind. I’ll just take two at a time….cheek to cheek, lets hope the paints dry. Oil doe’s take longer but I prefer oil….that smell – people say acrylic……acrylic’s quicker, easier but I like the smell of oil and the ritual….“The process is important” – thanks Miss Maddox, you were right – the process is important. In any case I just don’t think the effect is the same….could have done that extra painting though, if I’d used acrylic…fuck, I didn’t notice that dent in the frame, no-one will notice….at least I finished the triptych, at least I did that.

She was right of course….I should have woken her up with a kiss…..explained I’d be back…no way of knowing though, she doesn’t usually wake up that early….fucking St Georges road, pissing me around….but I should have stayed – I should have let her have her moment, especially after luxuriating in mine so long. Are men selfish? That’s a stupid question!  Am I selfish?

We came together last night

first time – looking into each others eyes…and of course I told her that I loved her, and of course I kissed her and held her in my arms, but that was last night and……oh shit I should have put that ‘Last Night’ song on the mixtape for the private view, oh fuck thats a classic, is that a girl group though? Who cares, close enough – FUCK – record shop, portable – I need that song….but, I don‘t know how much difference staying would have made….she might just feel vunerable because she let the facade slip a little…afterwards I mean. Hard for a girl like her, she’s so…imperious “la la” so mysterious “la la” She might look just like Irma Vep “but she breaks just like a little girl”…..was he being tender, or mean I wonder……Fuck sake – surely there’s a time when the games end, “ Treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen” that was my mum’s advice. A womans advice about women. Hard to believe really, I mean, must I mum? I wanted to dance the Tango, not the Bowery Waltz……..Apache? No, not unless ‘The Runaways did a cover. I’m sick of the games: Are you really cool enough for me? How about: Do you enhance me as a person? Or: What kind of first impression do you make on people?  Where do you see yourself in ten years? Is always good, meaning: Are you going to take me where I want to go?  And then the crux of the matter: Do you have enough drive to get there? Do you have enough talent?
Women are fucking arch….they think about all that stuff, I’d like to see the Manual….men? Men are fucking idiots!  But are women really ‘better’? I used to think so….more compassionate, more romantic, more….democratic. How we must have hurt each other, down through the ages – ‘Games people play’ is that a good song? Not bad, no good for the tape though…wrong sex.I’ll put the blue one here, there’s still gonna be a gap on the far wall, I wonder if the gallery would let me write something ‘Samo’ style?

….Oh, Esther Williams, where’s a pen…and I‘ll get the Gladys Knight version of the song from that film… ‘Memories’, If I find a portable somewhere in the lanes I can just play them…..Fuck, I‘ve got to find that song, she’ll love that…after last night…redeem myself a little. .. why do things get hard just when they should be getting good….self sabotage, did I…..no – she was wrong to ignore the note:

Princess,

“I was a flower of the mountain yes
when I put the rose in my hair
like the Andalusian girls used
or shall I wear a red yes and how
he kissed me under the Moorish Wall
and I thought well as well him
as another and then I asked him
with my eyes  to ask again yes
and then he asked me would I
yes to say say yes
my mountain flower and first
I put my arms around him yes
and drew him down to me
so he could feel my breasts
all perfume yes and his heart
was going like mad and yes
I said yes I will Yes.”

Sorry I took so long coming back to you, my love.

that wasn’t….bad – not for 8 o’clock in the morning anyway, before I’d had my coffee – ‘Tales of Brave Ullysses’, allusions to Penelope, lovers reunited, a coming together…..Leo and Molly Bloom: “AND ONCE AGAIN IRELAND CELEBRATES THAT FAMOUS HANDJOB”….”Oh and she had the hands of an Angel that Nora Barnacle”…..”Well she stuck with me, she did do that” Quoth JJ…… better than the Wordsworth anyway….I should have used the Donne….I should always use the Donne – I need to learn some more poetry, or at least carry a book….she’s high maintenance, culturally, the Princess. They get a goodeducation, the posh, they do get that – maybe she’s never read Joyce…….or maybe she was angry because the quote was from her point of view, did she think I was being flippant ….or did she think I was, yes, putting words in her mouth? But yes she did say Yes……

There’s only so many ways I can mix these up, the triptych has to go on that wall, green at the end next to the door. and the other three on the other wall, whichever way looks best – the sequence is mixed up anyway…..I’ll let them sit a while, see how I feel…..I shouldn’t complain about the “ Do you have the drive to take me where I want to go” line….for women that’s probably top tier analysis….lucky to qualify, she might be  thinking are you at least malleable enough for me to mould…. no not mould – modify, streamline……gussy up? “Sly Henrietta Higgins surreptitiously……..”, are the statues teaching the teachers? They should! Did Eve give Adam the fig leaf to cover his shame or just to add a touch of ‘glamour’ a modicum of majesty….damn, that Shirley MacClaine dance was good, that really was a fashion show! I should have have gone into theatre, not like that – not really – like ‘Dionysis in 69’ or something…Maybe, if my childhood had been more …expansive. Expansive “la la” expensive…as long as they’re as close in meaning as in spelling children are going to miss out, how can London be so expensive and so shit, all at the same time? If I ever have kids I’m going to take them everywhere, let them look – really look – at everything…..molded. Were Adam and Eve made from clay? Dust I think…..and a rib.

Can he be molded? Can he be molded is impertinent…..”grossly impertinent”….women should understand we struggle our whole lives to avoid being molded, some of us anyway: Molded by school, by our peers, by our ‘betters’, by ‘the bosses’….I don’t want to be molded I want to invent myself: By force fo will, by Alchemy if I can …..but by ’Bricolage’ if needs must. Can he be molded? I expect the gradations of that line of questioning stretch some way…..right down to “is he likely to ask for a paternity test”…..cuckoo in the nest…Squares peg in a round hole..known a few of those….” Mollys favours, after all, had not been bestowed on Tom alone” no, nor on Leo neither – difficult situation – what do you say? “Oh wow, a whirlwind romance, When’s the happy day? Wedding bells I mean.” Happy some of ‘em I expect….”pun..pinching above their weight”…” penchant above their weight“…….fucking noble truth be told……….oh no she isn’t, no, don’t even think that.

There’s only these three to arrange…….I’m going to tell her she’s the reason I didn’t finish the last picture so she’ll have to help me fill the gap….something ceremonial at the view, maybe she could wear her costume and……perhaps we could make something…something sculptural…and fuck – of course I could write something……

I’m right of course, woman know nothing about being molded….I’m such an fucking idiot…probably  worse for  them, told how to look their whole lives….Napolean was wrong “Nation of shopkeepers” – we’re a Nation of would be  Svengali’s with the ‘sidaM’ touch……like that film, that crazy film…did he know I wonder? Did Hitchcock know, how ‘exposed’ he was? Maybe he did, maybe that explains ‘The missing Five’…..what‘s that other film……Stewart and Novac and a big black cat – Black Cat Novac ….I better get on. I wonder how far they got with the costumes, not far, can’t keep their hands off each other probably. I better up my game. ”Can you keep up” that’s probably what she’s asking. “Are you holding tight enough?” No, you can’t hold on that’s the point, she isn’t a caged bird. “Fasten your seatbelts……..” no that isn’t right either. I think I’ll buy her something….in the lanes……something…theatrical.

“Doe’s he have potential?” that’s a better question, or “Can he grow,?” that’s what she should ask! ”Can he  grow at a sufficient rate to succeed and maintain success” that, perhaps is ‘the’ Question.

There that’ll do…”the household Gods have returned”…..but they certainly aren’t Roman, and they all appear to be Women…….just another girlgroup

© Kevin Barry Partridge 2016

COME TOGETHER 31 5 – SET IN SAND.

COME TOGETHER

CHAPTER 31 5

SET IN SAND

 Cthulus black iron beak lies….fractured now – shattered into ten thou-sand glistening obsidion sand strewn shards. The Behemoth bloats. The fetid sands beneath the broken bulk blacken, infected by the spreading blood stains rancid stench. Maggots rise from the enclosing sands – like deformed, defective spring shoots swaying on a windy day, desperate to desert the feculent sands – they are not destined to grow, they wigglewither and die in the bright light Sunlit Day. Putrid blood bubbles bugle from a twisted hole below 2 Big Black-Ops, the bubbles baloon black to sickly streaked translucent pink and pop…..there is no breath, just the o/egress of a horde of hellish vapours dispersing in the light.

Tangled still in the Titans Tentacles are the miscreations monstrous we/ap(r)ons :-

An Empty Gun, the shells long spent – The handle emblazoned with the American flag – Banner of ‘The People of The Gun’, the barrel engraved with the cypher ‘WAR ON TERRA ! ’.

A Large torn brown paper bag containing: A Dogeared copy of David Nivens Memoir ‘The Moon’s a
Balloon’, several polaroids of naked frightened children, a 7” single of Bob Doroughs song – ‘Three is a magic number’, amongst other things…………….

A Broken Bucket used for Set-ting Sandcastles – Shaped like a Pyramid in 73 sections.

A Singed Wad of bank notes with the head of the Gorgon on them – MAMMON – Banks no longer hold
Gold reserves – Money is indeed an act of Faith.

The New Testament, The Quran, The Tanakh – Bound in a single spinebroken volume, with the pages all
mixed up.

A randomly red-act-ed Book called – ‘THE LAWS OF MEN’. With a forward (lol) by Nic Machiavelli. Written so the priviliged few used to be able to maintain their priviliges….but that was then……………………

A Vibrator – without batteries – fashioned like a Sword – Badly embossed with the number 14 and with inscribed scales on the ‘Blade’ like the skin of a Snake – The word Vagina does after all translate to ‘A Scabard for a Sword’.

A small square cracked Mirror in a black plastic frame – the four corners chipped – on a cracked black plastic handle.

Beside the bloated corpse of the Giant Cephalopod lies the ‘Hat Thief’, his broken body contorted,laying lifeless in the sand engulfed in a mass of pale, rolling mistes.There are figures in the distance, but they are nearly entirely obscured…rendered ashen by the swirling haze hanging over the desert  Over a hidden PA system a fragile voice begins to speak, “ The problem was so simple we just didn’t understand……………..the word ‘EYE’ is a Palindrome………Eye sounds the same….forwards and backwards…….how could we possibly know that would matter so much…………….”

© 2014 KEVIN BARRY PARTRIDGE.

COME TOGETHER CHAPTER: 1 42 – CROSS CURRENTS

COME TOGETHER

CHAPTER: 1 42

CROSS CURRENTS

 In order to get through to the rear of the building we have to walk through the wide corridor that links the front with the back. Slightly lower than either of the dining areas and very nearly the width of the entire restaurant, the passage is squeezed just enough to accomodate a hidden staircase on either side, their doorways  accessible only from the front ‘Bar’ – The left flight ascending and the right descending. The Bathrooms – I know – are downstairs so I suppose above us must be….the Kitchen? The Passage is mirrored on the ceiling and on both sides…those old fashioned mirrors with the Gold Veins….although actually no, now I look more closely – the mirrors nearer to the front  are clear and modern – the Golden Veins get progressively deeper the further back one goes – as though one were travelling backwards through time, a subtle effect but one that induces a slightly disconcerting feeling………infact the whole ambience is imbued with an almost Supernatural intensity by those vast reflective walls, which create a bewildering ‘infinity mirror’ effect, the reflections interrupted just enough by the Baby Grand Piano and the serenely elegant female Pianist to circumvent almost total disorientation. My own transit through this realm of ever fading reproductions is accentuated and befuddled by the great beams of light which emanate from the belly of the Piano, and which bounce perpetually from shining mirrored surface to shining mirrored surface – creating a greatly entangled reticulation of iridescent strands of brightly coloured lights……the pattern changing constantly as luminous new filaments are added with each new note of Modest Mussorgskys ‘Pictures at an exhibition’………the famous opening notes having now given way to the ‘Blue Streak’ middle section of the first piece. Clearing the mirrors I walk, somewhat gratefully, through a cascading waterfall of brilliant colour into the relative calm of the main restaurant.

The back room is a kind of gorgeous Atrium, with a very large curved glass skylight rising
high above the centre of the ceiling. The sides of the generous light well – that is created
beneath this elegant iron and glass twenty four pane vaulted ceiling section – are tiled, with twelve very stylized trees – their shapes similar to the Suit of Spades on French playing cards – each covering about eighteen square tiles. Each Treelike form bears a different fruit, many completely unrecognizable. Every one of the arborous blades grows from a large circular framed picture, where the Roots should be, and each glistening and light speckled image dances in the flickering gas light streaming in from above, the beams perforated and animated by some softly blown foliage. Those pictures depict the twelve signs of the Zodiac, two at each end and four along each of the longer lengths. The lightwell is supported by six fluted cast iron columns – adorned with lights – and with shallow iron arches spreading
between them that somehow manage to look both Modern and Egyptian at the same time. The ceiling surrounding the lightwell is of illuminated stained glass panels, all of which make up a complex and colourful geometric pattern of roses. Elaborately decorated curved plaster coving joins ceiling to wall, the cornices embellished at points with swirling moulded plaster flourishes. The walls of the room are clad in light brown oak panels, with ornately carved and curved languid Art Nouveau overlays  concealing the joins. French Bistro furniture is arranged around the edges of the room…how well I know those Thonet No 14
chairs from Paris. Each covered table is lit with an elegant Tiffany lamp. Arranged
on the walls are several dreamlike Oil Paintings of Idyllic Arcadian landscapes through which lazy naked figures wander. In the centre of the room – standing on a diagonally arranged chessboard floor – and bathed in light from above is the White Alabaster sculpture of a young woman holding a water vessel – the fluctuating light creating the distinct impression that she is standing underwater. The sculpture is completely timeless, I cannot tell is she is modern or ancient.

Beyond the restaurant, just visible through the glass panels in some wide double doors is a small Garden – in the centre of which stands a large Tree – surrounded by a circular seat. The Tree and high walls of this little courtyard are bedecked in hundreds of flickering fairylights and all is bathed in an eerie, wavering Blue Light.

Girl – “This is beautiful.”

Boy – “ Thank you, this part is older than the front, that was refurbished a few years ago…..but this is….fairly original.”

Girl – “ You know  – the Statue, the Garden – they seem to be….underwater somehow.”

Boy – “Yes I know, that’s just the way they’re lit…there are some pools of water in the Garden, the blue light reflects off those, the Statue is a little more complicated……..I have a…fascination with ‘Atlantis’ and the Undersea World, and the theme does seem appropriate.”

Girl – “…..Is the Garden open?”

Boy – “ To you…of course…but no not really, not until the Summer.”

Girl – “Can we go out there, later.”

Boy – “ If you like.”

Girl – “ Oh I think your restaurant‘s just lovely…you must be so happy here, with your Mother…….but tell me, how does the pianist stand playing in that vortex of light and sound?”

Boy – “ Vortex ? Oh, yes the passage is rather….stimulating. Actually I think she’s quite happy there…..if you watch her you’ll see that she looks slightly miffed every time somebody walks through – as though there’s some great cosmic disturbance in the atmosphere – but there’s really no helping that, the dumb waiter only comes down on this side, so the waitress’s are constantly in and out, and when we’re busy people walk through there all the time. We put carpet down to try and maintain the acoustics, which are pretty good…I suppose that’s the answer – She has to, that’s the best place for the piano. Have a seat I’ll order our suppers….here, make yourself useful and open the Champagne.”

I sit down at the table with the best view of the strangely soothing Garden as my friend walks over to a square metal panel in the wall, just above where the descending staircase must be. Taking some paper from a nearby table he scribbles something down, opens the sliding doors of the panel and places the paper inside and presses a small green button. Leaning down he takes a parcel from a shelf below the table, just as I manage to uncork the Champagne, the cork rocketing alarmingly towards the glass roof, but arcing at the last minute and hitting the blade of the ‘Gemini’ tree.

Boy – “ Gemini, and I had you pegged as an Aquarius…….but then that would have been quite a shot. Thanks, Cheers – Here, happy Valentines day….I found something in the Lanes that I thought you would like.”

I am handed a beautifully wrapped parcel, about 6 inches by 4 inches. The purple patterned paper, tied with  a gold and silver ribbon. Inside there is a small brown wooden box with a very deep grain, plainly made but well crafted…when I open the lid though – music – the tinkling chimes of tiny bells – and inside the dimunitive dancing figure of a Ballerina pirouetting one way then another to the strangest song I think I’ve ever heard –
short ,repetitive ostinatos – really just a series of a few three note arpeggios, with a very soft, almost inaudible Melody shrouded beneath the high little phrases…..unusual, but beautiful somehow….even compelling.

Girl – “Oh please, what is the music’”

Boy – “ I don’t know, nobody knows – the shopkeeper didn’t, neither did mother – Not even my musical friend at the Piano could tell me. But don’t worry I’m sure time will solve that mystery.”

Girl – “ Thank you, this is lovely. I should have got you something…….You know, I noticed the bird on the Bar,I just love these things.”

Boy – “ Yes, the bird sings every night at closing time, she does something quite surprising.”

Girl – “ When I was a little girl, my favorite film was ‘The Blue Bird’……actually ‘The Blue Bird’ is still my favorite film. When you were talking about….Ekphrasis? I was thinking about that film…..about the idealised form of things – The Quintessence – and also about how to….make those things into music. I think that’s what I’d like to do, write songs for films – with proper instruments and really good arrangements – like Classical music. That’s really one of the reasons I’m so…desperate to get back to Paris. There are people there that know about these things, I mean really know – even about linking sound to image – have you ever heard of Rene Clair? No of course you haven’t, not yet. I go to a little Cafe sometimes: ‘Le Boeuf sur le Toit’…..er, ‘The Ox on the Roof’….oh, if only you could come. They do a dish…..’Truffled Scrambled Eggs’ they‘re so….delicious.  Paris hasn’t really recovered yet…from the War I mean, and things are still quite hard for people….I did’nt even think Daddy would let me go….but sometimes, sometimes you get something like those Eggs and things seem…Good, you know. Do you know I’ve even seen Satie…Eric Satie sitting there, nearly as close as I am to you…and Jean Cocteau and Francois Picabia and I love – everybody really – and just the whole excitement about……Dada and art and………people mad with enthusiasm and……….and I’m talking about all these things and you probably don’t know what I’m….well, talking about. ”

Boy – “ I think I can imagine, I like seeing you so excited about something…..I hope one day you’ll have as much confidence in me as you do in….Rene Clair? I’m sure you’ll get back to Paris, maybe we’ll even go together, for the weekend or something………….20,000 Leagues under the Sea.”

Girl – “ Pardon.”

Boy – “ My favorite film when I was young. I could hardly believe that somebody could actually ‘Film’ underwater….that I could actually see the Fishes and Sharks swimming about. I nearly persuaded Mum to change the name of the restaurant to ‘Nemo’….I just love Jules Verne. That film is why the Garden looks….subaqueous, I took the lighting straight from there……er……..”

Girl – “What? You’re smiling about something.”

Boy – “ Yes, because that’s only partly true. There was another film I saw that year: ‘The Daughter of the Gods’…..I had an enormous boyhood ‘crush’ on Annette Kellerman…..you know the ‘Mermaid’! ‘The Diving Venus’? Well, anyway she’s famous for performing underwater ‘Ballet’, nearly naked sometimes…….actually I do still find something very erotic about that wavering light……I suppose that was my first stirring of sexuality.”

She – “ Ooh, is that a confession…..I suppose a Mermaid makes sense, growing up so close to the Sea, that’s quite romantic actually, and that probably explains Captain Nemo – but I would have thought ‘Tarzan of the Apes’ or ‘Robin Hood’ would have been you’re favorites…..you know – the Nature boys.”

Boy – “ Really, not Sherlock Holmes? or Zorro?

Girl – “ well, now I look………….The ‘Little Tramp’ maybe.”

Boy – “Ouch, although he is a Genius. But what do you know you’re still a ‘Kid’. Anyway, I don‘t even have a moustache.”

Girl – “ Neither does he, not a real one anyway.”

Boy – “…..Well what about you then, I would have thought your favorite would have been…..er, ‘The Queen of Sheba’……or….‘Cleopatra’…………….”

Girl – “ Er…..ouch? Well anyway, Touche. And now for the big question………..Koko or Felix?

Boy – ” Felix.“

Girl – “ You’re right…………we are very different people !”

Boy – “ Koko?”

Girl – “ I think he’s so cleverly done, and I love the way he moves.”

Boy – “ They’re both good, I suppose. Mother keeps going on about somebody called ‘Georges Melies’, apparently she took me to see all his short films when they were released…I sort of remember but the memories are pretty hazy – they were strange and dreamlike I think, sort of….‘Tableau Vivant’ – Actually what about the Picture Palace, for our date ? There‘s a new release on…’Adams Rib.’

Girl – “ You‘re a few weeks early…that isn’t out yet.”

Boy – “ Oh, really? I thought that had been out for quite a while, haha………….Nothing? I’m not
appreciated in the provinces….Ok then, I was reading about a new film that premieres tomorrow: ’Salome’. The reviews were good: Mannered, Theatrical…….Avant Garde. We could go on Friday.”

Girl – “ I can’t on Friday, I’m already doing something. What about tomorrow?”

Boy – “ I have to open up here, I suppose I could ask Mum. What are you doing on Friday?”

Girl – “ I’ve got a ticket to a talk on Occultism…..have you ever heard of Aleister Crowley?”

Boy – “ Er……………………I’m not sure, I think I might have seen the name somewhere.”

Girl – “ Why don’t you come, you might still be able to get a ticket.”

Boy – “……..Maybe…….I’m sort of sceptical about ‘Occultists’ – I mean – I‘m with Hamlet on the Whole: ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio……….’ thing, but…..”

Girl – “ You should definately come, he’s a very famous ‘Practitioner’ apparently. Why are you sceptical, I would have thought you’d be interested, in magic and spiritualism.”

Boy – “ I just said, I am interested, but I don’t know how much you’re going to find out about them at a lecture by a ‘Famous’ Occultist. Doesn‘t ‘Occult mean Hidden? Famous and Hidden seems like a bit of a Paradox…I mean the invisible man doesn’t Moonlight as a Photographic Model.”

Girl – “ How would you know ? He might be working all the time, that would certainly explain a lot of Fashion plates…….I actually did some Modeling in Paris, I love photographs. You’re just annoyed because I have my own ‘Idiosyncratic’ interests. I just hope mine don‘t close me off to new ideas like yours seem to have done.”

Boy – “ I’m open to new ideas….I just like having them myself. Ooh, That sounded arrogant…….I suppose what I’m trying to say is – I think you should find your own way….your own path to travel.”

Girl – “ Thats what I’m trying to do……but I’ve got to start somewhere.”

Boy – “Of course you do, sorry. How did you get interested in the Occult?”

Girl – “ The cinema again, there are some lovely arty little picture houses in Paris, last year I saw a film called ’Haxan’…. a film about Witchcraft.”

Boy – “ Oh, I saw that as well, I liked that film…….I thought for a while I was going to have to endure one of those terrifying German expressionist things like ‘The Head of Janus’, ‘Nosferatu’ or ‘The Cabinet of Dr Caligari’ – I was quite surprised. But surely you should understand why I‘m sceptical then.”

Girl – “I don’t see why, you don’t seem to know anything about Crowley, so you can’t really know what he’s going to say.”

Boy – “I think I can guess…….Look, I think you’re right to want to explore different belief systems…….I’m fascinated by these things myself….and I do believe that there are methods you could find that would help you to experience the World in…unfamiliar ways – Spiritual Awakenings that open the doors to the mysteries and initiate…….Journeys – Quests even – But, if you’ll forgive me for saying – you do seem intent on travelling down one of the murkier paths first……and even on the brighter roads the first few steps can be precarious – some people never really get past them – so I beg you to make sure your with the right
people when you take them. These aren’t games – The woods are full of Wolves – ‘Little Red Riding Hood’.”

Girl – “ Well – thank you for the advice and the Paternal condescension – but I’m not a little girl anymore”.

Boy – “ Obviously, but there might still be some lessons to learn from Fairytales……even by grown ups ….especially – I think – from ‘Little Red Riding Hood’……..goodness, how big those ‘Pearly Gates’ are.”

Girl – “That’s a pretty weird thing to say……..look, I‘m sure that there are lessons to learn – but I’d like to interpret them myself thanks ………I really don’t know why your making such a fuss though, I hardly think I’ll be in any danger sitting in a Church Hall surrounded by hundreds of people.”

Boy – “ Of course you don’t, because you’re a babe in the Woods. What danger could you possibly be in, sitting in a Hall, surrounded by strangers, listening to a trained, tedious voice drone on for hours and hours, boring you slowly to death………..You know, I’ve sat and watched two people sitting at a table in a busy restaurant, drinking and talking, virtually indistinguishable from everybody else. But one of those people was terrified,
barely managing to conceal his fear, because he knew that he was in mortal danger, but the limits of his experience were such that he couldn’t really define what the danger was……that he was infact close to being completely….overwhelmed, engulfed. Luckily for him there was…an interruption, there frequently is…but not always. If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, maybe you should stay away from Occultists for a few years.”

Girl – “ I’m…………no, you’re scared of them!”

Boy – “ No, I’m careful, like you told me you were……..I suppose that’s all I’m saying really….Be careful.”

Girl – “ Oh great….”The inherited Wisdom of the Age” again, maybe I’m tired of being careful.”

Boy – “ Of course you are, all 17 year olds are, that’s why you’re such perfect targets.”

Girl – “ Says the wise old man of what ? 19 ? Look, if you think you know something about this you should just tell me.”

Boy – “ Should I indeed….and every word I say like a Red Rag to a Bull, pushing you further into places you just really shouldn’t go.”

Girl – “ I do think you could give me credit for having a bit more intelligence than that, I have just finished a two year course in Philosophy you know, in French…………………so come on – anything? OK, so you obviously don’t know a thing, so please allow me to do as I like. If you don’t want to come – Fine – I’ll go alone.”

Boy – “ Do you really want to hear? OK, what was ‘Haxan’ actually about?”

Girl – “ You know what Haxan was about…….THE HISTORY OF WITCHCRAFT.”

Boy – “…….and about the fear that the word generates. But forget the word ‘Witchcraft’ for
a moment, to me the film was about –  the persecution of Women by male ‘Priests.’……and
about the priests fanatical desire to find out what these Women knew about….certain things…….and again I’d say forget what the film imp lied those things were. I mean can you imagine? Thousands upon thousands of Women questioned, tortured over centuries…….the Wisdom, the Knowledge that must have been extracted. So I suppose my question is – Do you really think another Pederast Priest with a penchant for young boys, asking you questions and ordering you about is really whats required at the moment?”

Girl – “ Wow, that is quite a question…..and, and don’t for a moment think that I haven’t thought about that…….but Aleister Crowley isn’t a priest, he’s a Magician – Priests beg, Magicians demand – and if you don’t know anything about him I don’t think you should cast aspersions about his vices !”

Boy – “ I said I might have heard the name…..and of course he’s a priest. You’ve done a lot more than just watch a film haven’t you?. Magicians, Priests…..they’re all just impotent men in party frocks Howling at the Wind – the only difference is what happens when the Words blow back – and the Words always blow back. ”

Girl –  “ You can’t know that and you can’t possibly know what he’s capable of.”

Boy – ” Don’t be angry……..If you could see into mens hearts you’d thank Go…….well, you’d be thankful that they’re all so bloody impotent.”

Girl – “ Well I can’t and neither can you. I can see what you’re saying, and I think you want to help…….but how dare you be so dismissive of something that you know nothing about. Why can’t you understand – I’m searching for something……I need to find something with some meaning.”

Boy – ” I understand that, but you see I do know something about this…….Hmmmn, this is going to be hard to explain……the limits of language…..thoughts – Spread your Wings – My
parents used to take long Winter holidays, they weren’t rich but they were well educated and…this place had given them sufficient insight into the foibles of the wealthy to enable them to mingle quite happily in…..what are laughingly referred to as ‘elavated circles’. A few years before the war they took me to Vienna, I was too young to remember much, but Mother has told me quite a lot recently, and there are some…very interesting bookshops in London. In those years before the War there was an enormous surge of interest in the Occult throughout Germany and Austria, particularly in Vienna. There was an fervant subculture,
especially amongst the more…well placed members of the establishment. ’The Theosophical
Society’ had established a base there a few years before and had managed to reignite a significant interest in ‘Hidden’ knowledge…….There had been a fascination with ‘Rosicrucianism’ centuries before, when    groups like ‘Gold und Rosenkreutz’ had counted King Frederick William II of Prussia or ‘Ormesus’, and his chief advisers as members.

Anyway, for several years somebody called…..Steiner I think…Rudolf Steiner…had been vying for control of the ‘German Theosophical Society’ with the actual President: Franz Hartmann. Hartmann published a magazine called: Lotus Blossoms and Steiner published another called ‘Lucifer’ – there was, I think –  some rivalry. By the time we arrived Steiner was breaking away from Theosophy and was beginning to form his own movement: ‘Anthroposophy’ – which, according to Mum, sought to integrate rationalism with spirituality:
Concepts like ‘Supersensory Experience’ that could be achieved by disciplined Praxis and focused Independant thought were being discussed, even Art as a Spiritual Bridge….there was an emphasis on ‘Scientific Method’ and prescribed techniques that promised access to what Steiner claimed was objective ‘Arcane Wisdom’. The movement was starting to gain some devoted followers and my parents were hopeful…and interested. But at the same time men like Guido Von List and……I don’t know…..something like – Liebenfels were forming
their own groups – almost like….esoteric counter-weights: ‘The List society’, which would eventually…rupture into ‘Ariosophy’ or ‘Armanism’ with groups like: ‘The Ordo Novi Templar’, ‘The high Armanen Order’ and even to some degree ‘The Ordo Templi Orientis’ – An Austrian variation on Irregular Freemasonry – and later still……’The Thule Society’ – Basically all fraternal orders, blends of Chivalric Freemasonry and Theosophy – but with
a peculiarly Nationalist slant – they took the swastica and the runes as the symbols of their ‘Ancient Aryan’ heritage. These were ‘religions’ that were established to serve only Aristocratic Germans, and facilitate an Elitist Austrian Agenda…..what was envisioned as a kind of ‘Theocratic Aryanism’ – Rule – by a Secret Order of Germanic Priests. There was also a lot of interest in a book called: ‘The Coming Race’ that had been published decades earlier and which, Madame Blavatsky of the Theosophists believed to be a true account
of real events: A story about a subterranean ‘Master Race’ who were capable of manipulating an invisible ‘Force’…..something called ‘Vril’, for good or ill….for healing or for utter destruction.

These were some of the obsessions dominating Austria and Germany before the first shots of the World War were fired, whenever that really was. I think in the future those pre-War
years in Vienna might be seen as a pivotal moment in Occult history….as statements
of intent from a few of the players. I’m not necessarily blaming ‘Occultism’ for the War,
but Members of those groups were most certainly the politicians, judges….and military commanders that made decisions about National policy……and actually – the truth is: They might well have engineered the Assasination of Franz Ferdinand! You see a particular obsession of these Nationalist ‘Orders’ was throwing off the yoke of what they saw as the continuing occupation of German lands by the ‘Holy Roman Empire’, still ruling them under the Mitre of the ‘Roman Catholic Church’ – And they would have had to – if they
were going to introduce their doctrine of ‘Volkish Aryan Paganism’ to the ‘People’ – But for centuries the Patriarch of the Habsburgs was known as ‘The Holy Roman Emperor’ and the Archduke was a still a devout and enormously powerful Catholic.  His removal must have seemed like an obvious first step……who knows if anybody actually foresaw War….no, that’s disingenuous….somebody did, and anyway the way I think these things seem to work is that – inevitably – two more barbarities are required to cover up the first….then four more to cover the two and on and on –  endlessly – and all the time ‘the group’ continues, deluding
themselves that they‘re still working for the ‘Greater Good’ of the People somehow – despite the very obvious contradictions of an escalating body count.

Nuances about the roots of an ‘Ancient Pagan Heritage’ are easily lost amongst the crowds
and power of the ‘Group’, what is left is often confusion…..and the baser instincts…..vague notions of Nationalism, the pursuit of power, sometimes just the mad scramble to avoid blame. What I’m saying is people are imperfect, sometimes they make terrible choices for what they think are good reasons. Maybe you’re right when you say I can’t look into mens hearts, frankly I wouldn’t want to – But I have looked into my own – which may well be the only real point of a ‘Spiritual’ Journey – and – well lets just say I’ve still got some work to do –  I wish I was Good – but I have so much……..I live a simple life here – but I’m telling you the
truth when I say that I have experienced the feeling of having tremendous ‘Power’ – Real or Imagined – Please believe me when I tell you that the temptation to misuse that power is enormous, and ultimately – I think – that’s what we’re talking about when we discuss Crowleys vision of ‘Occultism’ – Temptation and Power – What many of these people are interested in is the manipulation of Power – Energy – but could any of them
resist the Temptations, would they even want to?

There was Good and Bad in Vienna – and there are people doing good work everywhere, but I’m fairly sure they aren‘t interested in ‘Power’. Good, Bad… as I said before I think Duality is an Illusion – in this World at least – because people aren’t that perfect…..maybe thats the problem – The Cosmos constantly seeks Balance – Equilibrium would be so easy to achieve in a World made up of only Black and white……but this World is full of colour and so much more complex than that. Anyway, Mr Crowley is, I expect, affilliated with one of these groups, or maybe he’s ‘United Grand Lodge of England’…..what do they say: “Old enough and ‘UGLE’ enough”…or he’s with the French, the ‘Grand Orient’ maybe……perhaps he’s even something to do with the Americans – the ‘York Rite, the Scottish Rite’ – Even if you knew him well, you’d never know for sure, and what really is the difference? Like I said……….posh men in
Frocks. The ‘Grand Masters’ of the ‘Grand lodges’ in most European countries are members of the cognate Royal families. Probably not ’Kaiser Bill’ : Emperor of Germany…..King of Prussia because of those Nations historical connections to Roman Catholicism, but I expect an ambitious representative of the no(a)bility embroiled in one of those Nationalist Orders would have been on hand to….make the (un)necessary arrangements. And in America? Somebody rich and ruthless….how subtle Thomas Jefferson was when he said “All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain ‘silent’,” and he would have known. Certainly though, the ‘Grand Master’ of English Freemasonry at the time was a member of ‘our’ royal family. Were we actually just fighting the ‘Evil’ Germans so that some other….Germans could increase their property portfolio? Probably, but then when the people making these decisions are all related to each other who can say what the real causes are, Saxe-Coburg and Gotha doesn‘t sound like a very English name to me, but then of course they aren’t called that anymore, are they. And thus by Muted Means do the ‘Royal fami’lies’ maintain their influence – their ’Power’ – and the seeming semblance of ‘Democracy’ both. These people are the Politicians, the Judiciary, the Police, the Military, the Civil service………England and France gained so much from the war, and the enmity between the Catholic Church and the Freemasons is very well documented……how easily the French and English Lodges could have persuaded their German….or Serbian fraternal brothers into action against the Archduke – if the stated aim was ‘liberating’ Germany from  the Catholics, or Serbia from the Austrians…..particularly when their Masters were the very people who would stand to gain financially from a conflict. I’ve heard people in ‘Flicker Alley’ say that
the ‘Bal FOUR declaration’ to Baron Rothschild is proof of Masonic involvement….I don‘t know, that might be a fudge….probably ‘Israel’ was the price the Politicians thought they had to pay to keep the Zionists in the White House, the Kremlin and the Banks on side during that stupid War. But by what bloody right, and at what bloody cost ?

If all of this seems a bit confusing, thats sort of the point…….intrigues are messy and unpredictable, but I do think that there are compelling reasons to believe that the Freemasons had a hidden – and very bloody – Black Hand in the start of the War. In any case your Mr Crowley isn’t on a lecture tour – he’s recruiting – join him and eventually you‘ll find yourself in a war of Ideologies……..which is really just a another war amongst…what? Greedy men? Corrupt business interests? A few nefarious and priviliged families? Misogynist Religions? Pseudo-Religions? As far as I’m concerned – that isn’t spirituality……that’s Politics – and you place yourself in the greatest jeopody by getting involved in their petty machinations. I’m sorry – to have pulled some of the Veils away so abruptly – but I promise you this isn’t a joke – the World is Real – Actions have Consequences – and there will be a reckoning – “As you sow so shall you reap”. You are a pure and perfect being – a Girl on the cusp of Womanhood – your first duty is to yourself, their silly games can only hurt you. But you must do whatever you think is right……….I have to do something at the bar, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The music has changed…..I didn’t even notice: Schoenberg – Three piano Pieces – Strange, Atonal…Beautifully fractured……like flaws in a Diamond. I suppose that makes sense. Mixed up Mood Music ! I’m not really even sure what happened – I was only planning to go to a Lecture  – just for some entertainment really, and now, now the whole mood of the Evening’s changed. Valentines day seems like a long time ago. The Music Box sits on the table….I don’t think I could even bare to watch her dance now………I should leave, the music’s as disjointed as my mood and I’m confused and melancholy…….but I know he was telling me the truth – his version at least – in all that time his words didn’t get jagged or sharp……. they didn’t…….
crumble – They just slowly changed from Pink Petals to Blue Tumescent Bracts swollen with sadness and pain, but in all honesty I didn’t need to hear that……I didn’t really want to hear any of that….So why did he tell me when he could have just asked me not to go. That thing he said……that was why…..the thing that sent the Shivers up my Spine. The room is Misty, a fog of softly swirling coloured clouds …………..and now my chance to slip out un-noticed has gone – he’s back – he looks as sad as I feel……

Girl – “ Shoenberg !”

Boy – “ I know, she never used to play him….before the War. Now every night’s like an Existential crisis. At least I can tell her She doesn’t have to Sing the Varese……..Don’t worry, She generally manages to find her way back to melody. You might even get some more Satie later. I’m sorry about my….’speech’, You’re too young to take things as seriously as I do. You should just have some fun for a few years, learn how to enjoy yourself.”

Girl – ” I already know how to enjoy myself………..You weren’t kidding were you….when you said…’A deep distrust of institutions’

Boy – “ No, I wasn‘t kidding.”

Girl – “ How do you know so much about these things?“

Boy – “ As I said, there are some very interesting bookshops in London….in Cecil Court and in Bloomsbury.I’ve never met Crowley, but I have seen his name and I have heard some things about him. I don’t always believe rumours but I do know he is involved with the Freemasons.”

Girl – “ Why didn’t you just say something straight away?”

Boy – “ I thought I did…..maybe not enough – Red Rags – One….doesn‘t throw wood on a fire, not when there’s a chance that somebody might get burnt. They‘re very tempting….Fires.”

Girl – “ You, know that I’ve already met him don’t you?

Boy – ” Yes, of course…nice girls from Brighton don’t say things like ‘priests beg, Magicians demand’.”

Girl – “……And do nice Boys call both of them impotent?”

Boy – “ I’m not a nice boy. I’m a messed up boy who’s hopes there’s still a chance he can become a Good Man.”

Girl – “ Is that so important?”

Boy – “ I think so, my Father was a Good Man……I’d like to carry on my family tradition.”

Girl – “…….But you don’t think Aleister Crowley is a good man?”

Boy – “………..I think you should still be able to look yourself in the Eyes when you’re Sixty Six….if you get to Sixty Six.”

Girl – “ That’s cryptic, but I think I know what you mean.”

Boy – “………….You met him after you met me didn’t you?”

Girl – “ The very next day.”

Boy – “ Really? Me and my Shadows, walking…………..and did he do any Party tricks for you? ”

Girl – “ He did something he called ‘Action at a Distance’………he made somebody fall over.”

Boy – ” Greycious, an Adept.“

Girl – “ Not fall exactly, more like stumble………he wasn’t hurt, but…..Crowley laughed a lot, I didn’t think  that was particularly funny.”

Boy – “ Well, these things are hard to guage…I hear that nowadays, the Holy Men in India prefer to exercise their ‘Siddhis’ with ‘The Beltsnap’ – The old Pantaloons round the ankles routine – but they’ve probably studied for longer. That’s a joke….I have the greatest respect for the Yogi’s of India. ”

Girl – “ But none for their Western counterparts?”

Boy – “ Well, the Yogi’s don’t have to make loud: “aaarrrrrrgggggnowsagoodtimetofalloveruuurrrrrggg” sounds to make their tricks work…plus, very few of the Indians are secretly working for ‘Melville’ –
call me old fashioned – but I still think things like that make a difference.”

Girl – “ Ha, yes he did grunt a bit……but Melville? I don‘t understand……..is that a reference to…‘Moby Dick’? Do you think your supposed to be the Whale or the Captain?”

Boy – “ Haha…now that is funny….what a brilliant question….I’ll have to think about that for a while – I’m almost sure I know the answer – but that is a puzzle….Actually I didn’t mean Herman Melville, I mean’t Mm…..William Melville, he was the head of ‘G’ section……..er……he set up the ‘British Secret Service Bureau’. ‘Melville’ is a generic term I use for the secret services…….a useful mental picture. You know,  somehow I think that they would be able to answer your question with a lot more ease than I can, but then I also think the humour of ‘dogs chasing tales’ would be somewhat lost on them……..I only meant that
the Yogis don’t………..”

Girl – “ Oh I know what you meant……what a strange Boy you are, always talking in riddles……………..You know you aren’t anything like I thought you’d be.”

Boy – “ I know, I had managed to keep our previous ‘Coffee dates’ short…….twenty minutes, twenty five tops….because after that the veneer of respectability starts to peel…..but you seemed so nice, I was…lulled into thinking I might manage a bit longer today……foolish me.”

Girl – “ What’s beneath the veneer?”

Boy – “ Flesh and blood, skin, bones……passion and feelings……and things I would…..struggle to define.”

Girl – “ That doesn’t sound so bad. Why bother hiding them ?”

Boy – “ Because there’s also rage………………I’m angry with Myself, with other people……with the government, I’m angry about the War and my Father, I’m angry with……….everybody really….I’ll probably be angry with you in a few hours…..I thought this Evening was going pretty well half an hour ago. You were right about those films, I probably should live in a forest….the woods calm me down, I like the squirrels. Did you see that film that was in the Cinematograph just after the War…er……..’Male and Female’?”

Girl – “ Yes, I did.”

Boy – “Why did Crichton light the fire ? Why did he decide to go back………….I wouldn’t have lit that fire, I would have stayed on the Island.”

Girl – “ He lit the fire for the others…………he thought that’s what they wanted, or maybe he didn’t really believe he deserved to be happy…..or knew deep down that he was about to marry the wrong girl. Perhaps he just couldn’t overcome his own conditioning……..I mean he still believed that he was infact a butler……But if he’d asked her she might have stayed with him anyway…..even if the others were going back, and in the end he did sort of escape to a better life anyway, with his ‘Tweeny’, I think she loved him the most……….You know, I was thinking about that job you offered me………….I’d like to accept. I can start on Friday.”

© 2014   Kevin Barry Partridge.