There Are No Magical Giraffes In This Post

Welcome to the first Monday of the rest of your life. Did you have a nice weekend? Were you chased by magical giraffes? Really? Why not? Sometimes I wonder at the comparatively small number of magical giraffe sighting in this area, and what the implications might be. I write to you now from the little valley of relief that you find after completing the hideous process of applying for a job, which no-one needs explained to them. Yes, the whole of life has been summarised into a few lines, and now it's time to kick back and finish some of the more enjoyable parts of existence.

Hang on. How exactly does this 'enjoying life' bit work again? It has been a while. Should there be a trumpet involved somewhere? Or a pack of playing cards themed to the characters from 'Rainbow'? (Bonus points for readers, if there are any, who know 'Rainbow'.) Perhaps freewheeling on this blog is good enough? It is nice to have the words flow easily, for once, possibly due to a haircut and a good mood. I've not actually checked for themed playing cards before. I wonder if...

Ahem. Excuse me. That was a brief trip down the rabbit hole of the Internet, and now this post will continue on its original random trajectory, to nowhere in particular. Christmas is nearing, and even the principled agnostic needs a period to relax from time to time. Relax from what? The stresses of not working? I scoff at myself! Ha! Perhaps this whole post should turn into an adversarial monologue, in a rash attempt to see out the festive period from a rubber room? Ho ho ho. It might be more interesting than this random extemporising, but no. Also, there is no Father Christmas in the wardrobe. You're imagining that. Or I am.

It's fun to extemporise, and forget the poisonous political issues of the day. Just let all that nonsense go away for a little bit, and think about what to read, and how to spend the next few days. Plot out the lessons for the next few students, and wonder at the marvel that is 'The Muppet Show'. I'm still amazed that show got made, as excellent as it is. Or perhaps now is a good time to hunt down some new recipes to test disastrously on anyone foolish enough to draw near. The last attempt was lovely roast butternut squash, but the maddening fools didn't take to it en masse. Humbug! What else might be done with a butternut squash?

Cooking is fun. Cooking is lovely. The horrible part is giving the food to other people to eat. I wonder how chefs resist the pull toward madness? Or are they all mad? That might explain several of them, in fact. Now, not having used the cliched ellipsis nearly enough in this post, let's close, and hope that none of the magical giraffes ate the tops off the wagons again. Those wagon covers sure are difficult to replace...

O.

   

Story: The Ninja of Health, VI

( Part V , VII )

A third circle lay there in the pattern of the Floor of Spirals. The Man and the Woman sat there, ill at ease with the harmony they had just achieved with their home. The Woman looked at her companion. "Dare we move?" She asked?

"You're the one who taught me, dear heart." He mused for a few moments. "Everything you ever told me about the Floor implied that it merely reflected the outside world and our places within it."

"Yes, that is what Old Master Ken taught me, however..." The Woman hesitated.

"What?"

"He told me that there were other things, best left untouched. Things of the OTher. Look at how chaotic and disintegrated the pattern becomes there, almost forming something else, entirely. Something different."

"We will have to consult the Appendices. Perhaps even the Oracle" The Man cupped his chin in his left hand, and studied. "We'll have to leave, whatever we conclude here." He tried to stand up, and hit his arms and knees on air. "By the Oath..." His companion also tried and hit her head on the atmosphere. They looked at each other, and then levered themselves to standing against the floor and the barrier they couldn't see.

"It's cylindrical." Observed the Woman.

"No top I can reach." Said her friend in his turn. "Climb?"

"Climb."

Levering themselves up the barriers, they squirmed upward against gravity, finally finding a gap for escape near the ceiling. Incongruously resting on the edge of tubes' exits, they looked down at the Floor.

"We've been invaded." The Man concluded.

"Yes." The Woman agreed.

"Oh, definitely." The Invader threw in.

The tubes shattered.

To be continued...

It Ends With Monkeys

As the Miami trip edges closer to the present, and we all approach the Solstice, the Quirky Muffin edges into over-drive as entries get prepared and scheduled IN ADVANCE to cover this author's absence. Yes, you poor notional destitute blog reader, you will not be abandoned. These hollow mockeries will continue to echo through your phantasmic visual orifices! So far, two of the five needed entries are in the bag, and three more will be done before that fateful week in June. Hmmm. Best moderate that statement a little. The three will be done, if this disgusting Minecraft addiction can be defeated.

Addictive behaviour is one of the hardest things to break, especially when the activity isn't itself harmful except for using up too much time. The brain is essentially lazy, after all, and tries to keep its behavioural patterns, no matter ther implications. A lot of addictions are also centred around altered brain chemistry due to over-use, which is easily linked to computer abuse. No, not being hit over the head with a laptop, but over-stimulation of the brain via computer games and other things. If sugar can be dropped, then so can Minecraft and constant e-mail watching, surely? I just proved myself wrong, didn't I? Too much computer time isn't just a waste, but also brain-altering. Blast.

Preparing blogs in advance is arduous, but worthwhile. It's also a massive expenditure in the easier topics, like reviews and story improvisations. It's nice to not have an interruption in the personal challenge that is the Quirky Muffin, even if the mental equivalent of a bunch of monkeys at typewriters are put into operation to pull it off. You can all expect a roll of blog posts roughed out during the cumulatively more than twenty five hours of travelling and travails.

Monkeys at typewriters... Did you know that Shakespeare Monkey Generator of Internet Past did actually generate results? According to the unreliable sources of Internet news sites, an almost complete (ninety-nine-per-cent) set of Shakespeare's works was completed by virtual monkeys, over only a few trillion virtual monkey years. Unfortunately, they had to remove spaces and punctuation to achieve that match, which seems like cheating. Oh, it doesn't just seem like cheating, it actually is cheating! I wonder what the record was with spaces retained, at least. Do you realise that over a few trillion real monkey years the monkeys would improve at the task and would actually cut down that estimate? Crikey, an evolved monkey might actually improve the works of Shakespeare, actually making some of the jokes funny!

Sadly, the original online Shakespeare Monkey Simulator closed down years ago. Having realised that, it is immediately missed most intensely. Could someone please get the Virtual Shakespeare Monkeys back to work, please? They're much better behaved than real monkeys, after all, and we would see far fewer typewriters being wrecked.

O.

Story: The Glove, VIII

( Part VII , IX )

The airport at Edin was sleek, modern, and efficient. Information displays cycled rapidly and invisibly, and the powered walkways moved the passengers with ease. Steffan walked alongside, matching pace, and headed ever onward down the passage to his waiting luggage. The airship behind the flowing passengers had already decoupled, and was spiralling down to the outer moorings.

A robotic floor cleaner followed the passengers down the walkway, keeping everything pristine. Back home, it would have been a person, doing his bit for the community. Back home there was also Master Octavius, while here there might be dissidents and rebels. The terminal neared and then suddenly Steffan was there, collecting his things, and stepping out into the big city itself.

The city of Edin was loud, and brazenly technological. The piper stood there and gaped, and then gaped some more, being so used to the styles of home. A techno-taxi stopped in front of him, and the driver honked the horn. Steffan stared at the bizarre vehicle, and then reluctantly asked the driver if he knew where to find the Rock of Augustus, a boarding house. Before he knew what was happening, he was in the cab and they were speeding off. Edin blurred by on both sides, brightly coloured, incomprehensible.

Steffan hadn't chosen the Rock of Augustus at random. At the academy, the initiates had heard many a tall tale about the house and how it had been the customary haunt for Burghers when abroad for generations, before the exchange program had slowed to a trickle. It would be the perfect place to begin. The taxi dropped him off, rather abruptly, and zoomed away on another call after Steffan tapped his bead to the reader.

The Rock of Augustus looked run down, worn out, and decidedly dingy. He stepped over the threshold anyway. Inside, a mountain of a human being was sitting behind the reception desk, and smiled warmly when he saw the pipes bag in the visitor's grasp!

"Finally!" Boomed the mountain. "We've been waiting for you for hours! What kept you?"

"What on Troos are you talking about, man?" Wondered Steffan aloud.

"Is your name not Steffan? Come on, lad, your room's all ready. You may not be a Piper, but you are a piper still. I've got a little arrangement for you..."

To be continued...

Solitaire

The ritual begins. The deck of cards is carefully shuffled. The mind clears, and focusses. The deck is dealt into four piles, which are then reshuffled. Finally, the cards are sufficiently mixed, and the setup begins. Over seven columns, the familiar pattern for what we call 'solitaire', but is more commonly called 'klondike' throughout the world, is laid out. Seven columns, of height one then two, three, and so on until seven. The bottom card of each stack is turned face up and we go on.

Turning the stock pile over, three cards at a time, and only building stacks in alternating colour, there is something magical about this version of solitaire. It is the perfect way to learn how to lose as well as win, and also the perfect way to compose the mind after a day of rugged mental torture. In this time of continual multi-tasking, there's nothing so relaxing as just playing solitaire. It's less taxing than reading a novel, but more of a mental workout than counting the number or rugs (zero) in your bedroom over and over.

Over and over, you set up the tableau, spot the patterns and connections, and pass through the deck until the game is won or stalemate has been reached. When you reach stalemate and 'lose', what do you do? You don't mope, or grumble, or get angry. What you do is collect all the cards together and set it all up for another go. It's life in a microcosm, a demonstration of how important it is to not get beaten down by failure but instead keep on going, and enjoy the victories when they happen. They do happen, and are not imaginary.

We shuffle the cards, set up the tableau, and start the process of dealing, rearranging, sorting and progressing all over again. It's a lot more meaningful with real cards than it is on the computer. The physical movements are reassuring, and relaxing. It's a little meditation, a condensation of calm, and a chance to let go of the reins and be at one with something that isn't work or stress. That's right, you can actually play solitaire with real cards! It's one of the more pleasant things to do. There's a reason why there are so many solitaire scenes in old movies...

Flip the card. Move the red queen to the black king. Flip another card. Go through the deck a few times. Admit defeat. Collect it all up, and go again. Don't give up. Go again.

O.

Some Strings Of Words

Having been cloistered away in reclusive exile for so long now, it's quite refreshing to emerge into the real world from time to time. Of course, the real refreshment is being able to then vanish once again, into the cave of unemployment, where no-one dares to bother you. Now, to speak absolutely accurately, I'm not unemployed at all, but a freelance private tutor of Mathematics, English and Spanish, but there are only so many evening hours in the week, and so few people seeking help in these poverty-stricken times. It's much like earning a thimble full of water each day instead of the bucket and a half that you might really need.

At least Aberystwyth was nice, a genial day trip destination, as wet and breezy as usual. That town truly comes alive in the wintry months, as nature rails against the railings of civilization. The waves roar in relentlessly, throwing great washes of spray over the promenade, and filling the night with watery grandeur. The orange lights go fizzy, and occasionally all is clear and the stars shine so bright on the pebbly fringe.

The last week saw some indulgences in old 'Star Trek' novels and some musings on the healthiness of revelling in things from the past. It seems that there could be dangers in some people trying to remain the same forever, but you could also argue that maintaining a connection to the person you used to be is quite healthy, and could even be vital in the event of some personal disaster or trauma. Don't you sometimes need the idea of an earlier version of yourself? So that you can work out what differences might be causing problems now? Or even work out what differences have fixed the problems you used to have. It's an age old question. Some of those 'Star Trek' novels are very good and imaginative, little gems of 'do what you will' fiction in the early days of the phenomenon, before all became locked into the stricter continuity we have now. I've written about that somewhere before. Maybe it was the post about the Blish adaptations?

It could be easily argued that reading something familiar is a necessary thing, a relaxation after the tension of reading a string of new books, including the drain of all the short stories! Is it credible? Would someone find it credible that reading a book for the first time could be stressful and draining? Does it matter? No, not really. We are all different, after all, and united in those differences. It's the way of the world, while it's still spinning.

Now, the cave needs a bit of a dust, and the 'no-one at home' signs needs repainting. We hermits must keep up our standards, after all.

O.

Movie: 'One, Two, Three' (1961)

This is a curious movie, a definite second stringer in the Billy Wilder catalogue, and a rare farcical role for James Cagney. In fact, it would be Cagney's last film role for twenty years. I haven't seen any other Cagney films; He's a performer who has slipped through unnoticed, probably due to being famous for tough guy roles. Apparently, he was an accomplished song and dance man, putting him firmly in the 'secret polymath' territory currently being occupied by Hugh Jackman. In 'One, Two, Three', Cagney plays a Coca-Cola executive in West Berlin, who ends up in an increasingly farcical and quick-fire situation while hosting his boss's daughter for a few days, which turn into months, and a very unfortunate marriage and pregnancy with a lover from the other side of the Curtain.

It's all about Cagney, and not very reminiscent of the great Wilder films of the period, being so light and frothy as to constitute nothing at all. The script is incredibly witty, fast, and loaded with visual jokes, some of which go on too long, and others of which pop too quickly. The supporting cast are all excellent, but not Wilder's typical people, nor is the setting. Following 1960's 'The Apartment', this movie begins the trilogy of critically unappreciated films that would continue with 'Irma La Douce' and culminate in 'Kiss Me, Stupid'. I like that last one, but it was reviled at the time.

On the positive side, the dialogue is great, as is the photography, and the music. The cast is on the whole good, with Horst Buckholz in his other most famous film, and a host of people you think you may have seen before but probably haven't. On the negative side, every character but Cagney's is underwritten and little more than a joke. The important role played by politics, and Coca-Cola is confusing now, partly because of the broad satire that Wilder is playing out here, in the divided city of Berlin. I never knew that the city was divided less formally before the construction of the Berlin Wall, nor that it was built so late. It seems rather strange to make so much fun of the communists now, when they've been gone from Germany for so long, and you can't help but wonder if Wilder was stretching to find things to mock, having decided to take it (relatively) easy on corporations this time.

Maybe 'One, Two, Three' falls foul of my liking for films which try to do more than one thing at a time. Films which aren't purely comedies, tragedies, romances, or anything else. It simply doesn't do enough to escape 'just being a comedy', and Buckholz's turn as the Communist new husband of the boss's daughter is a bit too single-toned to add nuance to anything. It's just a comedy, and that's a massive problem when the movie that you're following is the smash hit 'The Apartment'. This reasoning may also tie in to my not particularly liking 'Some Like It Hot', which is apparently a crime against film-watching.

'One, Two, Three' is an excellently fast paced farce set in a place and time you don't often see in film. Cagney is great, and everyone else is good. It just seems like it needs more of a point, and perhaps some more of the Billy Wilder repertory players.

O.