Story: The Disappearance (IX)

(Part VIII , X)

It was a long cream corridor. Suspiciously normal strip lights were hanging from a ceiling, and certain thoughts were speckling through my ever suspicious brain. It was a not unexpected corridor at all.

Agnes McGonagle of the ever surprising name was creeping down the corridor away from our arrival room, having chosen for some reason to go to the right. I took a moment to memorise the door and glance in the other direction before following her with all the sneakiness at my disposal. So many years of police work and before that in the halls of the university had left me with a certain nimbleness and sense of stealth.

At the end of the corridor we reached a set of double doors which were mostly transparent glass. Through those doors a large work space was visible, where dozens of routinely garbed workers were supervising biscuit production of what appeared to be plain chocolate digestives. Plainly this was the source of all that was wrong in our own present. Apart from the biscuit manufacturing there didn't seem to be anything else of interest. We retreated and started checking each side door.

The first side door was an office with a map of the world on one wall and an array of stars shared out across some of the more prosperous cities. At a glance the correlation with PCD-linked incidents was plain. There was no computer or technology visible beyond the light switch. The second room was a factory library, and this too was deserted. I pinched some very specifically selected. technical manuals and moved on. The third was our arrival chamber and the fourth was the jackpot. A large and complicated gizmo sat in the middle of the floor, quietly running on what was probably standby. On an old-fashioned clipboard hanging on a hook on the wall there was a list of coordinates, dates and times. Some of them were initialled and checked off, all of them in mine and McGonagle's pasts. I wasn't familiar enough longitudes and latitudes or other coordinate systems so the locations were meaningless. In three days time on the clipboard there were three assignments in the space of one hour.

"Those three deliveries could be linked to the cataclysm.", Agnes prompted me.

"I know. It's looking mighty fishy."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at the list. There's one date and one time for each shipment. Either they push out the product as soon as they finish it or this thing is not a time machine at all. Look around you. If this is the future then I'm Rodney the King of Hats. This is a teleporter and we're in the same timestream we've always been in."

"Not time travel?"

"No, this is not time travel." Then I was reminded of something. "But if not time travel, then who were the other you and the other me?"

From the doorway a familiar voice said the following: "They were the bait." A mock sinister laugh followed and then, "My name is Rolf McGonagle, and this is something quite, quite unexpected."

To be continued...


NOTE: No more Quirky Muffins planned until next weekend due to family holiday in Burnham upon Sea. OB.

Fear

There's a small pile of topics and works in progress that linger and linger, and then linger even longer. Either they're too important to be tackled lightly or frivolously, or they are just too silly to be written in anything but the exactly correct frame of mind. This is one of the former as it is important or personal for practically everyone. What am I going to waffle on about with great abandon? Fear.

At some point I became scared, and it's hard to know why. It wasn't knowledge of mortality kicking into action (apparently the last major brain/personality development that occurs) but something else: A fear of exposure, of doing new things or even old things done many times before. It spread to everything like a malaise of the spirit magnified many times over. Books that I know and love suddenly have an attached stigma, movies that are personal heirlooms become ever so slightly scary and every trip to the swimming pool begins with shedding the nerves that should have stopped long ago. It's a madness, but a very human one.

Fear lives within us all. For some it's so small as to be ignored while in others it's trampled deliberately underfoot as they try to conceal it with arrogance and over-confidence. The fear remains though, as it always will. My own method has taken a long time to mature but it essentially consists of doing whatever it is anyway, either extremely thoughtfully and methodically or spontaneously when fear is looking the other way. Why did it spring up the way it did? Bad things must have happened and that's enough said as I don't really know what they were.

What is it that people are scared of though? Death? Failure? Mutant wheels of cheese rolling around the landscape in the far future? What is it? For me it is exposure and to a lesser extent failure, an inbuilt layer of insecurity and a void of self-confidence that revels in hiding itself away and persisting. There's only one way to remove a void though, and that is to expose it and watch it slowly fill in from the atmosphere all around it until it is barely a scratch on an admittedly uneven surface. Just go out and do the things you need to do, if you know what they are, and then rest.

One day there won't be so much fear around; there won't be so many wars of politics and ideologies, but we will all still fret a little personally. Perhaps the best thing to remember is that all of the greatest successes are preceded by dozens of ridiculously overblown failures, and it is those failures that set the context for how great a success is. So fear not, every fear but that of death is magnified and out of proportion, and death itself is out of our control and we don't have to live with the consequences. It is manageable.

Fear is also a powerful tool for action at pivotal moments or destruction if it's not properly harnessed. More on that on another day.

O.

Story: 'Triangles', XII

(Part XI)

Delores was alarmed to begin with at the shear naivete of Ernest the Universe Minder. A whole eternal lifetime alone had left him unable to cope in any practical manner with things a human being adapted to in childhood. It was exasperating! His concentration seemed to drift in and out at random as if being distracted by falling motes of dust or passing photon packets. Finally, not being able to explain tactics or the nature of opposition she realised it was no use.

"You can't give up, Delores, the destiny of all the worlds is at stake. Please go on."

"I don't think I can. You don't seem to understand anything of the concepts but all of the words. It's as if you can recognise a bucket but not the usefulness of the water within." A long silence. "What is it you want, Ernest?" she asked again, quietly.

The man, for it easiest to refer to him as that, looked deeply inward and replied from some deep well of being, "I wish to understand. To comprehend why anything would try to do what is being done. And to know how to fight."

"It doesn't make sense really. How can there be something as vast as you, but so much more capable of deceit to make you look like an innocent barely born?"

Ernest sat with troubled expression for many long minutes, before finally releasing words with most reluctance and confusion. "I was not always like this, I think. Long ago, there was an incident before which I can not recall. The memories I possess are for the most part reconstructed artefacts, all except for my role in the grander scheme of things; That alone I recalled those three or four cycles ago." The bearded man sat with eyes closed and then opened. "If you cannot help me here then you must help me here. Please, take my hand."

"What? Why?" Suspicion flared in the mind of Miss Grey.

"I'm going to take you to my realm and there you will instruct me as you will temporarily see all that I see and feel all I feel. Physically you will of course remain here, but I shall secure a mental link. Perhaps with that connection and a new sympathy between us, we could examine what to do."

Of course it was total nonsense, or so Delores thought. How could a human being possibly comprehend what it could be like to be a vast and intangible entity that lived outside of time. It would be comparable to understanding a God or Destiny or Writer of all that stands in each of our fictional worlds. "I don't think that can really work, can it?"

"Take my hand, and let us see. You need not fear."

Delores, daunted but not broken, took the hand of the Shepherd of the Planes of Reality.


And so ends Phase One of 'Triangles'. Phase Two may take a while to appear.

Hiatus

Ffiesta time means Quirky Muffin is on hiatus until Tuesday, 27th August. It's just as well as I've run out of material!

O.

The Three Faces Of Cultdom

When a character (or series sometimes) can last for fifty years or more of active use or adoration, something happens to them and they become icons and sometimes even de facto real people. There are people who still believe that Sherlock Holmes was a real person, such has been his impact over more than one hundred and twenty years. Holmes and Watson and of course James Bond are the most important and widespread examples of the perennial character, but they're about to be joined by two sixties legends which will hopefully last just as long.

To explain, this year is the fiftieth anniversary of Doctor Who, and in three years we will see the fiftieth anniversary of Star Trek and there don't seem to have been characters waiting to become the next icons that rival these archetypal figures. What has been created since Star Trek and Doctor Who that has appeared in practically every entertainment medium, lived on in print after cancellation on television, and still inspires people as did Sherlock Holmes and to a lesser extent James Bond?

I do question James Bond, since the character has on many levels been artificially prolonged in its life due to the sometimes ridiculous and often formulaic but financially successful movies. In terms of our subject he's much more of a zombie icon, no longer under active development or adoration, but rolled out for the same story still over and over. That's true to some extent of original Star Trek, except that there are still novels being written and that it's important just as Sherlock is as the founder of a new genre, of smart science fiction. James Bond is a fairly regular secret agent in comparison. Also, Star Trek blossomed from its beginnings to a huge and somewhat mercenary franchise that declined, and in its decline the original form is the one that's remembered. The original Star Trek has survived unaffected by its consequences, and despite the (frankly dubious) re-interpretation we have seen in the cinemas.

Where are the female icons? That's a tough question, and one I can not really answer. Has there been a female character who will live on in such a manner? There's a hard truth somewhere, perhaps, that audiences are reluctant to accept women as protagonists in adventure stories since by virtue (and vice) of peer pressure and tradition women were not supposed to be adventurers or travellers for any significant length of time. That attitude persists today and continues to annoy. Even worse for the likelihood of a female cross-medium icon is the fact that the Internet and non-traditional television suppliers have diffused entertainment consumption to the point where no one thing receives as much attentions as it used to and the entertainment landscape is homogeneous to a fault. There may not be new icons from here on in, just as there may not be sufficiently important presidents to go on Rushmore. Those times are done, or are dormant.

Doctor Who, Captain Kirk and Mr Spock, and Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Are there any other comparable icons?
O.

Name that Fruit?

There's an event coming up on the horizon, my sole social event for the whole remainder of 2013, and something so unprecedented in my personal experience as to be a landmark. This coming weekend sees the occasion of the Jasper Fforde Ffiesta 2013! I've never been to anything even remotely like this before, with the closest event perhaps being an academic conference. I'm hoping it will be a fun and entertaining event. Hopefully there will be Sherlock Holmes meetings in the future as well, as I wonder how best to expand social connections. Without going into too much detail, there shall be fancy dress for which I am utterly unprepared, 'Name That Fruit', 'Hunt the lobster', an angst poem contest and many nefarious other activities. What fun shall we have? Well, you'll have to wait until next week.

'The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes' is running as I write, proving to be a more than adequate distraction, although somewhat disjointed. Originally this Billy Wilder movie would have had two additional stories crammed into a running length maybe an hour longer than its theatrical version, but pre-release editing struck - and harshly! - much was lost and now we have a two hour movie which works, sometimes very well, but feels as if there are missing components of which we may never know. It many ways it's much like the long-lost Richard Donner version of 'Superman II' but without the hope of the true version ever appearing, or the cataclysm visited upon Patrick Troughton' and William Hartnell's years in the TARDIS in the BBC wiping debacle.

So, the Ffiesta is coming and I must remember how to speak once again, after a stretch of willing hermitude. Hopefully they'll realise that demented Mathematicians can be rather strange, especially when stranded in future Swindon. People are smart; It will surely be a good time. Except for 'Name That Fruit', of course. For those not in the know, Jasper Fforde is the mind behind the Thursday Next stories, Nursery Crimes mysteries, The Last Dragonslayer tales and Shades of Grey. Allowing some margin for erraticness these are some of the most imaginative, amusing and entertaining stories written in the last ten years.

Between now and Swindon there seem to be a few days left to fill, days of text and coding. Recent leads have led me to believe that there's a great chance of resurrecting the arterial model problem that was in progress last Summer, and that means there's much coding in prospect. And air conducting, of course. There must always be air conducting. And Greek learning.

It's all such fun.
O.

Television: 'Due South: Letting Go' (Episode 1x22)

The first season of the television show 'Due South' was a marvel. It grew from a shaky beginning as an offbeat buddy cop series to a touching comedy drama adventure and never looked back. At the heart of that was the development of the second lead character Ray from a buffoon to a credible police officer and tender hearted tough guy, and the mini-arc surrounding first lead Benton Fraser and his soul-destroying love for bad seed criminal Victoria. Victoria casts a shadow comparable to a far more famous villain in Sherlock Holmes' nemesis Professor Moriarty, another character who only appears once but almost collapses the show with their own departure.

The power of Victoria is that she almost turns the true blue and noble mounted policemen Fraser to her side of the law, so besotted is he by her. Fraser has a huge simple-minded blind spot in dealing with women in any case - he would rather talk to his wolf Diefenbaker - and Victoria blind-sides him. She almost tears asunder the brotherhood between Fraser and Ray, so strong is her hold on him. And that's where we get into 'Letting Go', as it's the resolution or the epilogue to the whole thing and awesome in its simple resurrection of our leads as heroes. It is also surely one of the best single episodes of a show ever. At the end of 'Victoria's Secret': Fraser is about to jump onto a moving train to leave with his jewel thief lover but is hit by a bullet from Ray's gun, and one intended for his lover, who may have been about to kill him in any case. We open 'Letting Go' with Ray anxiously walking beside trolley as Fraser goes to emergency surgery. The setup is love, injury, betrayal and disappointment.

The essential core of the show is a void; The emptiness left behind by the woman who almost ruined everything and tore apart the dynamic Due South duo forever, and rendered Fraser dark and heartbroken in the bargain. That absence, that unspeakable pain that leaves Benton bed-ridden and Ray traumatized by guilt is the guiding force behind the show, and the recovery of the two and their friendship, slow and halting as it is, is really the best thing the show ever did. Did I mention I love 'Due South'? The second season was not as good, purely because there wasn't a comparable story to be told. They had shot their golden bullet already, and then poor ratings saw it cancelled and the game was done. The revival series really isn't even vaguely as good and shall not be discussed further.

It seems an insurmountable task to put things back on the footing they were on before Victoria. The obstacles are numerous and enormous: Fraser is bed-ridden with self-pity and resentment even subtly toward Ray for not letting him leave, Ray is racked with guilt over what he has done and some anger at what almost happened to Fraser, Victoria is gone, and the world is an uninviting beige place. Even Fraser's dad is worried, whether he be a delusion or a ghost, and being in turn beleaguered by his own delusional or ghostly dead mother. That just boggles belief as does the spectral sight of Fraser senior floating on his back in the therapy pool in full RCMP dress uniform. There's something very strange in the Fraser genes. Thank goodness he was usually too terrified of women to breed. He's not the only one!

The power of Due South lies in Paul Gross's sincerity. He can give single lines and monologues better than any one else, bar none. The whole character of Victoria was set up in one monologue delivered to a room full of sleeping people, and it was devastating in its sincerity. Fraser may be strange but he believes in what he says, and that's what he almost loses, while caught in the trope of heroes being destroyed by love. You have time to be a lover or to be a hero but not both. Throughout this episode, Fraser is slowly coming back to terms with being who he used to be, a role he has renounced almost terminally in the previous episode. Of course, as a mountie very much in the Sherlock/Kirk mold, what brings him back is a case and a woman. Not The Woman, but a woman, representing the fact that not all women betray and plot to kill their lovers. And television being what it is, she's blonde and therefore nice, and not brunette and therefore evil.

Fraser's recovery is the more tangible but it's Ray's desperate attempts to make amends and bring his friend back from his heartbroken apathy to real life that help to sell the episode. Of course he finally has to get shot saving Benny's life, taking a bullet for the one he gave, and rubbing out Fraser's buried animosity in the process.

Ultimately the glory of 'Letting Go' is in the idea of a whole episode on someone recovering from heartbreak and friends making up. It is unprecedented. It is wonderful. It is simple. A transition from passive apathy and heartbreak to active participation and recovery.

O.

PS Alternatively it might all be lightweight pap from the 1990's. It's just a question of taste.