(Part XI , XIII)
Two days into the past, I knew I had to use this second chance wisely. Nothing could have persuaded me to go talk to myself and confuse the timeline even further. Instead, I comforted Agnes and asked her to come to the Old University with me. Rolf was a problem, but between us we managed to get him on the train and excused his unconsciousness with my PCDD badge. Finally, after spending most of our ready cash, and borrowing a wheelchair from our destination station we rolled into my secret old lodgings in academia. The owl was still there, and the books, and it felt just as much like home as it always had. Home.
Agnes and I had spoken little during the journey, Rolf's unconscious presence being an unbreakable barrier between us. The cosy surroundings of these rooms far from the scene of our bizarre adventure seemed to relax her, and she stared at all the books transfixed. It wasn't often you saw a such eclectic collection, studded as it was with large subsets on Egyptology, Mathematics, Chemistry and Criminology.
Some words flowed between us: A question. "Just who are you, anyway? I've seen personal libraries before but this is spectacular and bizarre! What's a police officer doing with rooms and books like this, and why hide it away? You're a researcher, aren't you? And connected to one of the most prestigious university towns in the world." She was more exasperated than curious, it seemed, as if all my previous reserve had rankled her enormously.
The computer button was pressed and the machine dutifully began to warm up, as I secured Rolf and then turned to Agnes. "All shall be revealed, but not now." She removed her shoes and wriggled her toes in a patch of deepest carpet. "And not by me. Lily will tell you all tomorrow I'm sure. And don't ask me about Lily as she'll be sure to tell you all about herself in quick smart fashion."
E-mail to agent Carter:
"Sharon, Code 29, I have to stay away until 13:00 Thursday. Come down to Woolford after I leave work at lunchtime tomorrow. Bring restraints and take precautions. Agnes McGonagle is here too and in same scrape."
Now I would have backup. I noticed Rolf watching me silently, as silently as he must have come to from his stupor. Agnes saw me notice and then noticed herself. I grabbed her before she could make a scene. "You, guest room, now." I uttered in an almost commanding tone and watched her grumpily until she was through the door. Then I checked the bathroom was secure, untied Rolf and shoved him in there, with suggestion of doing everything he needed to do and that I would check in five minutes. Then I waited.
All the old ways came crashing back in on me as I sat in my old living room once again, and I reached for a favourite novel before Agnes caught me, peeking as she was from her guest room.
"Who are you really?"
"I'm just a dusty professor who saw some things and then went into the big bad world."
"Bad things?"
"Yes."
"You'll see worse things if I don't get my turn in the bathroom soon."
Sighing, I checked on Rolf and performed the bathroom switch. We wouldn't get another chance to chat alone for a while.
More shall follow...
Friday, 25 October 2013
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
Course Corrections
Over the course of the Quirky Muffin so far I've done quite a few stories. 'Night Trials' and 'Triangles' both came to an end, if only a chapter end in the second case, and they went through the spontaneous serialisation format in radically different ways. As said elsewhere, 'Night Trials' dived into a whole that it never quite recovered from, even with some 'destroy the corner we've painted ourselves into' atom bomb writing. 'Triangles' never had a problem, just lulls as time was pumped in to the narrative to allow things to happen at a reasonable rate.
The practice here at the Quirky Muffin seems to have settled down quite nicely. We begin a story quite spontaneously, and then a rough outline forms for the story after writing two or three episodes and deciding what is interesting and what is not. This worked fairly well for 'Night Trials' and very well for 'Triangles', but 'The Disappearance' has rather foundered on the rocks. In essence what has happened with 'The Disappearance' is that the whole thing was build on a gag, a plain chocolate digestive detective, and that that and the opening of the story have now both been rather left behind. The story is trapped being neither one thing nor the other.
Having begun, it seems almost compulsory to finish, but how do you steer something back towards a narrative that was built on a gag? Ultimately you end up doing two things: Finishing the serial as it stands while talking yourself out of tight spots, while also planning for the compiled short story that must follow. Eventually all of these stories, no matter how dull or pedestrian, will be compiled into revised and unserialised versions. Therein shall lie half the fun: In the challenge of converting these exercises in ingenuity into wholes hopefully greater than the sums of their parts.
Stories will continue in the Quirky Muffin, even as the ideas for new ones get used up. Just three days ago I had an idea for something truly abstract which will fill one of the slots once 'The Disappearance', 'The Glove' or 'Oneiromancy' finally come to a chapter break or natural terminus. 'The Glove' is a natural example of a story starting and then the framework coming into place only after a large amount of forceful contemplation, while 'Oneiromancy' just jumped out fully formed one day. Out of them all, the more abstract tales are easily the most fun. 'Oneiromancy', 'Triangles' and the next story 'Wordspace' will all almost write themselves into and out of the corners that are part and parcel of serialised nonsense. I think 'Wordspace' will go down very well indeed.
But what next for 'The Disappearance'? There's a contradiction to settle, a cul-de-sac to back out of gracefully, and the question of what the story is really about to ask. The framework fell away weeks ago, and now the only thing to do is print out the whole thing, deconstruct it, make a diagram and then throw things at it until something sticks. The Plain Chocolate Digestive Detective will reach the end of his story, the time singularity will presumably be averted, and all that smuggling will surely be abated. We don't need a miracle, we just need biscuits.
O.
The practice here at the Quirky Muffin seems to have settled down quite nicely. We begin a story quite spontaneously, and then a rough outline forms for the story after writing two or three episodes and deciding what is interesting and what is not. This worked fairly well for 'Night Trials' and very well for 'Triangles', but 'The Disappearance' has rather foundered on the rocks. In essence what has happened with 'The Disappearance' is that the whole thing was build on a gag, a plain chocolate digestive detective, and that that and the opening of the story have now both been rather left behind. The story is trapped being neither one thing nor the other.
Having begun, it seems almost compulsory to finish, but how do you steer something back towards a narrative that was built on a gag? Ultimately you end up doing two things: Finishing the serial as it stands while talking yourself out of tight spots, while also planning for the compiled short story that must follow. Eventually all of these stories, no matter how dull or pedestrian, will be compiled into revised and unserialised versions. Therein shall lie half the fun: In the challenge of converting these exercises in ingenuity into wholes hopefully greater than the sums of their parts.
Stories will continue in the Quirky Muffin, even as the ideas for new ones get used up. Just three days ago I had an idea for something truly abstract which will fill one of the slots once 'The Disappearance', 'The Glove' or 'Oneiromancy' finally come to a chapter break or natural terminus. 'The Glove' is a natural example of a story starting and then the framework coming into place only after a large amount of forceful contemplation, while 'Oneiromancy' just jumped out fully formed one day. Out of them all, the more abstract tales are easily the most fun. 'Oneiromancy', 'Triangles' and the next story 'Wordspace' will all almost write themselves into and out of the corners that are part and parcel of serialised nonsense. I think 'Wordspace' will go down very well indeed.
But what next for 'The Disappearance'? There's a contradiction to settle, a cul-de-sac to back out of gracefully, and the question of what the story is really about to ask. The framework fell away weeks ago, and now the only thing to do is print out the whole thing, deconstruct it, make a diagram and then throw things at it until something sticks. The Plain Chocolate Digestive Detective will reach the end of his story, the time singularity will presumably be averted, and all that smuggling will surely be abated. We don't need a miracle, we just need biscuits.
O.
Tuesday, 22 October 2013
Story: The Disappearance (XI)
(Part X , XII)
The case was winding down but it wasn't satisfying. There were motives and effects that didn't make sense. Was the whole story about the time disaster to come just part of a huge trap or were there more lies around us than even I could punch through to illuminate the whole web of truths? Why had Rolf McGonagle gone bad, and what did it all have to do with the future, if anything?
The teleporter, or perhaps time machine, had deposited us in a darkened dock area in what looked like a dodgy part of Liverpool. We were surrounded by massive towers of cartons of chocolate digestive biscuits and it was cold. Rolf was on the ground, still knocked out but beginning to look a little blue at the lips. I picked him up, threw him over in the fireman hold, cursing my back in the process and then started to walk towards the light. I assumed Agnes would follow me, but then I realised she was still.
Agnes McGonagle's eyes were glazed and she didn't seem to be aware of her surroundings. She just stood there, eyes responding a little to my waves and then my touching her face. Gosh, she was beautiful, but I realised how much of her bravado was a cover for her inexperience and wondered what I would have done in her case. My first two trips through a teleporter had been a shocking experience and that was without our shared events of time travel, meeting a presumed dead but crooked father, and also meeting our future selves even if they had been a decoy.
Had our future selves been a decoy? I had certainly fooled me, if that were the case, and Agnes had also been fooled by herself. It didn't seem to be credible that could happen. No, they weren't knowing bait, but unknowing decoys. They had believed that there was a problem coming, a monumental disaster, that would swallow uncounted lives. I pulled Agnes along as I also lugged her father Rolf.
The lights were a portacabin and inside there was a greasy looking security guard. He jumped out of his skin when I pounded on the door, and then shrivelled up into a corner as I dumped Rolf on the desk. Agnes was starting to cry. The guard was looking at Rolf in utter shock so I guessed he was on the team and prodded him a little, with his own gun from the desk.
"Day, month, year. Now."
The guard responded and I found we had been transported back to two days before we left. Yes, time travel. This could all get very complicated, but it could also all end up being very simple. I called a friend at the University, he said he'd come and get us, and then we would do the most important thing of all. We would talk, we would think, and we would wait two days.
To be continued...
The case was winding down but it wasn't satisfying. There were motives and effects that didn't make sense. Was the whole story about the time disaster to come just part of a huge trap or were there more lies around us than even I could punch through to illuminate the whole web of truths? Why had Rolf McGonagle gone bad, and what did it all have to do with the future, if anything?
The teleporter, or perhaps time machine, had deposited us in a darkened dock area in what looked like a dodgy part of Liverpool. We were surrounded by massive towers of cartons of chocolate digestive biscuits and it was cold. Rolf was on the ground, still knocked out but beginning to look a little blue at the lips. I picked him up, threw him over in the fireman hold, cursing my back in the process and then started to walk towards the light. I assumed Agnes would follow me, but then I realised she was still.
Agnes McGonagle's eyes were glazed and she didn't seem to be aware of her surroundings. She just stood there, eyes responding a little to my waves and then my touching her face. Gosh, she was beautiful, but I realised how much of her bravado was a cover for her inexperience and wondered what I would have done in her case. My first two trips through a teleporter had been a shocking experience and that was without our shared events of time travel, meeting a presumed dead but crooked father, and also meeting our future selves even if they had been a decoy.
Had our future selves been a decoy? I had certainly fooled me, if that were the case, and Agnes had also been fooled by herself. It didn't seem to be credible that could happen. No, they weren't knowing bait, but unknowing decoys. They had believed that there was a problem coming, a monumental disaster, that would swallow uncounted lives. I pulled Agnes along as I also lugged her father Rolf.
The lights were a portacabin and inside there was a greasy looking security guard. He jumped out of his skin when I pounded on the door, and then shrivelled up into a corner as I dumped Rolf on the desk. Agnes was starting to cry. The guard was looking at Rolf in utter shock so I guessed he was on the team and prodded him a little, with his own gun from the desk.
"Day, month, year. Now."
The guard responded and I found we had been transported back to two days before we left. Yes, time travel. This could all get very complicated, but it could also all end up being very simple. I called a friend at the University, he said he'd come and get us, and then we would do the most important thing of all. We would talk, we would think, and we would wait two days.
To be continued...
Sunday, 20 October 2013
Where are the words that are never said?
As we talk we spin words out of thin air, meld thoughts into sentences, and articulate whole realms of experience into shared knowledge and wonder. Or at least that's what want to happen in the best of times. But what about the words that are never said, or at least the ones that haven't been said yet?
Do the words that haven't been said yet loiter on in some otherworldly metaphysical store? If our souls go somewhere to sleep in between turns at the bodily wheel, do they sleep in the same happy space, comforted by a huge blanket of unspoken words? What do all the words left unsaid come to in the grand story of things? And what is that story, that grand narrative of all the words that ever were or will be?
Imagine a great wooden loft space, with mighty oak roof windows looking out into the word space of the great outer world. From that loft space, that we can never access except in sleep, great works of unborn literature can be seen wafting by in the wind. Abstract thoughts roll by in concrete balls and poems that never made it to paper are clouds in a ludicrously blue sky. The negatives in the far distance rumble menacingly, clouds of withheld threats and grudges from all the peoples of the world, unborn declarations of war and prejudices kept in for all told reasons.
Beware the unborn words. Spoken words convert their power into simple cause and effect and then die. Words left unsaid accumulate meaning in the bearer and slowly distort themselves into bizarre mixed messages and dire consequences, loaded with intent passions and missed opportunities. If there is something to be written or said then it's often best to say it. The one exception, and it is always exceptional in every way, is love. A glance or a look can express love as well as a word in the best of circumstances. Is there a place for unspent looks and smiles too? Might it be a sad place?
Spin and swirl, do the twirl, happiness and sunshine, give it a whirl.
O.
Do the words that haven't been said yet loiter on in some otherworldly metaphysical store? If our souls go somewhere to sleep in between turns at the bodily wheel, do they sleep in the same happy space, comforted by a huge blanket of unspoken words? What do all the words left unsaid come to in the grand story of things? And what is that story, that grand narrative of all the words that ever were or will be?
Imagine a great wooden loft space, with mighty oak roof windows looking out into the word space of the great outer world. From that loft space, that we can never access except in sleep, great works of unborn literature can be seen wafting by in the wind. Abstract thoughts roll by in concrete balls and poems that never made it to paper are clouds in a ludicrously blue sky. The negatives in the far distance rumble menacingly, clouds of withheld threats and grudges from all the peoples of the world, unborn declarations of war and prejudices kept in for all told reasons.
Beware the unborn words. Spoken words convert their power into simple cause and effect and then die. Words left unsaid accumulate meaning in the bearer and slowly distort themselves into bizarre mixed messages and dire consequences, loaded with intent passions and missed opportunities. If there is something to be written or said then it's often best to say it. The one exception, and it is always exceptional in every way, is love. A glance or a look can express love as well as a word in the best of circumstances. Is there a place for unspent looks and smiles too? Might it be a sad place?
Spin and swirl, do the twirl, happiness and sunshine, give it a whirl.
O.
Friday, 18 October 2013
Story: The Glove, V [Obsoleted]
(Part I , IV , VI)
"The early history of our colony here on Ganymede was a strange one. We were possessed of a fierce Scotch cultural identity but separated by the differing calls on our natures. By turns artistic and ruthlessly curious our scientists got on badly with the artists and vice-versa. The intoxicating new plant forms here did not make the situation any easier. Deciding that it would be better to diversify our power base and maximise our chances of surviving a catastrophic event we founded two major settlements in a coincidentally helpful way."
Steffan listened as Octavius continued to work through the traditional speech to new members of the Order of Pipers. Tradition would be endured as it itself endured the rigours of time.
"Here in Burgh we concentrated our efforts in fostering the creative and artistic aspects of culture, while in Edin they focussed on all things technical and scientific. Thanks to the wonders of later generations and our communications technology we could never become totally disentangled from one another and it was thought exchange of the talented and youthful could only lead to greater integration in the future. For three centuries this has been for the most part true."
"As a Master Piper our tasks were many fold but chief amongst them was to act as covert couriers between the governing bodies of our two fair cities, to be ambassadors at large, and to investigate the strange occurrences and frictions that arise from time to time under the pretence of seeking out lore and legend. As an initiate you knew little of these other duties, and even as a journeyman you would not have been told even a fraction of the secret duties of the Pipers. We are an important and humble part of society, the glue that holds all together."
This confirmation of the information he had gotten in the scroll was unnerving. It sounded as if he had secretly enrolled in spy school instead of musical college.
"Over the last thirty years the natural exchange of students has slowed to a trickle. In the last academic session we sent only twenty-two new youths to study in Edin and received but nine such in return. Unrest is building amongst the populace, our pipers out in the world, traversing the surface ways and lodging everywhere between here and Edin, pick up reports of strife and anger most unseemly. It as if a dark presence were encroaching and pushing between our two peoples. In the last twelve months alone we have seen the disappearance of fifteen pipers, all highly regarded and treated as honoured members of society. And they had all reported progress in determining the sources of this unrest."
"You, Master Steffan, in addition to being top of your class for three consecutive years, have proven to be reliable, trustworthy and of the highest intellectual and emotional ability. In line with outstanding musical ability you have been awarded the title and duties of Master of Pipers. Should you accept this honour, you will be immediately dispatched to Edin to act as a senior field agent and liaison to local authorities, responsible for finding and identifying the problems that plague us. You will be equal to all of us in rank if not position. Should you refuse the honour it may not be offered to you again until you have proven yourself a second time in the course of your normal duties and you will be forbidden to mention any of what you have heard amongst us today. You must decide now."
Steffan stood up, sighed ruefully and said what he had known he going to say since reading the scroll. "Master Octavius, I must refuse the honour."
Octavius goggled at him.
To be continued...
Wednesday, 16 October 2013
Delays and Circumstances
In recent times I've become very resistant to being autobiographical in the Quirky Muffin, preferring instead to write stories and reviews, but is that in line with the blog's original intent? Does the original intent even matter any more? Has the blog reached one of the earliest in will be a long string of existential crises?
We had an interruption to the Quirky Muffin earlier this week, and it was in large part down to my being a little sick, as well as starting a new job. Last week I was parachuted in as a temporary lecturer at Aberystwyth University for three months and of course it has been rather stressful getting started. In addition to my module I'm taking the opportunity to clean out my Statistics rust and learn R, and am remembering just how much Statistics there is to be forgotten! Masses and masses of the cursed subject, but it is very interesting. Viewed from a post-PhD perspective, Statistics is data management and analysis of the highest order. It's something to get back into and exploit in the future, although the murkiness of the future is best not contemplated at this time.
In addition to my sudden lecturer status or maybe because of it there was a small incident at the weekend and of course there had to be a visit to the accident and emergency department of the local hospital as a result. In the final analysis, but not that final thank you very much, there was not much wrong apart from over compression due to badly small trousers and a massive amount of gas wafting about the system seeking to cause an explosion. Baggy trousers from now on, and giant reductions in weight, if it can somehow be done without total physical and emotional collapse! There will be no eating disorders here, we don't do those. The nurse gave me a lovely turkey sandwich. Thank you, doctor and nurse! It almost made the six hours of waiting worthwhile. The seats at the hospital were terrible though, almost breaking my back and making walking almost unbearable for a couple of days. Shame on you, hospital!
Argh, it just feels wrong to talk explicitly about myself. There must be people out there who do this all the time, even lonelier than I, and sending a light out into the darkness to see if there's anyone there. There's a poignant part in the book 'Yes Man' by Danny Wallace (I must write about it), where he is wavering in his 'Yes Manifesto' and he searches the Internet for 'I wish I had said no' and then 'I wish I had said yes' and discovered the deep personal part of the Interwebs we all know and love. There are deeply personal and squeamishly emotional lives being laid bare out there, and it continues to happen, despite being terribly un-British. The Quirky Muffin will never be like that. This is a place of intellect, thought and total stupidity if only because those are my strengths as opposed to the emotional aspects of life.
My, 'Yes Man' is a good book. It will have to be covered eventually in concert with its predecessor and spiritual sibling 'Join Me' for a super-blog. They are funny, but also have a twinned melancholy that is emblematic of the ambiguity of all things real in the universe. None of his following books have ever touched those two primal texts, being somehow far more contrived than natural tales of real life events. It's quite similar to the developments in Tony Hawks books after he hitch-hiked around Ireland with a fridge, where contrivance overtook spontaneity in the tales being spun. Having said that I do love his 'One Hit Wonderland' and could well have just spoilt my own theory. Oh, boggle, we had better add some Tony Hawks to the book review lists too.
Coming up in the Quirky Muffin, now that the interruption is over? Some book reviews, stories, and less overt autobiographical content. What people learn about me remains in between the lines.
O.
We had an interruption to the Quirky Muffin earlier this week, and it was in large part down to my being a little sick, as well as starting a new job. Last week I was parachuted in as a temporary lecturer at Aberystwyth University for three months and of course it has been rather stressful getting started. In addition to my module I'm taking the opportunity to clean out my Statistics rust and learn R, and am remembering just how much Statistics there is to be forgotten! Masses and masses of the cursed subject, but it is very interesting. Viewed from a post-PhD perspective, Statistics is data management and analysis of the highest order. It's something to get back into and exploit in the future, although the murkiness of the future is best not contemplated at this time.
In addition to my sudden lecturer status or maybe because of it there was a small incident at the weekend and of course there had to be a visit to the accident and emergency department of the local hospital as a result. In the final analysis, but not that final thank you very much, there was not much wrong apart from over compression due to badly small trousers and a massive amount of gas wafting about the system seeking to cause an explosion. Baggy trousers from now on, and giant reductions in weight, if it can somehow be done without total physical and emotional collapse! There will be no eating disorders here, we don't do those. The nurse gave me a lovely turkey sandwich. Thank you, doctor and nurse! It almost made the six hours of waiting worthwhile. The seats at the hospital were terrible though, almost breaking my back and making walking almost unbearable for a couple of days. Shame on you, hospital!
Argh, it just feels wrong to talk explicitly about myself. There must be people out there who do this all the time, even lonelier than I, and sending a light out into the darkness to see if there's anyone there. There's a poignant part in the book 'Yes Man' by Danny Wallace (I must write about it), where he is wavering in his 'Yes Manifesto' and he searches the Internet for 'I wish I had said no' and then 'I wish I had said yes' and discovered the deep personal part of the Interwebs we all know and love. There are deeply personal and squeamishly emotional lives being laid bare out there, and it continues to happen, despite being terribly un-British. The Quirky Muffin will never be like that. This is a place of intellect, thought and total stupidity if only because those are my strengths as opposed to the emotional aspects of life.
My, 'Yes Man' is a good book. It will have to be covered eventually in concert with its predecessor and spiritual sibling 'Join Me' for a super-blog. They are funny, but also have a twinned melancholy that is emblematic of the ambiguity of all things real in the universe. None of his following books have ever touched those two primal texts, being somehow far more contrived than natural tales of real life events. It's quite similar to the developments in Tony Hawks books after he hitch-hiked around Ireland with a fridge, where contrivance overtook spontaneity in the tales being spun. Having said that I do love his 'One Hit Wonderland' and could well have just spoilt my own theory. Oh, boggle, we had better add some Tony Hawks to the book review lists too.
Coming up in the Quirky Muffin, now that the interruption is over? Some book reviews, stories, and less overt autobiographical content. What people learn about me remains in between the lines.
O.
Monday, 14 October 2013
Service Interruption
No proper Quirky Muffin this time as sickness has intervened. Not sleeping for a couple of nights and twenty four hours of not sleeping can really sap creativity. At least the doctor gave me a turkey sandwich before pushing me out the door.
Lesson to be learnt: Do not wear tight trousers.
O.
Lesson to be learnt: Do not wear tight trousers.
O.
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