(Part O , VIII , X)
In the shared dream, Helen and Stanley were caught up in something inexplicable to their sleep numbed minds. The shambling figure from the hut was a woman, a tweedy old-fashioned looking lady. Loose tendrils of coppery hair kept popping out in front of her ears, and being absently thrust back again.
"Prison. I've been here forever, trapped, lost and isolated from the rest of the dreamline. And it was my own fault, you see." The figure giggled a little, a little manically. "Now you're stuck here too, just because I will it."
Helen was quaking, waking, but remaining. Her mind moved up to full consciousness, paradoxically in this dream world. Her eyes goggled at the abstractions around her. "This can't be, we can't be awake in a dream world." She looked at Stanley, who was still mostly in a deep sleep state.
"Oh, it certainly is. This is barely the beginning. I've been awake in this dream land for ever and a day, long past the death of my body far, far away. There is no escape. I have imprisoned and deleted more visitors to this place than you can ever know, just for fun!"
"You're a warder or a monster."
"I am neither!"
"You've killed almost everyone else who can do what we do."
"Not so much killed, as 'deleted'!"
"Your will power is keeping us here..." Helen was thinking out loud by this point. Stanley was beginning to become agitated by her side as the reality penetrated further into his now-waking mind.
"Yes! Oh, is your boyfriend finally waking up? How lovely. He looks nice, if a bit plain."
"I'm afraid you're going to have to wait for next time before you find out how nice he is. And he's not my boyfriend."
"What are you --" The tweedy lady spun and hit the floor. Helen nursed her astral hand for a moment, and then she pushed Stanley back onto the raft and started pushing it off the beach and then kicking frantically to move it away from the shore and into the light.
Stanley looked bemused for a few more moments and then joined in with the kicking. Once they hit the broad sunlight away from the island, he managed to ask the inevitable question. "What on Earth is going on?! And what happened to your hand? And did you see the shells on the--"
Unfortunately that was when they woke up, and any more answers will have to wait until next time...
To be continued...
Monday, 30 June 2014
Sunday, 29 June 2014
The days after
It feels strange. There's no direction any more and things have to be reasoned out again from scratch. The next step is an amorphous construct in the dim unseen future and the past is a hundred miles away to the North. What next? Job applications, personal reassessment, reassuring of strangers and maddening correspondents, and much much writing of nonsense!
Being temporarily unemployed will have some effects. For one thing, the emphasis of this very blog will have to shift a little, and revert to an earlier state perhaps. There might be more posts drawn from random words of the day, or even baking! Gosh, the baking has been gone a long time! Also, there will be breaks over the summer due to holidays. No cover posts this time as I'm frankly exhausted of ideas and need replenishing. Even the stories have ground to a halt. Holidays are the thing this year, with breaks to Ireland and Spain somehow planned. Gosh, travel is so hard to organise!
One of the great ironies is that research is one of the few professions where you can still work even when without an employer of any kind. In fact you are required to, as publications are the lifeblood of your chances of getting another position. Hence not having a job is roughly equivalent to having a voluntary job with the added load of conscience for work that needs to be done for your own benefit. So, everything will change but everything will stay the same, in the grand and unsatisfactory way of things that must be done. It's all very quantum; please feel free to avert your eyes or consume a cookie.
Aimlessness and holidays, two opposite versions of the same thing, and both difficult to deal with. Aimlessness is very much like that hole that opens up when an enduring unrequited love finally gives up and fades or the grim realisation that something isn't going to be the easy escapade you were expecting. Holidays are the grand delusion that we can go somewhere or take time off and not spoil the experience with the pressure of making it all 'worthwhile', the irony being that in this instance we can't accept that something is going be easy and inflict ever increasing effort upon ourselves. Oh, holidays, where is it all going to lead to this time? Hopefully not riding pigs on the veldt again, at least.
On a fictional anecdote level, I'm reminded of the great Rodney Silverspoon MBE. Silverspoon was a great aficionado of swizzlesticks, and wanted to visit some of the ancient rum plantations to fully appreciate the history of this grand implement. Unfortunately, Silverspoon fell foul of one his great phobias and was mesmerised by a hula hoop outside of a newsagent on Fleet Street on the way to the opening train journey. So consumed was he with terror that he was eventually picked up, statue-like, and kept in a place for the bewildered. Upon recovery from stasis, the only words he muttered for a week were "The hoop, the hoop, it bears down upon us!" The poor man.
And now back to holiday planning. There must be a cheaper way to not fly to Spain, surely? Surely?!
O.
Being temporarily unemployed will have some effects. For one thing, the emphasis of this very blog will have to shift a little, and revert to an earlier state perhaps. There might be more posts drawn from random words of the day, or even baking! Gosh, the baking has been gone a long time! Also, there will be breaks over the summer due to holidays. No cover posts this time as I'm frankly exhausted of ideas and need replenishing. Even the stories have ground to a halt. Holidays are the thing this year, with breaks to Ireland and Spain somehow planned. Gosh, travel is so hard to organise!
One of the great ironies is that research is one of the few professions where you can still work even when without an employer of any kind. In fact you are required to, as publications are the lifeblood of your chances of getting another position. Hence not having a job is roughly equivalent to having a voluntary job with the added load of conscience for work that needs to be done for your own benefit. So, everything will change but everything will stay the same, in the grand and unsatisfactory way of things that must be done. It's all very quantum; please feel free to avert your eyes or consume a cookie.
Aimlessness and holidays, two opposite versions of the same thing, and both difficult to deal with. Aimlessness is very much like that hole that opens up when an enduring unrequited love finally gives up and fades or the grim realisation that something isn't going to be the easy escapade you were expecting. Holidays are the grand delusion that we can go somewhere or take time off and not spoil the experience with the pressure of making it all 'worthwhile', the irony being that in this instance we can't accept that something is going be easy and inflict ever increasing effort upon ourselves. Oh, holidays, where is it all going to lead to this time? Hopefully not riding pigs on the veldt again, at least.
On a fictional anecdote level, I'm reminded of the great Rodney Silverspoon MBE. Silverspoon was a great aficionado of swizzlesticks, and wanted to visit some of the ancient rum plantations to fully appreciate the history of this grand implement. Unfortunately, Silverspoon fell foul of one his great phobias and was mesmerised by a hula hoop outside of a newsagent on Fleet Street on the way to the opening train journey. So consumed was he with terror that he was eventually picked up, statue-like, and kept in a place for the bewildered. Upon recovery from stasis, the only words he muttered for a week were "The hoop, the hoop, it bears down upon us!" The poor man.
And now back to holiday planning. There must be a cheaper way to not fly to Spain, surely? Surely?!
O.
Friday, 27 June 2014
Things to do, or not, on last days at work
The last day of work is here, and suddenly 'diminishing consequences' becomes 'no consequences'. Anything could be done, with only the tangential and cloudy options of possible returns in the future to think about! Potentials can be safely neglected! So, what are the things to do, and not do, for people on their last days at work?
One: Have you ever wondered what of the mysterious buttons and switches positioned all over your place of work do? Or what is behind the door marked 'Dubious Supplies and Personnel'? Well, now you can open the door, secure in the confidence that they'd sooner just have you leave a few hours early than file the paperwork! And if you have a pipe with a wheel attached? Well, it's 'Joe Versus The Volcano' time, no doubt.
Two: That person that you don't like, you know the one, is no longer quite as safe as they were. While violence and abuse is still utterly unacceptable, the potential for pranks has now expanded to the brink of madness. But beware, for you are now a prime target yourself. Watch out for tripwires, buckets full of whitewash, and explosive banana peels in addition to planning your own. You must get in first, and early, and then run for the hills! So, come prepared with some lobsters, a helper called Boris, and all the blu-tak you can find. It's going to be interesting!
Three: Paperwork is the bane of everyone's lives. Today is the day to shred everything you possibly can and then use it to makes bird bedding. Enough said. Or use it for ironic confetti at some point in the future. Is there an acceptable use of confetti apart from weddings?
Four: Starting a rooftop garden in your soon-to-be-former supervisor or department head's office by removing the walls and or ceiling is not advised. You need specialist existence for projects on this level.
Five: You must do no work. No other option or action is allowed in this instance. Write a redundant blog entry if you have to. Spend the whole day in the tea room. Read 'Doctor Who' rumours, or think about 'Star Trek' or the books you've been reading in the evening. Puzzles are a good option too. I've been stuck on a particularly tough kakuro for about a week now. It may never end. Send help.
Six: Finally, bring a cake and say goodbye to the people if you're a nice person. Or, if you're a hermit like myself, pop in on a couple of people and then nip out the back door quietly without anyone noticing. A full set of camouflage gear is required for the full clean escape, and a giant zeppelin for use as a decoy is not a bad idea in the more extreme cases. In fact, a zeppelin is recommended for use as a decoy even when not in the dying minutes of a contract. Or even just for travel around town...
Zeppelins, ahoy! A new career lies ahead in zeppelin driving! (Actually zeppelins are marking a bit of a comeback for freight. Look it up.)
O.
One: Have you ever wondered what of the mysterious buttons and switches positioned all over your place of work do? Or what is behind the door marked 'Dubious Supplies and Personnel'? Well, now you can open the door, secure in the confidence that they'd sooner just have you leave a few hours early than file the paperwork! And if you have a pipe with a wheel attached? Well, it's 'Joe Versus The Volcano' time, no doubt.
Two: That person that you don't like, you know the one, is no longer quite as safe as they were. While violence and abuse is still utterly unacceptable, the potential for pranks has now expanded to the brink of madness. But beware, for you are now a prime target yourself. Watch out for tripwires, buckets full of whitewash, and explosive banana peels in addition to planning your own. You must get in first, and early, and then run for the hills! So, come prepared with some lobsters, a helper called Boris, and all the blu-tak you can find. It's going to be interesting!
Three: Paperwork is the bane of everyone's lives. Today is the day to shred everything you possibly can and then use it to makes bird bedding. Enough said. Or use it for ironic confetti at some point in the future. Is there an acceptable use of confetti apart from weddings?
Four: Starting a rooftop garden in your soon-to-be-former supervisor or department head's office by removing the walls and or ceiling is not advised. You need specialist existence for projects on this level.
Five: You must do no work. No other option or action is allowed in this instance. Write a redundant blog entry if you have to. Spend the whole day in the tea room. Read 'Doctor Who' rumours, or think about 'Star Trek' or the books you've been reading in the evening. Puzzles are a good option too. I've been stuck on a particularly tough kakuro for about a week now. It may never end. Send help.
Six: Finally, bring a cake and say goodbye to the people if you're a nice person. Or, if you're a hermit like myself, pop in on a couple of people and then nip out the back door quietly without anyone noticing. A full set of camouflage gear is required for the full clean escape, and a giant zeppelin for use as a decoy is not a bad idea in the more extreme cases. In fact, a zeppelin is recommended for use as a decoy even when not in the dying minutes of a contract. Or even just for travel around town...
Zeppelins, ahoy! A new career lies ahead in zeppelin driving! (Actually zeppelins are marking a bit of a comeback for freight. Look it up.)
O.
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
Book: 'The Prince and the Pauper' by Mark Twain (1881)
There's a big big Mark Twain shaped hole in my reading experiences. For some reason, despite trying to get into 'Huckleberry Finn' and 'Tom Sawyer' a couple of times, they never really gelled into unmissable experiences. Perhaps it was all a half-hearted attempt to begin with, or maybe the books smelled a bit pungent (my senses are generally heightened), or they weren't the books for me but it didn't work out. 'The Prince And The Pauper', many years later, worked out a little better despite several lengthy interruptions, and that puzzles me.
Mark Twain was not inventing something entirely new when he devised the plot of a pauper doppelganger accidentally swapping places with the young Edward VI of England. There had already been 'The Man In The Iron Mask' from Dumas about a duplicate pretender to the French throne, and later there would be 'The Prisoner Of Zenda' by Hope. (Don't ask me about them, I haven't read them yet.). There were probably many others too, just as 'Robinson Crusoe' acquired hordes of clones and ripoffs in the years following its release. 'The Prince And The Pauper' was, however, a first foray into historical tales for Twain, and not even the historical tales of his own country! Of course with the War Of Independence barely a hundred years into the past, and the Civil War in living memory, there wasn't that much recorded history to acceptably dig into and meddle with in the Americas. He certainly would have been lynched if he had suggested George Washington doubles being swapped in accidentally before he assumed the presidency, or taken away and mildly talked to by people with prototypical sunglasses.
Let's refer to the story as 'Prince' from now on, and examine it for the children's adventure and satire that it is. The two strands to the story are very interestingly handled, a clear preference being shown to the adventures of the Prince in pauper form being pursued and victimised across the country, as opposed to the pauper's experiences as a decreasingly reluctant new royal, already versed in courtly manners from his youthful readings. In retrospect this is the obvious storytelling decision to make, a ragged adventure in the world being more entertaining than a boy succumbing to the luxury of royalty. In fact, the succumbing or corruption of something is a deeply upsetting kind of story to me personally, I don't know why, and Tom the pauper's redemption at the end is quite the hurrah after his almost fading into the establishment. Anyway, I digress badly, and should get back on track.
As adventures go this is fairly mild, encounters with mad monks and roving gangs of criminals notwithstanding, the main goal being to explore the world as it was and to contrast the lot of the common men with that of the priviliged class. Even though the United States had it's affluence-linked class structure - and still does - the contemporary and historical British structure was an incredibly obvious target for satire merged with adventure. Parenthetically I've never had a clear idea of what satire actually is. Satirical cartoons seem to be complete garbage, satire on television seems to be sarcasm and pointing, and in this is commentary on a ridiculous situation. Are they all satire? Is 'The Prince And The Pauper' satire at all? Is it 'educational satire'? This will doubtless resurface as I march through 'A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court' and 'Personal Recollections Of Joan Of Arc', the other two historical romances in my handsome Library of America edition. <Plug plug, send me books!>
'Prince' is a fascinating and odd little made-up story, set in a fascinating and tiny period in British history. The youthful king discovers the truth about life with the commons and friendship, while the pauper almost loses himself to his new life before being shocked back by an unfortunate maternal encounter on the way to the coronation. However, I must admit that the side story of the prince's rescuer Miles Hendon is at times far more interesting! And with that, and a mild recommendation, it is time to close the book on this tangential and fragmented post on Twain until the Connecticut Yankee has done his work. That should feed into Poul Anderson's 'Three Hearts and Three Lions'. Intrigued?
O.
Mark Twain was not inventing something entirely new when he devised the plot of a pauper doppelganger accidentally swapping places with the young Edward VI of England. There had already been 'The Man In The Iron Mask' from Dumas about a duplicate pretender to the French throne, and later there would be 'The Prisoner Of Zenda' by Hope. (Don't ask me about them, I haven't read them yet.). There were probably many others too, just as 'Robinson Crusoe' acquired hordes of clones and ripoffs in the years following its release. 'The Prince And The Pauper' was, however, a first foray into historical tales for Twain, and not even the historical tales of his own country! Of course with the War Of Independence barely a hundred years into the past, and the Civil War in living memory, there wasn't that much recorded history to acceptably dig into and meddle with in the Americas. He certainly would have been lynched if he had suggested George Washington doubles being swapped in accidentally before he assumed the presidency, or taken away and mildly talked to by people with prototypical sunglasses.
Let's refer to the story as 'Prince' from now on, and examine it for the children's adventure and satire that it is. The two strands to the story are very interestingly handled, a clear preference being shown to the adventures of the Prince in pauper form being pursued and victimised across the country, as opposed to the pauper's experiences as a decreasingly reluctant new royal, already versed in courtly manners from his youthful readings. In retrospect this is the obvious storytelling decision to make, a ragged adventure in the world being more entertaining than a boy succumbing to the luxury of royalty. In fact, the succumbing or corruption of something is a deeply upsetting kind of story to me personally, I don't know why, and Tom the pauper's redemption at the end is quite the hurrah after his almost fading into the establishment. Anyway, I digress badly, and should get back on track.
As adventures go this is fairly mild, encounters with mad monks and roving gangs of criminals notwithstanding, the main goal being to explore the world as it was and to contrast the lot of the common men with that of the priviliged class. Even though the United States had it's affluence-linked class structure - and still does - the contemporary and historical British structure was an incredibly obvious target for satire merged with adventure. Parenthetically I've never had a clear idea of what satire actually is. Satirical cartoons seem to be complete garbage, satire on television seems to be sarcasm and pointing, and in this is commentary on a ridiculous situation. Are they all satire? Is 'The Prince And The Pauper' satire at all? Is it 'educational satire'? This will doubtless resurface as I march through 'A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court' and 'Personal Recollections Of Joan Of Arc', the other two historical romances in my handsome Library of America edition. <Plug plug, send me books!>
'Prince' is a fascinating and odd little made-up story, set in a fascinating and tiny period in British history. The youthful king discovers the truth about life with the commons and friendship, while the pauper almost loses himself to his new life before being shocked back by an unfortunate maternal encounter on the way to the coronation. However, I must admit that the side story of the prince's rescuer Miles Hendon is at times far more interesting! And with that, and a mild recommendation, it is time to close the book on this tangential and fragmented post on Twain until the Connecticut Yankee has done his work. That should feed into Poul Anderson's 'Three Hearts and Three Lions'. Intrigued?
O.
Monday, 23 June 2014
In the hills and valleys
There's really only one way for an antisocial (and ambulatory) weirdo to relax, and that's to go out into the hills, into the high country, and walk for forever. Out there you can simply be yourself, explore the limits of who that is, and enjoy the sights. The deepest thoughts can come from the most ridiculous pursuits and it's not uncommon for a long hike to simplify all the problems in your life, even if the bug bites do cascade so swiftly.
These last few weeks in Aberystwyth, perhaps sadly the last ever, have really prompted a desire to explore the area as never before and so Saturdays have been spent in many a mostly random walk into the outback of Ceredigion, with only a map and a battered bucket of hope for companionship. The wild, wild trails and sedate bridleways have been lovely, replete with scenic splendour and the fear that only emerges when the paranoid part of the brain remembers the term 'grass snake'. Treks through tall fields can become so unnecessarily fraught at times! Apart from the snakes, it's lovely to pick a direction and walk.
The greatest aspect of a long ramble or hike in the country is the freedom of the solitude. You can literally do anything, except possibly in the highest of summer when other walkers could be around every corner! That freedom is the greatest missing liberty of modern life, a fascinating and thrilling glimpse of what must have been commonplace hundreds of years ago. Or would it have been? Could it be that in times gone by people were far more closely welded in identity to their jobs? Held in their place by fear of employer/family persecution or dissatisfaction just as many people are now? Or was it a commonplace never to even be mentioned, such a liberty literally being the only common recreational pursuit to be had?
Liberty in the purest sense is something very few people have experienced. In many ways the very concept contradicts the idea of the society, which demands that every individual plays its part and takes a share of the responsibility. Hence the people most at liberty are the ones most out of line with society, the most nonconformist and the most exasperated the conventions of regular life. We can taste liberty though, take a walk into the wild along the nearest road and discover what lies across yonder hill (rights of way permitting). For a few hours you can sing, and twirl and think the happiest and silliest thoughts of all. It's the opportunity we all have if we only choose to use it.
To the high country!
O.
PS Tim Burton's 'Batman' is 25 years old today. Yes, we've had twenty five years of Alex Knox to date! Oh, whatever happened to Knox anyway? Was he killed by an explosive penguin or clubbed to death by a feminist photographer? We'll never know. Good movie, apart from all the bits with the Joker, and of course it's Michael Keaton for the win!
These last few weeks in Aberystwyth, perhaps sadly the last ever, have really prompted a desire to explore the area as never before and so Saturdays have been spent in many a mostly random walk into the outback of Ceredigion, with only a map and a battered bucket of hope for companionship. The wild, wild trails and sedate bridleways have been lovely, replete with scenic splendour and the fear that only emerges when the paranoid part of the brain remembers the term 'grass snake'. Treks through tall fields can become so unnecessarily fraught at times! Apart from the snakes, it's lovely to pick a direction and walk.
The greatest aspect of a long ramble or hike in the country is the freedom of the solitude. You can literally do anything, except possibly in the highest of summer when other walkers could be around every corner! That freedom is the greatest missing liberty of modern life, a fascinating and thrilling glimpse of what must have been commonplace hundreds of years ago. Or would it have been? Could it be that in times gone by people were far more closely welded in identity to their jobs? Held in their place by fear of employer/family persecution or dissatisfaction just as many people are now? Or was it a commonplace never to even be mentioned, such a liberty literally being the only common recreational pursuit to be had?
Liberty in the purest sense is something very few people have experienced. In many ways the very concept contradicts the idea of the society, which demands that every individual plays its part and takes a share of the responsibility. Hence the people most at liberty are the ones most out of line with society, the most nonconformist and the most exasperated the conventions of regular life. We can taste liberty though, take a walk into the wild along the nearest road and discover what lies across yonder hill (rights of way permitting). For a few hours you can sing, and twirl and think the happiest and silliest thoughts of all. It's the opportunity we all have if we only choose to use it.
To the high country!
O.
PS Tim Burton's 'Batman' is 25 years old today. Yes, we've had twenty five years of Alex Knox to date! Oh, whatever happened to Knox anyway? Was he killed by an explosive penguin or clubbed to death by a feminist photographer? We'll never know. Good movie, apart from all the bits with the Joker, and of course it's Michael Keaton for the win!
Saturday, 21 June 2014
Story: 'Wordspace, XI'
(Part I , X , XII)
Mystery sat on Cloud and watched the ground roll across underneath as they flew toward home. He sat quietly, staring intently as his brain swirled in place, trying to reason around the implications of a foreign word seeking to throw devastation upon his world. It was a symmetry, almost identical to their journey to the top of the world. Club looked on just as he had on the way out, vigilant and concealing whatever nerves he might have had.
"Armageddon..." A word of undoubted power and one unheard of in the Wordspace for many many years. One of the great Destructives imprisoned in the Zone of Gibberish after almost eradicating all civilization as they knew it. And now, a fresh Armageddon from a whole other world could be loose in the world as they knew it. It was worse that he could ever have thought.
Club broke the silence, most uncharacteristically, again as he had during the outward journey. "It's something bad, isn't it, Boss?"
"Yes, much like the syllables of Air herself falling from the sky. A doom is upon us perhaps, and perhaps not. The Silly Stone was not at all consistent in his ideas."
"Personally, I think the term 'perfectly potty' is the best one, Boss, but I didn't talk to him. You did." Was Club being reproachful? Surely not.
"He made little sense." Mystery rose up, unfolding his letters to the upright position. "Apparently his place is to understand everyone who might visit. Did you see how he was only like us in part? Quite possibly he could only exist in that place without disintegrating completely."
"And the problem is something he told you? Out of all that nonsense?"
"Sorpresa, as we know, was not the only one to come through the Point. The Stone told me the name of this 'tourist' and that is the problem." Mystery paused, before giving in finally, "He said it translated roughly as 'War' or 'Armageddon' or even 'Apocalypse'."
Club was quiet a long time as they watched the Wordspace crawl by beneath them. Cloud rumbled from below, with one of his rare comments, the first since Club and Mystery had reappeared suddenly from the Point that hung between the different worlds. "We dealt with our own Armageddon, we can do so again."
"Yes, but what will we have to do this time?" Mystery wondered out loud. "What this time? And what if we're not in time?"
The main settlement area of the Wordspace came into view ahead of them, and destruction was apparent everywhere. They were too late.
To be continued...
Mystery sat on Cloud and watched the ground roll across underneath as they flew toward home. He sat quietly, staring intently as his brain swirled in place, trying to reason around the implications of a foreign word seeking to throw devastation upon his world. It was a symmetry, almost identical to their journey to the top of the world. Club looked on just as he had on the way out, vigilant and concealing whatever nerves he might have had.
"Armageddon..." A word of undoubted power and one unheard of in the Wordspace for many many years. One of the great Destructives imprisoned in the Zone of Gibberish after almost eradicating all civilization as they knew it. And now, a fresh Armageddon from a whole other world could be loose in the world as they knew it. It was worse that he could ever have thought.
Club broke the silence, most uncharacteristically, again as he had during the outward journey. "It's something bad, isn't it, Boss?"
"Yes, much like the syllables of Air herself falling from the sky. A doom is upon us perhaps, and perhaps not. The Silly Stone was not at all consistent in his ideas."
"Personally, I think the term 'perfectly potty' is the best one, Boss, but I didn't talk to him. You did." Was Club being reproachful? Surely not.
"He made little sense." Mystery rose up, unfolding his letters to the upright position. "Apparently his place is to understand everyone who might visit. Did you see how he was only like us in part? Quite possibly he could only exist in that place without disintegrating completely."
"And the problem is something he told you? Out of all that nonsense?"
"Sorpresa, as we know, was not the only one to come through the Point. The Stone told me the name of this 'tourist' and that is the problem." Mystery paused, before giving in finally, "He said it translated roughly as 'War' or 'Armageddon' or even 'Apocalypse'."
Club was quiet a long time as they watched the Wordspace crawl by beneath them. Cloud rumbled from below, with one of his rare comments, the first since Club and Mystery had reappeared suddenly from the Point that hung between the different worlds. "We dealt with our own Armageddon, we can do so again."
"Yes, but what will we have to do this time?" Mystery wondered out loud. "What this time? And what if we're not in time?"
The main settlement area of the Wordspace came into view ahead of them, and destruction was apparent everywhere. They were too late.
To be continued...
Friday, 20 June 2014
Waiting
The people are waiting to hear. News is expected. The decision has been made, but what was it? How will we know? Will it be white smoke puffing up in smoke signals from Penbryn? Will white flags erupt over the visualisation chamber or will we have to wait for the runners to get here from the Old College? When did we revert back to the eighteenth century, in any case?
Even now, people are slightly nervous, waiting for the utterly predictable news. It should be a foregone conclusion but who knows what might happen? 'What if?' lurks in the minds of many, to the right and back and a little from the baguette choices at the cafe and 'what is wrong with the tea this week?'. The recurring theft of football related printed materials from the tea room is forgotten - except by the committed few - and other distractions kick in.
What happened at the Council? Was there a last minute intervention by the Prime Minister? Did anything else disturb the rubber stamping? Good grief, were the legendary Flying Gerbils of Ceredigion sighted, forcing everyone into the Gerbil Shelters deep under the Council Chamber? Are the Shelters still effective after all these years? Anything could have happened! Where are the signals? How should we know? How should YOU know what I'm talking about?
The administration and organisation of universities is always a very perplexing thing. Executives, Senates and Councils all befuddled and confusing. Vice-Chancellors running things while Chancellors are honorary and do nothing. Institutes and Schools and Departments, nested within each other like elaborate structures made of ice. Periodic rearrangements and reorganisations, labels twisting in the wind like confetti, changing nothing but piles of paper none of us will ever see. It's madness.
And so we wait. And wait. Bottles wait to be popped and corks to fly, because if all things go as they should there will be a Mathematics department at Aberystwyth for the first time in many years, and that would be lovely. If we ever find out.
O.
Even now, people are slightly nervous, waiting for the utterly predictable news. It should be a foregone conclusion but who knows what might happen? 'What if?' lurks in the minds of many, to the right and back and a little from the baguette choices at the cafe and 'what is wrong with the tea this week?'. The recurring theft of football related printed materials from the tea room is forgotten - except by the committed few - and other distractions kick in.
What happened at the Council? Was there a last minute intervention by the Prime Minister? Did anything else disturb the rubber stamping? Good grief, were the legendary Flying Gerbils of Ceredigion sighted, forcing everyone into the Gerbil Shelters deep under the Council Chamber? Are the Shelters still effective after all these years? Anything could have happened! Where are the signals? How should we know? How should YOU know what I'm talking about?
The administration and organisation of universities is always a very perplexing thing. Executives, Senates and Councils all befuddled and confusing. Vice-Chancellors running things while Chancellors are honorary and do nothing. Institutes and Schools and Departments, nested within each other like elaborate structures made of ice. Periodic rearrangements and reorganisations, labels twisting in the wind like confetti, changing nothing but piles of paper none of us will ever see. It's madness.
And so we wait. And wait. Bottles wait to be popped and corks to fly, because if all things go as they should there will be a Mathematics department at Aberystwyth for the first time in many years, and that would be lovely. If we ever find out.
O.
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