‘Who are you? What are you?’ I mean these were his first words. No ‘my name’s Hedrik and you are . . . ?’ holding out his hand to be shaken. Not a bit of it. Who are you, what are you? I mean, pardon? But then he’s a genius, you see, and they have different standards. They don’t need to stoop to the niceties, not when their heads are chock-full of . . . whatever it may be, tones, colours, visions, the likes of which the world has yet to fathom. Wars come and go, but Hedrik and his ilk come and go once only. There I go saying Hedrik and his ilk. His having an ilk at all was not something he cared to acknowledge, in fact he spat the word, as though I’d said something offensive, as if my saying ilk had meant that I saw him as one man among many, that there was an ilk from which he’d emerged or an ilk he belonged to, like some club. But the ilk of which I spoke was that of the elite, the pantheon of the greats, the most luminous of roll-calls there is. Once that was explained, he eased. As to the question who was I and what was I, I had no answer, which I suppose was answer enough in itself. But it was soon clear to him that, above all, I knew his music. I could hum the opening of his Palindromeda, could cite the shifts in rhythmic accent in his Strings Attached. The pathos of the toy-piano was known to me. There were rhythms I could mimic by tapping on a tabletop, whole sections I could whistle at the drop of a hat. He was perhaps impressed, despite himself. If so, it didn’t last. He was, unsurprisingly, upfront. ‘How can I put it,’ he said: ‘Fuck off.’ Just like that. I thought if he says anything like that again I’m just going to get up and walk out. His twilight years, these. Polly Tonal, I said, who was she? Just kidding. But seriously, polytonal, as distinct from atonal as distinct from parallel fifths all sixes and sevens and diminished this and augmented that and if the tone of C produces overtones of G and E the overtone G produceth subovertones of D or is it B whereas whole tone scales differing as they do from the diatonic bring to bear the atonal polyrhythmical dissonance such as heard in your Staccato-in-fucking D!
I can’t help the past. Even if it would have been good, and sometimes it was… It’s gone. I met Angie where all transitory beings are met. I met her in a bar.
A cool basement bar, the “Das Keller,” scattered with peanut shells on smooth cement. Where a young demonic Hitler might thrive, but there were no demons on that bright, wasting-away afternoon. Unless you counted the ones inside me.
Will stopped at the doorway of the small unkempt home, his hand grasping the door frame. He stood for a second, hesitating, before walking inside. His father had lived there for a few years before he died, but Will had only been inside the house a handful of times. The damp smell hit him as soon as he crossed the threshold. A solitary recliner sat in the corner of the living room. A TV guide perched on the arm. The place where he remembered his father the most. In front of the TV watching old shows, replying only in grunts when Will spoke to him.
A lack of intricacy in the way of plot is no bar to fine theatre. In Mingus Mahoon’s so-called ‘adaptation’ of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, however, it is. Put baldly, this is, in Mahoon’s own words, “the Hamlet of Polonius’s mind”, more specifically a Hamlet who bedevils Polonius’s dreams, a Hamlet wild-haired and swivel-eyed and clad in a straitjacket, a sayer of one word, and one word only, the word “words”, the one word he appears to mean when he says it, and he says it repeatedly. It could be said that there are a lot of words in this monodrama, and there are, lots and lots of them, but all variations on this one word “words”, the very word, or words, of course, repeated by Hamlet in his reply to Polonius’s one time query, “What do you read, my lord?” A perfectly reasonable question, one might think, given that Hamlet had, at that moment, his nose in a book. What Mingus Mahoon’s interpretation does, and that so affectedly, is to pose several key questions. Is this a Hamlet made mad by reading deep into the night? Is this a Hamlet of the homeless mind? A Hamlet not overly concerned with affairs of state? a Hamlet without his Horatio to keep him in check? a Hamlet unknown to himself but long suspected? a Hamlet not yet acquainted with the wisdom of gravediggers? a Hamlet so out of sorts he thinks himself dust, yet lingers, unable to unloose his restraints and fly free of the padded room he occupies? Clear as it is from the outset that this is Hamlet as phantasmagorially conceived in another man’s psyche, that of Polonius, it is equally clear that the Polonius who dreams this Hamlet is a Polonius most unfamiliar to his daytime companions, a Polonius not given to doling out advice, a Polonius bootless under the bedsheets, a Polonius well acquainted with the vicissitudes of being alive, a Polonius pencil-bearded and sweating by the light of a mint-green lamp.
I am not a cynical luddite, but I believe everyone ought to have a little oldfashionedness in her for the sake of maintaining a soul. Still, progress isn’t completely evil. It brings more good than bad in medicine (at least it does when you compare modern TB and smallpox statistics to the way things were a hundred years ago). But I’m also convinced that as an animal, one whose evolution is influenced by long-term realities, we are not wholly prepared to accept sudden changes. Moreover, being small we are overwhelmed by reasons to feel worthless and dumb; and when it becomes clear that a ten-year-old can do more with our phones than we can, let’s just say it is not good for the self esteem. (Then again I can drive a stick and parallel park without an AI, so there you little Weaselings!)
For at least 99% of human history we lived the same way. It was hard to win a living from the soil and when we managed to light a fire with rocks and damp kindling and somehow outlasted another winter we felt like whatever the word for rock star was way back in the Middle Ages.
By the time the rain arrived in earnest, the house already knew where it would fail.
The first leak appeared near the window. One drop fell with stubborn consistency, as if the roof had chosen that spot long before the clouds gathered. At first, it was easy to ignore. Rain always starts politely in Liberia, tapping the zinc roof the way a visitor taps a door—soft, respectful, almost apologetic. You tell yourself it will pass. You tell yourself the house has survived worse.
Xius waved at the family driving away in their BMW M3—it had license plate frames from his cousin’s dealership—with their brand new Fénix rolled up and strapped to its roof. He locked his showroom’s front door, hit a switch, and the sign reading “New and Used Flying Carpets!” flickered out. Sighing as he tried to ignore the worn linoleum, and the faded map of the world, marked with places such as El Dorado, Xanadu, and St. Brigid’s Well, he gathered together his receipts—paperwork would take him about two hours, he figured. He smiled as he thought of his daughters nagging him to get a computer, but he didn’t see the point, now—he had been at this for almost forty years, and every day seemed as if it might be the last.
At what point, the man wondered, does semi-light become semi-dark. It was, he recognized, his first intriguing thought of the day after sitting immobile at his desk for hours with legs tightening and stomach growling. And the idea had only come to him after looking out his window and noticing that the sun was beginning to set. So it was becoming semi-light. Or semi-dark.
I was interrupted typing this as ‘Zulu’ came on the TV. It made me wonder what were the films that I’ve watched the most times. (A nod to Leila with a list!)
Off the top of my head and ignoring, ‘Carry On’ films which would win hands down (Especially, ‘Follow That Camel’, ‘Cowboy’, ‘Cleo’ and ‘Up The Jungle’) I thought of-
Zulu
The Count Of Monte Cristo.
Jaws.
The Poseidon Adventure.
Young Frankenstein.
Once Upon A Time In America.
Who Dares Wins.
The Towering Inferno.
Con Air.
A Night To Remember.
Expendables.
Wedding Belles.
The Omen.
Love, Honour And Obey.
White Heat.
…And I need to mention, ‘The Ministry Of Ungentlemanly Warfare’ as I know that will become weel watched!!
I’d be very interested to read your well watched films. Unless, that is, any have Tom Hanks or weeee Tom Cruise in them!!
I want to start with this posting by mentioning this Artemis shite. Our world is in turmoil. We have people being displaced through no fault of their own. There’s famine, destruction, shortage of water, disease, depravation, energy shortage, increasing energy costs and so much death.
…And what do the powers that be think a good way to spend NINETY THREE BILLION DOLLARS on??
…They wisely don’t think that they should use that money on famine, destruction, shortage of water, disease, depravation, energy shortage, increasing energy costs and so much death, no, they think it’s a cracking idea to have a jolly around the moon!!
What really bugs me is this. Since the waste of money was a success, what difference has it made to the plight of the good folks effected by all that I’ve previously mentioned – Fucking nothing!!
If the waste of money blew up at lift off, what difference would it have made to the plight of the good folks effected by all that I’ve previously mentioned – Fucking none!!!
Mind you…At least those astronauts friends would have been spared from ‘When I was in space’ shite-talk every time the fuckers opened their mouths!!
There was never a truer thing said when it was stated that they looked down on our world!!!
This is the first time I’ve ever said this but I hope it was all an AI hoax and some wee lackey has pocketed the fucking money. At least one person would be having a good time on it!!
I had a look and according to what I could see, seemingly, rocket fuel doesn’t do that much damage to the ozone. (If you believe what we’re told) This has to be true!! A mere seven hundred thousand tonnes of rocket fuel can only enhance the planet!! Not like a skoosh of deodorant or a cow’s flatulence!
Another plus – I hope wee Greta had a sob!!! To me this is the first time that she’d have had a point!
This quote wasn’t for this complete arrogance of ignoring their fellow man, but I think it’s appropriate:
*‘Scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, that they didn’t stop to think if they should.’
All that money could have saved so many lives. Shame on all involved and all the fuckwits who cheered!!!
…The only thing that’s more expensive and more pointless is a war!
*Anyone know where the quote came from?
This song shouldn’t, but will always be ignored!
Talking about AI, we’ve had an issue here in Scotland with school weans. (Pronounced Wayne’s meaning children)
The wee delights have been using software and pictures of their teachers to make it seem that their teachers were doing things that only catholic priests can manage. They also threw in some acts of violence and other depravity. Certain teachers have had to take time off with stress. (Fucking wimps!) If we had that ability in our day, we wouldn’t have dared. Not through respect. Not through not wanting to but simply because we knew the teachers would have belted us into oblivion!!
That would be apart from Mr Heigh, he would have been more than happy to pose and come up with some artistic ideas!
Now onto this week’s stories.
We had two new folks who we welcome, a third timer and two well established writers of the site.
First up on Monday was the multi-talented Adam Kluger with ‘Swiper Alley’. This was story number fifty eight for him.
‘The mix of ordinary and extraordinary was well done.’
‘This easily won me over.’
That’s us for another week folks.
Keep doing what you are doing.
The comments were up five percent last month so all good!
Two things before some music.
Firstly – I need to give a nod to Rory McIlroy as he became only the fourth golfer to win back to back Masters wins. (Jack Nicklaus, Nick Faldo and Tiger Woods are the other three.)
And thank you Sky for your TV domination which stopped me watching it!!!
I’ve probably told you my favourite golfing saying many times before but since I haven’t pissed off the woke fuckers for a while, here it is again.
A short putt can be called a Rock Hudson…It looks straight but isn’t!
Secondly here is something that fucks up the idea that ‘they’ can be used as a pronoun.
A wee riddle to tease you.
Add one letter to two letters to change gender.
Add another letter to change it back.
Add another three to change it again.
Take away one and when taken, means you’ll not give a fuck who or what you are.
There’s no specific reason why I have chosen this piece of music, I think it was simply because I wanted something that’s more enhanced the louder that you play it!!
literally stories 