Continuation...

How very sad.

On another occasion, the poet had attempted to charm a young lady back to his ‘place’ for some ‘coffee’. He had hinted, merely hinted, at the facilities available in his ‘place’ but had not even made cursory mention of his room or the myriad of unsung, neutered and unborn creations within it. It was lucky that the room had not been able to overhear this conversation, for it neither reflected well on the poet, or on the room itself, which might have reasonably expected to be cited as a highlight at least of the poet’s abode.

But the young lady had not accompanied the poet back to the room. Or to any other room, in fact, although this was not known to the room. If the poet had other liaisons in other rooms, then his room knew nothing of them. If he was conducting passionate affairs then the room witnessed them not. If the poet was shuddering silently (or very noisily) with another poet, a model, a tea-lady or a whore, the room shared not in the secret.

So the room witnessed no passion at all. No love. In fact, it could not even conceive of the idea of love. Let alone express it or think of it. A loveless room, in a loveless marriage of rental convenience to an unspeaking, tyrannical and even cruel partner. Without love, without trust or confidence, after a while the room began to dream strange dreams. In fact, more like murmurs than actual dreams, as the latter would imply consciousness which, as has been made clear, the room did not possess.


The murmurs began one quiet morning, with the poet still not returned from work the night before. A low susurrus began, possibly underneath the bed, creeping like a slow-moving bassline, vibrating the unsettled dust. The vibration built until it could have been audible (had anyone been listening), and peaked in what may have been a gulping sound, which knocked a discarded birthday card over on the bedside table.

The poet might have taken this as a sign – of what we will never know – had he been less preoccupied, or more sensitive to the physical state of his room. When he returned, for whatever reason, the card’s position made no visible impression on him. This was deeply frustrating, but for whom we cannot yet tell.

But what was important was that the room had somehow channeled its frustration, its shared loneliness, its anger and its wish to be recognised into a physical act. It would not be long before it could express its views and wishes. But what would those be…?

Oxford

Amazing weekend up in Oxford:

FRIDAY
Finished my workshop and made it out of town just in time to avoid the worst of the traffic.

Went to Red bar near the station and met L and some of his work friends.

Went to Malmaison with L - ate Pigeon. Drank absurd wine.

Went upstairs to the gorgeous bar - would highly recommend it to anyone although unsurprisingly not very cheap. back to L's - incredible whisky called Bruicladdich or something - soft Islay malt.

SATURDAY
Strolled into town and met N.

Walked about in the sun and then went back to N's. Met his flatmates.

Lounged about but entertainingly so.

Went into town and met some Norwegians. Then my my mate T and her friends. Pub crawled as the licenses closed. Finally ended up watching a man apolgise and puke at the same time in a pub called the Blenheim. Filthy. Back to N's after pointless and mistaken bus trip to Abingdon. Almost abandoned in the rain but held on for cab back.

SUNDAY
Went into town with N and then coffee in the Ashmolean, followed by Pork with my Mum, Dad and grandfather. Very nice.

Staggered back home to find that we'd drawn with Sunderland. Arse.

A really short story 2

Continues from the earlier post

In fact, it was hardly alive at all.

Hardly.

When the man entered the room he was aware of a stillness beyond his understanding. Not comprehending it, he consigned it to the dustbin of his thoughts where so many over-subtle structures, words and patterns had been consigned. This was the tragedy of the room.

The tragedy becomes irony when one considers that the man was a poet, known to his friends, when suitably prompted, as "a sensitive soul". Even this man, this poet, this sentient creation, was unable to sense the constant miscarriage of consciousness struggling to be born in front of his eyes.

For the room wanted desperately to be. It wanted the validation of its patterns, its interactions, its symbiotic desperation. It wanted to be acknowledged. If it had understood the idea, it would have wanted David Attenborough to come and whisper poignantly as he filmed it. It wanted to breathe, to consume, to copulate and shudder a little afterwards. It wished it could take decisions, speak, run, slide, drive, shoot, drink, vomit, borrow and all the things that happened within 20 or so feet of it.

At least, this is what it would have wanted, if only it could think.

All it could do was decay. And even that was due to the naturally entropic nature of the universe, not the result of the room's functions or decisions. All it could do was die, very slowly. Almost imperceptibly so, in fact, to the poet who was one of those people who looks on the bright side of everything. He could not see the fading desperation, the slow death and the stillborn existence of the room.

If only he could see it, or taste it - anything would do! Think of the realms of ideas that would flow through him and his expressive shorthand if this exisquisite nothing had occurred to him...

But nothing remained nothing. No words were written, no haikus penned nor quatrains massacred in honour of the room. No lullabies were sung, no paeans echoed and no riffs painstakingly assembled by spotty, overenthusiastic youths, about the room. No operas were composed, no requiems intoned and no harmonies warbled about the room.

Nothing was said about the room.

Once, the poet had almost said something about it in some off-hand remark to a colleague about "his place". But it was unspecific. And almost rude, certainly dismissive. The room would have been upset to hear it, had it feelings. Or ears, come to think of it. The colleague, however, was not even listening. That was as close as it had come to incarnation, to birth, to actuality.

How sad.

How very sad.

Different Story 2

Continues from my earlier text...

Bjorn coughed and gulped at the same time.

He could hear the keen of the Irish pipes and voices drawing nearer on the reverse slope. It sounded like Satan's own legions were coming to claim them for the eternal dark. He murmured a prayer to Christ - for Bjorn held a well-hidden secret, gifted to him by his Irish mother: he was a Christian - but kept quiet enough that his friends did not hear him.

Halfdan ordered the rest of his men to turn about and face the threat to their rear. He judged the Irish would hit them first on the reverse slope. If he could break that attack quickly enough they might have time to turn again and fight off the main force struggling up the other side of the hill. It was all about the timing.

After 20 years leading the band of Gall-Goidel, Halfdan had learned to make such decisions instinctively, and to trust his gut. Over-complication and consideration were his enemies, among many others. He knew that he dare not split his force - they were certain to be outnumbered - and decided that he needed to encourage his men in the face of impending death.

"Four slave-girls to the man who kills the most", he intoned calmly, "and let's make the Valkyries wait a little longer before we drink Valhalla dry!" The second part of the sentence was roared - he needed to show them he was ready, but the calm tone had been just as critical - to reassure them he was in control.

Halfdan spat. He always spat before a battle. In fact, he spat before he did anything.

Bjorn was not reassured by the words of his leader and kinsman. This was partly because the short, heavy darts of the Irish were singing through the fog, adding to the noises now clearly audible on both sides of the hill. The young man touched the roughly carved crucifix under his jerkin, but it failed to raise his spirits. He tried to pray again but his mouth would not move, and no sound came from his throat.

Next to him, Niall stopped wheezing, his feet stopped kicking. Halfdan stooped and picked up his sword - handing it to Kjartan, one of the men he hoped would help him win the battle. "Get ready!" Halfdan roared like a wounded bull as the first Irish faces appeared through the mist.

Bjorn saw the first man appear, with his small shield held out in front of him and a javelin held high in his hand. Before he could react the Irishman screamed and fell, pierced by two spears thrown by his comrades. Bjorn heard something to his left and instinctively spun to face the noise, pushing his shield forward.

The next thing he knew he was on his back with a heavy weight on top of him, separated only by the shield. It took him a moment to realise that the weight was moving, and then he saw a blade come round the edge of the shield. He rolled away from the blade, swinging wildly with the seax-knife in his right hand, hitting only air. The Irishman's knife cut into his left hand and he yelled.

Bjorn rolled over on top of his attacker, crushing him beneath the heavy shield. His own blade was trapped underneath them both so he let go and grabbed at the Irish hand holding the knife, across himself. He couldn't muster enough leverage and he saw, not felt, the blade slide through his hand and thud against the boss of his shield. Now he began to panic.

The Irishman was holding the shield with his spare hand, preventing Bjorn from getting up. Bjorn, with his own blood dripping onto his shield, rolled over again in desperation. This caught the Irishman off guard and his hand was crushed into the earth by the rim of the shield. Critically, he dropped the knife.

Bjorn's roll had brought his spare right hand back onto the long-lost handle of his seax. He fumbled for it awkwardly and the Irishman rolled again, seeking to free his crushed hand. Fortunately for Bjorn, his opponent rolled his shoulder and neck directly onto its razor-edged blade. Bjorn lost the grip on his weapon for the second time, but the Irishman was now bleeding to death, surprisingly quietly, and let go of the shield. Bjorn rolled over twice from the shock of release.

Then he stood, now covered in Irish blood, his own blood, his piss-soaked trews, mud, and the rapidly congealing blood of Njall whose body he had inadvertently rolled into, when escaping his dying enemy. But he had no time to ponder his first kill, which had made him a man (despite the piss), as his friends were now beset on two sides. Halfdan's plan had failed and they were almost surrounded.

To be continued...

Over a month

No posts in January. If I had any hard-core fans out there I would apologise to them for this shocking lacuna. However, I am saved from this embarassment by the lack of said fans, hard-core or otherwise.

So, what have I been doing?

Christmas and New Year
See post below. Mostly food, really. Combined with a bit of an attempt at the world's greatest sitting around. Sadly I just wasn't committed enough to set any kind of apathy record. Got some excellent presents - Peep Show 2, offer of a stereo from my Dad, lots of cool books from my Mum...

Went to the Persian exhibition at the BM between Xmas and New Year. Was excellent - really impressive casts of Persepolis, lots of decent finds and the commentary/links were really good.

New Year in Finsbury Park. Probably too sober (I don't think I even had a drink after midnight) but stayed up dancing to Lab 4 and Trance N Bass until I was stopped by the Bad Music police. Dropped in on the Camden crew beforehand which was entertaining (absinthe).

Quantock
Will post some pictures up soon. Went for the weekend to an amazing house in North Somerset with 24 people - J and C had organised. We had the whole of the youth hostel and had a great time. Walk along the coast, playing games, talking talking talking talking and also a really good sleep in a bunk bed. Top marks to Z for driving me and G down there and back.

Other events/comments/cr*p
Finished Neal Stephenson's Baroque trilogy. Stunning. Would recommend to all.
Went to see some lame-ass bands in Kentish Town with P and G. Unimpressive but still fun.
Work continues on me and N's empirical studies paper - I need to pull my socks up.
Brilliant megagame - Pirates of Yendor. I sank two pirates ships and avoided everyone else sinking me (despite their best efforts).
Quick look at the Museum of London's new Medieval London exhibition - worth another visit methinks.
More thoughts on military effectiveness - political inclusivity theme - need to write stuff down.
New plan to form Placebo covers band with M and P. M and I try to get in the Placebo video but are denied by a horde of minigoths.

More to follow.