… “What, not even Stoneland?”
“Not even Stoneland,” smiles Wen.
“Pity, they will never know what they are missing.”
“There are a lot of ugly looking lions in Portmeirion.”
We shrink from wondering whether or not one of them is devouring the Buddha’s missing right forearm.
“And lots of steps.”
“Number Six spends a lot of time in the village running up and down steps.”
Run up one set of steps in Portmeirion and a Mansion becomes a Two-up-Two-down.
Run down another and one is accosted by a plaster-cast-christ declaiming on a balcony from which depends a black sheep.
“Perspective. One is spatial, the other, intellectual.”
Here, the ridiculous jostles with the sublime to unfeasibly pleasing effect.
“It’s nothing more than a clutter and jumble of odds and sods, lovingly reassembled into, well, something, uncluttered and well ordered.”
“Much like memories, perhaps.”
“Or what memory makes of experience.”
In the corner of that courtyard there, a manicured tree sprouts in-front of a doorway.
Or rather, a doorway, which leads nowhere, has been constructed behind a tree which is then kept manicured.
Its the perfect place in which to reconsider one’s cardinal points and be reminded of one’s priorities.
Maggot always gets his man…
Wherever they go.
However far they flee.
However cunningly they hide…
Maggot enters The Old George: legendary menagerie of care-worn dreamers. This evening’s vibrantly clad gathering part to allow him to the bar. His ‘thirties’ hat and summer rain-coat are still the heir to respect even in a place of ghosts.
Curious location for a meet.
Maggot never questions his sources: the food and drink of his success.
Maggot takes a corner table.
Out in the street the night is glowing gold.
Later… when he is moved,
a tuft of pink-and-blue falls from his neck.
…Moments later the bars of blue light shimmered into three tightly clad figures.
Kirk, glanced expectantly around the room and sighed.
Spock arched a well manicured eye-brow skyward.
“An empty writing room,” pronounced Sulu, somewhat redundantly.
Kirk’s hand held communication unit twittered into life.
“Better check the co-ordinates on that one Scottie, I asked for ‘enterprising room’, dammit!”
Meantime, Spock had sauntered over to the window and was peering through the white-blue light.
“Captain, no, wait…”
“What is it Spock?” asked Kirk moving toward the window.
“Well, it’s life Jim…” smiled Sulu, who was already there.
“Hey, you there…
Exterminate… Exterminate… EXTERMINATE!…”
‘I cried like some grandmother, I wanted to tear my teeth out, I didn’t know what I wanted to do.’ – Walter E.Kurtz, Apocalypse Now.
The ‘Good Colonel’ is here reacting to a particularly distressing, and at first sight vicious and meaningless, act of war.
However, a culture which can organise the systematic removal of the inoculated arms of its children must have a pretty clear conception of where it is at, of precisely what it means to be there, and also of just how to remain in that place.
‘Good Grief, Charlie Brown…’ – Lucy, Peanuts.
Can grief ever be good?
Charles M. Schulz clearly thought so.
The phrase runs like a litany through Charlie Brown’s debut T. V. outing casting noble failure on all his best efforts, and simultaneously highlighting the noble failure of all life to make any kind of a lasting impression.
Sometimes Schulz talks like a prophet and at other times like a lost soul.
With this particular ‘bon mot‘ he talks like both at the same time.
The meta-gag of this same episode is Charlie’s dream of sending the football soaring through the sky.
It never happens.
Lucy always removes the ball at the last.
It is Charlie who soars to end lying flat on his back, gazing up at the sky.
A living cadaver capable of pondering its own plight, and ours.
We have the terms ‘a proper Charlie’ and ‘a right Charlie’ for those unfortunates who end up looking like chumps in life’s Divine Comedy.
Are these phrases ‘Chaplin derived’ or much earlier?
King Charles I of England lost his head, and his life, for clinging on to an outmoded principle.
Scotland’s Bonnie Prince ended his life in ignominy and exile but even before that he was a Charlie.
A clown’s name for a clown’s game?
The Divine Right of Kings.
To do what?
To rue the almighty hash the politicians have made of it?
No, not that, simply to rule.
To run the measure over the populace and let ‘the Gods’ or ‘the Fates’ decide, which they do anyway, ultimately…
‘Death’s at the bottom of everything…’ – Major Calloway, The Third Man.