christmas in july
i'm piddling around with an intro idea...character yet to be defined, swings back the blankets. notes the wee-hour chilled air and tries to count the consecutive nights of this occurrence. failing, he gives up the pursuit + turns to other points in his life where he similarly awoke...his recollection registers to his childhood, christmas eve...he gets out of bed, slippers, slowly moves to window (notes that this is precisely opposite to his youthful awakening). pulls curtain aside to see snow.
Comments
Nah, just kidding.
Preludes, book 1 - Des pas sur la neige
Hmmm... I notice you use the words "piddling" and "wee".
A pity Zappa's not on eMu anymore
he touches one, recalls a famous soccer player approaching his dad + stating he had read all his books and it had lit the fire for him to be a professional athlete.
he turns from the bookshelf, an object at rest on ground...he kicks it across room. flatly he exhales "goal."
he moves to opposite side of room...a number of seemingly disassociated items are interspersed - some hanging, some displayed...less sense of "honored display", yet all seem to draw more attention.
he holds up a knitted/felted bowl - it's predominant color a deep pumpkin orange with a fluting treatment in a faded pinkish/red.
The traditional Xmas tale takes off from a son's search for a father, which transmutes into a father's search for a son. The son, a pocket-sized cripple, crosses the ocean to where he turns up in Bedford Falls, to reveal the father's curse: thou shalt worship at my altar. Reborn of a virgin librarian, he crawls back home. Mammon, my alter, wins the game by sleight of hand. Don sings the Dead Father, transmuting into text the heavy hand of the law. Burt Lancaster waves a greeting to a passing seagull.
Big Daddy - what's make him so big?
that is the only time in my life i have ever said anything about a cat in heat...but it required xrd's synthesis to complete the sync...freaky.
the moonlight returns a bit of heart's luster, but nothing more.
ah helen... softly, with faux disappointment, lingering hope.
he notes the advancing cold through the heart.
this heart you gave me has lost its...
he looks at the moon. he looks at the heart. it hasn't lost anything at all. pause. it has taken me to where it always has...
he withdraws from the window...closes it. returns to library. deposits the heart to the felted and fluted bowl.
to be continued
he looks to his left. notes a slightly recessed space - along the same wall. a curtain rod extends roughly six inches - it is ornate wrought iron, gothic. a curtain (yet to be described -) runs even with the wall
tosses a few into a bin. holds one and sets the balance aside. it has been opened previously. it is a telegram.
reminder. annual visit. 23rd. will pick you up early. 17.
he holds the paper and shakes it as if it were empty.
seventeen. who in the world goes around being known by a number!?!
he returns the post atop the pile and retrieves a book concerning the french revolution, authored by an american hailing from madison, wisconsin. contemplates. pause. he looks to the clock - it is 3a.m. well, a bit of time. enough for my pipe. he retrieves his smoking essentials and begins to ritualize in the most human of endeavors: personalization. the library can only be his library...he marks the time...more at last nite than the coming morning. he plays hard and fast with history by way of wisconsin.
he sets to read. dissatisfied with his pipe he packs the tobacco til it is extinguished. i have no business smoking a pipe at 3 in the morning
he recoups by feigning fascination with the american rendering of events...pages...turn. a. few. he falls asleep.
being hoisted, shaken and inappropriately addressed by a person of some athletic stature leads to a universal feeling - to wit, i am a pocket-sized cripple. and so it was as old 17 intruded upon my library...my slumber...removed me from my most comfortable throne! this was enough (you would have thought!!!) but my aggressor operates under a different set of rules and his to and fro exertions made it perfectly clear his set of rules were in vogue.
ollie! ollie! get up! we have a tight schedule. and with this snow!
my name is oliver.
no. it's a miracle there aren't empty booze bottles at my feat. it's a miracle the corner-woman isn't at work in my bed. it's a miracle i get a decent night of sleep!
ollie, please - dress and we must go.
17 is an interesting number. It is, of course, prime - it is, in fact, the 7th prime. 7 is the 4th prime. 17 multiplied by 4 is 68. This is hardly a coincidence.
If we add the two digits that make up the number 17, we find we have 8. 8, expressed in binary notation, is 1000, which is a homograph of 1000 if we disregard the comma, as most people do, unless they upend it to apostrophize greengrocerly. We have just entered the third millennium. 17 multiplied by 3 is 51, which is, in Euros, the price of a day return from Paris to Marseilles by TGV, if you log on to the SNCF site at the right moment.
17, expressed in hexadecimal, is 11; that is to say, the singular digit repeated, or as Rastafarian terminology would have it "I and I", which, translated back into the language of the Big Book that no-one reads, announces the arrival of Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker, otherwise known as HCE, or Here Comes Everyone.
and for those of you belligerent folks who object "reformation is too romantic! we want a post-modern penitence!" just you wait...
turn. it. up.
errors, omissions...even oversights are usually accompanied by the realization of their existence after the fact. and such was the case as i passengerily sat and the snowscape scenery slid alongside the automotive extension of 17.
while i did manage to grab the loyal, yet plain, brown paper bag (with an entirely new set of contents!!!), my attire did not get as much consideration. (sidenote: if anyone would like to build a descriptive of our character's clothing, the door is open)
contrasted with 17's respectful wear, i felt a sense of costume.
By contrast, my attire was a gathering of friends: the chesterfield hanging with a loose familiarity over my frame, the casual shirt, sock and trouser whose colors argued themselves into tired concession each time they met and the black leather boots with scuffed toe box that rested loyally at my feet like a pair of white faced old dogs. My only distinguished covering was the fedora which sat smartly even as it rested, off duty, in my lap.
can you indulge me 2 favors...the curtain which covers the recessed nook - would you take a crack at that as well?
also, if you can take the same clothing exercise only move it in the direction of "santa claus"...but only ever-so-slightly. the loyal, plain paper bag will roll up into it. sorry, i should have been more specific. at the same time, this gives me a nice take on your hum. definitely keep the boots!
i should tell you something of 17.
the ride - let me just say: from the outset, we both knew where we were headed. we both knew 17 would drive. we both knew it be more of the same. how many times have we done this? you just wait.
the nite's snow...it's still early...owing to 17's schedule. i stopped arguing with his telegrams years ago. the train will come. i already noted the coins in his pocket. i know the routine.
parking. 17 exits the car. chx his watch. looks north. runs. stops at a train crossing. removes coins from his pocket and places a number of them on the tracks. truth be told, the train always does its job but it's not always easy finding the results...begrudgingly i tell you "he's not all muscles in the head".
the train, as scheduled, came and went. somehow i did not avoid the train's snow removal powers. 17 did. signals and crossing rails set to rest, 17 enters the train crossing. looks about + eventually finds a flattened coin. pockets it.
railroad tracks are fond of flat deserted locations. as are cemeteries. the next stop.
By contrast, my attire was a grudgingly gathered ceremony of tradition,
baffled by the blend, but also time worn into the guise of comfort that follows a relationship of familiarity and function; the coat that hung like a robe loosely on my frame, suggested a ruddy flare still willing to expose its once vibrant sheen when the sun reflected off the icy snow crystals at just the right angle, the rabble of fur gathered at cuff and collar continued to be a worthy opponent for the bitter northern gusts-despite the matted fade of age and obvious loss of pile, the wide black belt mapped the struggle against an expanding girth in its crudely punched holes and the black leather boots with scuffed toe box that rested loyally at my feet like a pair of white faced old dogs. My gloves and tasseled stocking cap would be donned in good time, for now they were draped over my pants leg, the color of which argued against the ensemble but not strongly enough to garner much attention.
Of course if we're traveling jauntily through a snowy landscape it's almost inevitably accompanied by Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kij