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David O'Flaherty
Detective Sergeant
Username: Oberlin
Post Number: 103
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 2:15 pm: | 
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Hi, Robert
That's your best yet, I think, in a string of great poems between you and A.P. I've really enjoyed this thread.
Cheers,
Dave |
Ally
Detective Sergeant
Username: Ally
Post Number: 52
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 2:18 pm: |
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If anyone wants to contribute to the Poison Pen Poetry ring, do send me an email. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 397
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 2:21 pm: |
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Thanks Dave! Glad you're enjoying the poems. And as AP will probably say, also glad we have another reader!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 306
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 3:53 pm: |
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Robert
yes, excellent poesie, nice to see some humour again. I've been working on something broadly similar but haven't managed to finish it yet.
We appear to be able to say so much with so few words on this channel that thousands and thousands of other words on other channels can only grasp at.
I enjoy that.
Three readers! We'll be famous yet.
Sorry, but you might not get a poem from me for some considerable time, I am up to me neck in enterprise.
Once again Robert, I enjoyed that poesie poke at the subject immensely.
What's this Poison Pen Poetry ring?
Sounds far too bold for the likes of me.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 398
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 4:30 pm: |
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Thanks, AP. I'll keep plugging away while you're at your Egyptian studies, or whatever it is that you're doing.
I don't know whether the Poison Pen Poetry ring
is a reference to a couple of poems which appeared here and then were apparently deleted.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 307
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 5:08 pm: |
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Ultimo Ultimata Too Tall
I am as small as the corner in the wall
And as small as the corner is I am too tall.
The hiding places become smaller
As the small corner becomes taller.
If I could but fit myself into that narrow gap
And be small enough to sit on me own lap
Then I could hide away forever
And you would see me never.
But they force me out
With scream and shout.
Then I must bolt from my hole
And take on a new role.
For from rabbit hidden
Comes devil bidden.
I am Ultimo Ultimata
And I serve only my master…
But all that blood makes me shiver
And the crowd do make quiver
With alarming fright…
And I don’t like the night.
For there is no light.
I use no razor on my chin
For to cut myself would be sin.
I let no sharp part
come into my heart
For fear it will cut me and bleed
And it is other blood I need.
It is on new grass I like to graze
And in mirror I like to gaze
And see no-one else
Except meself.
For I am Ultimo Ultimata
A complete and utter disaster…
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 400
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 5:39 pm: |
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Very enjoyable and very interesting, AP. Jack is a prisoner of his own public image and of the expectations of others (and has been since he was born?) but now he is grown too big to pass back through that tiny door whence he entered the world. In the end the only place left to hide will be inside his head, in the asylum (I hope I've understood it right).
Looking forward to the next one!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 309
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 16, 2003 - 4:45 am: |
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T’was the Moon
It was a small and uncomfortable little light
That awoke him at the hour of midnight.
A light that lifted and separated the gloom
As it skipped and scampered through the room.
A scattering of the clouds on the ceiling of his mind
As some giant raised and lifted his blind.
And brought strange smile to his face
As light chinked into his private place.
As a sudden he saw the universe
The race to swerve and reverse.
He saw the sun
And how ants would run
When they lost their wings
And became silly things.
He saw the moon.
And it made him grow as it
Bathed him in its glow.
Why do birds take flight
In daylight
But never at night?
In the roaming, gloaming sweep so bright
He saw the world in a different light.
Sudden shifts of form and pattern that played across his wall,
Where a single shadow transformed into giant so tall.
And then cut down to something so small.
His own hand could circle the world,
Grasp it and into universe hurl.
He could count the countless souls in the scudding clouds
Piled up to heaven like funeral shrouds,
And how the light ripped them asunder
As knife blows rolled like thunder.
How the dry planet did slake its thirst with blood
And fertile ground did turn to mud.
How the child stepped from womb
Emerged like moth from the gloom
Was cast in net and spread on loom
Then fell from high to its doom.
It was the moon.
Full o’ blood she sailed like Spanish galleon in the sky
And all who walked her decks was sure to die.
He would take cutlass in his teeth
Then swoop down on those beneath.
There would no quarter given or taken
For each and every soul was god forsaken.
Hand on rudder and heart full of fear
Their blood was the water his ship did steer.
And cleave and tear its way across an ocean
Blown by devil winds and magic potion,
Driven by storms of blood and hate
And cast adrift on pools of fate.
T’was but the moon.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 425
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 16, 2003 - 6:04 am: |
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AP, you have my thanks for posting such a wonderful, wonderful poem. A sudden moment of illumination, coming as these moments usually do unbidden and when it wants to. Everything about the poem fitted into place. You have performed the alchemist function of the artist - given meaning to the meaningless.
Sorry, AP, but it's the workhouse for you!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 310
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 16, 2003 - 2:04 pm: |
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Robert
thank you, you say the kindest things.
The poesie came to me at three in morning with an almost full moon shining in my face, so I scribbled it down and firmed it up at six this morning. I enjoyed it immensely, as I did your fine critique of it.
I thought your critique as every bit good as the poesie, and my ego rests happy in the workhouse. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 317
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, July 22, 2003 - 3:01 pm: |
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Shadow Shifter, Shadow Maker
Shadow Maker, Soul Taker.
So he took those shadows and bent them to his shape
For from the dark suit a new breed to make.
A shadow cloak of shifting shade
Within the dark the glint of blade.
He wrapped himself in that black cloth
And then clothed himself in demon wrath.
Then watched as his shadow burnt in hell
When it plunged into that universal swell.
Bent on catching the last rites and verse
Did his burnt wings touch the universe?
And did those scarred wings touch the sky
And did such wings make him fly?
In what battered and broke-down portal
Did he find his soul so immortal?
And as the shadows shifted
So was a light lifted.
And by that light he did scorch
Fine scar from eternal torch.
And did strike down with temple blow
Whereby blood from flower does flow
In that seed that some worm did sow
A great secret no man should know.
That the sky speaks to us in patterns of rain
And earthly spirits be bound in chain.
Thence to float with the great spirit in the sky
Does demand that seven fallen angels must die.
For harvest requires a seed to be sown
And then must that crop be mown.
Shadow shifter, shadow maker
Shadow maker, soul taker.
Soul shifter, soul maker.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 451
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, July 22, 2003 - 4:52 pm: |
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Liked it very much, AP.I liked the idea of the light and the dark that runs throughout, the positive and the negative, for ever intertwined.
The whole poem was very nicely balanced.
I found myself responding to certain mythological references in there, but I'm not going to say what I think they were, in case I've got hold of the wrong end of the stick! Anyway, it was an excellent poem.
I've got one going on inside me, which I'm hoping will be finished in two or three days.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 318
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 23, 2003 - 4:09 pm: |
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Good Old Jack
I am bumptious
Scrumptious
And absolutely delumptious.
For it is a fact
That me name be Jack.
And by Mars and by Jove
I am a bit of a cove.
And god bless you
I be a dandy too.
I carry a broken brolly
Just for a jolly
And pop up in the strangest places
And do pull the most amusing faces.
I’m up for any kind of laugh
And fully dressed do take a bath.
All them coppers do me joyously greet
When they see old Jack on their beat.
‘Good old Jack!’ they cry
‘So funny he’ll make you die!’
I skip and prance me way down the street
For old Jack is still nimble on his feet.
The nippers and girls do follow me quite near
For from old Jack they have now’t to fear.
I give ‘em sweets and make them laugh
For they all think I be now’t but daft.
When I pop me head in ale-house doors
Everyone laughs, even the old whores.
‘Good old Jack!’ they cry
‘So funny he’ll make you die!’
I’ve got me old bag of tricks
With which most things I can fix.
Old Jack will fix ‘em even when not broken
And no joke is known which he hasn’t spoken.
I like a pint of ale when not ten
And folk find me even funnier then.
Old Jack loves the girls of course
And the girls love Jack for his sauce.
‘Penny for your thoughts me dear…
From old Jack you have nothing to fear.
Let’s just pop up this dark alleyway here
From old Jack you have nothing to fear.
Now let’s have no more nonsense
As no doubt you’ll want your four pence.
Just keep still
For old Jack wants his thrill.
It won’t be long before thirsty job is complete
And as ever old Jack will be most neat.
Yes, yes I know I be now’t but old rascal
But silence now while I wrap me parcel.
There my girl now you can rest in peace
While old Jack goes home to feast…’
Then old Jack is back on the street
Greeting coppers on their beat.
‘Good old Jack!’ they cry
‘So funny he’ll make you die.’
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 464
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, July 23, 2003 - 5:16 pm: |
|
Lovely, AP.
What's that, officer? Not old Jack!
Ripped up a whore, with his dodgy back?
Kneeling beside them, with his wonky knees?
On a night like that he'd surely freeze.
As for the alleys, he drinks so much beer
That he has to go up alleys, I fear.
Show the whores fourpence? Here's the rub :
His fourpence is always spent in the pub.
Strangled them, did he, by brute force,
This man who can't open a bottle of sauce?
Old Jack cut off Kelly's boko?
He'd have been in bed with his cocoa!
The only time he hurt a tart
Was in the pub with a wayward dart.
Not old Jack! Have some faith!
But lock him up anyway, just to be safe. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 319
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 24, 2003 - 4:32 pm: |
|
Now if I’m not amiss
I fear you do take piss
Out of old Jack
And his sore old back.
For me old knees are still strong
And me old reach is quite long.
I will admit, if you permit,
That old age has taken its toll
And I do tend to walk with a roll.
But I still have that rage
Even at this ripe old age.
You say that I drink ale aplenty
But I swear ‘tis never more than twenty.
And I never threw a dart in me life
Well, only at that cow me wife.
I never killed anyone I swear
And if I did I wouldn’t care.
For it was a hot summer’s day
And she were in me way.
Or it was a hot summer’s night
And I felt like a fight.
She didn’t have change of a shilling
So I paid her with her killing…
Ah but then she was willing,
To give old Jack a rub.
And old Jack had his tabs on shoulder
Which did make him a tad bolder.
But of course,
Old Jack had the Force.
And the sauce.
Alive or dead
Brown or red.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 466
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 24, 2003 - 6:36 pm: |
|
Now I think I know your game
Old Jack, if that's indeed your name
(I rather think a brainy hack
Christened that monstrous maniac).
I think in these days before old age pension
You're trying to get a little attention.
Witches in long-forgotten days
Claimed to be casters of spells,
And willingly went to fiery blaze
Having made a name for themselves.
Ripper confessions are dozen a dime,
Everybody admits to the crime,
Even the Pontiff in Rome sublime
Claims he was Jack in his spare time.
You should see the kind of crap with which my drawers are filled!
Women even write to me, claiming they've been killed!
We can't hang you all,
The rope's too small.
However, we need some Ripper action
To bring in the tourists - Jack's quite an attraction.
He's one of our British traditions,
And so we're holding auditions.
Our minimum requirement
Is that you come out of retirement.
Now answer with great care
And complete this questionnaire :
Are you a foreigner or a toff,
And at the mouth can you on demand froth?
Do you have a fair moustache
And carry in pocket all kinds of tosh?
Do you play cricket?
(If not, you can stick it).
Do you own a cap with peak,
And are you free at the end of the week?
Your knife must be provided by you.
You're allowed five minutes in the loo.
If you get caught,
It's not our fault.
For your imbecility
We deny all liability.
Finally state in fifty words
Why you want to kill these old birds.
(False information can lead to a fine).
Yours, Inspector Abberline.
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 320
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 25, 2003 - 6:01 am: |
|
Hah! Inspector this and inspector that
But still old Jack
You cannot catch.
Of course Jack is me name
And having a jolly me little game.
Me best I may well be past
And pope you can stick up your ….
What else would inspector have in his drawers?
Should keep his truncheon away from the whores.
I’m prepared to turn up for the part
But must tell you afore we start.
I like a nice milky and sweet cup of tea around eleven
And if you supply some nice hot pies I’ll be in heaven.
I like to sit in a comfortable old chair
And at night like a nice net over me hair.
I can’t play cricket but can spin a good tale
Of when old Jack the seven seas did sail.
I’m not foreigner, toff or any of that
In fact I’m just an ordinary chap
Who likes a pint with a whore on lap.
And I’m quite sure this Jack you seek
Owns no cap with or without peak.
Yes, I’ll bring me old knife
But first must ask the wife
For she uses it to slice our Sunday dish
But I’ll bring it if that’s your wish.
I can’t promise to be five minutes in thunder-box
As from some poxy whore I’ve caught the pox.
So in this certain way
There might be delay.
But I’ll come well-dressed
And will do me best
To convince you of my honest intention.
But me night-time work I’ll not mention.
I see no reason to send you fifty words
With your drawers already filled with turds.
Suffice it to say
That I just like to slay
A few whores now and then
So as agreed I’ll see you at ten.
P.S.
If we’re to have dinner I prefer my kidneys fried
And if its raining I must sit inside.
Oh, and when killing is done
I usually take a glass of rum.
To settle meself so to speak
And of course I’m free at end of week.
(Idiot inspector ignoramus! Nose too close to your own anus.
Of course I’m free because you aint caught me yet! And you never will I bet! Silly old codger doesn‘t know I‘m his lodger!)
Yours Jack.
PPS.
Do you want your gravestone marked or plain?
Only old Jack joking again.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 471
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 25, 2003 - 2:46 pm: |
|
Dear Sir slash Madam, and that's not a greeting
But an instruction - thanks for competing
For our Jack the Ripper post,
'Twas your application we liked the most.
You'll work no days, but all of the nights
(The best time for tourists to see the sites).
You'll be paid for every crime,
And Double Event counts as overtime.
I see you are the enigmatic
Nutter who inhabits my attic.
As Ripper you'll be heaven-sent,
But first there's the matter of six weeks' rent.
Your seamanship is a definite plus -
You'll jump in the Thames without any fuss.
But don't turn up as Long John clad -
No "Shiver me timbers, harr, harr, Jim lad!"
More Roslyn D'Onston Stephenson
Than Robert Loius Stevenson.
As by disease you're sorely troubled
Your toilet time is hereby doubled.
We're sorry to hear you have the clap,
And please use your elbow to turn on the tap.
A cup of tea at eleven's OK,
Though sadly our budget won't stretch to Earl Grey.
For food, it's police cordon bleu that we serve,
With the best fried kidneys as a whore d'oeuvre.
Now, don't fly into rage
If we mention your age,
But absence of Alzheimer's would be nice
(We wouldn't want anyone murdered twice).
We're afraid you'll have to create your own fog :
Smoke non-stop until sick as a dog.
Before you arrive, your job to take over,
We'll tell you about our Ripper makeover :
Above every street along which you once hobbled,
Even the sky has now been cobbled.
We've stuck blind beggars on every corner,
And Christ Church is now a massage and sauna.
All the whores will call you ducks, Jack,
As you approach them with your rucksack
(For Gladstone bags we can't afford
And rucksacks please tourists from abroad).
A Japanese audience? Act inscrutable.
Be frenzied - but keep your face immutable.
For Italians, rip while you sing operatic,
Then bellow it all the way back to your attic.
Americans? Thirty seconds, that's it.
Time's money, and there's the next place to hit.
The Swiss want the fourpence to be quite discreet -
Then bloodstained you yodel your way down the street.
South Americans like a political part,
So remember to give them a coup de tart.
Remember, bring a pipe or a Woodbine,
Yours, Inspector Abberline.
PS
Re my gravestone, I'm too mean
To spend my cash on such a scene.
In paupers' grave I'll go without doubt.
As for the paupers, they'll have to clear out.
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 321
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, July 26, 2003 - 5:05 pm: |
|
Listen Guv, no disrespect but I fear I may be out of me depth
For I am not only daft, blind and lame but I’m also totally deaf.
I haven’t seen me precious knife for over fifty year
And when I think of me crimes I come over all queer.
Perhaps if your were to substitute the blood for wine
Then I could go along with your plans just fine.
And if the victims could be them dummies from the shop
Then to kill ‘em and rip ‘em a bit would not be such a shock.
But before I even start or begin
I must have a pint of gin.
And when job is finished and done
Then by god I’d like some rum.
And if I have to pull me old knife out and some whore stab
Then you’ll not send me home in a bloody mini-cab.
And regarding me dinner I’ll expect some hot pies
And some of those things you call French Fries.
When I’ve done the deed and the whore has stopped kicking
Then I’d like cab to stop at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
And I wouldn’t mind a look at that there Millennium Dome
Afore the cab drops me off at the old people’s home.
I don’t feel that I can kill more than one whore a night
To kill anymore would give me such a ghastly fright.
So a double event can’t come into the equation
Don’t get me wrong it aint evasion.
I just never did it before
I mean, kill two whores.
Who do you think I am?
Bloody Son of Sam?
Now, as I’ve got no teeth left in me head
I must be quite early to bed
And I’ll need a glass for me old teeth
And a potty placed underneath.
For me old bowels are parlous to say the least
And no doubt they’ll be worst after our little feast.
I might as well tell you I need two sticks to get about
And if you want to talk to me you’ll have to shout.
I don’t hear what the girls call out to me anymore
And I really wouldn’t know a bitch from a whore.
Finally it’s late so I must retire
If you need me urgently then send a wire.
When not an Email will do
To Jack@Yahoo.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 483
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 27, 2003 - 12:28 pm: |
|
Sorry to hear you're deaf and blind,
But there's a silver lining, you'll find :
If only you were also dumb,
We could make a tidy sum -
A poet (I can't remember his name)
Once said that the murders were pinball game
Of random collisions,
Split second decisions.
Now "Pinball Wizard" was hit for The Who,
And deaf, dumb and blind kid...that'll be you!
You say that without two sticks it's a no go?
You'll only need one, if that one's a pogo.
You'll bounce along the East End track,
Hence the expression "Spring-heeled Jack."
And don't forget to paint the pogo
With my company's "Jacky" logo.
But if you really insist on a cab,
I will reluctantly pick up the tab.
The fast food you want, you'll see enough -
Late night, cab seats are drenched in that stuff.
Of course, I know you're not what you were,
And slower targets would prefer.
You also requested that blood be made wine,
So following idea should be just fine :
Many an actor in twilight years
In "Last of the Summer Wine" appears.
My notion is (don't call it scatty)
You disembowel old Norah Batty.
I think the idea has its merits
(Though you'll have to stuff your trousers with ferrets).
If age is creeping up on you,
Then it should creep up on the victims too.
Another idea
To give you good cheer :
You should find pensioners easy to catch,
I'll lay them on by the coachload batch.
Pop down to Spitalfields and, by jingo,
Slaughter them as they emerge from their Bingo.
You'll simply flash along the road -
I'll give you a motorised commode
With drinks cabinet in the boot
(But don't get breathalysed en route).
And if your health is rather chronic
Doc Phillips will furnish a monkey gland tonic,
Doc Brown will give you an arm bionic,
And Bond, legs built for speed supersonic.
Doc Llewellyn - hearing that's stereophonic.
Sir William Gull, physician demonic
Will give you a face that's cruel and sardonic,
Plus a brain that's quite masonic.
Doctor Frankenstein, last on my list,
Will cover the parts the others have missed.
But if you deem bloody murder a sin
I suppose you can rip up a mannequin.
Play to the crowd
And do them proud.
Rummage in bag and, grinning, fetch up
A bottle of my special "Jacky" ketchup.
I'll present you as a star mysterious
Returned for a last swansong delerious.
"Sunset Boulevard" would be cool,
"I never retired, the murders got small."
Or every time you rip up a crone,
Complain "I vant to be alone."
After performance, go round with hat,
And remember I get a cut of that.
Treat coat stains with "Jacky" remover,
And then go round with "Jacky" Hoover.
Sell products to foreign tourists trusting
(No sense letting these ideas lie rusting).
Do your spiel sharp and nifty,
And try hard not to look too shifty.
"Jacky" knives and "Jacky" potions,
Courtesy Abberline Promotions.
Capes and cloaks - all kinds of disguises -
Courtesy Abberline Enterprises.
We'll split the profits fair and true,
A mansion for me, can of lager for you.
So the next time you're in pub a-swilling,
And want to earn an extra shilling,
Or just have an hour that needs filling,
Seize this chance to make a killing. |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 323
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 27, 2003 - 5:08 pm: |
|
Robert
you are slaying me here!
Absolutely stunning.
I shall have to gird me old loins and give suitable reply.
Might take a day.
Excellent stuff.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 485
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 27, 2003 - 5:27 pm: |
|
Thanks AP, and I'm enjoying yours.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 324
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 28, 2003 - 4:47 pm: |
|
Colony
I am much taken with the idea that when you watch two ants enter an area of arena they will rush about madly until they find each other and then touch feelers in assurance of their common race and then rush about madly again, however if they touch feelers with a soldier from another tribe the contact will result in instant death. The bits and pieces will be taken back to the nest.
I am much taken by an itch, and when I scratch the bitch, I find I scrape at the edge of a universe where someone else has scratched at a watch and this in turn becomes another universe. A black hole of an excuse for the non-existence of another entire universe where soldier ants work tirelessly to clear their nest of dross that floats in from yet another universe.
I watch the ants at work and am much taken with the idea that a single individual will float at the very apex of his creation for a tiny sparkle of time and then all will be consumed by the inexorable advance of the colony, and that individual’s contribution will be but mote in some god’s eye in some distant universe, whilst the true destiny and purpose of the colony remains unknown and vexed to the idea of creation.
I am drawn to the ants I suppose because they have no sexual motive, for they serve a single master who adopts each individual’s creative contribution to the universe and adapts it to a single will. Here there be no flesh, just hard mandible and eggs to move.
They serve their god and they do it well.
There is no question and there is no answer.
I have seen the solitary worker come upon some hapless prey, dispatch it and rush back to the nest with corpse triumph born, and the colony ignore it and carry on with its work. The worker lays it down at some useful point where a soldier finds it and carries it in similar triumph to dump it outside the nest. Law makers and law breakers.
Who made that law?
From whence came that command.
Was it an intelligent communication from the gods?
Who knows what messages an individual may receive from the universal swell and who knows if that message come from heaven or hell?
I am much taken with the idea that Jack thought he did well.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 488
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 28, 2003 - 6:32 pm: |
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This is a big change of gear, AP, but it worked perfectly. I was drawn right into it. You conjure up a very effective and very spooky image of nests of universes like nests of boxes. And each universe has its mutants - mutants, because how could an ant set himself up for his own glory against the nest? But Jack is no ordinary ant. There has been a mix-up - he is obeying the rules, but they are the rules of another nest.
He had better not get too close to the other ants, or they will smell that he is wrong. Best for him to hide in the dark cracks and crevices.
I heard once that the cat which leaves a dead mouse on its owner's back doorstep is actually trying to teach the owner to hunt.
I still don't know how to categorise Jack's motivations, and I don't suppose he could either.
But I remember reading of two psychologists who did an experiment in hypnotism. The first told the second to hypnotise him, and told him in advance what suggestion he was to implant in his mind - I think it was that he should go at a certain hour to his office and turn his light on and off. So the second psychologist hypnotised the first, and instructed him to do the light trick. When the hour arrived, the first psychologist was determined not to go to his office and switch on the light, and he didn't. But as the minutes ticked past the hour he bacame so extremely uneasy, that in the end he went and performed the action just for some peace of mind.
It sometimes seems to me as if Jack had been hypnotised and given a suggestion, but he'd failed to hear the final part of it. He knew roughly where he had to go, but not what he had to do once there. Try as he might he couldn't recall it, and that final peace-saving action for ever eluded him.
Thanks for posting that splendid all-embracing piece, AP - and I admire your willingness to experiment and take chances, which as I say worked a treat.
Robert |
Caroline Anne Morris
Inspector
Username: Caz
Post Number: 232
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, July 29, 2003 - 3:53 am: |
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Hi Robert, AP,
Interesting idea, that something was wearing away at Jack, suggesting this or that action to him, and that whatever choices he made he could never get peace of mind.
On a very different level, it reminds me of a situation hubby was telling me about only yesterday, in which a woman was about to go on holiday with her husband and children. She had booked it well in advance, arranging with her boss to have the time off work. At the last minute, her boss told her she had to work. "What means more to you and your family in the long run?" her boss asked. "A two-week holiday or keeping your job?" The woman was in turmoil. Unfair as it was to ask her to choose between the two, it left her feeling that whatever she did she would be letting people down. After this there was no way she could have enjoyed a relaxing holiday, so she sent her family off without her and went back into work with some small peace of mind for having done the 'right' thing - only to find that her boss had gone sick with stress!
No peace for the wicked?
Love,
Caz
PS Carry on chaps - enjoying the thread hugely as always. |
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