Queenie is alone tonight. With no pressing tasks to fill the silence. For the first time in seven weeks.
No visitors from anywhere.
No packing to do.
No furniture to find.
Apart from a table and chairs.
But they’ll happen someday.
Of that I have no doubt.
Himself and Tina and Martin, being from a place where possessions are recycled and handed around to those who need them and not thrown away until actually broken, went on Mission “Furnish Queenie’s House” last night, after we spotted a lovely, original 1960s wall unit on our way home, just sitting on the kerb waiting for the bin men.
It being Sunday night. Which is garbage night in the prosperous South end of Halifax.
Yes, I know this is being posted on Tuesday. Home internet access will be resumed on Wednesday, after which time blogposts will be timely again.
As quick as anything the unit, which needs a little bit of work but not much, was in the back of the van, being hauled round the rotary at breakneck speed and up the hill to the apartment, where it was dropped off with Queenie, who had to cook the dinner while the intrepid visitors went off scouring the south end for more finds.
Just as I was draining the pasta to go with the Bolognese sauce I’d slaved over for an hour, the van pulled up – great timing I thought – and was emptied, before speeding off again.
What????
I went downstairs to investigate. Martin was sitting guard over a pile of stuff that included:
A sun lounger
A sun parasol
Two garden chairs
Two beach chairs
Two red fold up chairs, one plastic, one leather
A stereo unit thingummy on wheels which fits underneath the fish tank perfectly and which means I no longer have a problem changing the water, having only to wheel the tank into the kitchen and park it alongside the sink
A brand new pull-along garden hose thingummy, replete with brand new hose
Three sets of shelves
A little wire vegetable rack on wheels, which contained a brand new apron, two oven gloves, two pot stands, a chopping board, and a packet of bag clips (I swear)
An interesting looking beige footstool with claw legs, which is exactly the right height for resting your legs on, upon which my legs are resting while I type
Two tall uplighters, neither of which appear to work unfortunately
A big bright blue plastic thingummy, the use for which Queenie still cannot ascertain, despite having stared at it for a long time
A desk in perfect condition
A wooden six-drawer bureau that will need to be sanded and stained to put in the spare room (along with the futon and the seafaring chest and the mirror) for all the visitors that will be coming to visit hopefully
A Wilson golf bag (minus the strap which is presumably why it was on the kerb)
Why a golf bag?
Martin and I sat and looked at the pile of stuff, not having yet realised that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment, and reckoned it must be an Aquarian thing, this passion for other people’s rubbish.
Himself and Tina both being Aquarians, d’ya see.
Having said that, once I get the uplighters, the golf bag and the big blue thingummy back into the garbage collection on Wednesday night it will have been a good haul.
And when you add that haul to what Himself had already Aquaired for us - a sofa and chair, a rocking chair, a huge chest of drawers for our room, an end table and a futon mattress – as well as what I have purchased – the biggest bed in the world, three seafaring trunks we got for fifty bucks the lot at a yard sale, and the makings of a pretty well-stocked kitchen and linen cupboard, and then add allathat as Gypsy used to say when she was little, to the free tv and microwave I got from Missy and Shazz, and my amazing basket of stuff which Jersey Girl and her BH gave us when they were here, which fuelled my ongoing amazement at the generosity of people - Queenie is back in the possessions game.
Sigh…
And to think I arrived a little over a year ago with two suitcases and a computer bag.
The one thing keeping me sane throughout all of this is the fact that the whole lot cost just over $1,000, of which $600 was for the King Size super deluxe Sears-O-Pedic bed with twin boxspring and soft-top mattress.
FOKO/ Ikea/ European Living/ Habitat can go and stick their over-priced Burmese teak futon with Egyptian cotton weave mattress thingummies up their own arse, boys and girls.
Also, note to self, Accent Monkey and anyone else who has ever bought furniture in Ireland – when the furniture people in Canada say they’ll deliver your bed between 12 and 5 on Saturday, which is two days after you buy the furniture, they apologise for the delay in delivery, turn up on time on the day and don’t moan about the stairs. Even if you only bought the furniture because it was being practically given away in the discount depot at the back of the shop.
I have learned two things this week.
The Sears Discount Depot in Halifax is the best shop in the world bar none.
One man’s rubbish is an Aquarian’s idea of a good time.
Anyways, so Martin and I started hauling the loot upstairs, only to realise that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment. Martin got quite anxious. But those of you who know me know that I tend to lock myself out of my apartment quite a bit. So it only took a minute to break in because I had already cased the joint because I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to break in. But we got in before the Aquarians got back, more importantly. And then we all sat around and ate pasta and drank Hemp beer in honour of the occasion and agreed where the new furniture should go.
So here I am, fully furnished, backside ensconsced in Himself’s mother’s former suite, legs resting on the new footstool, looking at the fish swirling around the tank which is resting on its mobile stand.
I feel like Del-boy Trotter. Before he hit the jackpot.
Although the apartment is a little nicer than his.
It’s the second floor of a three storey house.
The floors are all wooden, as they always are here in Nova Scotia. I think it’s real wood though, not laminate.
All the walls are a very boring shade of yellow but Himself is going to paint it when he gets a chance. There are many winter projects in this apartment, sanding and painting and staining, which will be good for both of us as we get a bit restless when the long evenings draw in and there’s nothing to do. Canadian television being awful.
The guy is coming on Wednesday to hook up the internet/phone/cable package. I ordered it today. He’s coming AFTER I GET HOME FROM WORK, so I don’t have to take a half day. He’d have come on Saturday, like the Sears guy, but that didn’t suit me.
Of course it’s probably like this at home now. So I should stop gloating. I just have such dreadful memories of ‘getting things done’ in Dublin. It always involved having to take a day off work and then spend an hour on the phone giving directions to someone who grew up in Finglas which was just down the road, or having to listen to some boring Dubliner millionaire carpet layer bang on and on and on about how he had to live in Carlow because it was so expensive living on the Northside now (because all us culchies were buying up property I supposed, I never used to take the bait) and how the wife didn’t really like it because she always had to drive home from the golf club instead of getting a taxi, but he needed to have a few scoops after all the commuting so he wasn’t going to go halves now ya know ...
The front door is up a narrow set of stairs. When you enter the apartment, the room that will be a study/dining room is on your immediate left. The living room and kitchen are both off of this space. The kitchen has tall white cupboards and a “Canadian Auto Workers circa mid-eighties productivity go slow” fashioned stove and fridge. Think Impact members making laptops – that’ll give you some sense of what level of innovation I mean.
The kitchen window looks out onto the street, which is residential and tree-lined. The living room looks out over the garden, which is mostly just grass, through the trees to the lake. The winter view will be nice I think.
Off the right-hand side of the hall, there is a large master bedroom, the bathroom, which is small and needs some work, and the spare room. Of which I am inordinately proud.
Because I know in my heart of hearts that if I had been able to afford to buy a nice apartment with a dining space and a spare room, instead of a rabbit hutch, I would probably never have left Ireland.
That’s the thing about Queenie: I never really wanted much. Just a nice place to live that I could afford, and a meaningful job with some nice people (part of which I had), and not too many traffic jams, so I could get to the countryside at the weekend. And maybe a nice person to share it all with (although I wasn’t allowed to admit that of course because that would have meant I wasn’t ecstatic about my life, which appeared to be verboten in Tigerland, although hopefully that’s not the case anymore)
But for some strange reason that I will NEVER fathom, that was not possible in the land of possibilities.
And now the fuckers have put my (Irish) mortgage up by $200 a month. Just to remind me of how insane it all is.
And Eddie Hobbs says I should put my SSIA money, what I’m counting the days down to getting just to see the number and translate it into Bahts or whatever, Eddie Hobbs (who the hell went postal in RTE and put the Del-Boy of the NGO sector in charge of the common man’s finances, although I suppose it’s better than that Trot they used to have – what was his name?) Eddie Hobbs told my mother that I should put my lovely SSIA money, which is for following my dream, that I should put the money into the gaping, yawning, greedy, panic-inducing chasm in my potential happiness and Sears-O-Pedic king sized comfy sleep at night that is my rabbit hutch of an Irish property investment.
My ass I will. The difference it would make? Fuck all, boys and girls.
Here, if whisked across the sea by the magic interbank transfer device (which I of course know how to operate, having had to explain it to the lady in the bank some months ago, along with the concept of overseas) and translated from strong EUROs into some of their Canadian dollars, I could use it to buy four acres of land by the sea, and still have enough left to go to Cuba for six months.
Or build the off-grid straw bale cottage with the organic toilet that’ll be flushed by the solar panels we’ll find on the kerb some night no doubt on the land, and just go to Cuba for two weeks.
Living the dream, eh?
I guess the trick is to try to live one. Not three or four.
But those of you who are getting yourselves sorted already know that, don’t you.
It’s difficult though, isn’t it? Managing expectations.
Why is it that we spend each of our decades extricating ourselves from the crap into which we got ourselves in the previous one?
By the way, when I was sitting on the doorstep thinking about what I was going to say this evening, the title of this blog was to be ‘Whereupon our hero emerges from the wilderness’.
And it was to be a contemplative piece on the concept of heroes. More particularly, an update on the hero for whom this blog was originally established. I mean one Percy, or Sir Perceval as he’s often known: Knight, Dragonslayer, Poet. Who has disappeared off the face of the earth for quite a while now.
But I got talking about myself. as usual.
Tomorrow.
I promise.
Showing posts with label Percy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Percy. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Whereupon nature conspires to make everything perfect
So, the Queen Parents left last Monday, which is why Queenie was upset in her last post (for those of you who are NOT PAYING ATTENTION closely enough due to the having of lives of your own), and last Friday Polly arrived for a little visit.
It was great. We went to the airport and Queenie jumped up and down in a fit for half an hour while the planeload moved slowly through Customs, and eventually Himself got Queenie sat down and calmed down a little, and of course as soon as he did the door opened and there was Polly. Much screaming and yakking ensued until eventually everyone was very tired and had to go to bed around two.
Next morning, after some blueberry pancakes and maple syrup, and an hour’s chaotic packing, Queenie and Himself brought Polly down to the island for a weekend’s camping, it being the Natal Day holiday in Nova Scotia.
And Shazz and her boy, who were making their first trip to the island, came too. Five people, five tall people, all their tents and sleeping bags and camping gear, plus all the food and all the drink, plus all the clothes and hats and coats, in one 4WD. We just about all fit in.
We got down to the island and unloaded all the gear and it was only then that the other passengers in the car realised that the cove where we were camping was quite a ways on foot down a rocky track from the car park. We let Shazz’ son spend a minute freaking out about it before we told him that Himself had transportation organised so while he went off to get his lot and to organise everything, we brought enough stuff to pitch our tents and make a cup of tea.
Everything except the propane and the water of course. Queenie always forgets something. So she had to hike back for those.
Anyways, we got to the cove, which I’ve written about before and which is quite the nicest place in the world bar none, and the first thing that happens is that a little minke whale buzzes into the cove for a blow and a breather. She came in every day we were there at the same time. So we’re standing on the flat green ridge above the cove that is perfect for camping, looking down at the beautiful rock formations that tumble along the shore, with the blue, blue sea twinkling and pushing gently against the rocks under the hot August sun, just admiring the beauty of the cloudless day, when we hear bbbsssccchhhh!!!
(Queenie’s version of a blow, doncha know).
WHALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I screamed. And there she was, a smooth black shadow gliding through the water.
I thought Polly was going to burst she was so thrilled.
And that was the weekend for us pretty much. If I had sat down to write a story about the perfect weekend for a girl from Ireland to experience on the island, I would probably have left some of it out as being too OTT.
It would have been perfect weather until just after we left. And so it was. We had two days of hot hot sunshine, and when we woke up on the third morning, the wind had changed and was blowing hard enough to make dismantling the tents a bit of a challenge. By the time we got back to Halifax we were in the middle of one of Nova Scotia’s extreme summer storms.
Each night, as we barbecued our steaks and chicken, dusk would have stolen gently over the outgoing tide and a bulbous golden harvest moon would have risen over the ridge and slung itself lowly, slowly across a cloudless night sky, spattered with stars.
And so it was.
The first night, our good friends would have made their way down to camp on the shore with us, and all the children would have disappeared over the ridge to do whatever kids do on the shore, while us grown ups had a few beers and lit the bonfire and watched the seals coming in all nosy to investigate what the kids were up to.
Then later everyone would sit on the beach and watch the fire and laugh at the men and boys as they fed the fire and undertook those strange rituals that men have when they’re engaging in something as primordial as making heat from driftwood to keep everyone warm on an island shore
And so it was.
Polly would have had toasted marshmallows and wieners to roast over the fire (not too primordial), and lots of local boys to chat to, as well as getting to meet all the local women Queenie has met through Himself, who are just like the women at home in Springtown where Polly and Queenie are from.
And so it was.
Next day the sun glared down on us, so Shazz made an Ottoman-style tent with four tree branches and a fly leaf (red), and we lay under it and talked for hours while Himself brought the kids swimming in the swimming hole further up the track. Then we emerged from the woods for a barbeque at Tee’s house before heading back for another bonfire under the perfect moon, where Polly sang old Irish songs that made people want to cry (because the songs were sad, doncha know, Polly’s a good singer).
Then everyone went to bed and Polly and Queenie sat by the fire for a while and told each other all the things in their hearts that they hadn’t been able to tell each other for ages, what with having to be on opposite sides of the ocean for ever such a long time.
Queenie’s very glad she didn’t have to make the weekend up; that it just happened the way it did. We all deserve a perfect weekend once in a while.
It was great. We went to the airport and Queenie jumped up and down in a fit for half an hour while the planeload moved slowly through Customs, and eventually Himself got Queenie sat down and calmed down a little, and of course as soon as he did the door opened and there was Polly. Much screaming and yakking ensued until eventually everyone was very tired and had to go to bed around two.
Next morning, after some blueberry pancakes and maple syrup, and an hour’s chaotic packing, Queenie and Himself brought Polly down to the island for a weekend’s camping, it being the Natal Day holiday in Nova Scotia.
And Shazz and her boy, who were making their first trip to the island, came too. Five people, five tall people, all their tents and sleeping bags and camping gear, plus all the food and all the drink, plus all the clothes and hats and coats, in one 4WD. We just about all fit in.
We got down to the island and unloaded all the gear and it was only then that the other passengers in the car realised that the cove where we were camping was quite a ways on foot down a rocky track from the car park. We let Shazz’ son spend a minute freaking out about it before we told him that Himself had transportation organised so while he went off to get his lot and to organise everything, we brought enough stuff to pitch our tents and make a cup of tea.
Everything except the propane and the water of course. Queenie always forgets something. So she had to hike back for those.
Anyways, we got to the cove, which I’ve written about before and which is quite the nicest place in the world bar none, and the first thing that happens is that a little minke whale buzzes into the cove for a blow and a breather. She came in every day we were there at the same time. So we’re standing on the flat green ridge above the cove that is perfect for camping, looking down at the beautiful rock formations that tumble along the shore, with the blue, blue sea twinkling and pushing gently against the rocks under the hot August sun, just admiring the beauty of the cloudless day, when we hear bbbsssccchhhh!!!
(Queenie’s version of a blow, doncha know).
WHALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I screamed. And there she was, a smooth black shadow gliding through the water.
I thought Polly was going to burst she was so thrilled.
And that was the weekend for us pretty much. If I had sat down to write a story about the perfect weekend for a girl from Ireland to experience on the island, I would probably have left some of it out as being too OTT.
It would have been perfect weather until just after we left. And so it was. We had two days of hot hot sunshine, and when we woke up on the third morning, the wind had changed and was blowing hard enough to make dismantling the tents a bit of a challenge. By the time we got back to Halifax we were in the middle of one of Nova Scotia’s extreme summer storms.
Each night, as we barbecued our steaks and chicken, dusk would have stolen gently over the outgoing tide and a bulbous golden harvest moon would have risen over the ridge and slung itself lowly, slowly across a cloudless night sky, spattered with stars.
And so it was.
The first night, our good friends would have made their way down to camp on the shore with us, and all the children would have disappeared over the ridge to do whatever kids do on the shore, while us grown ups had a few beers and lit the bonfire and watched the seals coming in all nosy to investigate what the kids were up to.
Then later everyone would sit on the beach and watch the fire and laugh at the men and boys as they fed the fire and undertook those strange rituals that men have when they’re engaging in something as primordial as making heat from driftwood to keep everyone warm on an island shore
And so it was.
Polly would have had toasted marshmallows and wieners to roast over the fire (not too primordial), and lots of local boys to chat to, as well as getting to meet all the local women Queenie has met through Himself, who are just like the women at home in Springtown where Polly and Queenie are from.
And so it was.
Next day the sun glared down on us, so Shazz made an Ottoman-style tent with four tree branches and a fly leaf (red), and we lay under it and talked for hours while Himself brought the kids swimming in the swimming hole further up the track. Then we emerged from the woods for a barbeque at Tee’s house before heading back for another bonfire under the perfect moon, where Polly sang old Irish songs that made people want to cry (because the songs were sad, doncha know, Polly’s a good singer).
Then everyone went to bed and Polly and Queenie sat by the fire for a while and told each other all the things in their hearts that they hadn’t been able to tell each other for ages, what with having to be on opposite sides of the ocean for ever such a long time.
Queenie’s very glad she didn’t have to make the weekend up; that it just happened the way it did. We all deserve a perfect weekend once in a while.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Whereupon the reader hears about the quietness
It’s very quiet.
Nobody is sitting in the garden reading a book without joining in the conversation, despite travelling thousands of miles to see his daughter. Nobody is tidying up after supper, despite being told not to because she is on her holidays. Nobody has gone for a little walk down the road to look at the sea. Nobody is telling me a bit of gossip I missed about someone at home. Nobody is opening a bottle of wine, or enjoying a can of Monkey Beer, which is quite the nicest beer in the world apparently, so nice he insisted he had to pay for it. Nobody is talking about the nice meal, which was well cooked, and it was fine that it was fish again.
Nobody is intently watching Himself barbeque the steaks, looking back at us to see what we think. Nobody is sitting quietly, listening to me as I rant about work, keeping an eye out to see would Himself roll his eyes at her.
He was their ally. I kept catching him at it. Having a little joke with them at my expense.
And when I'd express my outrage at him he'd just give me a look that said, Get up the yard. You muppet.
It was strange at times. I felt like I was playing myself in my own movie.
But I was one of the minor characters.
Very unnerving, I can tell you.
Thank goodness I have a blog.
What would I do otherwise?
Nobody is sitting around the table after dinner, talking about the war. Or remembering stories from our families. Or bickering with each other over something the Queen Dad did, or Queenie, or the Queen Mum.
I’d get a different look when that happened.
Himself has a very complex body language. Which I’m starting to learn.
I wonder what mine is like?
Some time is spent thinking about this.
I’m probably just pretty verbal.
I just wrote my first stage direction!
Some time is spent thinking about this.
There’s no effing money in theatre.
Except… I was reading a review of a book (this is how slack I am) about John Osbourne, the angry young man, and it turns out that he made a fortune from the theatre.
I wonder how he did that?
Some time is spent thinking about this.
Nah, don’t know. Time to move on.
Time passes.
Beckett was rich too, of course.
Some time is spent thinking about the last two weeks.
And a bit of a weep is had.
A very bittersweet one.
And then a train went past. And a dog howled at it.
I kid you not.
And the train went by forever, like they know it does now.
I feel better now.
Even just remembering is making it less painful.
The quietness.
Then she heard the hiss of a car passing quietly down the road in front of the house.
Sorry reader, I couldn’t resist that.
Goodnight. Safe home.
All of you.
Nobody is sitting in the garden reading a book without joining in the conversation, despite travelling thousands of miles to see his daughter. Nobody is tidying up after supper, despite being told not to because she is on her holidays. Nobody has gone for a little walk down the road to look at the sea. Nobody is telling me a bit of gossip I missed about someone at home. Nobody is opening a bottle of wine, or enjoying a can of Monkey Beer, which is quite the nicest beer in the world apparently, so nice he insisted he had to pay for it. Nobody is talking about the nice meal, which was well cooked, and it was fine that it was fish again.
Nobody is intently watching Himself barbeque the steaks, looking back at us to see what we think. Nobody is sitting quietly, listening to me as I rant about work, keeping an eye out to see would Himself roll his eyes at her.
He was their ally. I kept catching him at it. Having a little joke with them at my expense.
And when I'd express my outrage at him he'd just give me a look that said, Get up the yard. You muppet.
It was strange at times. I felt like I was playing myself in my own movie.
But I was one of the minor characters.
Very unnerving, I can tell you.
Thank goodness I have a blog.
What would I do otherwise?
Nobody is sitting around the table after dinner, talking about the war. Or remembering stories from our families. Or bickering with each other over something the Queen Dad did, or Queenie, or the Queen Mum.
I’d get a different look when that happened.
Himself has a very complex body language. Which I’m starting to learn.
I wonder what mine is like?
Some time is spent thinking about this.
I’m probably just pretty verbal.
I just wrote my first stage direction!
Some time is spent thinking about this.
There’s no effing money in theatre.
Except… I was reading a review of a book (this is how slack I am) about John Osbourne, the angry young man, and it turns out that he made a fortune from the theatre.
I wonder how he did that?
Some time is spent thinking about this.
Nah, don’t know. Time to move on.
Time passes.
Beckett was rich too, of course.
Some time is spent thinking about the last two weeks.
And a bit of a weep is had.
A very bittersweet one.
And then a train went past. And a dog howled at it.
I kid you not.
And the train went by forever, like they know it does now.
I feel better now.
Even just remembering is making it less painful.
The quietness.
Then she heard the hiss of a car passing quietly down the road in front of the house.
Sorry reader, I couldn’t resist that.
Goodnight. Safe home.
All of you.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Whereupon the narrator gets comfortable...
Rambling alert. It's late and I'm *tired*.
I think it’s a mafia society.
Canada I mean.
Real old style garotte from behind mafia culture.
I often wonder where their sense of this cultural history comes from.
Somewhere really vicious.
They talk very openly about things that nobody mentions in Ireland. Or London. Or Paris.
Wife-beating. And murder. And drug dealing.
And they fight. The young men do. They attack each other in the streets. Except I don’t know if that’s true, because I don’t know anyone who was attacked. In some sense there's nothing unusual about it, it goes on everywhere, but they don't do anything about it. No zero tolerance here. The cops just ignore it.
It’s amazing how we only start giving a shit when it affects us.
And there's a sense of 'good luck to you, dude' for those guys who shoot up half a town and two Mounties and then disappear into the woods for months.
Apart from the Mounties. Who get incredibly pissed off and ALWAYS get their man in the end.
Half-starved, frost-bitten, lost in the snow.
Corporals January, February and March.
But then they all have a nervous breakdown when someone in the armed forces gets killed.
I think it's about being happy that the people involved chose their own path.
And soldiers don't, do they?
But yeah, they happily engage with and talk about feuds all the time.
And they're very fond of their local headbangers.
In the Irish sense of the phrase.
And then, they've such an incredible sense of order in society they bring in a law that supports gay marriage. And common law relationships exist after one year. As opposed to NEVER in Ireland.
I don't know where the latent violence in Canada comes from. Nor the tribalism.
It doesn’t come from anywhere in particular, I think people brought it from where ever they came from.
I think that might be the problem here.
They don’t encourage the finding out of tribal cultural history easily here, because they don’t want to allow tribalism. Because Canada would disintegrate into a series of forest and urban fiefdoms.
Or revert to, I should say.
But it exists anyway.
That sense of affinity with others of your kind.
And it’s getting stronger.
Why are we all starting to mass into tribes again?
I was thinking the other day, the movement of people around the planet must be wrecking the dwarves’ heads.
"There's something up boys... the weather's changing up top. All that thunder and lightening," they must say to themselves. The gods stomping around.
Or maybe we sound like a flock of birds.
Swirling around their mountains like nasty seagulls do down on the waterfront when you’ve got an ice-cream.
What do I sound like to a sparrow?
Or a blade of grass?
I explain further on why I am talking about these profundities.
Dear Reader,
I have always wanted to start writing a book with those words.
I love those kinds of books.
Dear Reader means:
Sit down, girl.
Why?
I’m going to tell you a story.
Really?
Oh yes.
Then Dear Reader would perk right up and say:
Fantastic, let me get comfortable.
Time would pass.
Pasta is cooked.
Eventually Reader would resurface with a bag of stuff
…. Have I got everything?
Smokes.
Chocolate.
Bottle of wine.
Vibrator. Just in case.
And the dvd.
In case I need to see his face (insert actor of choice).
I’d sell fifty million copies if I could continue in the same chatty narrator vein through a rip-roaring twentyfirst century version of the nineteenth century chick lit sprawl.
I would.
Anyways, back to the sparrow…
I think it’s a mafia society.
Canada I mean.
Real old style garotte from behind mafia culture.
I often wonder where their sense of this cultural history comes from.
Somewhere really vicious.
They talk very openly about things that nobody mentions in Ireland. Or London. Or Paris.
Wife-beating. And murder. And drug dealing.
And they fight. The young men do. They attack each other in the streets. Except I don’t know if that’s true, because I don’t know anyone who was attacked. In some sense there's nothing unusual about it, it goes on everywhere, but they don't do anything about it. No zero tolerance here. The cops just ignore it.
It’s amazing how we only start giving a shit when it affects us.
And there's a sense of 'good luck to you, dude' for those guys who shoot up half a town and two Mounties and then disappear into the woods for months.
Apart from the Mounties. Who get incredibly pissed off and ALWAYS get their man in the end.
Half-starved, frost-bitten, lost in the snow.
Corporals January, February and March.
But then they all have a nervous breakdown when someone in the armed forces gets killed.
I think it's about being happy that the people involved chose their own path.
And soldiers don't, do they?
But yeah, they happily engage with and talk about feuds all the time.
And they're very fond of their local headbangers.
In the Irish sense of the phrase.
And then, they've such an incredible sense of order in society they bring in a law that supports gay marriage. And common law relationships exist after one year. As opposed to NEVER in Ireland.
I don't know where the latent violence in Canada comes from. Nor the tribalism.
It doesn’t come from anywhere in particular, I think people brought it from where ever they came from.
I think that might be the problem here.
They don’t encourage the finding out of tribal cultural history easily here, because they don’t want to allow tribalism. Because Canada would disintegrate into a series of forest and urban fiefdoms.
Or revert to, I should say.
But it exists anyway.
That sense of affinity with others of your kind.
And it’s getting stronger.
Why are we all starting to mass into tribes again?
I was thinking the other day, the movement of people around the planet must be wrecking the dwarves’ heads.
"There's something up boys... the weather's changing up top. All that thunder and lightening," they must say to themselves. The gods stomping around.
Or maybe we sound like a flock of birds.
Swirling around their mountains like nasty seagulls do down on the waterfront when you’ve got an ice-cream.
What do I sound like to a sparrow?
Or a blade of grass?
I explain further on why I am talking about these profundities.
Dear Reader,
I have always wanted to start writing a book with those words.
I love those kinds of books.
Dear Reader means:
Sit down, girl.
Why?
I’m going to tell you a story.
Really?
Oh yes.
Then Dear Reader would perk right up and say:
Fantastic, let me get comfortable.
Time would pass.
Pasta is cooked.
Eventually Reader would resurface with a bag of stuff
…. Have I got everything?
Smokes.
Chocolate.
Bottle of wine.
Vibrator. Just in case.
And the dvd.
In case I need to see his face (insert actor of choice).
I’d sell fifty million copies if I could continue in the same chatty narrator vein through a rip-roaring twentyfirst century version of the nineteenth century chick lit sprawl.
I would.
Anyways, back to the sparrow…
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
The Politics of Socialising Politically
Queenie just read her comments and realised that HisHighness wants to know why she writes in the third person.
Because we are royal, of course.
Ah no, seriously, sometimes I write in the first person. As you will see if you read back through the archive, which I don’t expect you to do. Just take my word for it.
I write in the third person for a number of interlocking reasons.
I am trying to teach myself to write and writing in the third person is really difficult, so I invented Queenie to get the hang of it. Once I invented Queenie, she took on a personality of her own and some days she is in charge of the keyboard and there’s nothing I can do about it. Instead of being annoyed at this peremptory bitch taking over my blog I realised that when I want to say something that I could get into trouble over, I can just get Queenie to say it.
A bit like when I was young and made a mess and said that my imaginary friend did it.
Hope that clears that up.
The confusion, I mean, not the mess.
I have another character as well, the last surviving knight of the round table, who goes by the name of Percy, hence the name of the blog. He went bear-hunting in June and I haven’t seen him since. I reckon he’s holed up somewhere in Northern Quebec with a sexy young Separatist and I’ll see him in the spring when she tires of his unrelenting optimism in the face of whoever wins this goddamn election.
So anyways, as I was saying before I got sidetracked by the Notwithstanding Clause and HisHighness’ unfamiliarity with the traditions of royalty (a Johnny Come Lately prince I fear – Queenie is very upset by the realisation and has swept off to sulk in her boudoir), I watched the debate with some people from the party last night.
I had gotten three invitations and managed to merge two of them so that was a happy outcome. Because of course in politics, it’s all about who you’re with when the interesting stuff happens. And what witty things you said to them. And vice versa. And what insightful comments you made, which get repeated next day. And vice versa (unless you pretend you said them).
I’m still riding a wave of ‘I’m from Europe and I don’t really give a fuck about your schoolboy politics’ posturing, so I’m safe for about another month I reckon. And I can just swear if I’m really stuck. So the pressure was on everyone else.
We were two blokes and three women, then four. It was hilarious.
The girls listened intently and took it all in, and also talked about Rosebud’s makeup and how cool Giles Duceppe was and made inane comments about the whole thing, and the blokes listened intently by cocking one ear to the telly in that ‘I’m too polite to shush you but I really want to’ way that men have when you’re multi-tasking in front of the tv so effectively you’re spoiling their concentration.
Poor lambs, I’d hate not to be able to walk and chew at the same time.
Queenie used to want to be like the boys. (oh, she’s back!!) Okay, I wanted to be like the boys when I was younger. I used to hang out with the male politicos and try to keep up with the banter. And developed strategies for forcing myself into a political conversation being held by a group of men (which I can still do – it’s all about pitching your voice lower than normal). But it never got me anywhere except backed into a corner at closing time by one of them trying to get into my knickers.
So I gave up.
At least they don’t do that here.
Well, they don’t do it to me anyway. I’m probably too old for it now anyways.
A long time ago I decided that if the party blokes want to pretend they have the keener political insight they are welcome to do so.
Maybe one day one of them will stumble on the insight that the reason why us girls listen and absorb and talk all at the same time is because we’re a little b-o-r-e-d by the spectacle of four white middle-aged men in dark suits and make up and colour-coded ties shouting and roaring at each other about ethics in a television studio that’s being overseen by another white middle-aged bloke in a suit who, according to the girls last night anyways, appeared to have had a face job.
Because we are royal, of course.
Ah no, seriously, sometimes I write in the first person. As you will see if you read back through the archive, which I don’t expect you to do. Just take my word for it.
I write in the third person for a number of interlocking reasons.
I am trying to teach myself to write and writing in the third person is really difficult, so I invented Queenie to get the hang of it. Once I invented Queenie, she took on a personality of her own and some days she is in charge of the keyboard and there’s nothing I can do about it. Instead of being annoyed at this peremptory bitch taking over my blog I realised that when I want to say something that I could get into trouble over, I can just get Queenie to say it.
A bit like when I was young and made a mess and said that my imaginary friend did it.
Hope that clears that up.
The confusion, I mean, not the mess.
I have another character as well, the last surviving knight of the round table, who goes by the name of Percy, hence the name of the blog. He went bear-hunting in June and I haven’t seen him since. I reckon he’s holed up somewhere in Northern Quebec with a sexy young Separatist and I’ll see him in the spring when she tires of his unrelenting optimism in the face of whoever wins this goddamn election.
So anyways, as I was saying before I got sidetracked by the Notwithstanding Clause and HisHighness’ unfamiliarity with the traditions of royalty (a Johnny Come Lately prince I fear – Queenie is very upset by the realisation and has swept off to sulk in her boudoir), I watched the debate with some people from the party last night.
I had gotten three invitations and managed to merge two of them so that was a happy outcome. Because of course in politics, it’s all about who you’re with when the interesting stuff happens. And what witty things you said to them. And vice versa. And what insightful comments you made, which get repeated next day. And vice versa (unless you pretend you said them).
I’m still riding a wave of ‘I’m from Europe and I don’t really give a fuck about your schoolboy politics’ posturing, so I’m safe for about another month I reckon. And I can just swear if I’m really stuck. So the pressure was on everyone else.
We were two blokes and three women, then four. It was hilarious.
The girls listened intently and took it all in, and also talked about Rosebud’s makeup and how cool Giles Duceppe was and made inane comments about the whole thing, and the blokes listened intently by cocking one ear to the telly in that ‘I’m too polite to shush you but I really want to’ way that men have when you’re multi-tasking in front of the tv so effectively you’re spoiling their concentration.
Poor lambs, I’d hate not to be able to walk and chew at the same time.
Queenie used to want to be like the boys. (oh, she’s back!!) Okay, I wanted to be like the boys when I was younger. I used to hang out with the male politicos and try to keep up with the banter. And developed strategies for forcing myself into a political conversation being held by a group of men (which I can still do – it’s all about pitching your voice lower than normal). But it never got me anywhere except backed into a corner at closing time by one of them trying to get into my knickers.
So I gave up.
At least they don’t do that here.
Well, they don’t do it to me anyway. I’m probably too old for it now anyways.
A long time ago I decided that if the party blokes want to pretend they have the keener political insight they are welcome to do so.
Maybe one day one of them will stumble on the insight that the reason why us girls listen and absorb and talk all at the same time is because we’re a little b-o-r-e-d by the spectacle of four white middle-aged men in dark suits and make up and colour-coded ties shouting and roaring at each other about ethics in a television studio that’s being overseen by another white middle-aged bloke in a suit who, according to the girls last night anyways, appeared to have had a face job.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Queenie + Percy's Top Ten Heroes - No. 6
Number seven being one bear-sprayin' Albertan already mentioned this week!
From today's Observer:
I stand by my words. And even more, I stand by my right to say them
Five years ago, Orhan Pamuk wrote a novel about a poet who is snared in a political intrigue from which there is no escape. Nine months ago, Turkey's most famous novelist was pulled into just such an intrigue.
It began with an off-the-cuff remark in an interview with a Swiss newspaper. While discussing curbs on freedom of expression in Turkey, Pamuk said that 'a million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds were killed in this country and I'm the only one who dares to talk about it'.
He was soon to be reminded why. Although most of the world acknowledges the genocide as historical fact, the official Turkish line has been that 'only' a few hundred thousand died during the internecine conflicts of the First World War. To suggest otherwise - or even to use the word genocide - is to insult the nation's founding myth and therefore Turkey's honour.
So the day after his interview appeared, the Turkish press launched a fierce attack on Pamuk, branding him a traitor, accusing him of having used the virtually illegal word genocide (although he had not) and inviting 'civil society' to 'silence' him. Following several death threats, he went into hiding abroad. He returned to Turkey late last spring, hoping it had all blown over. It had not. Last August, an Istanbul public prosecutor charged him with the 'public denigration of Turkish identity'. The trial is set for 16 December. If convicted, Pamuk faces three years in prison.
When the story broke in early September, it made headlines all over the world, with writers, politicians, academics and human rights groups joining the writers' organisation PEN to condemn the prosecution. The governments of Europe were aghast, with the case raising serious questions about Turkey's attempt to join the EU. As his translator, I was only too aware that this was a bitterly ironic twist for Pamuk, who has long been a supporter of Turkey in Europe and European-style social democracy in Turkey.
Like many of his friends, I suspected that his prosecution was the work of nationalists in the judiciary who want neither. Thanks to another law, Pamuk was obliged to keep his own views on the matter private. He faces an even longer prison sentence if he talks about his case before it comes to trial.
Meanwhile, all of Turkey is arguing about the Armenians. Last month a group of Turkish scholars broke 90 years of official silence, braving court orders, death threats and fierce condemnation in the right-wing press to hold a conference in Istanbul. For the first time, Turks dared to ask Turks what happened to the Ottoman Armenians. This had a huge impact on public opinion. Although many maintain that the genocide was a fiction created by the nation's enemies, it is at least no longer dangerous to question the official line.
It was in this context that Pamuk decided a week ago to give his first interview on Turkish television since his life became a novel. It provoked strong and varied responses, with many applauding his defiance and others wishing he had been more defiant still. In one right-wing newspaper, selected quotes were rearranged to suggest that Pamuk had retracted his original statement, although in fact he reiterated it.
In some reports, there was also the suggestion that he had softened his statement in the hope it might lead the authorities to drop his case. A similarly worded article that had no byline found its way into the Guardian and other newspapers across Europe last Monday.
And so the noose tightens. What to do? Speak out and risk a longer sentence? Or stay silent and let parties unknown feed the world lies? When I met Pamuk yesterday in Frankfurt, where he is to be awarded the German Peace Prize, he was in no doubt the time had come to speak out - about the Armenians, about the law under which he has been charged, about curbs on free expression in Turkey and, last but not least, about his case.
'It goes without saying that I stand by my words,' he told me. 'And even more, I stand by my right to say them.' He went on to point out that the right to free speech was guaranteed by the Turkish constitution and that more and more people in Turkey were keen to exercise that right. 'I am very encouraged by this conference. I'm very grateful to courageous scholars such as Halil Berktay, Murat Belge and Taner Akcam who have been researching this subject thoroughly and honestly for so many years and who spoke the unsayable truth. Most of all, I'm pleased that the taboo - what happened to the Ottoman Armenians - is beginning to crack.'
It was, he warned, going to be a long and painful process. 'We are confronted with an immense human tragedy and immense human suffering we did not learn about at school. So it is a fragile subject.'
Which brings us to the word genocide. It is, he reminded me, a contentious subject even among the Turkish historians who believe there was planned and systematic slaughter. Those whose primary aim is to educate the Turkish public point out that to use the word is to shut down any possibility of a national debate.
'I said loud and clear that one million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds were killed in Turkey, and I stand by that. For me, these are scholarly issues,' said Pamuk. 'I am a novelist. I address human suffering and pain and it is obvious, even in Turkey, that there was an immense hidden pain which we now have to face.' He went on to remind me that the biggest obstacle right now was Article 301. This is a new law and how it found its way into Turkey's new and supposedly EU-friendly penal code is a subject of heated speculation.
Earlier this month, Turkish Armenian journalist Hrant Dink was tried under the same article by the same public prosecutor who brought the case against Pamuk. He was found guilty and given a suspended sentence.
'Dink is the most prominent representative of Istanbul's Armenians and after his case and mine it is obvious that if we are going to enjoy freedom of expression in Turkey, Article 301 should be reconsidered,' said Pamuk. 'This law and another law about "general national interests" were put into the new penal code as secret guns. They were not displayed to the international community but nicely kept in a drawer, ready for action in case they decided to hit someone in the head. These laws should be changed, and changed fast, before the EU and the international community puts pressure on Turkey to do so. We have to learn to reform before others warn us.'
But what has Pamuk himself learned from the last nine months? 'In the beginning I felt very isolated,' he admitted. 'But I've seen so many people back me, in Turkey and in the international community. I am flattered and honoured to be the focus of all this concern. It is thanks to their support that I can defend freedom of speech.'
This, he said, was the burning issue in Turkey, and it was, and would continue to be, a subject dear to his heart. In his speech today he will be arguing that the novelist's most important political act is the imaginative exploration of the 'other', the 'stranger', the 'enemy who resides in all our minds'. Politics in the art of the novel is the author's identification with the downtrodden and the marginalised. The Kurd in Turkey and the Turk in Germany.
And the prize? 'I hope it is not just a political gesture but also a celebration of my years of humble and devoted service to the novel. I have been writing novels for 30 years, like a clerk. Though, unfortunately, not in the last month. I hope I can return to my desk soon.' But Pamuk is not looking for a pardon: 'I'm going to face this case.'
In this regard, at least, he hopes to part ways with Kar, the poet in his novel Snow. Pulled into a political intrigue and feeling 'trapped on all sides', Kar's response was to try to run away. 'He was an unhappy person who was forced to be cynical,' Pamuk said. 'But I am a happier person. I embrace the responsibility that has fallen on me and will pursue this to the end.'
Pamuk: a life in writing
Orhan Pamuk was born in Istanbul on 7 June 1952 and, apart from two years in New York, he has spent his life in the same district of the city and now lives in the building where he was brought up.
His first novel to appear in English was called The White Castle, about an Ottoman astrologer who buys a Venetian astronomer as a slave.
His novel My Name is Red, set in the 16th century, tells of murder and artistic intrigues among the Islamic miniaturists in the Ottoman court. Its success, by Turkish standards, was astronomic and his publishers opened a court action against a newspaper which refused to believe published sales figures of 100,000 copies. The book sold half as many again.
His seventh and most critically acclaimed novel is Snow. It deals with what happens in the margins of the Western world.The Canadian author Margaret Atwood called Snow 'an engrossing feat of tale-spinning and essential reading for our times'.
His books have been burned at a nationalist demonstration, and his photograph was shredded at a rally. Hürriyet, Turkey's largest newspaper, called Pamuk an 'abject creature'.
From today's Observer:
I stand by my words. And even more, I stand by my right to say them
Five years ago, Orhan Pamuk wrote a novel about a poet who is snared in a political intrigue from which there is no escape. Nine months ago, Turkey's most famous novelist was pulled into just such an intrigue.
It began with an off-the-cuff remark in an interview with a Swiss newspaper. While discussing curbs on freedom of expression in Turkey, Pamuk said that 'a million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds were killed in this country and I'm the only one who dares to talk about it'.
He was soon to be reminded why. Although most of the world acknowledges the genocide as historical fact, the official Turkish line has been that 'only' a few hundred thousand died during the internecine conflicts of the First World War. To suggest otherwise - or even to use the word genocide - is to insult the nation's founding myth and therefore Turkey's honour.
So the day after his interview appeared, the Turkish press launched a fierce attack on Pamuk, branding him a traitor, accusing him of having used the virtually illegal word genocide (although he had not) and inviting 'civil society' to 'silence' him. Following several death threats, he went into hiding abroad. He returned to Turkey late last spring, hoping it had all blown over. It had not. Last August, an Istanbul public prosecutor charged him with the 'public denigration of Turkish identity'. The trial is set for 16 December. If convicted, Pamuk faces three years in prison.
When the story broke in early September, it made headlines all over the world, with writers, politicians, academics and human rights groups joining the writers' organisation PEN to condemn the prosecution. The governments of Europe were aghast, with the case raising serious questions about Turkey's attempt to join the EU. As his translator, I was only too aware that this was a bitterly ironic twist for Pamuk, who has long been a supporter of Turkey in Europe and European-style social democracy in Turkey.
Like many of his friends, I suspected that his prosecution was the work of nationalists in the judiciary who want neither. Thanks to another law, Pamuk was obliged to keep his own views on the matter private. He faces an even longer prison sentence if he talks about his case before it comes to trial.
Meanwhile, all of Turkey is arguing about the Armenians. Last month a group of Turkish scholars broke 90 years of official silence, braving court orders, death threats and fierce condemnation in the right-wing press to hold a conference in Istanbul. For the first time, Turks dared to ask Turks what happened to the Ottoman Armenians. This had a huge impact on public opinion. Although many maintain that the genocide was a fiction created by the nation's enemies, it is at least no longer dangerous to question the official line.
It was in this context that Pamuk decided a week ago to give his first interview on Turkish television since his life became a novel. It provoked strong and varied responses, with many applauding his defiance and others wishing he had been more defiant still. In one right-wing newspaper, selected quotes were rearranged to suggest that Pamuk had retracted his original statement, although in fact he reiterated it.
In some reports, there was also the suggestion that he had softened his statement in the hope it might lead the authorities to drop his case. A similarly worded article that had no byline found its way into the Guardian and other newspapers across Europe last Monday.
And so the noose tightens. What to do? Speak out and risk a longer sentence? Or stay silent and let parties unknown feed the world lies? When I met Pamuk yesterday in Frankfurt, where he is to be awarded the German Peace Prize, he was in no doubt the time had come to speak out - about the Armenians, about the law under which he has been charged, about curbs on free expression in Turkey and, last but not least, about his case.
'It goes without saying that I stand by my words,' he told me. 'And even more, I stand by my right to say them.' He went on to point out that the right to free speech was guaranteed by the Turkish constitution and that more and more people in Turkey were keen to exercise that right. 'I am very encouraged by this conference. I'm very grateful to courageous scholars such as Halil Berktay, Murat Belge and Taner Akcam who have been researching this subject thoroughly and honestly for so many years and who spoke the unsayable truth. Most of all, I'm pleased that the taboo - what happened to the Ottoman Armenians - is beginning to crack.'
It was, he warned, going to be a long and painful process. 'We are confronted with an immense human tragedy and immense human suffering we did not learn about at school. So it is a fragile subject.'
Which brings us to the word genocide. It is, he reminded me, a contentious subject even among the Turkish historians who believe there was planned and systematic slaughter. Those whose primary aim is to educate the Turkish public point out that to use the word is to shut down any possibility of a national debate.
'I said loud and clear that one million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds were killed in Turkey, and I stand by that. For me, these are scholarly issues,' said Pamuk. 'I am a novelist. I address human suffering and pain and it is obvious, even in Turkey, that there was an immense hidden pain which we now have to face.' He went on to remind me that the biggest obstacle right now was Article 301. This is a new law and how it found its way into Turkey's new and supposedly EU-friendly penal code is a subject of heated speculation.
Earlier this month, Turkish Armenian journalist Hrant Dink was tried under the same article by the same public prosecutor who brought the case against Pamuk. He was found guilty and given a suspended sentence.
'Dink is the most prominent representative of Istanbul's Armenians and after his case and mine it is obvious that if we are going to enjoy freedom of expression in Turkey, Article 301 should be reconsidered,' said Pamuk. 'This law and another law about "general national interests" were put into the new penal code as secret guns. They were not displayed to the international community but nicely kept in a drawer, ready for action in case they decided to hit someone in the head. These laws should be changed, and changed fast, before the EU and the international community puts pressure on Turkey to do so. We have to learn to reform before others warn us.'
But what has Pamuk himself learned from the last nine months? 'In the beginning I felt very isolated,' he admitted. 'But I've seen so many people back me, in Turkey and in the international community. I am flattered and honoured to be the focus of all this concern. It is thanks to their support that I can defend freedom of speech.'
This, he said, was the burning issue in Turkey, and it was, and would continue to be, a subject dear to his heart. In his speech today he will be arguing that the novelist's most important political act is the imaginative exploration of the 'other', the 'stranger', the 'enemy who resides in all our minds'. Politics in the art of the novel is the author's identification with the downtrodden and the marginalised. The Kurd in Turkey and the Turk in Germany.
And the prize? 'I hope it is not just a political gesture but also a celebration of my years of humble and devoted service to the novel. I have been writing novels for 30 years, like a clerk. Though, unfortunately, not in the last month. I hope I can return to my desk soon.' But Pamuk is not looking for a pardon: 'I'm going to face this case.'
In this regard, at least, he hopes to part ways with Kar, the poet in his novel Snow. Pulled into a political intrigue and feeling 'trapped on all sides', Kar's response was to try to run away. 'He was an unhappy person who was forced to be cynical,' Pamuk said. 'But I am a happier person. I embrace the responsibility that has fallen on me and will pursue this to the end.'
Pamuk: a life in writing
Orhan Pamuk was born in Istanbul on 7 June 1952 and, apart from two years in New York, he has spent his life in the same district of the city and now lives in the building where he was brought up.
His first novel to appear in English was called The White Castle, about an Ottoman astrologer who buys a Venetian astronomer as a slave.
His novel My Name is Red, set in the 16th century, tells of murder and artistic intrigues among the Islamic miniaturists in the Ottoman court. Its success, by Turkish standards, was astronomic and his publishers opened a court action against a newspaper which refused to believe published sales figures of 100,000 copies. The book sold half as many again.
His seventh and most critically acclaimed novel is Snow. It deals with what happens in the margins of the Western world.The Canadian author Margaret Atwood called Snow 'an engrossing feat of tale-spinning and essential reading for our times'.
His books have been burned at a nationalist demonstration, and his photograph was shredded at a rally. Hürriyet, Turkey's largest newspaper, called Pamuk an 'abject creature'.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
NARRATOR 5: Our intrepid heroes are thinking about heading into the sunset
Okay, I’m sick of this. I’ve been sat, perfectly manicured fingers poised over the keyboard, for a month now, while Queenie + Percy toss ideas round. But there’s a grey pall of writer’s block and cigarette smoke hanging over the apartment.
We’ve tried everything. We cleared out the mancupboard. Sean Bean has gone on holidays; up north to a little town by the sea. Nobody wanted to take on Clive Owen, so he’s gone fuck knows where.
We called in Colombo and she threw a few ideas into the pot. All Colombo-type ideas, mind, such as, could we do a bit of back-story because she was confused about the characters. Our intrepid heroes thought about that for a while. Nah! How confusing can three characters be? Anyways, we don’t want to remove that air of mystery we’ve engendered.
We took a few days off work to try and nail this episode. Queenie cleverly scuppered that by installing broadband the day before we started. Now it’s day four, not an inch of the internet unexplored and still nothing done.
I suggested we introduce a new character, a guy who’s appeared on the scene, well my scene in particular, in recent weeks. But Queenie felt that might confuse Colombo even more. I’m a bit pissed at that, I think Queenie just doesn’t want to share me with anyone.
So we’re sitting around drinking coffee, and nobody can leave the flat until this gets done.
Percy is sitting in a corner sharpening his sword. The sound is making my teeth scream. If ever there was a living metaphor for ‘I need to get laid’, then it’s Percy sitting in a corner sharpening his sword.
Queenie is trying to get her iTunes to come up with a publishable Party Shuffle, but it’s not happening. Why did she import the goddamn Bonnie Rait album if it offends her so much? I ask you.
Then Queenie had a brainwave. Let’s do a list she said. The internet is full of lists. And you can be funny and rant in a list. And you don’t have to worry about narrative or pacing or character development or anything.
“What kind of list”, says I. She mulls this over for a moment and then says, a list of reasons why we should cross the ocean to continue our Quest.
Percy stopped sharpening sharpish at the sound of that. He lifted his head, and there was such a piteous look of hope in his soft eyes that even I was moved.
“Cross the ocean?”
Queenie smiles over at him. “Yeah, dude.”
“To America?”
“No. Not to America, to Canada." I thought Percy was going to burst into tears, so Queenie said hurriedly,
It’s right beside America and it’s much nicer.”
"Right beside?"
"Yup."
"When are we going?"
Queenie shifted uncomfortably. We need to think about this, dude. And then we need to decide. And then we need to find a manbag that you can fit into.
"Soon, though?"
"Yes, Percy. Soon."
His smile could have powered Clare Island for several days.
We’ve tried everything. We cleared out the mancupboard. Sean Bean has gone on holidays; up north to a little town by the sea. Nobody wanted to take on Clive Owen, so he’s gone fuck knows where.
We called in Colombo and she threw a few ideas into the pot. All Colombo-type ideas, mind, such as, could we do a bit of back-story because she was confused about the characters. Our intrepid heroes thought about that for a while. Nah! How confusing can three characters be? Anyways, we don’t want to remove that air of mystery we’ve engendered.
We took a few days off work to try and nail this episode. Queenie cleverly scuppered that by installing broadband the day before we started. Now it’s day four, not an inch of the internet unexplored and still nothing done.
I suggested we introduce a new character, a guy who’s appeared on the scene, well my scene in particular, in recent weeks. But Queenie felt that might confuse Colombo even more. I’m a bit pissed at that, I think Queenie just doesn’t want to share me with anyone.
So we’re sitting around drinking coffee, and nobody can leave the flat until this gets done.
Percy is sitting in a corner sharpening his sword. The sound is making my teeth scream. If ever there was a living metaphor for ‘I need to get laid’, then it’s Percy sitting in a corner sharpening his sword.
Queenie is trying to get her iTunes to come up with a publishable Party Shuffle, but it’s not happening. Why did she import the goddamn Bonnie Rait album if it offends her so much? I ask you.
Then Queenie had a brainwave. Let’s do a list she said. The internet is full of lists. And you can be funny and rant in a list. And you don’t have to worry about narrative or pacing or character development or anything.
“What kind of list”, says I. She mulls this over for a moment and then says, a list of reasons why we should cross the ocean to continue our Quest.
Percy stopped sharpening sharpish at the sound of that. He lifted his head, and there was such a piteous look of hope in his soft eyes that even I was moved.
“Cross the ocean?”
Queenie smiles over at him. “Yeah, dude.”
“To America?”
“No. Not to America, to Canada." I thought Percy was going to burst into tears, so Queenie said hurriedly,
It’s right beside America and it’s much nicer.”
"Right beside?"
"Yup."
"When are we going?"
Queenie shifted uncomfortably. We need to think about this, dude. And then we need to decide. And then we need to find a manbag that you can fit into.
"Soon, though?"
"Yes, Percy. Soon."
His smile could have powered Clare Island for several days.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
NARRATOR 4: Queenie + Percy discuss heroism in the televisual age
After the mayhem that ended our last evening together, Queenie and I pretended to be mad with each other and ran avoidance for a few days. To tell you the truth, I was a bit embarrassed. I mean, I don’t even fancy Sean Bean, I prefer my men a bit suave, you know. But it’s not often he jumps out of a cupboard in your friend’s apartment. And as I was stoned to the eyeballs on Xanax and Shiraz at the time (nice buzz actually), I missed a crucial opportunity to impress and put meeting the hobbits on the Quest agenda (Not that I believe in Quests). However, Queenie rang today and said to get my hot ass round, Percy needed our undivided. I made it conditional on revising my storage vision for the man cupboard. Queenie called me a conniving manslut and said dinner was at seven sharp.
Unbeknowst to Queenie, Percy was actually quiet because he was happy. Finally, he felt his Quest was back on track. He was surreptitiously noting what he could of the location and strengths of different heroes he saw on television. So he could ride out and marshall them. Unfortunately, they all seemed to live in a terrible, pestilence-ridden wasteland land called America, the centre of which, according to Queenie, was full of ‘droid people who deserved everything that was coming to them, and should be avoided at all costs. And he would need her help to get there. Another problem he faced was how to slip his weaponry out of the man cupboard without Sean Bean reattaching himself to his riding boot.
But this evening, Queenie had confounded his progress by hiding the remote control. ‘Swounds, she was relentless. After dinner with her and Narrator, she took his hand and said in a gentle voice that she needed him to understand that television was not real. It was an instrument for controlling people, she said. Narrator snorted at this and said Queenie must be well under control, then, seeing as how she was permanently plonked in front of it. Percy wasn’t sure what Queenie meant; he felt television was some sort of modern minstrel. Queenie thought that was a good analogy. Like cds and Playstations and chick lit novels, it was a way people kept in touch with important things like love and heroes and Quests nowadays, she told him. But unlike other minstrels, it was very powerful.
The reason it was so powerful was because everyone had one, everyone in the world almost, and so they all heard the same stories. This meant that the people who owned the stories could say whatever they liked, and everyone would believe them. And those people decided what dragons were and what heroes were, and because everyone wanted to feel the same as everyone else, they all hated these dragons and tried to be heroes like on television.
What kind of dragons, Percy wondered. Dragons such as fear and loneliness, said Queenie, the shadow crossing her face again. And what kind of heroes, he asked, a little afraid now.
Narrator, who was knelt peering through the keyhole of the man cupboard, suddenly said he could answer that, and started rummaging furiously through Queenie’s cd collection. He was looking for a minstrel called Bonnie Tyler, who had a great song about heroes, he said. Queenie got very annoyed and said she didn’t buy that kind of crap. Narrator reminded her of something called a karaoke bar in Kusadasi, 1996. They were getting quite upset about the whole thing, so Percy suggested they put on the cd made by a minstrel called the Boss. He said this because Queenie liked him. Narrator looked disgustedly at Queenie and muttered something about taking the girl out of the bog. Queenie looked at Percy strangely. You’re a lot smarter than you let on, dude, she said.
Unbeknowst to Queenie, Percy was actually quiet because he was happy. Finally, he felt his Quest was back on track. He was surreptitiously noting what he could of the location and strengths of different heroes he saw on television. So he could ride out and marshall them. Unfortunately, they all seemed to live in a terrible, pestilence-ridden wasteland land called America, the centre of which, according to Queenie, was full of ‘droid people who deserved everything that was coming to them, and should be avoided at all costs. And he would need her help to get there. Another problem he faced was how to slip his weaponry out of the man cupboard without Sean Bean reattaching himself to his riding boot.
But this evening, Queenie had confounded his progress by hiding the remote control. ‘Swounds, she was relentless. After dinner with her and Narrator, she took his hand and said in a gentle voice that she needed him to understand that television was not real. It was an instrument for controlling people, she said. Narrator snorted at this and said Queenie must be well under control, then, seeing as how she was permanently plonked in front of it. Percy wasn’t sure what Queenie meant; he felt television was some sort of modern minstrel. Queenie thought that was a good analogy. Like cds and Playstations and chick lit novels, it was a way people kept in touch with important things like love and heroes and Quests nowadays, she told him. But unlike other minstrels, it was very powerful.
The reason it was so powerful was because everyone had one, everyone in the world almost, and so they all heard the same stories. This meant that the people who owned the stories could say whatever they liked, and everyone would believe them. And those people decided what dragons were and what heroes were, and because everyone wanted to feel the same as everyone else, they all hated these dragons and tried to be heroes like on television.
What kind of dragons, Percy wondered. Dragons such as fear and loneliness, said Queenie, the shadow crossing her face again. And what kind of heroes, he asked, a little afraid now.
Narrator, who was knelt peering through the keyhole of the man cupboard, suddenly said he could answer that, and started rummaging furiously through Queenie’s cd collection. He was looking for a minstrel called Bonnie Tyler, who had a great song about heroes, he said. Queenie got very annoyed and said she didn’t buy that kind of crap. Narrator reminded her of something called a karaoke bar in Kusadasi, 1996. They were getting quite upset about the whole thing, so Percy suggested they put on the cd made by a minstrel called the Boss. He said this because Queenie liked him. Narrator looked disgustedly at Queenie and muttered something about taking the girl out of the bog. Queenie looked at Percy strangely. You’re a lot smarter than you let on, dude, she said.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
NARRATOR 3: Our Heroes are feeling a little Trapped
Queenie + Percy may both have a Quest, but after last night this mage of mosaic, this shaman of shag pile, feels they may be a bad influence on each other. Queenie had surfed along quite nicely until now, cocooned in a beige, appliqué quilt of sarcasm and irony. She mostly ignored her Quest, indulging in red wine, dark Venezuelan rum and other less widely available stimulants to blunt its niggling. Percy’s appearance, and contention that a Quest is ‘a good thing’ has required a more intense application of these blunting mechanisms, which is not having a good impact on Queenie’s ability to function in the world of the ‘droid people. She is feeling a little trapped.
Percy is also feeling a little constrained by his circumstances. The man cupboard, although fitted with tasteful and ingenious (if I may say so myself) storage solutions for small spaces (the principal design challenge was accommodating his plumed helmet), is very cramped. Along with a sense of physical restriction, Percy is having trouble thinking ‘outside the box’. His inability to concentrate on an intellectual analysis of his Quest is compounded by his reduced endorphin and adrenaline levels, due to his not having slayed a dragon in ages.
Queenie is always telling Percy that their Quests are the same. He doesn’t quite understand what she means, but he thinks it is something to do with the small, determined ache in his heart that will not go away until he has held the Holy Grail in his gloved hands and its glorious light illuminates all the nooks and crannies of his being. Sometimes, when Queenie is sitting by herself on a wet Tuesday and there is nothing on TV, her face turns in on itself and he can see the shadow of that ache flit across her dark eyes and her mouth.
However, Percy worries that Queenie is not as true to her Quest as he is to his. Often in the wee hours, when Queenie has had too much to smoke, she puts forward the proposition that they are both wasting their lives on their respective Quests, and that maybe they should just ‘be one with the ‘droid people‘. She talks a lot of nonsense when she smokes, of course, but as far as Percy can make out, ‘droid people are those citizens who do not have a Quest of their own and who only think about money, but who expect others to fight dragons on their behalf and then complain about the methods used as an excuse to avoid payment for the dragon heads. They include most people, as far as he can make out, particularly the ones whose appearance on news shows on television make Queenie shout at the television.
Those citizens irritate Percy too, but he tries to be compassionate towards them, because not everyone is blessed with the joy of a Quest. Queenie thinks Percy is a twat for thinking like that. Compassion is a bit hit and miss with her. Something to do with a world that Queenie visits five days a week in which knights allow their hunting hounds to eat each other.
Nevertheless, despite their differences, they have muddled along quite well up till now. But Queenie is quite worried about Percy. He’s been very quiet lately, and doesn’t argue with the same ferocity when she suggests giving up his Quest. She is even thinking about slinging the other two out of the man cupboard to give him the solitude he wants. Besides, they are tormenting his gentle, poet’s soul.
Clive Owen keeps banging on and on about how an evil wizard of the ’droid people called Dan Brown has already completed his Quest, and Sean Bean is adamant that the Holy Grail is in fact a small golden ring that was destroyed in a volcanic eruption in a place called New Zealand about five years ago. He reckons that Percy and he should go on a new Quest together. Preferably one that involves lots of terrified maidens.
Queenie considered it seriously. But having read The Road Less Travelled a couple of years ago, to placate her mother, Queenie knows that it’s a double-edged sword, being alone with your thoughts. And besides, who wants a man cupboard populated solely by a depressed virgin?
Percy is also feeling a little constrained by his circumstances. The man cupboard, although fitted with tasteful and ingenious (if I may say so myself) storage solutions for small spaces (the principal design challenge was accommodating his plumed helmet), is very cramped. Along with a sense of physical restriction, Percy is having trouble thinking ‘outside the box’. His inability to concentrate on an intellectual analysis of his Quest is compounded by his reduced endorphin and adrenaline levels, due to his not having slayed a dragon in ages.
Queenie is always telling Percy that their Quests are the same. He doesn’t quite understand what she means, but he thinks it is something to do with the small, determined ache in his heart that will not go away until he has held the Holy Grail in his gloved hands and its glorious light illuminates all the nooks and crannies of his being. Sometimes, when Queenie is sitting by herself on a wet Tuesday and there is nothing on TV, her face turns in on itself and he can see the shadow of that ache flit across her dark eyes and her mouth.
However, Percy worries that Queenie is not as true to her Quest as he is to his. Often in the wee hours, when Queenie has had too much to smoke, she puts forward the proposition that they are both wasting their lives on their respective Quests, and that maybe they should just ‘be one with the ‘droid people‘. She talks a lot of nonsense when she smokes, of course, but as far as Percy can make out, ‘droid people are those citizens who do not have a Quest of their own and who only think about money, but who expect others to fight dragons on their behalf and then complain about the methods used as an excuse to avoid payment for the dragon heads. They include most people, as far as he can make out, particularly the ones whose appearance on news shows on television make Queenie shout at the television.
Those citizens irritate Percy too, but he tries to be compassionate towards them, because not everyone is blessed with the joy of a Quest. Queenie thinks Percy is a twat for thinking like that. Compassion is a bit hit and miss with her. Something to do with a world that Queenie visits five days a week in which knights allow their hunting hounds to eat each other.
Nevertheless, despite their differences, they have muddled along quite well up till now. But Queenie is quite worried about Percy. He’s been very quiet lately, and doesn’t argue with the same ferocity when she suggests giving up his Quest. She is even thinking about slinging the other two out of the man cupboard to give him the solitude he wants. Besides, they are tormenting his gentle, poet’s soul.
Clive Owen keeps banging on and on about how an evil wizard of the ’droid people called Dan Brown has already completed his Quest, and Sean Bean is adamant that the Holy Grail is in fact a small golden ring that was destroyed in a volcanic eruption in a place called New Zealand about five years ago. He reckons that Percy and he should go on a new Quest together. Preferably one that involves lots of terrified maidens.
Queenie considered it seriously. But having read The Road Less Travelled a couple of years ago, to placate her mother, Queenie knows that it’s a double-edged sword, being alone with your thoughts. And besides, who wants a man cupboard populated solely by a depressed virgin?
Queenie + Percy's Top 10 Heroes of all time - Number 9
Parvati (Hindu Goddess of Righteous Indignation, Consort of Lord Shiva)
Parvati was the daughter of the mountain king, Himalaya, and a woman who did not understand the meaning of "that man's not for you".
An evil tyrant called Taraka took over the world and only the son of Shiva could save it from destruction. Shiva, the Lord of the Universe, didn't want a kid, however. He had more important things on his mind - austerity, aloofness, meditation, solitary bliss, the usual bloke stuff.
Parvati decided to persuade Shiva to save the world, and get herself laid in the process. She took herself off up a mountain and began to meditate in the blazing sun. She built four great fires to increase the heat, and meditated furiously. Her skin cracked and blistered, her hair matted, her soft eyes burned, but still she meditated.
Eventually, a Brahmin youth happened along and asked her why she was torturing herself. "My desire is Shiva, the Highest Object", she answered. The Brahmin pointed out that Shiva was the god of destruction, that he hung out in graveyards and reeked of death, that he had dodgy antecedents. Parvati told him to bog off, that Shiva was 'beyond the mind of such as him'. "Shiva is my love", she said.
Whereupon the Brahmin youth turned into Shiva. And not a pair of beer goggles in sight.
Shiva and Parvati went on to begat the war god Kumara and reveal the Tantric texts. Both of which proved very useful to a lot of people.
Parvati makes our Top Ten for persistence. Queenie would like to know what Shiva was doing checking her out, if he was so busy being aloof and unavailable.
Parvati was the daughter of the mountain king, Himalaya, and a woman who did not understand the meaning of "that man's not for you".
An evil tyrant called Taraka took over the world and only the son of Shiva could save it from destruction. Shiva, the Lord of the Universe, didn't want a kid, however. He had more important things on his mind - austerity, aloofness, meditation, solitary bliss, the usual bloke stuff.
Parvati decided to persuade Shiva to save the world, and get herself laid in the process. She took herself off up a mountain and began to meditate in the blazing sun. She built four great fires to increase the heat, and meditated furiously. Her skin cracked and blistered, her hair matted, her soft eyes burned, but still she meditated.
Eventually, a Brahmin youth happened along and asked her why she was torturing herself. "My desire is Shiva, the Highest Object", she answered. The Brahmin pointed out that Shiva was the god of destruction, that he hung out in graveyards and reeked of death, that he had dodgy antecedents. Parvati told him to bog off, that Shiva was 'beyond the mind of such as him'. "Shiva is my love", she said.
Whereupon the Brahmin youth turned into Shiva. And not a pair of beer goggles in sight.
Shiva and Parvati went on to begat the war god Kumara and reveal the Tantric texts. Both of which proved very useful to a lot of people.
Parvati makes our Top Ten for persistence. Queenie would like to know what Shiva was doing checking her out, if he was so busy being aloof and unavailable.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Queenie + Percy’s Top Ten Heroes of all time – Number 10
Cuchulainn (the hound of Culann)
Hero of ancient Irish mythology. Great hurler. Formerly known as Setanta. Was named Cuchulainn after he killed Culann’s guard dog with a perfectly aimed sliotar down the neck. When he was four.
Not to be confused with that other great hurler, Setanta Ó hAilpÃn. People from Cork think this fella is a hero, but Queenie is not, so she doesn't reckon he could choke a wolfhound with a sliotar.
Cuchulainn grew up to be the greatest warrior in Ireland. As such, he was useful to powerful people, and so was manipulated by various, nefarious rulers, such as Conchubhair of Eamain Mhaca (Armagh) and Queen Maedb of Connaught. Ended up killing his best friend Ferdia in battle as a result of her deviousness. Auld bag.
And of course, we’re still killing each other over small, boggy patches of land that wouldn’t feed a warrior, never mind a host – Queenie.
Fought the entire forces of Connaught single-handedly, after Maedb put a spell on the rest of his comrades, and when finally overcome, tied himself to a pillar and fought on. When he died, nobody would go near him to check his pulse until a raven settled on his shoulder and drank his blood.
Had a vicious temper, known as a paroxysm, or distortion. In fact, Queenie reckons he’s a forebear of the Incredible Hulk:
“he became a fearsome and multiform and wondrous and hitherto unknown being. All over him, from his crown to the ground, his flesh and every limb and joint and point of articulation of him quivered…. His mouth was twisted awry till it met his ears. Flakes of fire streamed from it…. The sounding blows of the heart that pounded within him were as the howl of a ban-dog* doing his office, or of a lion in the act of charging bears.” – The Hero with a Thousand Faces, p 333
He makes it into Queenie + Percy’s top ten, but his bad temper loses him the top spot.
If anyone has any submissions to make on the top ten heroes of all time (well this week anyway), Queenie would be interested in receiving them. But she is not interested in building a consensus here because she has to do that for a living and that’s bad enough. So the final decision is hers. And Percy’s.
* Ban-dog means female dog btw, unless Campbell meant bán, which is white in Irish. Queenie is a pedant on top of everything else.
Hero of ancient Irish mythology. Great hurler. Formerly known as Setanta. Was named Cuchulainn after he killed Culann’s guard dog with a perfectly aimed sliotar down the neck. When he was four.
Not to be confused with that other great hurler, Setanta Ó hAilpÃn. People from Cork think this fella is a hero, but Queenie is not, so she doesn't reckon he could choke a wolfhound with a sliotar.
Cuchulainn grew up to be the greatest warrior in Ireland. As such, he was useful to powerful people, and so was manipulated by various, nefarious rulers, such as Conchubhair of Eamain Mhaca (Armagh) and Queen Maedb of Connaught. Ended up killing his best friend Ferdia in battle as a result of her deviousness. Auld bag.
And of course, we’re still killing each other over small, boggy patches of land that wouldn’t feed a warrior, never mind a host – Queenie.
Fought the entire forces of Connaught single-handedly, after Maedb put a spell on the rest of his comrades, and when finally overcome, tied himself to a pillar and fought on. When he died, nobody would go near him to check his pulse until a raven settled on his shoulder and drank his blood.
Had a vicious temper, known as a paroxysm, or distortion. In fact, Queenie reckons he’s a forebear of the Incredible Hulk:
“he became a fearsome and multiform and wondrous and hitherto unknown being. All over him, from his crown to the ground, his flesh and every limb and joint and point of articulation of him quivered…. His mouth was twisted awry till it met his ears. Flakes of fire streamed from it…. The sounding blows of the heart that pounded within him were as the howl of a ban-dog* doing his office, or of a lion in the act of charging bears.” – The Hero with a Thousand Faces, p 333
He makes it into Queenie + Percy’s top ten, but his bad temper loses him the top spot.
If anyone has any submissions to make on the top ten heroes of all time (well this week anyway), Queenie would be interested in receiving them. But she is not interested in building a consensus here because she has to do that for a living and that’s bad enough. So the final decision is hers. And Percy’s.
* Ban-dog means female dog btw, unless Campbell meant bán, which is white in Irish. Queenie is a pedant on top of everything else.
NARRATOR 2: Queenie + Percy discuss the challenges facing dragon slayers in the new economy
Queenie is going through an interior design phase and keeps inviting me round. Ostensibly, it is do a fixer upper on her shelving requirements (she has a lot of books and shoes), but no matter how ingenious, quirky, or downright bitchin’ my designs are, we generally defer any decision-making with a bottle of wine and a bit of what she calls intellectual dragon-slaying. I suspect she really just wants someone to listen to her, but she’s too proud to admit it.
Unfortunately, Percy gets quite confused when we do this. One night, we were shooting the breeze about the war in Iraq when he appeared dressed to the neck in rusty chain mail wielding what I can only describe as seven foot spiked lump hammer, screaming “Where is it, Where is it?” I got quite agitated and there was a bit of confusion while Queenie found my Xanax, confiscated the lump hammer and persuaded Percy an attack was NOT imminent, and to put his pyjamas back on. Then she decided we should sort out Percy’s dragon confusion. Personally, I find rationalising with a man attired in pink girl’s pyjamas and a large, red-plumed helmet a bit unnerving (I don’t care what Wallpaper* says, pink and red never work together), so I sat back and let the Xanax warm me up and left it to Queenie.
Percy had accepted Queenie’s offer of shelter and assistance in his Quest very gratefully. As a knight and a hero he was obliged to return the favour. Besides, he liked Queenie and Narrator had told him that she was under siege from many dragons. However, he was having a lot of difficulty understanding when they attacked and how to slay them.
He explained to Queenie that previously, for centuries actually, when he came across a terrified maiden bound to a tree, he dismounted from his trusty steed and offered his services. Usually, the frightened villagers would point to the trail of destruction left by the marauding creature and show him a spot to lay in wait. Then when the dragon appeared Percy would slay him. Sometimes it took all day and he was quite tired afterwards. But exhilarated. Usually, the maiden offered him all kinds of inducements to stay on in the village and protect her, but Percy always felt pulled onwards by a deep urge to pick up the trail of his Quest.
Queenie said that might work with some chicks, but she was NOT a terrified maiden, and besides, she didn’t believe in the use of force, no, not even to slay dragons. Besides, she remarked, in that supercilious tone she used when she suspected Percy was trying to protect her, that one on one combat with dragons was not possible nowadays because they sit in their caves and rampage from afar with sophisticated technological devices.
She was adamant that Percy could not go and beard them in their caves because, she said, nobody is sure where they are, or indeed what dragons look like anymore. All we know of them is what they want us to believe, she added. It’s all about the brand nowadays, dude, she said, ‘old economy’ tactics won’t work on these guys.
Percy disagreed. When she was at work he watched television and saw many examples of ‘old economy’ dragon slaying, even though the battles were a little different to what he was used to. He had even seen one where the heroes looked like him, although generally, they were horse-mounted heroes called cowboys, or paint-streaked giants called Special Ops commanders, or rugged men called cops. But he argued that they were all on a Quest, and that despite their differences in battle tactics, they were all excellent dragon slayers.
Queenie started getting impatient with Percy then and tried to explain that there are many, many dragons in the world now, of all types with all kinds of agendas, and they are working together, which makes them almost unbeatable. Percy felt a surge of usefulness then. If what Queenie said was true, he argued, if the dragons were gathering strength again, maybe he should ride out and try to marshall a fellowship of heroes.
Queenie looked at him sadly, and was just about to speak when suddenly, Sean Bean jumped out of the man cupboard, where he had been sat listening with his pointy elbows* on his knees. To Percy’s consternation, he knelt at his feet and breathlessly mumbled an oath of allegiance to ‘my brother, my captain, my king’. Percy tried to wrestle him to his feet, but Sean Bean clung to him, sobbing. Narrator fainted. Clive Owen sniggered and continued playing Cotillion. Queenie swore at them all and went to bed.
* A badger told me this, so it must be true.
Unfortunately, Percy gets quite confused when we do this. One night, we were shooting the breeze about the war in Iraq when he appeared dressed to the neck in rusty chain mail wielding what I can only describe as seven foot spiked lump hammer, screaming “Where is it, Where is it?” I got quite agitated and there was a bit of confusion while Queenie found my Xanax, confiscated the lump hammer and persuaded Percy an attack was NOT imminent, and to put his pyjamas back on. Then she decided we should sort out Percy’s dragon confusion. Personally, I find rationalising with a man attired in pink girl’s pyjamas and a large, red-plumed helmet a bit unnerving (I don’t care what Wallpaper* says, pink and red never work together), so I sat back and let the Xanax warm me up and left it to Queenie.
Percy had accepted Queenie’s offer of shelter and assistance in his Quest very gratefully. As a knight and a hero he was obliged to return the favour. Besides, he liked Queenie and Narrator had told him that she was under siege from many dragons. However, he was having a lot of difficulty understanding when they attacked and how to slay them.
He explained to Queenie that previously, for centuries actually, when he came across a terrified maiden bound to a tree, he dismounted from his trusty steed and offered his services. Usually, the frightened villagers would point to the trail of destruction left by the marauding creature and show him a spot to lay in wait. Then when the dragon appeared Percy would slay him. Sometimes it took all day and he was quite tired afterwards. But exhilarated. Usually, the maiden offered him all kinds of inducements to stay on in the village and protect her, but Percy always felt pulled onwards by a deep urge to pick up the trail of his Quest.
Queenie said that might work with some chicks, but she was NOT a terrified maiden, and besides, she didn’t believe in the use of force, no, not even to slay dragons. Besides, she remarked, in that supercilious tone she used when she suspected Percy was trying to protect her, that one on one combat with dragons was not possible nowadays because they sit in their caves and rampage from afar with sophisticated technological devices.
She was adamant that Percy could not go and beard them in their caves because, she said, nobody is sure where they are, or indeed what dragons look like anymore. All we know of them is what they want us to believe, she added. It’s all about the brand nowadays, dude, she said, ‘old economy’ tactics won’t work on these guys.
Percy disagreed. When she was at work he watched television and saw many examples of ‘old economy’ dragon slaying, even though the battles were a little different to what he was used to. He had even seen one where the heroes looked like him, although generally, they were horse-mounted heroes called cowboys, or paint-streaked giants called Special Ops commanders, or rugged men called cops. But he argued that they were all on a Quest, and that despite their differences in battle tactics, they were all excellent dragon slayers.
Queenie started getting impatient with Percy then and tried to explain that there are many, many dragons in the world now, of all types with all kinds of agendas, and they are working together, which makes them almost unbeatable. Percy felt a surge of usefulness then. If what Queenie said was true, he argued, if the dragons were gathering strength again, maybe he should ride out and try to marshall a fellowship of heroes.
Queenie looked at him sadly, and was just about to speak when suddenly, Sean Bean jumped out of the man cupboard, where he had been sat listening with his pointy elbows* on his knees. To Percy’s consternation, he knelt at his feet and breathlessly mumbled an oath of allegiance to ‘my brother, my captain, my king’. Percy tried to wrestle him to his feet, but Sean Bean clung to him, sobbing. Narrator fainted. Clive Owen sniggered and continued playing Cotillion. Queenie swore at them all and went to bed.
* A badger told me this, so it must be true.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Narrator 1: Why Percy lives in Queenie’s Man Cupboard
Context is the wallpaper of life and I am Queenie + Percy’s interior decorator. Before I line it up for you, let me just say that I have no interest in Quests of any kind unless they are a brand of soft furnishings featured in Wallpaper*.
Percy is a scholar-warrior-poet prince, who has fallen on hard times. He likes solitude, so he can concentrate on his Quest, which is to find the Holy Grail. Unfortunately, needs must, and due to his reduced circumstances, he is dependent on Queenie’s hospitality. As Queenie lives in a small apartment, she doesn’t have a whole pile of room, so Percy has to live in Queenie’s man cupboard.
As man cupboards go it is not too bad, as Queenie is quite fussy, but he has to share it with a rough lout from the Wold called Sean Bean, who keeps attacking him with his broadsword and singing songs about a glorious era in which a knight called Sheffield Utd. slew mighty dragons called Hotspur, which Percy didn’t think was a dragon name, and a charlatan called Clive Owen, who treats him very cruelly by telling him that he is in fact King Arthur and by claiming that the fragrant Guinevere has taken up archery and painted herself blue. As if!
Queenie is quite taken with his Quest. She has an analytical mind. She talks quite a lot about thinking outside the box. Indeed the man cupboard is a box of sorts, but Percy is not sure if that’s what she is referring to. Queenie says that the first thing to do is to define what the Holy Grail is. She undertook a magic search of all the world called a Google and said there were 800,000 possible definitions. Percy is supposed to spend his days working through this list of clues, but he finds it a little daunting.
Instead, the lull in the Quest’s activities such as dragon-slaying and maiden-rescuing has allowed Percy to explore his creative side, which is also quite solitary. He writes poetry, he paints, he sneaks out with Queenie’s Canon A75 Powershot when she’s at work and fiddles with the buttons to make swirly patterns that are quite artistic. And hide the camera shake in his sword arm. And also, he’s not very good with the Google magic, which is why Queenie posts to the blog. The blog is where Queenie + Percy marshal their thoughts (ideas are great foot soldiers, Percy, and you need an army, dude, Queenie once said) and slay Queenie’s dragons.
In fact, although he doesn’t know it, Queenie is quite taken with Percy. True, his poetry is a little mawkish, and his photographs are a bit like himself (pretty but boring, she said once when they were arguing) and he rarely changes his clothes or washes his long blonde hair, but there is something about him that softens her face when she thinks of him. And of course, she is interested in his Quest, because she is on something of a Quest herself.
Percy is a scholar-warrior-poet prince, who has fallen on hard times. He likes solitude, so he can concentrate on his Quest, which is to find the Holy Grail. Unfortunately, needs must, and due to his reduced circumstances, he is dependent on Queenie’s hospitality. As Queenie lives in a small apartment, she doesn’t have a whole pile of room, so Percy has to live in Queenie’s man cupboard.
As man cupboards go it is not too bad, as Queenie is quite fussy, but he has to share it with a rough lout from the Wold called Sean Bean, who keeps attacking him with his broadsword and singing songs about a glorious era in which a knight called Sheffield Utd. slew mighty dragons called Hotspur, which Percy didn’t think was a dragon name, and a charlatan called Clive Owen, who treats him very cruelly by telling him that he is in fact King Arthur and by claiming that the fragrant Guinevere has taken up archery and painted herself blue. As if!
Queenie is quite taken with his Quest. She has an analytical mind. She talks quite a lot about thinking outside the box. Indeed the man cupboard is a box of sorts, but Percy is not sure if that’s what she is referring to. Queenie says that the first thing to do is to define what the Holy Grail is. She undertook a magic search of all the world called a Google and said there were 800,000 possible definitions. Percy is supposed to spend his days working through this list of clues, but he finds it a little daunting.
Instead, the lull in the Quest’s activities such as dragon-slaying and maiden-rescuing has allowed Percy to explore his creative side, which is also quite solitary. He writes poetry, he paints, he sneaks out with Queenie’s Canon A75 Powershot when she’s at work and fiddles with the buttons to make swirly patterns that are quite artistic. And hide the camera shake in his sword arm. And also, he’s not very good with the Google magic, which is why Queenie posts to the blog. The blog is where Queenie + Percy marshal their thoughts (ideas are great foot soldiers, Percy, and you need an army, dude, Queenie once said) and slay Queenie’s dragons.
In fact, although he doesn’t know it, Queenie is quite taken with Percy. True, his poetry is a little mawkish, and his photographs are a bit like himself (pretty but boring, she said once when they were arguing) and he rarely changes his clothes or washes his long blonde hair, but there is something about him that softens her face when she thinks of him. And of course, she is interested in his Quest, because she is on something of a Quest herself.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Apologies first - for what is to follow
Welcome to our (Percy + Queenie's) new blog.
We apologise in advance if we offend anyone. In our defense:
"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."
Anais Nin
A sarcastic, vain, opinionated, authority-hating, nicotine-addicted, "St. Emilion with her cheese" loving surrender monkey - Queenie.
Not like you at all then - Percy.
We apologise in advance if we offend anyone. In our defense:
"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."
Anais Nin
A sarcastic, vain, opinionated, authority-hating, nicotine-addicted, "St. Emilion with her cheese" loving surrender monkey - Queenie.
Not like you at all then - Percy.
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