Wednesday, June 30, 2010

How To Be Cavalier When You're Forced To Eat Your Own Horse

It doesn’t take Spock’s tricorder to detect a prevailing mood of gloom about the place at the moment. From football to the economy to the rub of UHT cheddar against the flexed pecs of a steelily enthused bodybuilder hoist from some cryogenetic Nirvana. (Or maybe your hobby is beekeeping, and you’ve run out of bees.)

That said, my DVD player is currently up the spongo, and if Spock wandered in here right now, I’d take that ole alien technology over any back-to-base warranty, especially if said spirit level fringe hairdo weirdo offered to stick around till tomorrow and mow my lawn with it.

So I wondered — what is this mood thing?

And how come we’re all beguiled by it from time to time?

Consider the cuttlefish.

(Clarification: consider the cuttlefish if you’re not a budgerigar. If you’re a budgerigar, most likely you’ll have been coaxed into squawking obscenities in preparation for some sonic outrage, so get back to pecking at the cuttlefish and keep your gob shut. I have nothing to say to any of you, you faux birds of paradise.)

I return to the cuttlefish (unpecked at) (by budgerigars) (or any flappy, wingy thing) — with its ripply ripply flipples, Mexican waves of Arabian carpets, peer-to-peer precognition up the kaleidoscopic sponk pipe.

The truth is, everyone can see into the future, but no-one can predict how they’re going to react when they get there.

Not even an as yet unborn time-travelling rapper guru.

(And who else? This is now officially a mid-post competition. You, dear reader, may suggest examples of people unable to predict how they’re going to react to situations unfolding before them, here in the comments trail prior to 23.59 GMT 2/7/10 — not only in order to win this week’s luxury crap crap crap crap crap prize, but also to have your name hallowed in joyous tones the universe over — from the gutteral grunts of the Hoibsi-Poibsi Underflubbules of Zoon Immaculatus IV, to the half dozen grobbule-popped Pustuloiti squealing in perfect harmony as they writhe in their own zit juice.)

So how are you feeling now?

With your fingers aflex in space somehow, that look (of looking/not looking — just that moment, there, gone now) on your face; that ludicrous stick-on moustache you decided might be just the thing in 1979, which has been fixed to your upper lip ever since, and persisted, unnoticed, till it fell off a few seconds ago into your pina colada?

It’s the scrawl of a lunatic upon the hard slate of indifference.

The swing thing in the fixed, capped evertude.

Is mood.

(Wax poetic, wax poetic,
always wax poetic.
Let the tallow
never be callow:
melting wax,
here it ticks.)

Time to cut to Evertude, where an heroic knight battles for mastery over a single 2-for-1 dragon offer at Tesco — the ultimate split multipack challenge...

In the castle courtyard (or the mountain eyrie, or the cloud, or the coffee-stained mouse mat you use every day like toilet paper but not quite so disposable and obviously you don’t use it THAT way — OK let’s go with that...)

Upon the mouse mat

‘Pon the mouse mat

‘Pon the mat of the mouse

‘Pon the platform of rodents, wild and swirling and hewn of mousieness electronique

Aren’t first lines annoying sometimes? When you have an idea you want to run with, but no clue how to get started? Personally, I think this is a harder one to deal with than first lines that arrive fully formed and compel you to run with their evident zestiness. Or a posse of butch Yul Brynner lookalikes. NOTHING is harder to deal with than a posse of butch Yul Brynner lookalikes (as Yul himself confessed in his autobiography, I Am Siam).

So, on with the action, even if it takes place on a giant toilet roll unravelling in the void, complete with phase shifting labrador puppies for stars...

‘Hey, listen, narrator lord, I’m here, and I’m happening, and I’m dragonic.’

I fan my fingers; think, ‘o ladybird thing, please pick one.’

The creature flitters onto my thumb, sneaks its wings between skin and cuticle.

Whoa! Momentary distraction from the emerging fiction! Suddenly, I’ve come over all personally cosmetic! Hot for minuscule dusky dragons that whoosh between my eyelashes in a unified swoop, smearing beauty onto spray of follicle in the flash of an exuberant group wing flip.

The mascara industry needs minuscule dragons thus.

Doubt they’ll invent them, however.

And now I think about it, it’s been weeks since a tickly pickly ladybird did that loopy woopy thing about one of my outstretched fingers. That’s what I like about ladybirds: they can’t be charmed into performing any kind of stunt. I’m sure there are chemicals I could use to attract them — brazen “Come Here You Beautiful Buggoid Beautie” hats I could strap to my head and power up; secret sibilations I could utter while half prone, clad in some bizarre get up that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Mamas & The Papas recording session — but I don’t want any such bug-charming pharmaceuticals anywhere near that random attraction of ladybird kind of flesh thing I have wrapped around me. It would ruin the fun.

All of which alerts me, as I prepare for the delivery of two wardrobes (and a shave), to the ticking clock that says YOU MUST STOP WRITING NOW — the ticking clock whose clarion...tock...I echo with a jokily ironic whisper of ‘OR YOU DIE’.

A shame, because I still haven’t answered the question, such as it was. The question that began first thing this morning in a shade of sickly mustard and umber (with a hint of purest vile).

Moods adrift in collisions of huge lumps of the obvious, I think it was.

And how to proceed in the fractionflash burst of their bubbles all over the Big Lumpy Stuff de la Cosmos.

Am I beguiled by some horror spectre, that visits its viral feelywarp on one and all? Or am I the agent of all this diffusional mood nonsense? The orchestrator? Director? Rider?


I had to bring it back to horses somehow, to make sense of the title of this post.

The white chargers of vim and gusto, whose hooves kick into living swirls the dust of the dead. Bleh. Ok — it’s 7.00 in the morning and it’s the best I can manage.

So — that lot. Ponies, donkeys even.

All I know at the moment (morning, sneezy, a giant leopard poised to spring from next door’s — no, wait a minute, it’s a rug on the washing line) is that sometimes the temptation to slay such a horse (or pony, or mule, or donkey, or whatever — but don’t go all DOG on me because that would be an analogy too far, especially if it was one of those piddly French dogs whose bones would snap if you hit it with a baguette) arises from the gap between blossoming milliseconds before your sorry senses have time to distinguish the size of the hole.

Especially when you’re waiting for wardrobes, or the door-to-door Free Indian Food Guy of your dreams.

It’s all you can do sometimes to don your floppy hat, twizzle your moustache to mirror your smile, and walk on in a vaguely equine manner till something equally vaguely equine comes along and says, ‘whip your legs either side of my saddle, Big Boy, and let’s charge, let’s leap over some hedges’.

So that’s what I’m doing today.

(Allied to praying that my quadruped requirements aren’t detected on the train into work by some idiot performing pig troupe and accompanying knockabout wombat mascot).


fairyhedgehog said...

Everyone can see into the future?

Except me. I can't even tell if it's going to rain or not.

Old Kitty said...

I hope you've now jumped over the hurdles and ran past the post to get inspired by Vulcan philosophy to start your FIRST LINE.

Take care

Aerin said...

This post made me seasick.

Phoenix said...

So is all this just to tell us you'll be riding your sorry ass all day long?

Whirlochre said...

A degree of communal precognition must always exist, even if errant.

Which is why brollies are always a safe bet — unless you live in Finland, where different rules apply.

Old Kitty
Plus, I've kissed Sulu.

Sorry to hear you're bilious.
Promise to be back soon
with something suitably hil'rious.

Funny how things turn out, as it happened.

Robin S. said...

Embedded in your Wild Man of Genius prose was this excellent nugget:

"That’s what I like about ladybirds: they can’t be charmed into performing any kind of stunt."

Applies to so many things worth pining for. Love it,

Robin S. said...

Ha! Just saw Phoenix's comment and about peed myself laughing. She cuts down to the core of it, and there I was waxing on about the ladybird stuff.

Whirlochre said...

A ladybird phoenix — now wouldn't that be a fine creature.