A River Ran Through It
Through the revolving doors, the foyer had a river running through it. Rich red, patterned carpet ended in a metal strip and polished tiles lead to the central feature of a model sailing ship some four metres long by four high. Beyond that there was a small rail like on a ship. Over this rail, you could see the coy carp circling in the eddies. The river water was clear and flowed seemingly backwards to a forty-metre waterfall at the top of which was a rocky outcrop with a small pagoda in the trees.
“Come on with you,” she said, running into the trees and to the right of the falls.
That was the last I saw of her like that.
Showing posts with label Extract from The Pilot's Log. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Extract from The Pilot's Log. Show all posts
Monday, 23 May 2011
The Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log Entry 110523
The Pilot has sent a whole new set of communications of the contents of his Flight Log.
This is the first of special transmissions for the Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log and not part of his exciting adventure episodes. Thank you, Pilot! These will give us a wonderful, behind-the-scenes view of things through your eyes and ears.
View this communication:
This is the first of special transmissions for the Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log and not part of his exciting adventure episodes. Thank you, Pilot! These will give us a wonderful, behind-the-scenes view of things through your eyes and ears.
View this communication:
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Extract from The Pilot's Log 3
The Pattern Jumpers.
It was snowing outside.
After checking in, I met her, at the foyer-cum-bar of the Hard Water Hotel.
She pointed out at the blizzard and into the thick of a growing storm. Her finger singled out one particular flake that swirled within the thousands: “I like that one,” she said in a deadpan voice but with a twinkling eye, “that’s my favourite!”
I spluttered. Bubbles of fake beer froth tickled my nose for an instant.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I put the drink down. Fingerprints melted on frosted glass. Rivulets ran stalks down into the paper napkin. Around the stem the sky-blue printed tissue of the petal collar expanded and made the words, ‘Hard Water Hotel’, swell into extra dimensions.
She shifted on the tan plastic barstool and placed one pink elbow on the luminous fossil-encrusted marble. She waved a circular gesture with an invisible wand into the white, salmon and flamingo architecture of the lobby.
“We are all guests. We are all travellers. Choosing when to stay and when to go will be the last great human problem,” she said.
“And who will serve? And who will build? Once all have gone, the scenario is unimaginable,” I replied from a dream thought.
“The consequences are enormous but not everyone can go. It is arguable that there aren’t consequences any longer, as we have known them, for those that will go. In the act of pattern jumping, they become permeable and mutate. They participate in a conmingling singularity.”
“My God, what shall we do? What have we done?”
“We have changed the nature of ‘we’!”
“No, we have realised the nature of ‘we’.
“Things will unfold.”
“One step at a time.”
“Moments in a line.”
“So be it!”
“Here’s to us,” she said and we raised glasses in a toast and laughed for a full ten minutes.
Then, we were quiet for ten minutes more.
“Moments in a line…” I said, musing, “… it is no longer a straight line.”
“But the line is still there somewhere in the pattern, like a simple melody in a symphony.”
“It might be necessary to hold onto that melody. It’s the ball of wool into the labyrinth. It will be a lifeline: a ladder from the deep to the heavens through the cacophony.”
“Polyphony, certainly.”
“The orchestra prepares?”
“Let us go.”
“In?”
“In!”
“One moment, then, I’ll finish my beer.”
It was snowing outside.
After checking in, I met her, at the foyer-cum-bar of the Hard Water Hotel.
She pointed out at the blizzard and into the thick of a growing storm. Her finger singled out one particular flake that swirled within the thousands: “I like that one,” she said in a deadpan voice but with a twinkling eye, “that’s my favourite!”
I spluttered. Bubbles of fake beer froth tickled my nose for an instant.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I put the drink down. Fingerprints melted on frosted glass. Rivulets ran stalks down into the paper napkin. Around the stem the sky-blue printed tissue of the petal collar expanded and made the words, ‘Hard Water Hotel’, swell into extra dimensions.
She shifted on the tan plastic barstool and placed one pink elbow on the luminous fossil-encrusted marble. She waved a circular gesture with an invisible wand into the white, salmon and flamingo architecture of the lobby.
“We are all guests. We are all travellers. Choosing when to stay and when to go will be the last great human problem,” she said.
“And who will serve? And who will build? Once all have gone, the scenario is unimaginable,” I replied from a dream thought.
“The consequences are enormous but not everyone can go. It is arguable that there aren’t consequences any longer, as we have known them, for those that will go. In the act of pattern jumping, they become permeable and mutate. They participate in a conmingling singularity.”
“My God, what shall we do? What have we done?”
“We have changed the nature of ‘we’!”
“No, we have realised the nature of ‘we’.
“Things will unfold.”
“One step at a time.”
“Moments in a line.”
“So be it!”
“Here’s to us,” she said and we raised glasses in a toast and laughed for a full ten minutes.
Then, we were quiet for ten minutes more.
“Moments in a line…” I said, musing, “… it is no longer a straight line.”
“But the line is still there somewhere in the pattern, like a simple melody in a symphony.”
“It might be necessary to hold onto that melody. It’s the ball of wool into the labyrinth. It will be a lifeline: a ladder from the deep to the heavens through the cacophony.”
“Polyphony, certainly.”
“The orchestra prepares?”
“Let us go.”
“In?”
“In!”
“One moment, then, I’ll finish my beer.”
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