˙ɹǝdɐd ǝןqısıʌuı uo pǝʇuıɹd sɐʍ ʇı sɐ ǝuıןǝɟıן ǝןƃuıs ɐ ʇnq pǝɥsıuıɟ ʇou sɐʍ ʇɔɐ ʇsɐן sıɥʇ ʎןuıɐʇɹǝɔ ˙ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝnןq ǝɥʇ ǝpısʇno ǝɹǝɥʍǝɯos suǝʌɐǝɥ ʎɯɹoʇs ǝɥʇ pǝɹǝʇuǝ ʎǝɥʇ sɐ ʎpoןǝɯ ɐ ƃuıs oʇ ǝsoɥɔ ʎǝɥʇ ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ ƃuıʎɐʇs puɐ spuɐɥ ɹıǝɥʇ pǝdıʍ ʎǝɥʇ suıʞdɐu dn ƃuıʞɔıd ˙ǝןqɐǝɯɹǝd osןɐ sɐʍ ɹǝppɐן ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ǝsıןɐǝɹ oʇ ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ƃuıʞɐʇ 'pǝɹnʇsǝƃ puɐ pǝsnɯ spoƃ puɐsnoɥʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ʇı uʍop uɐɹ puɐ pǝʌɐʍ 'sǝɔuǝnbǝsuoɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ou ɥʇıʍ 'oƃuıɯɐןɟ ɐ sǝʇnuıɯ uı ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙ʇsɐoʇ ɟo ǝpɐɯ ʎuoɥdɯʎs ɐ osןɐ puɐ ǝʞɐɟ ɐ ǝɔuo ʇɐ ǝɹǝʍ sƃuıɥʇ sɐ ɯǝןqoɹd ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ˙pǝɹɐǝddɐ pɐɥ ɹǝppɐן snouıɯnן ɐɹʇxǝ uɐ ˙ɹɐןnɔɹıɔ puɐ sɯǝʇs uo ʍou ǝɹǝʍ pǝɹɐdǝɹdun puɐ uʍouʞun ǝɥʇ ʇnq ɹǝƃuoן ǝɹǝʍ sdǝʇs uʍouʞ ǝɥʇ ˙sןɐʇǝd uɐʇ ɟo ʇןınq ɥʇuıɹʎqɐן ɐ ɥʇıʍ pǝuɹǝʇʇɐd ɹǝdɯnɾ ʞuıd pǝuɹǝʇʇɐd ɐ ǝɹoʍ ɥɔɐǝ puɐ poƃ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd ɐ oʇuı pǝƃuɐɥɔ ןןɐ pɐɥ ʎǝɥʇ ˙pǝʇɐdıɔıʇɹɐd ǝuoʎɹǝʌǝ ʇɐɥʇ ʎɹɐssǝɔǝu sɐʍ ʇı 'uıɐƃɐ ƃuıʇןǝɯ sɐʍ ǝɹnʇɔǝʇıɥɔɹɐ pɹɐɥ ǝsoɥʍ 'ɹɐq ןǝʇoɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʞɔɐq
˙sןןɐqʍous puɐ ʇsoɹɟ ǝʞɐɟ ɟo ɹɐןןoɔ ןןnɟ ɐ oʇuı pǝƃuɐɥɔ puɐ pǝןƃuıɯɯoɔ sǝןqqnq ƃuıןɹıʍs ɟo ʎuoɥdoɔɐɔ ǝןqɐuıƃɐɯıun uɐ sǝʇnuıɯ uıɥʇıʍ ˙uı pǝdɯnɾ 'ɹǝʇɐʍ ɟo ǝpɐɯ sɐʍ ʇǝןnʌıɹ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʞuıɥʇ 'uoɯןɐs ƃuıןʞuıʍʇ ǝןƃuıs ɐ uǝɥʍ sʞןɐʇs uo ǝɹǝʍ puɐ ʍǝɹƃ sǝʎǝ ’sɹǝןןǝʌɐɹʇ ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ ˙ɹǝʎoɟ ǝɥʇ ƃuıןןǝʍs puɐ ƃuıpןoɟun ǝɹǝʍ suoısuǝɯıp ǝsoɥʍ ʇǝןnʌıɹ-ɯnɔ-ǝnssıʇ ɐ oʇ ƃuıʇuıod ʎq pǝıןdǝɹ puɐ pǝɥƃnɐן oɥʍ sɹǝƃuıɟ ƃuıןɹıʍs ǝʇıɹnoʌɐɟ ɹıǝɥʇ pǝןʞɔıʇ puɐ pǝʍoqןǝ 'pǝıqqoן uǝɥʇ sʞuıɹp ɹıǝɥʇ pǝʞɔǝɥɔ ʎǝɥʇ ǝןıɥʍ ןןıʇs ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ ˙pǝʌɹǝs ǝɹǝʍ sʇsǝnƃ uɐɯnɥ ƃuınƃɹɐ '(ǝɹnʇɐu ɹıǝɥʇ uı sɐʍ ʇı) ʎsou ʇnq ǝןdɯıs ǝɥʇ puɐ pǝɹɐǝddɐ ʍous ɟo sǝʞɐןɟ ɥʇıʍ pǝʇsnɹɔuǝ sןooʇsɹɐq pǝsıɐɹ puɐ sǝssɐןƃ 'ɹǝǝq uǝɥʇ
˙ƃuıɹǝʇʇnןds puɐ ƃuıƃuɐɥɔ ǝɔıoʌ snouoɥdʎןod puɐ ʎɯɐǝɹp 'ʞɔıɥʇ sʇı 'spuɐʍ puɐ ןooʍ ǝʇıɥʍ ɟo pɹɐzzıןq ɐ pǝɥʇoɹɟ puɐ pǝpuɐdxǝ sıɥʇ 'ʇxǝu ˙ʎʞs ǝɥʇ uı ɥʇnoɯ ƃuıʇɐʇnɯ ɔıʇsɐןd uɐdpɐǝp ɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝɯɐɔ ɥɔıɥʍ spɹoʍ oʇ ǝɯıʇ uı punoɹɐ ƃuıʇɟıɥs ʎןʇǝınb 'ǝuıן ʇɥƃıɐɹʇs ǝuo uı ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ sǝʌןǝsɯǝɥʇ pןǝɥ 'sןıssoɟ uo ǝsoɥʇ ǝʞıן suɹǝʇʇɐd ɟo ǝpɐɯ puɐ dǝǝp ǝɹǝʍ sʇuıɹdɹǝƃuıɟ ǝsoɥʍ 'sɹǝƃuıɟ ǝןqɹɐɯ snoɯɹouǝ uǝʇ :uıɐƃɐ pǝƃuɐɥɔ oıɹɐuǝɔs ǝɥʇ ʇuɐʇsuı ʇɐɥʇ uı
Yours sincerely and with best wishes
B.L.Z.Bubb
Showing posts with label Log. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Log. Show all posts
Saturday, 14 May 2011
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.”
Monday, 18 April 2011
Extract from The Pilot's Log
No Earthling had ever met or seen an Andromedan before. Their envoy, Mun Tommo Bon, and his entourage had beamed down from their planet, Pandrapand, into the Presidential Suite of the Soyenski Hotel yesterday evening. It was with some trepidation that I awaited his arrival in the dining area as I was the diplomat elected to lead and represent Earth’s interests in the first day’s talks. Mun Tommo Bon, himself, would appear for breakfast at dawn before we commence a round of delicate peace negotiations between our two planets.
This was a seemingly straight-forward arrangement that soon revealed itself to be incredibly complex. The question was, ‘What do you give a visiting dignitary from the planet Pandrapand to eat’? After much deliberation, our diplomatic service agreed that the answer was… everything… just in case.
Consequently, on the morning of our first encounter, the tension was high and the buffet tables groaned with food when Mun Tommo Bon came down to breakfast at the Soyenski. Everything that could be prepared had been prepared: all we could find from the world of food from every culture of the Earth was on display.
The Andromedan ambassador was four-feet cubed and in ceremonial dress. He sat at a two-person table in the hotel dining room with his assistant, an altogether slighter but no taller Andromedan, opposite him. As decorum demanded, whilst the envoy, Mun Tommo Bon, was happy (even positively eager) to serve himself, it had been decreed beforehand that he must eat first at all meals alone and everyone else, Andromedan and Earthling, had to wait until he had finished.
It was his first morning and first meal upon our planet. He prowled the counters of food like a beast. His short neck was wider than his head and this allowed a stocky purposefulness to his swift gait. He examined the food with his eyes: the meats, fruits and vegetables that had been brought from all over the world lay before him, labelled with place of origin and adorned with little colourful flags. There were Polish breads; British vegetables; American cereals; French jams; German strudels; Norwegian fish; Belgian eggs; Chinese and Indian teas; South American and Arabian coffees; Asian Dim Sum; African fruits; Greek beans; Irish mushrooms; Italian pastas; French cheeses; Australian wines; Scottish biscuits and other specialities from every part of the globe.
He took a plate in one hand like a discus and a fork in the other like a spear. He made a fourth circuit of the counters and examined the food again with the tips of the fork: he lifted delicate slices of wafer thin ham to look beneath them; he scattered crispy bacon; he rolled olives; he shovelled muesli; he stirred soups; he crushed crackers; he catapulted peas. All the time he never looked at anyone else or spoke, he concentrated one hundred percent on the task at hand, only occasionally making short stunted grunts in the soft bridge of his broad flat nose. On the third series of examinations, this nose came into its own as dishes were sniffed; aromas inhaled; drinks smelled. Then, the fourth investigation was touch with additional sniffing of his short, fat fingertips. All-in-all there were some twenty circumlocutions of the buffet counters before he stood back and was still.
Then, he set to like a dervish, filling plates high with food and his table high with plates until every square inch was laden with dishes.
Then, again, he was still and silent with his hands on his splayed knees. He breathed deeply as though summoning a strength from the floor. His head rose as his chest rose.
A blunt nasal grunt signalled the start of his eating. He was enthusiastic and ate with gusto. He speared herring, beef, lettuce and kattenbrot on the fork together. He spat milkless cereal that stuck to the outside of his lips. He opened a small plastic container with his big hands to reveal the pale yellow margarine and licked it out of the tiny tub with his tongue. He pushed the other twelve margarine containers off the table without looking with the back of his hand. He opened a strawberry jam and dipped a pickled gherkin inside of it. He sprinkled sugar on his salad, took one mouthful and then, for the second, dipped a tomato into his bowl of milk within which two hard-boiled eggs rolled around with the jolts his enthusiasm gave to the table. He lifted this and drank. The eggs rolled onto his face and the milk poured down his cheeks like tears and then rivulets and then waterfalls. He emptied a tea bag onto a napkin that he wrapped round a sausage. He poked a grape into each open end and then placed it on the floor with a Japanese flag impaling it.
Wiping his face with a slice of white bread, he was finished.
His assistant then rose to get food for himself. Whilst he was away at the counters, a waitress began to clear the debris from the table. Mun Tommo Bon, beastlike, eyed her every move intently, not in a sexual way but as though considering whether he could manage one more bite to eat.
The assistant returned to the small space cleared for him in the chaotic rubble of waste food. He ate a croissant with marmalade, a piece of light toast with a piece of Cheddar cheese sliced neatly with a butter knife. He sipped a cranberry juice, wiped his mouth with a napkin before placing his knife and fork together on the plate. Mun Tommo Bon waited with his hands again on his angled knees, his shoulders slowly rising and falling.
Breakfast over, it was time for the negotiations to begin.
This was a seemingly straight-forward arrangement that soon revealed itself to be incredibly complex. The question was, ‘What do you give a visiting dignitary from the planet Pandrapand to eat’? After much deliberation, our diplomatic service agreed that the answer was… everything… just in case.
Consequently, on the morning of our first encounter, the tension was high and the buffet tables groaned with food when Mun Tommo Bon came down to breakfast at the Soyenski. Everything that could be prepared had been prepared: all we could find from the world of food from every culture of the Earth was on display.
The Andromedan ambassador was four-feet cubed and in ceremonial dress. He sat at a two-person table in the hotel dining room with his assistant, an altogether slighter but no taller Andromedan, opposite him. As decorum demanded, whilst the envoy, Mun Tommo Bon, was happy (even positively eager) to serve himself, it had been decreed beforehand that he must eat first at all meals alone and everyone else, Andromedan and Earthling, had to wait until he had finished.
It was his first morning and first meal upon our planet. He prowled the counters of food like a beast. His short neck was wider than his head and this allowed a stocky purposefulness to his swift gait. He examined the food with his eyes: the meats, fruits and vegetables that had been brought from all over the world lay before him, labelled with place of origin and adorned with little colourful flags. There were Polish breads; British vegetables; American cereals; French jams; German strudels; Norwegian fish; Belgian eggs; Chinese and Indian teas; South American and Arabian coffees; Asian Dim Sum; African fruits; Greek beans; Irish mushrooms; Italian pastas; French cheeses; Australian wines; Scottish biscuits and other specialities from every part of the globe.
He took a plate in one hand like a discus and a fork in the other like a spear. He made a fourth circuit of the counters and examined the food again with the tips of the fork: he lifted delicate slices of wafer thin ham to look beneath them; he scattered crispy bacon; he rolled olives; he shovelled muesli; he stirred soups; he crushed crackers; he catapulted peas. All the time he never looked at anyone else or spoke, he concentrated one hundred percent on the task at hand, only occasionally making short stunted grunts in the soft bridge of his broad flat nose. On the third series of examinations, this nose came into its own as dishes were sniffed; aromas inhaled; drinks smelled. Then, the fourth investigation was touch with additional sniffing of his short, fat fingertips. All-in-all there were some twenty circumlocutions of the buffet counters before he stood back and was still.
Then, he set to like a dervish, filling plates high with food and his table high with plates until every square inch was laden with dishes.
Then, again, he was still and silent with his hands on his splayed knees. He breathed deeply as though summoning a strength from the floor. His head rose as his chest rose.
A blunt nasal grunt signalled the start of his eating. He was enthusiastic and ate with gusto. He speared herring, beef, lettuce and kattenbrot on the fork together. He spat milkless cereal that stuck to the outside of his lips. He opened a small plastic container with his big hands to reveal the pale yellow margarine and licked it out of the tiny tub with his tongue. He pushed the other twelve margarine containers off the table without looking with the back of his hand. He opened a strawberry jam and dipped a pickled gherkin inside of it. He sprinkled sugar on his salad, took one mouthful and then, for the second, dipped a tomato into his bowl of milk within which two hard-boiled eggs rolled around with the jolts his enthusiasm gave to the table. He lifted this and drank. The eggs rolled onto his face and the milk poured down his cheeks like tears and then rivulets and then waterfalls. He emptied a tea bag onto a napkin that he wrapped round a sausage. He poked a grape into each open end and then placed it on the floor with a Japanese flag impaling it.
Wiping his face with a slice of white bread, he was finished.
His assistant then rose to get food for himself. Whilst he was away at the counters, a waitress began to clear the debris from the table. Mun Tommo Bon, beastlike, eyed her every move intently, not in a sexual way but as though considering whether he could manage one more bite to eat.
The assistant returned to the small space cleared for him in the chaotic rubble of waste food. He ate a croissant with marmalade, a piece of light toast with a piece of Cheddar cheese sliced neatly with a butter knife. He sipped a cranberry juice, wiped his mouth with a napkin before placing his knife and fork together on the plate. Mun Tommo Bon waited with his hands again on his angled knees, his shoulders slowly rising and falling.
Breakfast over, it was time for the negotiations to begin.
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