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Gunpowder, Treason and Plot, & A Cat In A Lighthouse

Paw,My cat/kitten

Black as gunpowder

With one white mitten,

Is having the time
Of his

Life.
We are in the Lighthouse,

On this Guy Fawkes Night,

Searching down the gunpowder

The dastardly villain

Has planted.
This has been part,
Of my traditions

For years.

Straight from

My Father.
“Remember Remember The Fifth of November.”

And though I tell Paw,

The cat/kitten,

To run wild

And

Search everywhere,

In truth,

He doesn’t want to

Stray too far

From my side,

Which is fine.

For,

In truth,

The Lighthouse is

A strange

And peculiar

Place.

So he stays near

To the glow of my

Lantern,

As I go through

My ritual.

We are both pleased.

And,

Will both

Have a

Fine Fish Feast,

When Guy Fawkes is

(As he inevitably is)

Brought low.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report

DE BA. UEL

11/05/2023 0

One Flew Over The Crow Tree

For years and years a massive Murder of Crows used to fly over my house on their way to their nightly roost. They would fly across the harbour, and head for a copse of trees at a university a few miles away. They would often (or some of them) alight in a huge tree two houses down the street. There could be two hundred, and they would fill the tree, cawing and rustling and flying around. Then, in twenty minutes or so, they would be on their way.

Alas, the university cut down that copse of trees for the construction of some buildings. The crows no longer make their journey. I do not know where they now roost.

However, one recent morning, I saw a crow at The Crow Tree.

It hovered and hovered and hovered and hovered over The Crow Tree. I rarely ever see crows hover. Then it grabbed right on to the tallest piece of a branch (already denuded of leaves) and held on.

It swayed and swayed and swayed back and forth in the wind, sometimes using its wings for balance. It stayed so long that I was able to get my binoculars to watch (and totally confirm it was a crow). It was.

The crow put me in mind of a cowboy attempting to stay on the back of a bucking horse. Whoo-heee!! I imagined it saying.

All told, it clung to the branch for a minute. Then it let go, flew up, and away.

I had not seen a crow on The Crow Tree for over a year. There are still local crows, in twos and tens, on the ground and in the trees. But not the massive flock that would (I assume) take a wee rest during their evening passage. I do miss their passage from east to west, spooky though it was.

10/30/2023 0

A Snake In The Grass Is Worth Two In The Bush

Paw
My cat/kitten,
Black as Spades
With one white mitten,
Stopped dead in his tracks
And stared.
He could have been a statue.
So, I walked carefully
To stand beside him,
And also stared.
In the grass,
Perhaps a foot away,
Was a thin, long and
Young-looking snake.
It was stretched out,
In curves,
With its head erect,
And motionless.
Much like Paw.
There are not many snakes
On Partridge Island, and I have seen
Much bigger.
But, still,
It was a snake.
Paw was curious,
Cautious,
And scared.
I was careful.
Old Nick
Chose well

To use a snake,

To bring down
Humankind.
I guess we three
Waited five full minutes
With none of us moving.
So, I scooped up Paw
(He made no complaint),
And retreated the way
We had come.
I know the snake felt
Every step we trod.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

10/03/2023 0

20 September 1917 – Kafka Has A Dream of Dreams

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

20 September 1917

Dreamed a mixture. I walked – a desolate figure trudging the vast Steppes. Yet I rode wildly – a madman with my forehead pressed against the compartment window. And I saw myself as the train raced by, outlined by the yellow light of the coach; and then a slender body turning to stare at the racing train. We both hollered, but noise and distance obscured our voice. The vast Steppes turned into a castle, but the castle was displayed in the photos of a magazine, which I held on my lap in the flickering light of the compartment, as the train became engulfed by the large buildings on either side of the tracks. In the magazine there was a railway at the base of the castle, and as I looked out the window the stone walls filled the frame, each giant block wedged securely to the others, their facing protruding and rough. It was as if the train had entered a tunnel, except there was still light from the distant sky.

I turned a page, and had to squint to see the pictures. Along the whole bottom of the magazine pages, a train obscured part of the castle wall, almost becoming a part of the stones. Black and white, light and shade, blending into a sepia which smudged all the details. Was there a figure in the window?

09/22/2023 0

Birthday Bash Fit For A Pirate 19/09

My day of birth has been usurped by “Talk Like A Pirate Day” Who ya gonna call? Who do I sue? Pirates are already beyond the law. What would I do? Make them walk the plank?

But – anyway and regardless – (or should I throw all propriety to the winds and say “irregardless?) I will tout my own birth (it couldn’t have happened without me) and describe a birthday celebration I wrote some years ago.

Still waiting on that suckling pig.

There will be scampi on a plate with breakfast for my birthday.

Quarts of wild strawberries will float in flagons of cold Rhenish wine. Blueberries will be hidden by thick cream, and golden honey shall trickle from plates of buttered toast. Braces of quail and brown roasted turkey will be surrounded by steaming heaps of new potatoes and tender ears of corn. Joints of beef and lightly curried lamb will stand between bottles of red Anjou wine and jugs of red Italian fire.

A smoking, suckling pig will have bowls of dry, yellow squash at its feet and stacks of cheeses at its head. Pastry and pies and a foot high chocolate cake will stand among jars of brandied fruit. A cask of aged port will remain, to do justice at the end.

Then I shall settle back to patiently await my dinner.

09/19/2023 0

Hurricane Of My Youth

Place seems to be an important part of my memories. So, when I was seven or eight, I was on the lawn leading to the woods beside our house. This was the third house I had lived in.

It was small, one-story, and the “front door” led directly to the woods. It was a rarely used door. The door from the kitchen was the main entrance, leading to a deck, and a flight of stairs to the driveway. No one coming to the house would think of using the “front” door.

So, I don’t know why I used it that day. Perhaps the wind was exciting the trees. It was exciting me. I apparently have always liked the wind – the more and the faster the better. Still do, though – maybe – I don’t appreciate a great, rushing wind the way I used to. It can probably knock me over far more easily than in those days of my youth.

But, out in the rushing wind I was. I know it was strong enough to make me stumble, though not fall. The trees were wild. Leaves and branches and missile-any raced through the air. I pondered if I might fly along with it.

I don’t know how long I was in it. I suspect two or three minutes (every one of which I enjoyed thoroughly). Ready to fly. However, the unused front door burst open, my father dashed out, grabbed me up, and carried me into the house.

He said I was in a hurricane. He told me it was dangerous. He said not to do it again. I suspect he might have wanted to ask if I was crazy.

I generally obeyed my father, but must confess – today I did not. Nor have I done so many times in my life. I always try to get out into a hurricane. Sometimes unwisely, but generally with more attention to being careful, than I ever did going out that front door.

Just did it this morning, going out for my ten minutes in Hurricane Lee. It really is as exciting as ever.

09/16/2023 0

My Nanosecond In The Star Trek Universe On Star Trek Day

Can I use the word eons when talking of Star Trek?

Considering the time travel that often enveloped them, why – yes, I can.

So, eons ago, I wrote a script for Star Trek, The Next Generation. Memory says (and I’ve been told my memory is not up to light speed), this was the only television series that asked for, and actively used, scripts from writers outside their own stable. They used one script per season from these submissions.

So I submitted.

I had a response from Lolita Fatjo. I believe she was classed under “Pre-production”. I also thought she had a real nifty name.

I note she currently still has dealings with Star Trek, helping to facilitate Star Trek Fan conferences and arranging appearances by some of the Star Trek stars. I did not have an abundance of communication with Ms. Fatjo. I think I got a package of information about the type of thing they wanted for a script. Memory says there was a desire to have a main plot line concentrating on just two or three of the main characters. There was to be one additional sub plot. There were arcs to accommodate the commercials. I believe they hoped for some humour. And timing, of course, all was timed to the exact minute.

I followed directions and wrote a script and put it into the format and sent it off. I had two further dealings with Mz Fatjo. One told me they had received the script. The other – so deliciously close to the end of the season – was to tell me they would not be using it.

The script was called The Minstrel. In it, an alien had a musical instrument (I think a horn, but it might have been strings) that would play tunes attuned to whoever he was talking to. It had other properties, but I think I’ll keep them tucked away. You never know.

Anyway, the Minstrel would interact (per act) with the Star Trek characters. Revelations were forthcoming. Not too many special effects (which was something else requested). I received no cheques, nor writing credits, from this foray into television land.

But not all was lost.

I was writing my script in tandem with a friend who was writing her own script. News of our endeavours made the local writing circuit, and we were interviewed on regional radio. From that we were asked to speak to a couple of writing classes, and even invited to an alternate world fan club to give a reading.

We boldly went!

09/08/2023 0

31 August 1917: A Weasel Well-versed In The Ways Of The Earth

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

31 August 1917

The last night of the month. My last night in this tiny house. My last trek along the Alchemist’s Lane as someone who belongs. And soon, my last walk down the Castle steps. Which Max so dutifully counted. And after Max conveys me to the specialist, I imagine I’ll embark on the last part of my life. The power of the Alchemist’s Lane is far from spent, if one truly sees what I have turned into. There could have been no substance so base as myself to put beneath the test of smoking acid. Burning with precision into my lungs.

Since Max helped last night, there is not much for me to carry away. I might indeed be taking as little as I brought that first day. Technically, I must leave by mid-night, and I plan to walk out the door at that precise minute, turning the key in the lock at the last strokes of the cathedral bell. Of course, I don’t have to do this – no one will appear to check on me. But, I enjoy technicalities. I skirt through life on both the vaguest, and the most precise, of technicalities. After all, I am a well-trained lawyer. Like a weasel well-versed in the ways of the earth.

But sadly, this burrow must be vacated. And by its exposed front entrance, for I never had the luxury of a back escape route. But then – is that what is now being offered me? Opened for me? Not the Alchemist’s Lane, which will lead me to the city. Between the walls, through the courtyards, down the steps, and beyond the many gates. But the Tuberculous Lane, which may meander in many directions, stop at many doors, but finally – eventually – lead to the deep decent into a darkened pit. The only thing of me remaining above to be my name, carved in stone. The Herr Doktor. Not an unexpected fate. But not a fate I wish to happen too soon.

Not, at any rate, as soon as my fate to walk out that door, my few parcels and papers in hand. A lingering look upon the table, the lamp, the stove. I think I will say good bye. I think I may even say thank-you. And then, I will take a great deal of time to find my key. It will be in the last pocket I search. And I’ll close the door slowly. With care. And the key in the lock will make a noise I shall never forget.

08/31/2023 0

30 August 1917: The World Held Suspended Beyond The Massive Gates

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

30 August 1917

I’ll just leave the newspapers. They will no doubt be appreciated as fuel for the next winter. My manuscripts though – regardless of the temptation – I’ll take. The pile on the table, looming behind the lamp, I’ll take tonight. The rest tomorrow. Max has offered to carry things – no doubt thinking that what he carries, I can not burn – and has arranged to be here shortly.

What I most want to take away with me, I can’t. The comfort. The view of the Stag Moat. The Castle walls. The world held suspended beyond the massive gates. The silence. Perhaps peace – which can be many things – can also be nothing more than silence. And here is Max at my open door. His worried smile precedes him into my peaceful room.

08/30/2023 0

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