a nice shirt.
Our house, the garden, the village, and the country for a mile
or two thereabouts — this was my world, for it was all I had
known, until that last summer when a new one opened before
me at Hougham. And now that I seek an image for the
undertaking I am embarked upon, I recall a glorious afternoon
during that summer when — still unaware that I was to leave
so soon — I escaped from the confinement under which I had
long chafed and lay, exulting not so much in my freedom as
in my having stolen it, on the bank of the stream that ran
through Mortsey-wood and on to the forbidden land towards
the north.
Forgetful alike of my reasons for escaping and the precious
minutes that were slipping by, I gazed, entranced, into the
limpid depths. For there I glimpsed strange creatures that flitted
away so quickly when I looked at them that I wondered if
they were merely shadows — effects of the sunlight through
the water upon the weeds and the dappled, pebble-strewn bed
that vanished when I moved my head. And then in the
attempt to see more, I poked the weed and pebbles with a
stick, and only raised a dark cloud that obscured everything.
And though it seems to me that the recollection is like that
clear runlet, yet I have set myself to search back into my
memory. And now that I clutch at my first reminiscences I
recall only the sun, the warm breeze, and the garden. I
remember no darkness or sunlessness or shade from that
earliest time when the outlying cottages of the village marked
the furthest limits of my world.
It may be that we are aware only of the warmth and the
daylight and the sun at that most fortunate age, and that if
there are moments of darkness and cold they pass over us
like a dreamless slumber, leaving no memory behind them. Or
it may be that it is only the first touch of the cold and the
dark that wakes us from our earliest sleep.
The first moment that separates itself from what had come
before is late on an afternoon of cloudless sunshine when the
shadows were beginning to lengthen. Tired after my play, I was
swinging on the gate into the lane that ran along the side of
the garden. From the topmost lawn at the back of the house
where we were now, a series of terraced lawns descended,
linked by a gravelled path and steps and surrounded by a
high red-brick wall with espaliered apricot-trees against it. On
each terrace the walnut and mulberry-trees extended their long
thin arms protectively over the encircling flower-beds, in one of
which Mr Pimlott was now at work some distance below us.
And almost out of sight at the bottom of the garden, was the
tangle of stunted trees and thick bushes we called the
“Wilderness”
I recall the rough feel of the gate as I clasped its top in my
hands to hold myself steady for each swing. The metal spikes
were hot in the sunlight and the rust and black paint came
flaking off in my fingers. With my feet thrust between the
uprights of the gate and my frocks pressed against the frame,
I pushed off from the jamb-post bending my body one way
and then the other so that the gate swung out to its fullest
reach and then fell back under its own weight, gathering speed
as the ground sped past until it crashed home with a loud
clang. I knew I wasn’t supposed to do this, of course, and my
mother had already reproved me as she sat on a garden seat
at her work a few paces away.
Backwards and forwards I swung, lulled by the rhythm of the
squeaking hinge, with the sun warm on my face, and the soft
breeze carrying to me the scent of flowers and the smell of
freshly-cut grass. I would close my eyes to listen to the loud
buzzing of bees, then open them to gaze upwards at the blue
sky and fleecy clouds that circled dizzily over my head as the
gate hurtled downwards.
The End
of chapter 1 of yet another derivative thread that will poop out around post 37 or so.
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***********
Q
pon
bin
boom chak
free for m narrative 俺の家内の息子どうやって尊敬教える？
Note from the author: damn I forgot what it's like to have hair, this is weird. I need to buy a comb now. The other day I was walking down the street absentmindedly whistling a tune I'd heard somewhere. Someone stopped me and asked what the tune was and it was only then that I realized it was the Die Fahne hoch. I told him it was some old military tune that I'd forgotten the name of, which was technically true.
So anyway,
ass.
I mean, really,
ass.
Ass.
Ass?
ASS!!!
Booty booty booty booty rockin’ errywhere
It was a truly beautiful sight.
There are moments -- indeed, days, weeks, or even years on end -- in some people's lives where there is a palpable sense that all activity is valueless. Perhaps waking up one hopeful, sunny morning, we feel the innocent child within us reanimate, a feeling only to be shortly dispelled by the masked lie of adulthood staring back at us in the bathroom mirror. Or perhaps someone has just let us know that we were not, after all, the life companion that they thought we were, and asked that we please not visit, or telephone, or share their sheets anymore, and that we also please, at the earliest possible opportunity, stop by to claim our remaining personal belongings. Or perhaps the grandparent for whom we always felt the purest degree of love, who showed us that life could be made tolerable and joyous simply by saying the right words, or by telling the right story, or by complimenting just the right thing, has fallen into that state of being wherein the least amount of life is left in the body for its maintenance, perhaps even transforming or cruelly inverting that once luminous, generous personality into a mean, spiteful doppleganger who may not even recognize us. Or perhaps one has simply sat, unclothed, in an easy chair in one's living room in the middle of the night, and, quite unsuspectingly, been seized by the horrible, gnawing sense of all that has led up to this one point in their life, the hopefulness of their childhood, the friends lost, the trysts unrealized, the hearts broken, and has cried out to whomever might listen for an end to it all, a solution, a termination of the program before it goes even one minute further.
In such times, and many others left undescribed, many of us may seek out some form of pageantry to provide distraction, or solace. We might visit the corner cinema, or turn on the moving picture box, or eat a cake, in hopes of finding something that will either tickle us, or, more preferably, and much more rarely, provide some sympathetic resonance with our personal situation, either via particulars, or by general philosophic principle. In all cases, the success of such a venture is predicated primarily upon the quality of the skit, sitcom, or dainty consumed, and whether or not its authors are empathetic to this business of life, or mere profiteers from it. In the latter case, it is likely that the main fabric of the experience may be identified by a fundamental intention of the author to distract, or amuse; the former, a desire by the author to make everybody else feel as bad [as] he does. As such, the thinking person would have to conclude that, in general, the seeking of emotional empathy in art is essentially a foolhardy pursuit, better left to the intellectually weak, or to the ugly, for they have nothing else with which to occupy themselves. Besides, it is unsightly to feel sorry for oneself, and such "unfortunate times" eventually pass, anyway, and if they don't, then mercifully, for the rest of us at least, suicide is, of course, an option.
Most of the purchasers of this book, however, are likely sexually confident, attractive go-getters for whom grief is merely an abstraction, or, at worst, an annoyance treatable by expensive medication. Hence, they are hoping to find something which will briefly titillate or amuse them, fashionably enhance their "look," or add to their "nowness," and they have certainly made the right choice, for the comic strip medium which it employs holds no hope of ever expressing anything but the meanest and most shallow of sentiments. Indeed, the book need not be read at all, but simply placed on display as a symbol of one's youthful exuberance, like a flashy motorcar, or the music of the American south, performed by an aristocrat.
dicks out for Harambe
"I'm afraid we are all out of dicks" replied the shopkeeper, as he struggles to remember the last time he ever had customers.
"Maybe it was yesterday," the shopkeeper dribbled.
"Is ass okay?" offered the shopkeeper with an ingratiating, bucktoothed smile as he turned around and began undoing his belt.