Tuesday, 8 July 2008

The transparent sheathing of Noys Lambent

(originally posted on myspace here)

I was so excited when I found this Buck Rogers short from 1935. At first. Why not press play and see how long YOUR excitement lasts! Will the future REALLY be this amazing? Doctor Harlan Tarbell who directs certainly makes some very interesting choices, I will say that, I'll definitely say that, like not giving anyone a script:

So that was a little treat for us all to celebrate ONE YEAR OF BLOG! It was a shit treat as is only appropriate since it wasn't exactly a FULL year, I keep missing bits out and actually the anniversary was two weeks ago anyway but STILL... Buck Rogers sounding like Hank Hill. Pretty cool, huh?

I was supposed to be playing football this evening for the first time in twenty years, a work thing. A team was missing a goalie which is where I slipped in. I was going to be THE MASKED GOALKEEPER - If you defeat me, you may unmask me - that was how I'd play it. I wanted a kind of Super Barrio look but could only find the cardboard half-mask of a one-eyed engine driver, which is academic anyway because the whole thing was rained off, even though it was indoors. It was THAT wet a Monday. Big, fat, tree-felling rain. Actually I was planning to write about last Monday, which was lovely and had the dead smart Miss Meikle in (sorry, DOCTOR Meikle as of Friday) but no, bed. I'll log on tomorrow and as it were back up.

Of course last year I missed the football because I was playing Gangs Of Mega City One, which was the first proper post I ever did on this blog, which is what reminded me. I would take a book to bed but... well, I'm currently reading an Isaac Asimov, and Asimov isn't Dickens if you get me, his characters aren't the most fleshed out, there's a lot of scope for just imposing your own ideas of what they might be like, if you get me, but that's not the problem. No, the problem is that, going on the limited information provided by the author. I've foolhardily gone and cast in my head as the object of the narrator's infatuation Noys Lambent - a woman I now suddenly find I'm sad to be reminded of. Especially in the topless translucent 50's future-wear that Asimov has seen fit to kit out her "gluteal curves" in, the "transparent sheathing with very little else above the waist". It's a pathetic apparition, I know, but the narrator's seeing more and more of this "Noys Lambent" now and she won't cover up and I can't get past page 60 without losing my place. And I suspect that if I give up and move on to another book, my Noys Lambent will just crop up there as well somehow, that's the pisser. So I'm not doing that much reading. And I didn't ever want to feel like this again.
Well maybe I sort of did, but... This post is the only evidence that anyone got hurt, that an episode I found important actually happened at all, and that's what winds (as in being winded, not wound {as in... not as in "wounded" anyway}). And it winds for a while, it's a long winding, a gasping that just has to be seen through when you're suddenly beached by the truth: how so much of your world lately has been the happy extrapolation of really not that many facts it turns out. And how many other facts there actually are and are going to be. And how stupid they make your one projection look. And how stupid you look waving it about going "But... I did a graph! I did a graph!"

Well no poppet, you just doodled a curve. Now stop shouting.


Hopefully though in another year's time I'll read all this back and have no idea what I'm talking about.

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