"Pound as in the pounding of these zammoths' feet?"
"What zammoths? The ones to our right?"
"The ones I'm pointing at. Well, yeah, those ones, okay. God. So I wasn't exactly pointing at them. But yeah. God."
"No. Pounds as in insert-national-currency-here. The future has no regulated currency."
"Oh, and air?"
"No. And no zammoths. They're hallucinations. This planet's atmosphere is too thin. We're dying of radiation sickness."
"Speak for yourself. My body's packing in because it doesn't know how to function on a planet that has only a third of Earth's gravity. Hey, where are those guys going?"
As America marks Bonfire Night just as we marked Independence Day, let's let it happen and just crawl down a hole, because it's all okay, look into the screen, closer, I found the hole. Come on. Let's go. Just for now. Into the screen...
Once you're out, don't look up how old Kane Pixels is (no relation) or how he shot this. But do look up parts three and one, especially if you're into horror and general and zillenial definitions of the liminal (both thresholds and corridors) because both The Oldest View and its creator are doing something quite firsty. In fact, look up how it was shot as well, and maybe also look at this video about Utopian Botanist Julien Bercheron and the Vally View Mall, Texas, which mysteriously appeared once in my recommendations, and led me to this hole.)
Being further unsorted contributions to the Church of the Cosmic Platypus, salvaged over the course of two seasons working at "Phantom Peak" from Pius' easel in the corner of Old Town, together with illuminations –
some by the author – also sundry anonymous annotations (click to embiggen)...
"Platypus Vobiscum. That's how you work the system. When it works, it works. Peace. Peace. Stop saying Peace. Take. For example take a moment. Did you mean Piece? Do you remember the psalm about the jigsaw? He puts pieces in the jigsaw. And he starts with the corners. The jigsaw is the pieces. Pushing can be pulled. Ink can run out. And then come back. Personally hopping about on the track, listening for rumbling.
Back to the Circle. Start again. Start at the side."
"Well we start there. Stop saying Stop.
Leave me be believe me. NOT EVERYTHING IS A CLUE! THERE you are, you
naughty little bargain. I'm not saying the gloves are 'off' off, but
nobody seems to be wearing gloves. 'I literally just got off my horse.'
It is perfectly possible to exist in a state where you can INSTANTLY
decide what being – say – this pen feels like. Or the candles. But I
don't know you can do it with your eyes closed. Or you would do it
differently. The whole concept of 'wrong', in a way, is – Oh I wanted to say 'wrong'. But."
"Is any dance a mandatory movement?
Vanity. Vanity. All is vanity. Apart from dressing as an Oompah Loompah.
Mockery is the sincerest form of flattery. No? But mockery just means imitiation.
In
spite of its numerous legs and armour, the millipede is not the
strongest animal in the pet shop. The strongest animal in the pet shop
is the shopkeeper, for they feed the pets."
"The olden times had no eraser. So sometimes the angels would just look
like bats. Imagine if angels hated their wings. What works is a piece of
man."
"Who
was the first to sit down? When we were shrews, did one of us sit down
and realise our hands were now free. But they had not the strength to
use them. The more shoes I wear, the more I realise how little I
understand about shoes. They go up and down with your feet.
But how?
I'm bang on time, and now does Time bang on me. Ribbons. Safer than candles. Three & four & never more."
"This is why old Mister Sleevey is very
careful about where he sets up his knockoffables. And a good scribe
always knows where the paper ends.
I
met a blogger from some retro land who said 'Two massive kneecaps –
nobody knows whose – take up the landing, hairy lean and tanned. I think
they might belong to Nerys Hughes, but now I can't remember how this
poem originally scanned.' That's all they said. Then, falling on their
face – as if to salvage some measure of grace, after such a dwindling
finish – they uttered one last 'Thanks' in accents tinnish. But I would
not be moved. I stood there still. I mean still like – oh, you know. And
moved, as in Not here because they're there now.
All water is a feature. Even ice.
'a' came after 'the' because it changes the subject.
INFECTIOUS"
"Ordinarily this is not a forum for factional hoots. Changing one's mind
can be be very useful. Two types – at least – of crossing out (motives
for deletion) A mistake or a change of heart."
"This is just to say that
I have sold the elephant
foot umbrella stand
Things fall on my back. And the trays are wet. And the shirts we wash are never as clean as the shirts we didn't buy.
Handwriting
wasn't always calligraphy. Who wants to learn cursive when you can
sprout the sentence separate and friendly. Not formal and exclusive. And
when did exclusive become a compliment?"
"I've drawn a little city. It's looking pretty pretty.
One can imagine the future, and spend all that time grieving.
SINGS:
Elbows and kneecaps and drops of brown liquid. Nicknames that hurt like
a stone or a stick would. Hairplugs that give you a tickle-y cough.
These are some things that I hope will fall off. Hubcaps and
breezeblocks and bits of old sofa. Pablo Neruda and Gordon the Gopher.
These lines are but a fraction of my contribution to "Phantom Peak" as Pius, High Priest of the Church of the Cosmic Platypus, mini-penned at an easel in the corner of Old Town, where I would sit to receive tourists as part of a step on their trail. (Everyone who visits Phantom Peak is a "tourist", including those who know the place far better than me, and have made even greater contributions.) My character's dependence upon psychedelic fungus after an orchestrated blimp crash is one of the few details of the world's deep lore I was sure completely of. When a message like the following would pop up from a Head of Department on our work WhatsApp –
– uncaptioned, I might be thrown, but I'd figure if I needed to know what it meant, I'd know, and that generally proved correct. Another contribution, perhaps my proudest, was the innovation on day one of asking tourists, once our scripted interaction had been logged: "Would you like to take a moment?" It was fascinating how well this offer nearly always went down. People seemed genuinely delighted to be just standing still for six seconds or so, stopping, and insufferably, I began to feel like an actual church. Any post introducing Peak though, should really be about the extraordinary company I worked with, but I'm making this all about me because taking a moment is how I've been spending my fiftieth birthday. Today's been lovely. Thanks to all who've said and sent nice things. According to this mural in Strangers' Hall, Norwich, I am now finally half-way through my life! I'm now trying to remember one of Pius' sign-offs.
Ah, yeah: Nine out of ten.
Photo credit: I've become lax, sorry. If anyone knows who took that picture of me, let me know.
Happy Hallow, as I guess today is! Above is not a picture of Hallowe'en. I have not been working here over Hallowe'en. God knows what's happened to the poor, brave souls who are. The work WhatsApp currently reads like the transcription of a black box. Lois has lost a finger, and I'm writing this on the train to York. I only hope they forgive my abandoning them.
“Why, to the North Po- to Whitechap- to London Bridge, of course! This is the Polar Exp- the Ten Bell- the Star Inn!”
When my job as a conductor on the Mid-Norfolk Polar Express ended in December, I knew I wanted the New Year to be, above all else, one in which I continued to play people who carry a hurricane lamp. No, I wanted to continue doing improvisation-friendly, site-specific shift work with a regular band of friends as I wrote last post, and the London Bridge Experience was my first themepunk gig of 2024. (I am committed to trying to make "themepunk" a thing. Sorry, it's my blog.)
London Bridge! History!
It was a return to Tooley Street, and to reading on the floor between shows, and writing your own script if you wanted to just as the London Dungeon had let you do when it was the rival across the road. It was also a return to painting myself a better jawline and cheekbones.
Look at this dashing rake! Who needs appetite supressants? Compare the portrait above taken when I started work at the LBE this February, to one below of me posing next to a stuffed tapir in Bedlam at the Dungeons in 2007, and you’ll see full rejuvenation was achieved. The dead don't age (although my phones seem to have got worse).
The LBE used some of the pumped odours too – and you know what that does to a pysche – and even some of the tunes: ducking out of Fleshmongers, past the giant spiders and through the labyrinth of killer clowns to check on my microwaved Shanghai rice in the green room, I’d hear the same plainsong which used to play on the steps to the boat ride a decade and a half ago…
There were differences too, of course: old Horror posters on the wall as you enter, which made me feel more at home than ever, real swords and a fake Viking longboat, chainsaws, Romans, a wall of broken dolls, and the fact this place is genuinely underground (I turned my flash on one day, and you don’t get gastropodinous limestone arteries like this in County Hall...)
Everyone there works their arse off as well, like they grew up through Covid or something. Physically, verbally, chemically, no two actors share a superpower. I think it’s the only job on which I’ve lost my voice – bloody Vikings – which is another reason I've been taking it a bit easier. so, okay, the dead do age. But, readers... work with people who work their arse off. I don't mean losing a finger. I mean, say: okay, between bouts of bursting through a blood-drenched shower curtain, for example, Sam's at his laptop in the green room, putting together something like this beautifully simple, one-shot unnerver below. Enjoy! There’s Jess and Preston in the bushes too. God, I hope they're okay.
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