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What's New? OR: 'Yo, ladies ... What's happenin? Whatever Next? [ Downs Lord Triptych / The Two Confessions / Amy-Faith & the Stronghold] | Dispatch dated 18th March 2006 ****** If apologies are due for the prolonged absence of an update to this site, then consider them offered. And thank you for the kind e-mails from fans as far afield as Australia, Israel, the Baltic States and Berkshire, which have prodded me into long overdue action. I didn't know you cared... Blinking in the unaccustomed light of the world-wide web, this troglodyte can only offer the following stumbling defence for the coma-style holiday:
Having said that, there are, I suppose, a few things to impart to those who wish to know. Item: The aforementioned book got finished and was delivered, sleek (well, as sleek as 100,000 words can be) and shiny into the misguided hands of those who commissioned it, well before deadline. Thus 2005 gave birth to 'Frankenstein's Legions', mentioned before in this site ( see 'Dispatch 19' ). It awaits the editorial equivalent of circumcision and then, shortly after ( not, I hope, the prescribed 13 years ) its bar mitzvah and entry as a notionally grown-up tome into the wicked world of publishing. As to what it's about, the premise is that Frankensteinian science didn't die with its inventor but passed down the family line ( like haemophilia, or a curse ) and into promiscuous usage. There, of course, it was straightaway put to nationalist and warlike work... Already, the livelier sort of reader will have conceived the notion that the existence of recyclable armies with little quality of life to lose might well make wars more likely, longer and... some other alliterative word beginning with 'l' meaning ghastly. They're quite right. I hasten to say, however, that the book is not some gore-drenched hack n' slay zombie fest. How could that be so when the subtle spirit of one of my favourite Machiavellians, Charles Maurice Talleyand de Perigord, master diplomat and statesman ( 1754 - 1838 ) directs much of the events therein ? Instead, expect Christmas-proportion presents of gothic style and gallows humour, all wrapped up in a ripping good yarn. Though I say so myself... And no, I've deliberately never so much as opened a copy of Susanna Clarke's 'Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell', let alone read it, for fear of cross-fertilisation (if you see what I mean...). That is a treat I shall have to postpone. But in the meanwhile, good luck to the charming Ms Clarke ( who I've met, courtesy of her consort, Mr Greenland ) and her publishing sensation. May she sell millions more. Item: The prospect of a JAW short story collection, via 'The Ash-Tree Press', has risen its gorgeous, pouting, head again. At their request, I've written the necessary introduction and 'explanatory story-snippets', and even had success in persuading the 'Celtic Marxist bon-viveur', Professor E Griffiths, the unofficial patron of my writings, to supply his blessing in the form of a few words. The latter, after protracted negotiation and subtraction of the more shockingly obscene, albeit subtle and scholarly, quips, should be publishable without risking prosecution soon. The provisional title is - you guessed it - 'Altered Englands' ( don't worry - the subtitle is more amusing... ) and the book will cover my shorter fiction, both published and unpublished, from the late 80s to the present. It may - indeed, should - come out in 2006. Item: After a voyage of some 10,000 words, the proposed project, 'Nelson & the Meaning of Life', mentioned hitherto, has run foul of the rocks of lack of time and the imperative to write honestly. Certainly, more research is needed on the fascinating period of the 'Dark Nelson' and his much criticised ( by Guardianistas and other blue-faced wowsers ) actions in Naples in 1799. Which is a pleasure I look forward to. For the moment however, that vessel is grounded on shoals, though not, I trust, fatally holed. It may yet see service and find glory in battle, but presently awaits a refit, ( as do we all, as does our civilisation ), in more spacious times... Which is about it, as regards anything anyone normal could want or need to know. Which leaves me free to blather: Now added to the 'Favourite Links' of this site is a hyperlink to the website of the officially very wonderful indeed, 'folk-noir' singer songwriter ( and guitar maker ), Kirsty Mcgee. Benevolent Providence directed a wander I presumed to be random to her first album in the Virgin Megastore at Piccadilly in Babylon last year. Ever since, in the grip of a powerful compulsion which I wish to share, I've acquired her two succeeding CDs, a rarity early demo EP, and indeed the high pleasure of meeting the lady herself at several gigs. I appreciate that contemporary late-capitalism is a cacophony of competing commercial imperatives all shouting madly for attention, saying 'GIVE US YOUR F*****G MONEY!' However, in this exceptional instance I beg from the very best of non-lucre driven motives to respectfully direct your attention to Ms Mcgee and the following shiny silver circular treats-in-store:
All are obtainable via Ms Mcgee's website, which for terminal slackers I take the opportunity of supplying HERE: http://www.kirstymcgee.com/ If there is any justice in this side of the grave - which I agree, even a cursory glance around leaves open to doubt - this artist should be huge and playing to hordes. Suffice it to say, if my books should have given anyone reading this a degree of pleasure I would account it ample return for them to sample Kirsty's music at my request. But I leave it up to you - save to mention that Hebrew scripture maintains that when we come before the Throne of Judgement, every soul must one day account for every ( permitted ) pleasure missed. When the Almighty, in His kindness and wisdom, has supplied comforts to His children during their fleeting separation from Him, it seems churlish to spurn them. No pressure though... In England, the serious TV news always used to be rounded off with what was generically termed 'the skateboarding duck item' - a whimsical bit to leaven all the previous weighty stuff of wars and woes. In that same spirit, I thought I'd offer up, motivated by either gratuitous generosity or malice, a short-short story I wrote some years back, just for the Hell of it. Which was quite appropriate, now I consider it - since the micro tale does indeed concern separate worlds jointly heading for that very destination... Bear with me for 1000 words as I consider the definition of:
PROGRESS "Death is better than shame or innovation !" The teeming servant castes hissed approval. That was the prescribed phrase on being handed the masterly blade. Each successive wielder, back into hazy legend times, said the same in the sublime ritual of gearing for war. The menial-of-the-sword was allowed, as high favour, to slash his thumb on its edge and show first blood. "A taste before a feast !" Unused to raising his voice within Castle precincts he was both exultant and afraid. That acclamation was also strictly laid down. Like all his ancestors before him, the salutation was his supreme privilege. Probably the sword predated everything. It perhaps helped the very first Master to win the Castle from .... whoever had it before. Scribe records scarcely reached so far back, and told a sketchy tale even then. For the millions who lived in, around - and most certainly under - the thrall of Castle Slovo, there was nothing else, no time before or notions of an after to its rule. "Behold the harness of The-Subtle-King-whose-name-is-forgot." The head-man of the dresser caste also got to speak. Whilst he strapped his Lord into the myriad faceted gold and mirror armour, a dozen bards were sacrificed to the ONEGOD, who was merciful and allseeing and pleased to make the CastleLord his vice-regent in all the planes of existence. It was sad but time-hallowed, and beyond questioning. The poets' final compositions were recited even as their lifeblood flowed away. "May this breastplate acquire further honourable scars" said the dresser, as he belly-crawled back. It was awesome to consider that the present Lord's ten times great grandfather was thus attired when he fought at Middlezog Bridge and smote the Demon Debbi-of-the-Maw ( or so it was said ). The glittering golden vision reflected arrows of light to every corner. To intercept a beam was accounted a blessing. The CastleLord stepped over the dead poets, past the crimson attired and fury-faced satraps of the inner retinue, through the terrified ranks of his children. Beside the chamber doors stood the dowager CastleLady, holding out the ancient mask of appalling intimidation. "Come home with glory - or not at all" she advised him as he donned it, with the concern befitting a mother - and then prostrated herself creakily to the floor. In the courtyard the higher ranked harems tracked in stately dance, singing the shrill 'incitement to libidinous return'. Their faces and forms were painted with courage inducing runes from pattern books a thousand years old. He knew each houri well, as they did him, and they avoided his eye. Beyond, in the 'gathering in splendour' arena, the household regiments were already mounted up, reining in eager horned steeds. It was their proud boast that every weapon they held, every item of rainbow coloured equipment, was handed down from at least three generations of honourable usage. Each chosen warrior could recite his lineage for ten times that. Their Lord was winched astride his war-beast, to the acclamation of men and the ululations of women. He took up the lance of his forefather 'Impale-Him VI'. Around the walls the priests blessed him and read Suras wherein the ONEGOD plainly stated that HE was beside those who did well for HIS sake. There was no more to be done, no more that could be said. Ceremony and the ancestor-spirits and HE who saw all were placated. The CastleLord rode forth and his army followed. The foot-troops, the mailed broadsword men right down to near-naked archers, were waiting in each successive courtyard and followed in the cavalry's trail. It took five hours for the last of them to escape the gargoyle-shadow of the mighty CastleKeep and issue into bright purple day. These were merely the regular troops. The levies of the rice-plains and corn-deltas, the leathery half-men of the cactus lands and the forest-tribe hordes awaited outside. Together they darkened the land and made thunder as they marched to battle. ************ Mik 23(ii) lived in a 'humihap' or 'capsicle' ( or even 'plasti-coffin dorm' as the real old timers called them ). He had only dim recollections of his mother, and as for dad, well, not even the Navy knew. It was fairly certain he was born on Earth - somewhere. Family, as far as Mik was concerned, were the four other draftees in his team. They went by the name ( and he had to remember this ) of Marine-inf AB/34: 12/23. All others were just part of the sea of faces passing through the ship without cease. Thinking on, he didn't even rate his team-mates much. They went days without speaking. What Mik 23(ii) did like was cacooning in his plastic nest, watching sim-porn and sucking on a high-gain nutri-bag with nerve-spice in it. Doing that made the hours and days slither right on by. He was quite fond of his gun as well. Mik didn't know any songs and would never write anything. Reading more than labels and weapon-blurb caused his lips to move, tugging painfully on his attention span. He had his uniform, a weapon, some still-prints off the sim-porn on his coffin walls, and nothing else; no other possessions worth keeping. He was a happy man, as fortunate as anyone in those days. There was no pay, but the Navy fed and housed him - which was a hell of a good deal to a 27th century Earthman. On the minus side they made him work, like now when a klaxon screamed through his humihab, calling him to battle. ************ It required only a few teams, two or three at most, spat out of the mother ship to 'reincorporate' a 'lapsed' colony world. Most were long lost and had gone pretty primitive. They just required reminding of the benefits of civilisation. And thus the CastleLord came to meet Mik 23(ii) - albeit briefly and at a distance. The marines hosed the charging hordes away with energy weapons and Mik wondered briefly who that golden guy had been. ************
I'll try not to leave the next update so long - so long as I feel like it, so long as my beloved son and heir hasn't 'upgraded' my computer as disastrously as he 'upgraded' my Internet linkage, and so long as there's anything material to impart. Likely nonsense that comes to mind are some more quotes for 'Quote Qorner' to sustain or shrivel your soul, some life counselling from the implausible source of upright-but-on-the-wrong-side Confederate general, Robert E. Lee, and maybe some musings on Talleyrand - who Napoleon, with some justification, described as 'shit in a silk stocking' - but who was also a much misunderstood man... Maybe. Meanwhile, as an Egyptian kindly said some four millennia ago, 'may the Almighty be between you and harm in all the empty places you must walk...' Wæs þu hæl !
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