h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

-Yes, weird it was, like most of the dreams we have.

-I think that the bit about the boy at the cinema and the smell was because, I remember you told me, that you had been cooking and all the smell had gone to your t-shirt. Yes, I hate that too. ... But please, go on.

- Well, then we were at the cinema door, and he changed, he transformed into another guy, a really hadsome one!
Then I was going to have dinner at his home with his mother, but now he was my brother!!. There was a stuffed parrot and now I only can remember that there was a dark gloomy sensation, something like hate, resentment... don´t know why.
I remember clearly the glassy eye of the parrot,and then, the glassy eye was his mother´s!!

-and...

- and we drank something bitter and I wake up.

- Blimey! I hardly remember what I dream. Maybe a feeling of having seen deep vivid colours in my dream.
when I was a child I used to have the same dream repeatly. And it happened again when I was in my twenties.

- I remember now that I had one that also used to repeat itself. I think it had to do with

"a dark and stormy night".

"a dark and stormy night". ????

An ethnically diverse and globally-warmed night surely?

Not a light polluted one at least

It was an ethnically diverse and globally-warmed night.

Streets were crowed like any night of any day in any season in any big city of the world.

In this one, night was peaceful, not like in others cities.
Some people were sitting drinking beer al fresco. It was a lovely night, warm, full of different and colourful smells.

Some others were chatting, walking along the big park of this city. A huge park, with gardens and beautiful giant trees.

Is it one of these nights when you can see a million bright stars in the sky and the moon is hiding behind a filmy cloud and shines its cool, blue light on the silent, sleepy towns below?

(TUM-DUM-DUM!)

The City was a woman - not a lady, but definately a woman, fickle, loving, caring, killing, fragrant, indifferent and wet.

The city was a woman, not a lady, but definitely a woman, fickle, loving, caring, killing, fragant, indifferent and wet.
The best I could do that night in that city was to let myself be loved.
The bussiness that had brought me there was over and well done. I had my mind on the worries-not-thanks mood. I wouldn´t let any gloomy ideas rule my mind, at least for that night. The story was over. She was my ex, full stop. My ex –everything but my ex. I needed a joy and was ready to take it that night.

A huge moon clung to the horizon, blood-red in the light of the dying sun; the Milky Way split the sky, its young stars dazzling blue, the older ones yellow or sultry orange; swomething that might have been a meteorite - or perhaps it was something extraterrestrial - flashed past to the north east. None of this was noticed by Penelope or Ian, peering out of the window of their little cottage, because down at ground level beneath the threatening clouds it was a dark and stormy night.

I wonder what happened to the 'longest nonsense ballad' thread? I think several people here might enjoy adding to it? *starts an archeological expedition to search for the ballad thread*

The night was dark, dark as witch's cape, dark as a bat's orifice and dark as John's mood.

The night was dark, dark as a witch´s cape, dark as a bat´s orifice, dark as John´s mood.
He refused to see things differently. He indulged in darkness.
It all began when he attended a concert of the rock band The Darkness. Many times he had associated colours to sounds, but that time the feeling was deeply pleasant. He felt that vigorous sound wrapped in darkness. It was amazing, beyond words. Since then, he devoted himself to darkness. He mostly ate black food: blackberries, caviar, blood pudding, riso nero…; read Poe´s The Raven and it become his mantra for any moment. Anything dark was his choice.

John´s mood was dark that night. Dark as the beer he was drinking, dark as the chocolate-eyed woman who was smiling at him.
The night was dark, the night was perfect.

It came to her in a dream, rudely disturbed by the drip of cold water on her head as the cistern burst, she'd always found she dreamt best on the toilet floor.

Mark Steele turned his chiselled jaw towards the window, grimacing as the leak in his colostomy bag seeped raw faeces down his useless legs and began to pool beneath his top-of-the-range sports wheelchair.

"It's gonna be one of those days", he hissed.

He adjusted the sights on his Heckling-Korsher and snuggled his chin against the cherrywood stock, stroking the trigger with his finger he bent his head to the eyepiece and closed his eye, and once more cursed his blindness.

He never told her that he loved her because as she had cut his tongue out with a surgically sharp knife he was not able to, and didn't.

Y.

Excuse me young man, could you read this for me ? I´ve forgotten my glasses. Read what it says about this picture- the old lady pointed at one of the paintings on the wall.

The man opened a sort of leaflet, - let me see… ‘Feeling number 4’ is the title… yes, here it is. He coughed and started to read:


“ Aesthetic honesty. Far from artistic parafernalia, Catarro managed to give shape to his turbulent emotions. His art is based on the expression of the matter. He reveals a sort of disturbing metaphysical anxiety, found in the crisis of the European consciousness…”
- Thank you, that´s enough.

The lady smiled at herself. Eventually, his son has managed to give shape to his bank account because he had managed to build an image of himself as a tormented, sick, misunderstood and conflictive artist. He knew how to administer a bad temper a la Romantic, at the proper moments, and his asthma was also very useful for his aim.

All that, his personal charm and playing the exquisite victim with influential people opened him the gates of the Olimpo of Misunderstood and Rebellious Artists in the town.

Now it was time to harvest. In a few days time he would be presenting a book about the constrains of rules for creativity. Funny, considering that he failed all exams about techiques at the art school. Anyway, she was happy. It wasn´t mother love, she couldn´t put up with him , it was the reverse, he at the end could live on his “art” and leave her at peace.

"You don't understand me !"

"Orf snorgle emsittle blat dd ?

She shook her head and sighed deeply before heading back into the rain with her broken umbrella.

The day was as gloomy and hopeless as the dead aspidistra on her hall table.

"Cliches ? Don't talk to me about cliches."