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

Act Two

?? ... thanks luvvy ..

Act Two slinks in on a serious note ... its travel plans have been put forward so it can speeke its speeke (until next weeke ....) ..

oh no says the wordbird ...is there no ceasing these ghastly streams of Innerspace ...... and flies into some faraway fictionland where the word can take a holiday .. where calligraphaphic entities perch in the trees and eat bright Orange Os .. and bendy Banana Bs ... and bask in the heat of the S-Snakey Sol ...



Inner Space .. serious note. ... you touched a necessary nerve, here, Hyp .. thanks ...

I think its as important to prepare for a journey into inner space as much as any other journey ... would I risk the whitewater rapids ?? .. no never (I hope)! .. but if I had to, I would arrange a guide .. and a canoe .. and a wetsuit .. and a whistle .. and a flare .. and a rescue 'copter flying over me ... ..

I have witnessed too many casualties of innerspace journeying in my life ... whether its to drugland .. mental illness .. perhaps even wordscrambling can be dangerous .. I think experimentation with language can create a dynamic .. an energy .. and that has its dark side .. I think its a force .. like fire ..

I wish I hadn't known so many people who never came back ..

Its paradoxical though .. I was raised on Alice in Wonderland .. Struwwelpeter .. Mervyn Peake .. many folk tales and nursery rhymes are pretty weird ... they're all innerspace fiction .. kind of dark strange .. they didn't do me any harm .. (?) ...

OK .. I did have a breakdown in the 80s .. but that was just the howl of a sensitive person trying to come to terms with it all .. I was never mad. I have witnessed the poetry of madness. Its scary.

I'm not prepared to sacrifice my sanity for the sake of poetry. I have huge responsibilities in my life.

I've never taken drugs..except for a couple of unguided idiot attempts ...and I don't really feel that drawn these days .. probably I think that writing can take the mind to the same place as some drugs (?) .. but I have to keep returning it to holy holy holy .. sacred mushroom .. sacred word ..

I'm as attracted to the poetry of innerspace dark .. or strange .. or spooky .. as much as innerspace light .. because I see it reflected in the world around me .. perhaps its one and same sometimes (?) .. and it helps me to understand ..... the process of writing is a healing .. or a feeling ... or something ....

is this making any sense .. its important, in fact, journal-mate ..

in my case, I think my attraction to a certain way of writing is the result of my own brain chemistry. Its the way the Creator pulled me out of the mix .. or shoved me into it ..

I think, at the age of 52, I am only just ready to hold it .... to give it my yes ....

I hope it doesn't harm or hurt anyone .. that is my only only howl ..

I think the format of rhyme is a safety net .. a structure ... a flare .. a rescue 'copter flying overhead ..

it has suddenly become my burning vocation to write endless rhymes about absolutely nothing for the rest of my life ...

they are pouring out of me like a coffee-fountain in a desert ....



I don't want to be a 'writer' ... I just want to be a Lizard with a Quillpen. nothing to prove.

what'll I do with them, these little rhyme confetti pieces .. fly them as kites ! make magic theatre ! .. play with them, pray with them, die through them, fly through them .. wonder why through them ..



..... nice talking to you journal-mate ..... ?????

oh ... very serious Act Two we have here ....

better move to act Three in a minute .. or go to Brighton .. soon soon ..



///////////////////////////////////////

PS ..

????? you know what I mean ...

exit pursued by an existentialist ... a dinosaur .. lots of little half mammal half fishy things ... a fraktal pterodactyl .... and other evolutionary Creations from the Crater ..

the Crater .. I said the Crater ....

we saw a Crater when we were in Arizona .. meteorite crater ? ...

back later Crater

Helen (preparing for Act 3)

<<>>>

Act 3

....in which Helen decides to devote her life entirely to the cheese omelette .... the creation and culture thereof ...



<<<<>>>>

from October Song .. Incredible String Band .....

................................................

....

The first sign as you cross the border says, "CHEESE and FIREWORKS AHEAD!"

This is the land of the cheeseheads. It's far better not to get on an airplane packed with these people going to a football game. They are a happy, simple and boisterous lot. They wear hats that appear to be large rectangular blocks of yellow swiss cheese.

Cheese omeletes? OK...but please...don't rub cheese on my neck.



"Oddly enough, a large English cheddar cheese has become an internet star. A webcam placed before a slowly maturing cheese has had over 1,000,000 hits from 119 countries"

http://www.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idUSKUA64723020070426?feedType=RSS

A 2nd grade student in Ingersoll, Wisconsin took 3rd place in the 2004 cheese/poetry contest with the following inspirational poem:

Cheese by Gregory Mantle

Cheese is good in Ingersoll
Healthy people eat lots of cheese
Eat lots of cheese
Eat cheese so your teeth get clean
Stinky cheese isn't good for you
Eat cheese to get strong

The Wisconsin state motto: Eat Cheese or Die.

[No, this is really a parody of the New Hampshire state motto, Live Free or Die.]

Is there a monument in Wisconsin to Wallace and Gromit?

Probably. Cheese is good food.

Turophile: cheese lover.



In Cali we take Riesling with our Brie on sourdough baguette. And a bunch of little green thingies on our Monterey Jack omelette . And a warm tollhouse cookie with a perfectly ripe .

Well, so much for breakfast. It's latte time!

Good enough to steal...Thanks

..... ......

The cheese people ! I have found the cheese people !

These are the sneeze-people-cheeze-people .. they bless you in uncertain tongues and they understand moulds ..

I think one has to consider mould and mould cultures when dealing with bluecheese ... Stilton ... all those little holes in the rind where the cheezebugs ran wild ...

I do think about moulds in fact ... Zygomycota, Deuteromycota and Ascomycota ... my people my people !

I like Act 3 ... I feel I am maturing in Act 3 .. a bluecheese on the brink ... //////////////////////////////////////////////////

Deuteromycota shakes his head ... a tragicomic tear runs down his painted face ... he wears a torn clown suit and a garland of lilies .. he carries a pack containing many guises ... a wolf mask .. a crowskull ... sometimes he wants to act the whole world ... but he knows in the end he is but mould ..........



A refugee from Act 2 wanders over the stage ... he greets the cheeze people and takes his place in the corner, under the red spotlight ....... he is thin and dressed in black silk... he has a jewel pinned to his collar ... three tiny silver feathers ... ... he is a refugee from every act, every stage ...

(intense pause) ......

he is one who laments. ....one who mourns lost souls ... some call him The Dirge. his mother calls him The Splurge. .. he gets very upset about this.. he's a happy soul himself, and enjoys a good feast of cheese omelette and green thingies washed down with a juice

************* ahem ... order.

I dreamed this bit ... except in the dream he was called the Monkeyman ..

he has died many times ....once, in a hospital in San Pedro, Mexico, a shaman healer named Vincente reached through to his fevered mind with a white light laser ray of love and his dying blood became infused with new hope. All night the spirits of lost souls encircled his bed and sang him their stories in strange low chants ..

end of authentic dream bit ...



now he wanders across every stage in the Theatre of the World and makes up really weird poems and songs about lost souls .... and some other things ..



some say that the GhostDrive on his computer is the only thing that knows what he's talking about .....

..........

the spotlight turns a low mars red .. he starts to sing ...

so where did you go
with your essence so lost?
with your quick-fixing cure
and its high fatal cost....

were they really so empty
those streets of your mind?
were the echoes too lonely
the ache too unkind? ...

I wish we could dance
down the tracks of our story -
through days of our wonder -
our hungering glory....

with our freefalling visions
your pure bleeding heart
our candleflame musings
and borderline art..........

so where did you go
with your essence so raw?
with your quicksilver laugh
and your one fatal flaw ...........

I searched all the echoes
for signs of your name
risked all for a question -
yet no answer came ........

so I'm watching the dance
of the candleflame light
as it flickers and stutters
through shadowland night .......

just a borderline musing
a hungering spark
a freefalling wonder
an ache in the dark .....

........

exit

-------------------------

cheese and fireworks ! Zygomycota, Deuteromycota and Ascomycota ... my people my people ! bring on the dancing moulds ..


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> ahem.

The great man enters the restaurant waiting to meet with financier J.P. Morgan. There are 18 folded linen napkins at his place as usual. He is fond of numbers divisible by three. He uses 15 of the napkins to polish his silverware. When his food comes and he computes the exact cubic capacity of each portion, otherwise there would be no joy in eating.

Some of his ideas have seemed impractical. He thought once to suspend a steel beam circling the earth on scaffolds, then knock away all the scaffolds at once, providing cheap transportation for the masses at 1,000 miles an hour.

He is noted for his lifelong love of pigeons and he tells Morgan about the one very special bird with violet eyes.

“There was one pigeon, a beautiful bird, pure white with light gray tips on its wings: that was different. It was a female. I would know that pigeon anywhere.

“No matter where I was that pigeon would find me; when I wanted her I had only to wish and call her and she would come flying to me. She understood me and I understood her.

“I loved that pigeon.

“Then one night as I was lying in my bed in the dark, solving problems, as usual, she flew in though the open window and stood on my desk. I knew she wanted me; she wanted to tell me something important so I got up and went to her.

“As I looked at her I knew she wanted to tell me—she was dying. And then, as I got her message, there came a light from her eyes—powerful beams of light.

“Yes, it was a real light, a powerful, dazzling, blinding light, a light more intense than I had ever produced in the most powerful lamps in my laboratory.

When he died in 1941, the FBI siezed his papers and equipment, including the working model of the Death Ray.

Peresterophily is an abnormal fondness for or love for pigeons.

(See American Encyclopedia of Psychiatric Abnormalities, Section 485.1.13)

Those old Greeks were the original oddfellows...

I'm enjoying this play....an ache in the dark...

.... that moves me, Pilobolus .. that moves me ...

Pilobolus ... so we're talking both fungus and radical dance company here ??? ... how bizarre is that ????... I never heard of them till now ...now I will follow them everywhere .. I certainly had never heard of them when I typed, a little drunkenly, 'bring on the dancing moulds' ....

whoah ....



see Act 2 disclaimer about strange energy, dynamic, coincidence and lifejackets ..

parachute .. check
tourguide ...check
MarsBars ....check
cellphone ...check
GhostDrive ..check

OK ... on with the journey ... .........

this Life's Work sure ain't turning out the way I had it planned .... ..... love it love it .. plans ??

... and please .. can we meet for or a turquoise margarita ...

back in a minute ..

///////////////////////////////////

heads for

.... interesting .. I was thinking about Greek theatre at about 3.26 am ... I don't know too much about it .... but I know it involves extraordinary Choruses and Muses ... The Furies (?)etc ....

oh so much to learn .. so little time ..

and the spirit of Magic Theatre was rearranging me ..

yes yes !!!! extraordinary mindscape characters and stage sets .... bizarre proclamations and pronouncements .. ...mystic mime ... cracked archetypes wearing donkey masks ... ..... choruses of phantom goddesses and floral pastoral kyrie eleison angel pigeons ..

there is no limit ... (see Act 2 disclaimer .... re madness .... )

and the stage can protect them all .... like rhyme ..... bring them home ....

holy holy holy

hmmm ..... ?????????

passport .... check
cash ........ or travellers cheque
suncream .... check
insect repellant check

//////////////////////////////////////////

on with the journey .... (the prelude to Act 4 ......)

so the curtains in your bedroom start to whisper at you ....

wrap you in moonlight
wrap you in cloth
wrap you in batswing
wrap you in moth

welcome to the stage, curtains .. take your bow ....what's a stage with no curtain close .....

ahem ..

... end of Act 3 ........

//////////////////////////////// ///////////////////

Intermission

The Interval



I find intervals in theatre shows and concerts to be very strange events .. so logical in theory .. time to sit quietly with a drink at the bar to consider the show so far ...

not so ! .. the curtain closes ... the conductor puts down his baton .. the lights come up ... stampede ! the entire audience charges towards the toilets and the bar ... and by the time the second half commences, you are bruised and confused, and still yearning for a drink .. or worse, the toilet .. inevitably you get caught short and have to disturb everyone in your row during an extraordinarily intense Beethoven moment ... or when Actor A has just confronted Actor B with a gesture of long awaited passion ...



however ...

in this particular case, the Interval could go on for six minutes or six years ... ...

how to keep the stampeding audience at bay .. there might be a riot ..

let's see now .. what's happening backstage ...

OK ... well ... word has it that Pilobolus has legged it to Canada .. most the others have slunk round the corner to dine out on delectable cheese dishes in the Cafe of the Escaped Actor ... hah .. hah ... we'll see about that ....



there's a few people still around ... Deuteromycota is playing some kind of folk tune on an almost-in-tune mandolin .. to anyone who'll listen .. which is no-one .. .. no .. that's not true .. The Mouse is listening ... who's The Mouse .. well .. wait for the second half .. in six years time ...

some joker has written a message in white chalk on the backstage blackboard ... under the notices like 'would Wolf, and Pastoral's understudy please go to reception ....'

he/she (or it) appears to be quoting an index from some book that he/she (or it) has acquired by fair means or foul .....

the message reads like this .....

.......................................................

Remember, all ye actors, that ye are all things at all times ... each moment ye breathe, ye breathe in the potential to embrace and become

<<<>>>

and that's just the beginning ... (chalk run out) .....

have a good show. don't forget your lyrics ......

(no signature)

..............................................................

what to do....

the Monkeyman has taken this message to heart and has thrown all the verses of his song into the air ... The Juggler is collecting them and is juggling them with small brass bird-ornaments , pomegranates and burning drumsticks ..


the lighting man is dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and is experimenting with neon stripes and bizarre green lightning flashes ..

/////////////////////////////////////////// The Interval proceeds ..

*stands from her seat in the audience and applauds wildly, hoping some of the Monkeyman's lyrics fall close enough for her to capture them"

Elk Island National Park, Alberta, Canada - June 21, 2007

Once again the sun hesitates at 12:06 PM and heads back South.

I've been setting the lyrics of this play to old Pink Floyd melodies and finding it good.

There are 962 people living in Skagway, Alaska where our mail is now flying by 727, water ferry and wheeled dogsled.

The great Canadian Plains are nearly as boring visually as the great Amnerican Plains.

We saw a herd of buffalo a few minutes ago. The Alpha bull looked at me and pawed the ground. I snorted and pawed back with vigor...

A wild herd or a farmed herd?

If I were to write an act for Fraktal Daktyl, I would have to set it in the Bad Lands where the bones of massive ancient beasts come to life in the moonlight. I would be the small, emergent mammal watching cautiously from the rim of a still pool. But alas, my muse still hasn't returned. I am about to give up hope that she ever will.

In the meantime, I greatly enjoy the magical musings of my friends.