Thinking for two

It’s hard to do the thinking for someone else, and even harder when they consistently refuse to aid or abet their assister in any way, shape or form. Thus people tend not to think, since people tend not to think.

This general fact leads to massive levels of default doing, as humans – bumbling like vegetarian zombies – move along through life not really thinking things through, but generally refraining from eating brains. Perhaps that’s because deep down they are scared of them.

However every now again someone comes along who not only thinks, but thinks for two. These people are rare gems, men or women who – out of the kindness of their heart – think, and think on another’s behalf. sometimes the lucky near-zombie is even grateful that his or her thoughts are being handled by another, but most of the time their is low-level resentment or bland obliviousness. Their is a moral in this somewhere, but as my designated thinker is away it will have to wait for another time.

Hummingbirds

They hum. It’s in the name. They also are, despite what one may think, birds. This is yet another case where the description is spot-on, unlike anywhere where metaphor has laid its dirty hands; there things get more complex.

White elephants can be white elephants, but do not have to be. Elephants in the room rarely are, and people blowing their own trumpet do not have to be deafening you with their self-heralding. Also, trumpet players, even those in orchestras, are likely very modest.

But back to hummingbirds; what sort of metaphor could they be? Small, delicate and nectar-drinking, they have been unfairly discarded in favour of butterflies, and this is likely to lead to war at somepoint.

Imagine, if you will, the phalanxes of AK-47 toting hummingbirds, fur caps emblazoned with red stars (why not?) advancing on the terrified butterflies who have yet to work out what on earth is going on. They never really have a chance, being mowed down in their millions by the furiously humming hummingbirds who show no mercy, and achieve a stunning and total victory, the butterflies cocooned lifestyle meaning they have no idea how to survive danger. However the results are not quite what the hummingbirds envisioned; true, the offending metaphor slowly dies, butterflies are not replaced with hummingbirds; for these are now synonymous with brutality and slaughter.

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Welcome to the world

“Welcome to the world. we hope you will enjoy your stay, but if you don’t we will happily give you a refund. To the left you will see the bottomless pits of despair, which can also been seen on the right. Beyond that there is little else worth seeing; a little smidgen of joy which has escaped the joy-snuffers perhaps; however you wouldn’t want to see that.

The main inhabitants are grossly deformed four-appendaged beings of uncertain temperament. They certainly have been killing a lot lately, as you will have noticed when the last three of our party disappeared in a rather unfetching red mist. This is somewhat of a recent advance over their former make-holes-in-it-until you’ve-broken-enough approach. Refunds can also be claimed by next of kin, incidentally.

I hate it when they get the whole group. “

Dribbing and Drabbing

The great oddness with trying to write is the subjects will just not come all too often. With this sad fact, it is to be acknowledged that it often comes in dribs and drabs, and at that often rather drab dribs.

Take the inspiring idea of a megalomaniac eggplant. Why this wonderful basis for a novel has not previously occurred to me is a mystery; one that perhaps only the scanty plot details and potential word-count can answer. But surely Tolstoy would not have been stumped by such a prospect? Look at the length of War and Peace – if half of that great tome is about peace he’s literally written thousand of words about nothing. The other half – no doubt full of mutilations, atom-bombs and other such enjoyable subjects – being something even the most pedestrian of authors can write about, albeit with more exclamation marks. But I digress, and this drib is over.

Scatterbrained

Calling someone scatterbrained is mildly insulting. Especially if the reason that they are scatterbrained is because zombies even now are rooting around in their skull cavity to see what else they can get out. Admittedly, this is not going to be foremost on their mind (it’s rather doubtful anything would be), but it is the classic case of adding insult to injury.

What is even more injury though, is when the scatterbrain’s family attempts escape, they slip on some of the strewn grey matter. They are then pounced upon, have their skulls’ suitability opened and promptly forget their worries, this being the sole advantage of not being all there.

Now the zombies have fed, they turn and trundle out the door, leaving everything a right old mess. In the morning the cleaner will come, and remark on spying the open door: ‘why, he’ll forget his head next!’

It is a shame that the next discovery will be sufficiently traumatising to make any appreciation of the statement lost, and that the screams are quite that loud that they attract some things nearby…

Cats, hats, and the joy of experimental musical instruments.

The experimental instruments are not made of cats. neither are the hats. 

So what are the cats doing here? Looking at you superciliously, of course,  whilst you struggle with finding the perfect hat to go with your experimental musical instrument. For as everyone knows, a hat maketh the man; if orchestras perform in clown hats the music is very different to when thy perform in war-helms.

This may be because they can actually read the music.

And blow the trumpets, trombones and tubas as necessary.

Which brings us to the next why: why experimental musical instruments? 

The answer being, you try playing non-experimental musical instruments in full plate armour. It’s not trivial, and so experimental musical instruments fill that valuable role, if we could only think of a few more.

So far, we have a percussion one made out of shaped metal sheets, and different-pitched cannons. The audience rarely shows it’s appreciation, although the house is frequently brought down.

What the cats think of it is beyond me.

 

Confusion

Lots of sources of information are unclear, not really explains their sources or even what they are trying to say. This is pretty awful, bit of it’s fiction (that is claiming to be so), do we really care?

Does it matter if we don’t have the slightest clue who is actually speaking? If the main character is actually alive still? Whether the book has finished? What the genre is? If it’s a novel or cereal box?

The answer, based on book sales, appears to be yes; which is dispiriting for those of us who find words rather enjoyable, but are less confident about marshalling them into any sensible order.

Which leads us to the sole recourse of cutting every word out of the dictionary (including the definitions) and rearranging them in a sensible order. Or any order at all.

Dictionaries can be bought at all good bookstores. Scissors and glue at stationary shops.

Good news

We all love good news. But good news is a bit quantum; it all depends on who is observing it. Take a chess game; an extremely localised meteor strike is good news for the person losing at that point, but not his opponent.

Small changes can also shift news from good to bad – slightly widening the impact of the above mentioned extraterrestrial traveller would ruin everyone’s day. This is why you should be careful what you wish for, especially when loosing at chess.

Castles in the air

Despite the issues with the foundations, the air is not such a bad location for a castle. I can think of worse, such as at the bottom of the sea, or in a stomach if one large enough could be found.

The advantage of being in the air, should the castle somehow contrive to remain their, is obvious; death can be rained from a great height without much worry of return fire, and the knights can wear aeroplane goggles and make engine noises. There are one or two drawbacks such as not having any easy way to resupply when besieged; however, if the castle can land, doing so on the besiegers should kill two birds with one pile of stones.

Sadly, castles in the air never became more than an idiom; such a tragic fate is not uncommon, but the loss of knights going ‘brrrrrmmmmwhhooosh’ is surely one of the greatest tragedies to have ever occurred.

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Going up

It’s scary up here, viewing you from the top of the world and wondering ‘how did I get here?’

The question is a good one. How did I get up here? There is the vague rememberance of a climb, of a huge tower, of a collapse. And it appears that not only the tower was broken, but also the laws of physics

The floating ledge on which I am sat is stubborn, and will not now, or plummet, to gravity. As long as it refuses I am safe, despite there not really being sufficient air, for my lungs are as stubborn as it. You seem rather panicked by it all, but I find myself strangely calm; after all, there’s not much to do besides enjoy people moving around like ants and growing rapidly and

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