Ignorance and want

First drawing I've done in a while, I've lost a bit confidence in my ability and shied away from it. I bit the bullet yesterday though and knocked out a sketch for a subject I've been meaning to tackle for a while. You never know I might get something finished for Christmas.

``Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,'' said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, ``but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!'' ``It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,'' was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. ``Look here.'' From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment. ``Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!'' exclaimed the Ghost. They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. ``Spirit! are they yours?'' Scrooge could say no more. ``They are Man's,'' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. ``And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!'' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. ``Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!'' ``Have they no refuge or resource?'' cried Scrooge. ``Are there no prisons?'' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. ``Are there no workhouses?''

The Q -- the V (ammended draft 01)

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About this: I know I mentioned that I don't approve of explanation, so forgive the inconsistency in attitude that this brief introduction represents. Writing this represented something of a personal revelation to me, which is good because it's garnered precious little appreciation from anyone else during its, I think, two prior airings. I don't really care to illuminate those revelations at the moment so I'll just mention that this story didn't end the way I'd intended. Yes it's a deliberate allegory, that's obvious I hope but from the reaction it's garnered I suspect my intention is more obtuse than is readily apparent. I have to admit that In my conceit I was rather pleased with this story and somewhat naively expected to instill instant recognition of the subject I was addressing. Alas no such recognition has been forthcoming, which was a disappointing but illuminating lesson to learn.

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My CSA arrives today, well it's due today but I live in a Q status housing block, postage to Q addresses has least urgent priority so it's not certain it will arrive today. Still I've been listening impatiently for the postman since I had breakfast this morning. The scrambled eggs rest uneasily as the creeping tension torments my restless belly I feel like a cat is baiting a canary in there. I wonder about the others, the ones also waiting for the postman, the ones waiting to learn what road the rest of their lives will take. Q or V, for me it's a foregone conclusion all the males in my family are Qs yet I'm still here waiting, fist clenched, a sparrow clutching to twig in a gale. How must it be for those less certain, the marginals with an even chance of either a Q or V assignment? I know I'm a Q, it's in my blood, I walk, speak and think like a Q. Still I can't help wondering how it would be if my CSA had a V stamped all over it, I briefly visualize myself gliding down a vstat motorway express lane in my air conditioned vstat car on the way to my preferentially assigned vstat job. My idle fantasy is broken by a hand alighting gently on my shoulder, it's mother, “Here I've made you some tea” she says quietly, “Don't fret too much about it Mac, it's not the end of the world.” Her unguarded fatalism smarts like a knife in my side but I hide the torment with a forced smile.

Everyone gets their CSA, Culpability Status Assignment, on the September after their 19^th Birthday, it's supposed to be assigned after you attend a compulsory assessment tribunal. They're called tribunals but it's more of an exam, you see our education system primarily serves two purposes, asses your Culpability Status and inform students of the role of Culpability Status in our society. Indoctrination, that what my brother called the last part, he got his CSA three years ago today. It's not a day that my family remembers with any fondness and its legacy casts an uncomfortable shadow over today.

It's a day I remember well, David was reading as usual, some underground rag, not one on the forbidden list just one rated substantially incorrect and get a you a months mitigation credit cancelled if the authorities caught you in possession. His unconcerned demeanour had an unsettling effect on the family mood. Father hid his concern behind his weekend Truth Journal but he was already a third through his daily nicotine ration, the clicking of his inhaler the only sound to break the silence save the rustling of his and my brothers reading matter. The audible snap of the letter box did not stir David as his focus remained fixed on his rag. “David, I think its arrived,” Mother prompted gently.

David glanced at her with a feigned indifference but even my brother's reluctance couldn't stand up to my Mother's silent plea. He retrieved the manilla envelope from the doormat and walked unconcerned back into the room with it in his hand. Standing as he opened the letter, he read out a single syllable, “Q!” And that was end to it or so it seemed for a while, it wasn't till the afternoon when father's nicotine ration had expired and his withdrawal started to bite that the shouting started. I'd popped out to get some milk and stretch my legs, as I returned the I herd them rowing. “... I can look in the mirror dad, I know the colour of my eyes, how straight my teeth are, how many V’s do you see without a perfect smile? The Tribunal's a fraud, it's just dangling a carrot before a donkey.”

I saw father holding David's mitigation log “There are people who've done it, people who've applied them selves and followed best practice . You didn't even try, this, this is a disgrace” my father shook the log in David's face with his clenched fist.

“Best practice! What kind of aspiration is that? Here's a thought for you, ambition, initiative, hard work, how many have been assigned vstat on the back of those attributes? And how is it a disgrace to take their lies and spit the truth back at them, You're the disgrace, you know the truth, yet you eat up their lies as if it was bread and butter to you, you make me sick.”

“David” mother cried.

I could see the regret on my brothers face almost before he finished speaking but it was too late, the wound betrayed by my father's face could not be concealed, he placed David's log on the table and left the room when he returned with his coat and cap he spoke to mother, “I'm going out, I'm not sure what time I'll be back. Don't bother getting food for me, I'll get a sandwich in the pub.” Then he walked out of the front door which he closed behind him with incongruous care.

David broke the silence after father's departure “Mum I didn't mean it, I know he's putting our welfare before his pride”

“That's the kind of man he is,” mother replied.

“I know, it's just...” David slumped into a dinning char , his head tucked toward his chest “... it's just that sometimes a son, doesn't want to see his father that way, deferential, submissive. Sometimes a son would be willing to go hungry for a day or two just to see his father with some pride, not burning his flame in shaded lantern.” He sighed, then lifted his head sharply. staring beyond the walls of our flat he asked,“Why does he have to always wear that cap anyway, can't he just let the sunlight on his face for once?”

David, left home within a month, his work took him out of town. His official post was construction labourer but my brother had worked hard at a vocational out of hours school, that father had paid for. His engineering qualification saw that he'd never be swinging a pick but the blanks in his mitigation credit ensured that he'd be certain to be at the basic qstat employment rating. We see him when his work brings him to town or the occasional weekend. On his last visit the two of us went out for the evening, I don't leave the house much so my circle of friends is small but we visited one of David's old haunts where we met up with a few of his friends. There's no official segregation here and Qs and Vs do mix socially it's just that more often than not you find yourself socializing with your own kind, this place was like that. David and his friends where eager to catch up on each other's news so the conversation began with personal trivia, work, sex etcetera but after a while a more political tone arose. David's views it seemed were held in some esteem by his friends and although I admit my brother was articulate it was something of a revelation to witness them being treated seriously rather than the perfunctory dismissal they received at home. Before long there was a deeply earnest discussion taking place that I started to find rather tedious and repetitive, one of the crowd a man introduced as Jason seemed to be a particularly vociferous contributor. I was observing without any real interest when I notice the expression suddenly change on David's face, “You're a V!” he shouted at Jason,

Jason was taken aback at the ugly look of contempt and disgust on my brother's,face “I thought you knew.” The other members of the group fell silent for a moment, after eyeing Jason carefully it seemed obvious now that he was a V, his uniformly distressed attire the unblemished complexion should have made it obvious. Some of the group were trying to placate David, one of the girls seemed particularly perturbed by the turn of events.

Someone said, “Jason is a friend...” I didn't see who, maybe it was the girl. David stood abruptly and walked over to me.

“We're leaving,” he announced, then made his way toward the door without pausing. I followed like an obedient spaniel of course but not before looking back at the at group. They were all standing now, Jason the centre attention, except the girl who's eyes fixed upon David as he hurried towards the door. David left the following morning, he was gone before I got up, that was nine months ago.

I've retreated to my room, the sedate crawl of the hands of the clock has driven me from the living room, as I peer through the window at the lengthening September shadows in the street. I hear the rattle of the letter box. For the few seconds the gravity of the moment has me pinned, immobile I recall David's reluctance three years ago. I get up and move towards the door and open it with a creak, a sound which must echo like a flock of startled starling through our flat. I see my manilla envelope where it has fallen on the mat. As I retrieve it I'm overcome with the certainty that it's not mine and it's been delivered in error but as I check the address I can see that the postman rarely makes mistakes on this day, even to least urgent priority addresses. My parents are seated as I walk into the living room with my unopened envelope, I open it swiftly and read the contents to them.

No one laughs, no one cries, mother puts the kettle on and father gets up to put on his coat and cap. I go back to my room to look at the September shadows.

It's written on the wind

Alright I know this the second post in row with a music video but I promise I'm not gonna make a habit of poncing off other folk's Youtube efforts. It's just that I found this video again recently after a while of trying to find it. It's quite interesting, I suppose, from a music video perspective because it's a rare example of such, replete with symbolism and cinematic artifice, from an era when the art was though consist solely of the guys from the band playing on a rooftop.  I suppose you could carp on about the tin foil and wallpaper but for me the way it employs these cheap props enhances the appeal and a 405 line TV screen is very forgiving in that regard.

The song, Love is all around by the Troggs is probably better known for the cover performed by Wet Wet Wet, their version is a bit too teary and emotional for my taste, with that strangulated hernia sound so representative of that era. The Troggs themselves recorded three distinct arrangements of the song that I know of, this one is probably my favourite with its carefully measured vocal harmony. The Troggs are also famous or perhaps infamous for The Troggs Tapes, a recording of er -- colouful banter during a recording session. During the bickering, which sounds to me to be inspired by nicotine withdrawal, someone is heard exclaming, rather prophetically, something along the lines of: "We need to sprinkle some fairy dust on it and we could have a number one".

Another facet of this video that appeals to me is that The Troggs were my local band and although I can't be certain, I'm pretty sure that's the train I used to travel on many years ago. I always kept a watchful eye out but I never did bump into that girl.

Feeling stressed?

I'm not a really a fan of Ralph Bakshi or Duran Duran but I am a fan of Frank Frazetta. Bakshi's best work is a little known flick with a minor cult following called Wizards. Although Wizards is shamelessly plagiaristic, Vaughn Bode being the victim of Bakshi's aquisitive creative instinct in this instance, and a production that ran in to rather obvious funding issues, it does work rather well. Amongst the tell tales of the funding deficit are the frequent story board sequences and reprocessed live action footage segued, no sot seamlessly, into the edit.

Bakshi does deserve recognition for his perseverance though, he continued to produce animated features on a pittance and amongst these is an even lesser known flick called Fire and Ice. This time Backshi at least had the grace to hire Frank Frazetta, who's work inspired the film, for the production. This laudable shift in attitude doesn't really pay off though, the animation is rather blunt and stilted and only hints at Frazetta's sublime visual style.

There is however, a rather nice fan edit on Youtube, that I really like and it's probably got the best of the animation sequences from the film, The animators did seem to put extra effort depicting the alluring heroine of the plot, Princess Teegra, in all of her scantily attired, sumptuous, Frazettaesque - curvy glory, mmm why could that be I wonder?

Well here it is, so as the saying, ubiquitous in American eateries goes: enjoy!

Limerick

I bumped into this Limerick I'd forgotten about, while I was going through some old files a few weeks ago. I thought it was funny when I wrote it but the reception it garnered was -- er, cool. Since I rediscovered it I've tried it out on a friend who, not only got the context he seemed to rather appreciate it. So I thought it was worth a post.

We meet a young girl called Vespa
In bed, our hero did test her
Le Chiffre eyed his pair
said look, there’s this chair
let’s make bright rosso your testa

Encounter with a metrication pedant

About this: I lapsed into some fruity language here, so skip if it this one if you find that sort of thing distastful.

"Why have you specified the dimensions in imperial units?"

"Er -- no reason, that's just what I use."

"Eck!" he exhaled a glottal hiss then explicitly expressed his sense of disgust and self righteousness, "...why people like you persist in using archaic units, I'll never understand"

"What do you mean: 'archaic units'? If you've ever tried to buy bloody timber you wouldn't think they're archaic when you find you're three centimeters short cos they don't sell two meter lengths just some half wit bollocking metric conversion of six foot lengths that are three fucking centimeters too fucking short"

He rolled his eyes so far back in their sockets he could have inspected his optic nerve "Haven't you heard of SI units?" he spoke with all the pretense he could muster.

"What's the sum of the angles of a triangle?"

"Uh -- 180 degrees, they do still teach basic geometry you know."

"It's pi radians in SI units, arsehole, why are people like you so full of shit?"

Encounter with a policeman

"Can I ask why you're wearing such large boots?"

"It's a free country, you can ask what you like," I answered his question literally, there was a pause before the penny dropped, if it did drop, they're not that bright really.

"Why are you wearing such large boots?" he repeated his question.

"It's a free country," I said without a smile, "if you want, you can go around asking stupid questions, every one else is free to choose their footwear."