Strange Poetry, and the Inevitable Leavetakings
And Alice begins again.
At the urging of the illustrious Lady Miss Iris and her newfound friend the Countess Marzipan – a dark Aristocrat, in exile from Poland – she has taken on a secret identity as a showgirl. This entire autumn, by day she typed out cards for her collection and by night she put on black tights and a red scarf like Isadora Duncan, and stepped on a tiny stage. A powerful triumvirate,they put on black robes and stirred a terrible pot that writhed with snakes. Miss Iris did a fan dance, and told a scary story. Countess Marzipan did some very impressive thing with oranges and puppets and something about Orson Wells. She can also speak four different languages and do several long forgotten folk dances. And Alice sang in a language she did not know that she knew. She felt something moving through her that night, a presence, a person, a woman – probably several. And a kind of strange magic poetry was created in her that night. Strange Poetry, indeed.
This year at the holidays, Alice realized, as she pulled her roast from the oven that a full two thirds of the friends who shared a roast with her (one very much like the one in the pan before her) just last year, have all moved away. Uncle Ladybug has “flown away home” as the old poem says. The Lady Evelina and her husband, The Historian have made for his remote island home to take work for the kingdom there. Quiet Man has gone underground – he disappeared over a year ago and still has yet to be heard from. Hank and his Poetess Bride also have flown back to her kingdoms to the west, and are expecting a new heir to that throne. There is a sadness to that, but also a sense of inevitability.
All things move away from me at some point, she thinks,like some sort of astronomical anomaly, a black hole, or some kind of strange star. Yes. All things move away from me. Even language. Even poetry. But the roast was even better than last year’s, and Giraffeboy presented her with an edition of The History of Gondal and Angria, and a rare recording of the old Goblin King singing the songs Alice knew in her youth. She made him some mittens, and drew him a picture and found him a book of letters from beyond the grave. For everyone else, there was Gingerbread, and carols and a bright pretty tree. Madame Claudette made pomander balls from oranges studded with cloves, and Senor Borges brought out some of his exotic homemade liquor made from ginger and pears. He got drunk and told stories about his old days as a Gaucho and a revolutionary in Argentina, before Peron exiled him to this place. There was even a Christmas Card from Dr. Frankenstein with a picture of the Taj Majal on it.
It was almost enough to drive out the threatening pall of bad luck that has descended over Alice and Giraffeboy as of late. Money is scarce, and work even scarcer – it seems there is not much need in the job market for Alice’s specific scholarly skills. So she has taken to play-acting in the evenings. She puts on robes and becomes a Priest, a Magician. She puts on Armour and becomes a Battle Maiden, a Paladin. And she fights and helps people in this magic world that she did not make herself. It is intoxicating, having an Avatar. But she cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. Its not the play-acting, it is not the robes or the armour or the magic wands. It’s a world that is not hers. It is a world someone else has made, for her own pleasure. And something does not sit well with Alice about that. She prefers worlds that she makes herself, but sometimes even the power and pressure of those loom too large to bear, and the ready made world is a relief, if ultimately unsatisfying.
It is late, and Alice is blowing out her candle for tonight. She is full of the new-ness of the new year that spreads before her – as whole as a pie. She is full of quiet resolutions to remake her own worlds, to get back to her disgracefully neglected collection. She hopes for dreams of ravens and Counts and bowls of cherries.
At the urging of the illustrious Lady Miss Iris and her newfound friend the Countess Marzipan – a dark Aristocrat, in exile from Poland – she has taken on a secret identity as a showgirl. This entire autumn, by day she typed out cards for her collection and by night she put on black tights and a red scarf like Isadora Duncan, and stepped on a tiny stage. A powerful triumvirate,they put on black robes and stirred a terrible pot that writhed with snakes. Miss Iris did a fan dance, and told a scary story. Countess Marzipan did some very impressive thing with oranges and puppets and something about Orson Wells. She can also speak four different languages and do several long forgotten folk dances. And Alice sang in a language she did not know that she knew. She felt something moving through her that night, a presence, a person, a woman – probably several. And a kind of strange magic poetry was created in her that night. Strange Poetry, indeed.
This year at the holidays, Alice realized, as she pulled her roast from the oven that a full two thirds of the friends who shared a roast with her (one very much like the one in the pan before her) just last year, have all moved away. Uncle Ladybug has “flown away home” as the old poem says. The Lady Evelina and her husband, The Historian have made for his remote island home to take work for the kingdom there. Quiet Man has gone underground – he disappeared over a year ago and still has yet to be heard from. Hank and his Poetess Bride also have flown back to her kingdoms to the west, and are expecting a new heir to that throne. There is a sadness to that, but also a sense of inevitability.
All things move away from me at some point, she thinks,like some sort of astronomical anomaly, a black hole, or some kind of strange star. Yes. All things move away from me. Even language. Even poetry. But the roast was even better than last year’s, and Giraffeboy presented her with an edition of The History of Gondal and Angria, and a rare recording of the old Goblin King singing the songs Alice knew in her youth. She made him some mittens, and drew him a picture and found him a book of letters from beyond the grave. For everyone else, there was Gingerbread, and carols and a bright pretty tree. Madame Claudette made pomander balls from oranges studded with cloves, and Senor Borges brought out some of his exotic homemade liquor made from ginger and pears. He got drunk and told stories about his old days as a Gaucho and a revolutionary in Argentina, before Peron exiled him to this place. There was even a Christmas Card from Dr. Frankenstein with a picture of the Taj Majal on it.
It was almost enough to drive out the threatening pall of bad luck that has descended over Alice and Giraffeboy as of late. Money is scarce, and work even scarcer – it seems there is not much need in the job market for Alice’s specific scholarly skills. So she has taken to play-acting in the evenings. She puts on robes and becomes a Priest, a Magician. She puts on Armour and becomes a Battle Maiden, a Paladin. And she fights and helps people in this magic world that she did not make herself. It is intoxicating, having an Avatar. But she cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. Its not the play-acting, it is not the robes or the armour or the magic wands. It’s a world that is not hers. It is a world someone else has made, for her own pleasure. And something does not sit well with Alice about that. She prefers worlds that she makes herself, but sometimes even the power and pressure of those loom too large to bear, and the ready made world is a relief, if ultimately unsatisfying.
It is late, and Alice is blowing out her candle for tonight. She is full of the new-ness of the new year that spreads before her – as whole as a pie. She is full of quiet resolutions to remake her own worlds, to get back to her disgracefully neglected collection. She hopes for dreams of ravens and Counts and bowls of cherries.
posted by Professor Alice Oddcabinet | 8:06 PM
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3 Speak, bright angels
