Kthaahthikha

The weather was chill.

She was sitting by the figurehead.

The sea coughed up waves amidst the wash and rill

And the sky was grey and dead.

He name was Angeline, or so they say,

The colour of her hair like fine-spun blood.

And when she looked at me her eyes;

They made me feel that I might die -

But it wasn’t I.

When the waves swallowed her, screaming,

The water rising and falling, streaming

From the bulwarks, wrapping around

And sucking her down into the waves,

I decided that perhaps I was dreaming.

I returned to my berth,

A nervous wreck,

I imagined there had been

Some angel’s hands about her neck,

Choking gently,

Carrying her to the bulwark,

Casting her down as I watched in horror,

The waves sweeping around

As she drowned,

And the sea laughed and my head spun

For lying in my bed I could not refute

What I had done.

The recollection of better days,

It wrapped about me as I lay in a haze;

The rain pattering upon the top deck

I, falling deeper and deeper into the dreck,

Could feel only the water all around me

As it drowned me

And the sound would hound me as

I lay upon the soft, warm cotton;

And the oil of the lantern cast a yellow light,

Banishing night in that close chamber,

That wooden cell with the whale-oil smell

And the waves that crashed against the hull

Like little fists.

They would fish for her,

Run lines into the sea,

But they’d never find her,

Never suspect me.

I had only myself to contend with, but oh!

What fierce contention,

The remonstrating eyes that sat within the shadows,

Those gleaming points that rested above a smiling mouth.

Uncouth mouth; hissing at me;

Kissing at me;

Shimmering between one and the other

And those dark pools glimmering at me.

Caught within the cast glow

Of the lantern;

‘Slattern! Slattern!’ I cried

On and on into the darkness,

As I crouched beneath the wool

Feeling ever the fool,

Feeling cruel,

Questioning my every fibre

As that demon, that treason

Of my conscience lurched towards me,

Creaking and croaking

Beneath the sea

It approached me

And all that I could do was weep

And feel ever more the fool,

Deep within the cool

Dark abyss of the sea

It laid a hand upon me

And we were joined between the swaying weeds

The screeds of jilted lovers that littered the ocean floor

Littered it long, long before…

New company had found them,

And this companion, greyed and milky-eyed,

Slipped daintily between them,

The fabric of its costume all grey-dyed

By the waters, that swirled a league above,

And streamed forth from its smile,

Writhing through the shadows

Like some distorted crocodile.

And while I screamed my endless silent scream,

And prayed and prayed that it was but a dream,

That hand that fell upon me, cold and damp,

Shocked me into action – There a lamp!

And behind this lamp, two little eyes that burnt,

The twin orbs of the mate, sent-forth to fetch me.

‘A squall has brewed and torn the masts asunder,

We’ll soon be swallowed wholesale by the sea’.

Episode #!

Panel 1/4:

Tableau [light source upper stage right corner]: A beautiful brunette in her mid twenties, Miss Lydia Kain, a silhouette of a man at a desk behind her, Mr Niven Tate. A Venetian blind forms the backdrop in silhouette between them.

The brunette stands at extreme stage right. She is facing with her body direct to the camera, her head turn at a three-quarter angle towards her right, her eyes turned to her left to look (or attempt to look) at the silhouette of a man behind her. She is of a slim build, with smallish breasts, an oval face and carefully-plucked arching eyebrows. Her mouth is lip-sticked in a cupid’s bow. Her eyes are large, grey, clear and almond-shaped. Her lower legs are cut-off by the frame just above the knee. She is dressed in a grey tunic with a double row of brass buttons and dark skirt, and wearing a robin hood hat with a truncated peacock plume (no eye). Her hair is worn in a Lauren Bacall comb-over, much like that worn by Miss Bacall in The Big Sleep, dropping down over her right ear from a gentle arc across the forehead, combed back behind the left ear to drop down into the elegant fan so iconic of the period. In her hands she holds a period clutch-purse decorated with fleurs-de-lis entwined in a symbol arabesque, situated at her groin in a relaxed yet self-aware fashion.

The silhouette of a man in the background is situated stage right. The man is seated in a wooden chair, pouring whisky from a decanter with his right hand into a small glass held with his left. His stage-right edge is faintly illuminated by the light from the backing Venetian blinds, but all that can be discerned is the rough outline of the sharp, aquiline nose and a thin mouth. The light from the blinds catches the rim of one of the whisky glass. The man is slender, with a high forehead and long, thin face. His sleeves are rolled up to just above the elbows.

Dialogue:

Miss Lydia Kain: So, are you interested?

Tate: I must admit it is rather intriguing.

Panel 2:

Tableau [light source from the front and to stage left, from above]: An angle down on Tate (almost, but not quite a bird’s eye, say 50-70 degrees), sitting in his chair looking towards the camera and across it to stage right. He is illuminated now by the light from the Venetians, in alternating strips of dark and light. A bar of light falls across his eyes. Another bar of light catches the glass of whisky that he is holding near his mouth.

In appearance, Tate resembles something of an admixture of David Niven and Hoagy Carmichael. He is in his late thirties, with a lined but handsome face with a scar running down the left cheek. His hair is oiled and combed straight behind the ears, with a slight widow’s peak and a stray lock falling across his left brow. He is dressed in a white shirt with detachable collar (this is undone so that the two arms of the collar are hanging to either side of his face), and a dark vest with small pearl buttons. An untied bowtie hangs from around his neck. It is apparent that he was in the act of either dressing or undressing when Miss Kain arrived.

Tate is leaning his right arm on a number of indecipherable papers on the desk, his hand and forearm hanging off, and turned towards the off-screen position of Miss Kain. There is a friendly but business-like expression on his face.

Dialogue:

Miss Kain: How much do you charge?

Tate: $20 a day plus expenses. And 7c a mile for gas.

Panel 3:

Tableau [light source rear upper to middle stage right]: A chest-height slightly-upward-tilted rear angle on Tate seated at his desk at far stage right, at the back of the foreground, looking towards Miss Kain at stage left (with a small gap between herself and the edge of the panel), at middle-ground, who has turned to face him, only visible from above the waist over the desk, looking towards Tate’s face but otherwise in the same posture. In this shot a small lamp with a conical shade and hanging bead switch cord is visible on the desk, overlapping between Miss Kain’s abdomen and the gap between her body and the edge of the panel. The lamp is switched-off. Bars of light from the Venetians fall across everything, and form a band of light over Miss Kain’s eyes.

In the background at stage right a floor-to-ceiling filing cabinet is visible, overlapped by Tate and cut-off on three sides by the panel edges and the table. In the background behind Miss Kain (slightly to her right) a door is visible, with a small gap between the upper architrave and the ceiling, which is visible as a thin band from where the filing cabinet is positioned to the edge of the panel.

Dialogue:

Miss Kain: Well they’re hardly cut-throat, but those are reasonable rates.

Tate: Talk like that suggests having mingled with my kind before.

Panel 4:

Tableau [light source from stage left]: A close shot of Miss Kain’s face, showing the fall of her hair and the arch of her eyebrow into a wry, somewhat cynical expression. Her face is positioned to stage left, light falling over her face, and the background is in darkness. Her mouth is curled into a slight sneer at the right corner. The light and shadow is in heavy contrast.

Dialogue:

Miss Kain: My kind, Mr Tate, is the reason that your kind exists.

There’s a storm coming-up and it rocks the lakes,

Sending leaves into eddies round the stony pools,

The cape of the forest hangs over the mountains

And mist comes off the water as the evening cools.

There’s something in the trees that’s bearing on my mind,

An eye-corner glimpse as I’m splitting a log.

And it comes to me, the old tales they told,

Of the spectre of the pines and the ghost in the fog.

I’ve been round here about a month or so,

Hunting deer in the woods and fishing in the stream,

I’ve got a gun by my side as I sit on the porch,

Looking over the lake lit like a macabre dream.

Whispers reaching me on the darkening breeze,

Soul-lights flicker on the shore-side loam;

Murmuring figures flit between the trees,

Towards my little valley home they roam.

I watch them from the window, on the porch,

Scuttling up along the awning beams,

They peer with glowing amber through the panes;

Hiss, mutter, click, whistle and scream.

Beneath the bed, I watch the door creak wide,

Their gliding frames flow in across the floor,

Dismantle cupboards; gazing into cups;

Fish torn by glinting teeth drops into slippery maw.

The rifle shudders in my two strong hands.

I cower uncertain of my mind and aim,

And hide their shaking till the turn of dawn,

When spectres melt beneath the falling rain.

Ten years ago:

Ten years ago I was living in Queensland, drifting between schools and cheap housing, getting in fights in the playground and attempting to produce a number of trading cards to sell for fifty cents each at school, even though i wasn't entirely sure of how such things worked. Once I found a giant block of ice just lying in a vacant lot. I'm not sure what it was doing there, but for some reason I felt compelled to take it home. I carried it some ways before the ice burn forced me to drop it.

Five years ago:

Five years ago we had just moved from our house which my dad had been buying, but which he was no longer able to afford, to a three bedroom weatherboard structure a kilometer away in which I remain ensconced. If I recall correctly, I was in year 11, and went on a trip to Tasmania with school, during which I discovered at the Cadbury chocolate factory that I don't really like chocolate all that much. My father ate all of the rolos I'd bought for my sister, because he cannot be trusted about the stuff.

One year ago:

One year ago I was working in a youth training programme, weeding the coasts and bringing-in 500 dollars a fortnight for my troubles - which went into the family coffers due to currently resolved fiscal issues. It was during this time that I made a friend, got into music properly (mostly due to Classic FM and Triple J), and discovered that being hugged by a man covered in piss is not as illuminating an experience as one might believe. It was also the year I became a web cartoonist, something I continue to this day.

Yesterday:

Yesterday I slept till one in the afternoon, played my guitar badly and was annoyed to discover that Drunk Duck remained down. I went for a walk along the bay and ate an ice cream, and that night was so challenged in my trying to sleep that I wrote the first 2,000 words of the latest incarnation of my inarguably-doomed NaNoWriMo novel. I spent quite a bit of time staring at my eyelids, trying to let Francoiz Breut send me to sleep, and thinking that Pivot wear a little to enamoured of the beat.

5 yummy things:

Tea, biscuits, cordial, roasted potatoes with gravy, oriental cuisine (a cheat).

5 songs I know by heart:

The Dresden Dolls - Coin-Operated Boy
The Decemberists - The Mariner's Revenge Song
Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb
Massive Attack - Teardrop
The Beatles - Yellow Submarine

5 things I would do with a great deal of money:

Assuming an astonishing, but not a fantastic sum, then I would buy a house and furnish it tastefully (maybe somewhere back behind Lorne with a slight view of the sea), construct a vast library of all forms of media, hire someone to make me an excruiatingly-good website, with incredible hosting and the perfect domain name, buy a book shop, and establish a record/book publishing company.

5 places to escape to:

The internet, my mind, a book, the dark dungeons below the library, the river (when I'm motivated).

5 things I'd never wear:

Jeans (I am protesting the ubiquity of denim, and if that's not a word, it should be), hoodies, singlets, moon boots, a beanie.

5 favourite television programmes:

The Simpsons, Futurama, Samurai Jack, Monty Python's Flying Circus, Angry Beavers (pure b-grade brilliance)

5 things I enjoy doing:

Cogitation (be it collective or singular), reading, drawing, writing, listening to/(attempting) production of music.

Favourite Toys:

Pen, paper, guitar, computer, bicycle (when in possession of a working item)

The first five people who read this post should consider themselves tagged.

Songstress required – Soul-singers need not apply – Rudimentary Guitar/Keyboard skills preferable (no great ability necessary, but possession of hands a definite advantage). Nervousness, shy retirement and the like all acceptable (nay, laudable) traits. Love of the nylon strings on an acoustic guitar essential.

Hello You! Do you enjoy the music of people such as Francoiz Breut, Belle & Sebastian, Mogwai, the VU (mostly prior to Nico’s dismissal), the Decemberists, Sarah Blasko, Architecture In Helsinki, The Pixies, strange squealy and beepy electrically-generated sounds, Bjork , and (to a varying extent) Broken Social Scene? If not, why not? Those are all quality acts. If so, or if you enjoy music in a similar vein, would you be prepared to engage your larynx/hands in the production of eccentric pop built around simple, repetitive, (at times squealy) occult guitar chords and wavering synthesiser fills? If so, would you be prepared to do this for little to no reward, mostly just sitting about in some guy’s front room, playing chords into a PC and crooning tunelessly (tea and biscuits provided)?

Do you have lyrics? Do they remind people of Sylvia Plath’s poetry, composed after one too many vodka and tonics? If so, please tone-down the angst (although the ability to match “Daddy” in quality would outweigh any stylistic quibbles). If you gravitate more towards simple observations, abstract philosophy, and strange narratives, this is indeed a happy thing. Collaborations often end in tears, but hopefully of joy. Do you like word play? Alternately, do you find it pays to play on words? Do you consider this advert over-long and overly-twee? If so, you’re right – blame nervousness.

Do you find what lies at www.scarygoround.com (in no way affiliated with me) at all funny?

Do you have an overwhelming desire to perform? There’s always room for side-projects in [insert whatever group is later named here], but mucking-about and maybe recording some stuff is more the name of the game than, you know, appearing in public.

If the carefully-crafted filtering meme that is this advert has not discouraged you, please email the sleepy Thomas Meade at ianperot@yahoo.com.au, or phone 04 3250 1069, though preferably the former. If you call me I am liable to become confused and mumble a lot. The actual meeting will be awkward enough without such confusing starts.

I am thinking of starting a band. I am considering placing an ad upon the local musical bulletin-board, and attempting to recruit a guitarist/keyboardist with some vocal ability. This person will preferably be female, as I am a male and complimentary vocals from a member of the opposing gender will also allow for narratives and interesting duets. This person will not have to provide equipment (unless they want to play against my acoustic/electric with one of their own), but an amp would be good.

I am still unsure about doing this, but playing my guitar I have discovered that I have the ability to construct serviceable pop cords of a reasonably-original, sharp-askew-and-looping nature, and do decent background fills on synths. My vocals are not stellar, but these days it’s all about attitude, and they are far from awful (indeed, having a soft, guttural, chest-driven lilt).

The only catch is that I am not really interested in performing, so finding a random stranger to play opposite someone they don’t know in said someone’s study, into a bootlegged studio programme, seems a daunting task. I’m also naturally shy and retiring.

If you have suggestions on an effective method of going about this, please inform me.

If you are curious, I hope to play repeating progressive-pattern-driven pop sitting somewhere between pre-Nico’s departure VU, The Decemberists and rawwk.

So I finally got my main site up, after far too much effort. Tell your friends. Ring bells. Wave distractingly at small children. It looks fancy and has all the requisit features for absolute awesome.

I'm reading Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, Mr Satyamurthy having raved about it so. I've only gotten a few pages in but it's engaging so far. I've also picked-up White Teeth by Zadie Smith and been listening the The Tain a lot. If you are not cognisant of The Tain, it's basically Indie darlings The Decemberists reworking an ancient Irish poem as an 18 minute rock epic (but odd rock). It's pretty darn spiffy.

I'm going to bed now. It's 2.00 AM local time, and that's far from too early for sleep.

The holidays are wondrous.

I hate QUACT. QUACT, when it works, is marvellosu, but even though, after months of sporadic trying, I finally got it to work, it then suddenly decided to expire on me after twenty minutes of bliss that it seems were never meant to last.

I'm on the second reboot of my NaNoWriMo novel. I've written 7,000 words counting the false starts, and what was first about a book-selling detective was then about a bunch of vignettes based upon random LOTE expressions such as La Pedze and Attaccabottoni, and is now about a pixie who works for a negligent goblin that lives in a clock tower and plays the violin. The Pixie has now found a business-savvy pool of light in named Anthony in the cellar (I blame this on reading Bear issue #3 yesterday and highly-enjoying it).

I'm off school now. I spend all day uploading pages to my third comic in as many months - a delightful;y-random stream of pointless silliness I've called Inkspots, on the grounds that the name is probably already taken, so it must be good.

The more I thinkabout it, the more I like Graham Greene, and the more The End of the Affair pisses me off.