"Perhaps he was dangerous, aggressive, but he was certainly not capable of murder, no, he'd rant and rave, perhaps, but could probably be cooled off with the offer of a drink. That was the beauty of him.
I think I'd seen a glimpse of him before, the shadow or the hint of him, in the dank, rain-wet main street, or up a side-alley, lingering near the entrance to the flea-market, glowering at passers-by. He was exactly the kind of old fool who'd take to haranguing the public in semi-coherent rants, exhorting them to love Jesus, buy some product, or merely exorcising his own demons at them.
His grey hair, his mouth loose and watery, either pursed in rage or formed into an unstable smile, begging or selling, cursing or blessing, rage or sadness in his eyes.
He'd at times be accompanied by a mystery female, equally amorphous and wearied, as full of grimness and ambiguity, bleary-eyed and grey-haired in like measure... Till they seemed to be one! Twins merged into one disreputable hobo, one performing saint, descended solidly from aeons of magicians and tramps, shamans and fools!
The tramp does tricks! And has potions for sale, and smiles to his own secrets. A bum to perform benign hexes, a gypsy bedecked in mirrors, singing the ancient songs that the soothsayers sang, handing out significant scraps of paper, scrawled with the secrets of the earth. A harmless eccentric, the authorities say!
He'd fit in at the fair, being the carnival king, the sideshow attraction. His face lit by lurid carousel lights, his sayings submerged under the klaxons and pop songs. Handing out incomprehensible leaflets, promising heaven on Earth in new and incorruptible forms. His eyes, full of a secret omniscience, in his dark face. He's the keeper of the freakshow, silent parter of the curtain in the chamber of horrors, he opens his shirt to reveal the Book of Revelation, tattooed earnestly in severe scarlet.
He walks moaning on overcast days, carrying a placard that insists upon the destruction of the world. He'll put on a sandwich board, pin scripture to his arms and hat, if it means redemption, or even to announce a new sale of dark merchandise. You've seen street performers, preachers, soapbox politicians? He seemed to be all of them in one! Morris dancers, tied with hankies, clicking sticks? Mystery dervishes that appear in streets, dragon-dancers that leap around in heavy costume?
The one-man-band, shiny reflective surfaces pinned to every inch, blazing colours, face coarse and restless, banging drum, clashing cymbal, blowing horn? Or, at last, the Pearly King, emblazoned in a thousand shiny buttons, casting refractions and shadows everywhere, from his shoes to his cap, his fat belly, his mouth shouting, raucous and heartfelt, an outmoded tune!?"
Saturday 10 May 2014
Tuesday 6 May 2014
The Pearly King 2
Well, thought as I read this, all that is very non-specific. All that about "mystery"! What exactly is the nature of this place that he refers to as a flea-market? Why should he be checked at the door? Is the interior utterly dark, or does it flash with blinding colours, and resound with a babel of tongues? Does it contain angel dust, whizz bang, flash gordon, arcade machines, wizards with sparkling incantations? But these are only my associations...
And now the narrative is getting to the point! "... but this afternoon was to be special. It was to be my first encounter with the Pearly King".
"He stood in the depth of the room, partially obscured by shadow, illuminated now and again by a flashing light, his outline confused by the gesticulating arms and bobbing heads of the crowds that filled the fleamarket.
And yet he seemed solid, ominous, and meaningful, standing apart from the crowd, smiling softly and ambiguously, and looking, or so it seemed, in my direction... Why he struck me so profoundly I can't guess. The place was full of odd characters, weird hangers-on, misfits who would arrive suddenly for a few days, and then disappear.
It was only that there was something about him that was inexplicably bizarre, perhaps a taint of madness, of grizzled eccentricity, but all under the cloak of an almost beatific calmness, as embodied in his ambiguous smile.
And now the narrative is getting to the point! "... but this afternoon was to be special. It was to be my first encounter with the Pearly King".
"He stood in the depth of the room, partially obscured by shadow, illuminated now and again by a flashing light, his outline confused by the gesticulating arms and bobbing heads of the crowds that filled the fleamarket.
And yet he seemed solid, ominous, and meaningful, standing apart from the crowd, smiling softly and ambiguously, and looking, or so it seemed, in my direction... Why he struck me so profoundly I can't guess. The place was full of odd characters, weird hangers-on, misfits who would arrive suddenly for a few days, and then disappear.
It was only that there was something about him that was inexplicably bizarre, perhaps a taint of madness, of grizzled eccentricity, but all under the cloak of an almost beatific calmness, as embodied in his ambiguous smile.
Monday 5 May 2014
The Pearly King 1
Heading into the centre of town where the main shopping area is, ambling along distractedly.
I have in my hand a flask of tea from which I am taking the occasional swig. I also have with me a short story written by a friend of mine. This friend of mine plays the guitar, and writes, now and then, the odd humorous anecdote-filled story. This one had been neatly printed-out and paper-clipped together. Its title was "The Pearly King".
Onwards I wander beside the busy road, engrossed in the story, flicking over the page to read on. Sipping the lukewarm tea. I should mention also that this friend of mine was perhaps partial to the occasional abuse of a substance, of which substances derived from the hemp plant formed the major part.
Now it seems this friend of mine had embarked upon a fictional narrative, inasmuch as the narrator of the story was not himself... but only some unexplained "I".
The narrator explained how one afternoon, many years ago, he had chanced to roam idly, as I was now doing, toward the centre of town. This I assumed being my friend's fictional creation. But who was the narrator? To that I could only answer: A third party, not my friend, not the author, not necessarily a fiction, but someone more lucid, clearer, less humorous than my friend. He was the un-named "I" channelled through my friend!
The narrative explained how he had wandered around the town, through its commercial centre, from shop to shop, mingling with crowds on the plazas, having not much direction or object. Let's say the fellow was in his 20's, for so he appears to my mind's eye. It was the autumn of the year 1975:
"Being at a loose end, I wandered through the streets, window-shopping, my mind distracted. In those days I divided my time between my girlfriend's house and the occasional trip to the local fleamarket, where plentiful bargains could be picked up, and which had something of a reputation as a converging-point for local characters. The sights I had seen there! I'd come down the road from my girlfriend's flat, having kissed her goodbye in the evening, and seek out the back alley entrance to the fleamarket.
Always a party atmosphere in that chaotic, warehouse-sized room! Always a sense of mystery! There'd be no-one to check you at the door, a mere glance at the patrons who had spilled onto the pavement, something exchanged between the eyes, was all that was required to gain entry. Still, you felt always the vibrant exclusivity and mystery of the place, the atmosphere of solemn comradeship, brewing like a lull before a great storm, like a gasp for breath before a violent fit of laughter..."
I have in my hand a flask of tea from which I am taking the occasional swig. I also have with me a short story written by a friend of mine. This friend of mine plays the guitar, and writes, now and then, the odd humorous anecdote-filled story. This one had been neatly printed-out and paper-clipped together. Its title was "The Pearly King".
Onwards I wander beside the busy road, engrossed in the story, flicking over the page to read on. Sipping the lukewarm tea. I should mention also that this friend of mine was perhaps partial to the occasional abuse of a substance, of which substances derived from the hemp plant formed the major part.
Now it seems this friend of mine had embarked upon a fictional narrative, inasmuch as the narrator of the story was not himself... but only some unexplained "I".
The narrator explained how one afternoon, many years ago, he had chanced to roam idly, as I was now doing, toward the centre of town. This I assumed being my friend's fictional creation. But who was the narrator? To that I could only answer: A third party, not my friend, not the author, not necessarily a fiction, but someone more lucid, clearer, less humorous than my friend. He was the un-named "I" channelled through my friend!
The narrative explained how he had wandered around the town, through its commercial centre, from shop to shop, mingling with crowds on the plazas, having not much direction or object. Let's say the fellow was in his 20's, for so he appears to my mind's eye. It was the autumn of the year 1975:
"Being at a loose end, I wandered through the streets, window-shopping, my mind distracted. In those days I divided my time between my girlfriend's house and the occasional trip to the local fleamarket, where plentiful bargains could be picked up, and which had something of a reputation as a converging-point for local characters. The sights I had seen there! I'd come down the road from my girlfriend's flat, having kissed her goodbye in the evening, and seek out the back alley entrance to the fleamarket.
Always a party atmosphere in that chaotic, warehouse-sized room! Always a sense of mystery! There'd be no-one to check you at the door, a mere glance at the patrons who had spilled onto the pavement, something exchanged between the eyes, was all that was required to gain entry. Still, you felt always the vibrant exclusivity and mystery of the place, the atmosphere of solemn comradeship, brewing like a lull before a great storm, like a gasp for breath before a violent fit of laughter..."
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