truly on my trail now, I rip open the throttle on the bike and give it full jets on. It's straight ahead from here, next stop Charing Cross, and the City Centre after that, beyond the blossoms of chi-blasts that light my path, left, right, up, down and shaking my ass all round about.
I reckon it's only a matter of time now. There's a fuckload more chaos still to be caused, but my little wake-up call on the Circus should be more than enough to get their arses in gear and their fingers out (not the best metaphors to mix in terms of savory images, perhaps, but what the hell). Yes, I suspect that very soon somebody's going to be looking at that lightning flash over the Central Office's burnt and splintered door and figuring out exactly what it means.
Excuse me, Mrs. Police State, can Joey come out and play?
T
he
S
ong
T
hat
T
ears the
W
orld
A
part
Joey stalks the boards of the stage. It's still two hours till the curtains go up, but already he's getting into character and that means it's best not to go near him. Jack's on the roof of the wagon practicing his flips and flops, Don's setting up the SFX, and Guy is sitting on the wagon's steps, head in his hands and muttering about the younger generation, philistines and, in particular, those of us with the voice of an angel and the attention span of a gnat.
“OK,” I say. “OK, I'm sorry. It's just—how does anything
call like a frieze?
It doesn't make sense.”
“It's not meant to,” he says. “You're in love with Harlequin, delirious, mad with love for him, your reason gone.”
“My reason for what?”
“Just sing the bloody line,” he says.
I shrug.
He sighs.
“OK. Let's take it from
Come, come, you timeless golden pride”
he says.
“Come, come, you timeless golden pride,” I sing. “Run, dance into delirium! Dance to the thunder of the drum that beats in time with pounding feet, and sing the praises of your spirit, joy. Call like a frieze across the centuries, sing out your ancient songs in answer to the holy flute that calls you out to play with sweet sad song. A colt in pasture at its mother's side bounding along, joy in its heart—this is the song that tears the world apart.”
And whirling, twirling, birling, furling and unfurling from a pirouette that spins on like a skater on the ice—how does he do that?—Jack breaks out of it into a sweeping bow.
“The song that tears the world apart?”
says Joey.
He comes striding to the stage's edge, steps off and lands soft, almost silent on the stone floor. He's in character all right now.
“You don't think the Duke will read that as a reference to the Cant?” he says. “You don't think that's a little fucking obvious? Hey there, unkin fucker, we know all about you and your language. You don't think that's just asking for trouble?”
You can see it in his narrowed eyes, the quiver of jaw muscle as he grits his teeth. Guy stands up from the wagon steps, hands up, placatory.
“Joey, it's a metaphor for love.”
Joey holds the psycho stare for a second then blinks and rolls his shoulders in a visible release. It's like someone threw a switch.
“Forget it,” he says [shakes his head with a wry smile]. ‘As you were.”
Bloody method actors, I think. Guy sits back down, gives a nod to me to start again. I watch as Joey climbs back up onto the stage.
“O Themes,” I sing …
“O Themes,” I sing, “you gardeners of Simile, garland yourself with ivy. Burst and bloom with blossoms of lush green bryony and bring boughs of oak and pine to join the revels. Put on your motley coat of fawn skin trimmed with tufts of silver fur, and sport your wands with wild devotion.”
I skip this way, that way, cross the stage, hands reaching out, calling the audience themselves to join me in my madness: Duke and Princess; courtiers and serfs.
“We'll have the whole land dancing to the Harlequin's hail,” I sing. “Come, come with us into the hills where mobs of maidens leave the spinning and the
I reckon it's only a matter of time now. There's a fuckload more chaos still to be caused, but my little wake-up call on the Circus should be more than enough to get their arses in gear and their fingers out (not the best metaphors to mix in terms of savory images, perhaps, but what the hell). Yes, I suspect that very soon somebody's going to be looking at that lightning flash over the Central Office's burnt and splintered door and figuring out exactly what it means.
Excuse me, Mrs. Police State, can Joey come out and play?
T
he
S
ong
T
hat
T
ears the
W
orld
A
part
Joey stalks the boards of the stage. It's still two hours till the curtains go up, but already he's getting into character and that means it's best not to go near him. Jack's on the roof of the wagon practicing his flips and flops, Don's setting up the SFX, and Guy is sitting on the wagon's steps, head in his hands and muttering about the younger generation, philistines and, in particular, those of us with the voice of an angel and the attention span of a gnat.
“OK,” I say. “OK, I'm sorry. It's just—how does anything
call like a frieze?
It doesn't make sense.”
“It's not meant to,” he says. “You're in love with Harlequin, delirious, mad with love for him, your reason gone.”
“My reason for what?”
“Just sing the bloody line,” he says.
I shrug.
He sighs.
“OK. Let's take it from
Come, come, you timeless golden pride”
he says.
“Come, come, you timeless golden pride,” I sing. “Run, dance into delirium! Dance to the thunder of the drum that beats in time with pounding feet, and sing the praises of your spirit, joy. Call like a frieze across the centuries, sing out your ancient songs in answer to the holy flute that calls you out to play with sweet sad song. A colt in pasture at its mother's side bounding along, joy in its heart—this is the song that tears the world apart.”
And whirling, twirling, birling, furling and unfurling from a pirouette that spins on like a skater on the ice—how does he do that?—Jack breaks out of it into a sweeping bow.
“The song that tears the world apart?”
says Joey.
He comes striding to the stage's edge, steps off and lands soft, almost silent on the stone floor. He's in character all right now.
“You don't think the Duke will read that as a reference to the Cant?” he says. “You don't think that's a little fucking obvious? Hey there, unkin fucker, we know all about you and your language. You don't think that's just asking for trouble?”
You can see it in his narrowed eyes, the quiver of jaw muscle as he grits his teeth. Guy stands up from the wagon steps, hands up, placatory.
“Joey, it's a metaphor for love.”
Joey holds the psycho stare for a second then blinks and rolls his shoulders in a visible release. It's like someone threw a switch.
“Forget it,” he says [shakes his head with a wry smile]. ‘As you were.”
Bloody method actors, I think. Guy sits back down, gives a nod to me to start again. I watch as Joey climbs back up onto the stage.
“O Themes,” I sing …
“O Themes,” I sing, “you gardeners of Simile, garland yourself with ivy. Burst and bloom with blossoms of lush green bryony and bring boughs of oak and pine to join the revels. Put on your motley coat of fawn skin trimmed with tufts of silver fur, and sport your wands with wild devotion.”
I skip this way, that way, cross the stage, hands reaching out, calling the audience themselves to join me in my madness: Duke and Princess; courtiers and serfs.
“We'll have the whole land dancing to the Harlequin's hail,” I sing. “Come, come with us into the hills where mobs of maidens leave the spinning and the
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