The Last Monarch

Today, with no malice aforethought, I am returned to that Sunday morning at the end of August 1997. I was out before the sun, amid the symphony of crickets and cicadas, tree frogs. All the traditional sounds of a late summer night. There was a feeling that I can not quite describe, perhaps something akin to Deja vu. I could not recall the exact date, yet I found myself thinking that this day had that same feeling as the morning we learned that Princess Diana was gone. 

By the actual anniversary date, we are off by a day; tomorrow, the 31st, marks twenty-nine years since her untimely death. Which was a Sunday morning. Sunday mornings all bear a certain natural taint in a predominantly Christian culture. I don't mean that as an insult of any kind. It's just a fact.

In 1997 I lived in a world where, whether one attended a church or not, Sunday mornings were reserved to a time of quiet reflection. Seated on a deck or beside a fire, depending upon the season. Morning tea and a cigarette in peace, before the world starts yammering away in your face. Maybe a Sunday newspaper, complete with coupons, comics and crossword. A time before smart phones, social media, podcasts and wi-fi. There was still quiet to be found in the world. Especially on a Sunday morning. One savored this time, often the only time in a week to pass in such a manner.

On that particular Sunday, no one yet had gotten around to turning on the television until about 9:00. To have a peaceful Sunday morning brought to a screeching halt by such a momentous event, was instantly jarring. The surreal nature of it, unfolding from the television, whilst a perfect, balmy, late summer morning still awaited beyond atrium doors. It was news that did not have any direct, personal impact for any of us Colonials; yet it arrived with such a gut punch quality.

It was like coming home from your first day at school, to hear from the television news that Santa Claus had perished in a collision with a B2 stealth bomber, somewhere off the coast of Labrador. Some slick correspondent in a trench coat stands at some bleak cliffside, the North Atlantic's angry sea spray cascades behind him while helicopters hover in the distance...." there were apparently no survivors, Tom. Santa Claus, dead today, at 483. This is Chad Baxter, reporting from the coast of Newfoundland..." Horrifying news delivered with a banal affect. You can't beat it.

I think it was the Sunday edition of the Today Show. I couldn't tell you who was on camera, and it doesn't really matter. It was the same on every network. For good or ill, she was probably the most famous woman on the planet. A lady, known by a select few, yet known to the world. After absorbing the news, I eventually returned to my deck. It was still a gorgeous morning on the cusp of Autumn, but something had changed. Somehow, the world would be different after this. You didn't know how, but you knew it.

She would be Queen today. Queen Diana. Nice ring to it. Given the sorry state of affairs in the UK today, one must wonder what a Queen Diana would think of the realm, in it's current misshapen form. It's hard for me to imagine her being quiet about it. Maybe that's why she is gone. Who knows. Her death signaled the end of something greater than herself. It was the end of the age of princesses. And princes, and Kings. As the twentieth century waned and spilled into the twenty-first, the way was cleared for a new and more venomous royalty to ascend. Bye-bye, empire, bye-bye.

We are witnessing the final days of the House of Windsor. Whether it is in the person of old King Chuckles, or in the more palatable Prince William, we will see the end of the Monarchy. Let's check back in a year, on the thirtieth anniversary, shall we?

We will bid farewell to Templeroy, the temple of Kings...

Insomnia

Two espressos, after dinner

a Blueshift Signal, oceans away

It didn't seem so late

the light still hanging on

and dusk passed to darkness unaware

Subtle, silent invitation

to share those crisp and scented sheets

The moments and passions

are cruelly spent

with so much of the night still to die

The Ficus with colored strands alight 

shines indifference so convincing

while polychromic shadows

upon the ceiling dance

Wide awake, staring, can't look away

There is some other place or time

that I might possibly belong

Other side of the mirror

of a Deja vu that's been

A thing that tells me I must leave

Insomniacs apologize

for the sorry state they are in

to the quiet conscience

of those who sleep

Shatner on my ceiling

 

When the hour struck to return us to standard time Shatner scaled the wall and began to crawl across the ceiling, like some manic gecko stalking gnats in the choler of a tropic night. With a reptilian prowess he stealthily zig-zagged across the surface to the center of the room where a cord descended. It had until moments before dropped to a mirror ball, but the reflective panels had fallen away to reveal an industrial strength bug zapper in it’s place. I was simultaneously impressed that a man of such considerable bulk might so defy gravity and that at the tender age of ninety-one he should prove to be so agile. He remained for some time perched above this device, studiously watching for I can’t imagine what. It’s November for Christ’s sake! The bugs are all gone, save for the stinkbugs who have burrowed into every dark crevice to be found. They come haltingly whenever that low winter sun should grace our windows and nudge the mercury above fifty degrees. That was not so at this day and hour. An inner voice warned against engaging in any way with the man while he was in this state, for surely one would do so at their peril. Who knows what kind of psychosis would infect the foolhardy who might try?

I have long suffered manic episodes of my own, these usually afflicting me in the long, dark pre-dawn hours of the morning. These are the dead hours when most of the living are wrapped in their silent repose, chasing after pleasant dreams to dull each waking nightmare. We who depart our unquiet slumber for these nocturnal vigils are privileged to witness such bizarre occurrences, though often left to puzzle what we have seen. Or why. I consider myself fortunate among this number, for it is in these hours that I am often visited by the spirits of the departed. Most only sit in the darkness in a mute communion with the night, but there is one who truly haunts me.

“God is dead.”

“He is indeed, for we have killed him.”

This is our standard opening exchange. I can not summon him; he only appears as he will.

“Wie gehts, Fritz?”

“I am well. And yourself, Thomas?”

“Puzzled. I’ll assume that is why you are here?”

“Oh dear! Reading Sartre again?”

“No, not lately. I am puzzled by this!” I gestured at Shatner’s form, still looming above the bug zapper.

“Also, naturlich! It is a man crouched on the ceiling, Thomas. Your eyes are failing you! Do you know him?”

“Not personally, no, but I know who he is. I just don’t understand why he is here.” I did not dare to add that I was also puzzled over why and how he had crawled upon the ceiling. Apparently whatever place Fritz inhabits, in whatever form that may take, it is perfectly normal for the geriatric crowd to climb about like lizards in the middle of the night.

“Have you been taking hallucinogens again? You’re getting rather old for that now, don’t you think?”

“No! Not… today. No, I am not hallucinating. You see it too!” I had to wonder for a moment. Could he share my hallucinations? And if he did, would he ever tell. I think not.

“Do you fear this man for some reason? Who is he?”

“He is Captain James Tiberius Kirk, commander of the Starfleet Ship Enterprise.”

“Kirk. Hmmm…. Kirk. Is that an Americanized version of Kirkegaard?”

“No, I don’t believe so...”

“And did I hear you correctly, did you say Tiberius? Ha! Pretentious much! What was his mother thinking!”

“Trust me Fritz, that is nothing compared to some of the names they dream up now.”

“Indeed. I lose track, friend….when is now?”

“2021 AD.”

“Thomas, have you considered asking him what he wants?”

“I had not made it quite that far, to be honest. I was resolved to do all in my power to simply ignore him. I would, however, like to know why he has suspended a bug zapper from my ceiling.”

“Ja, that is a curious apparatus. Bug zapper? How does it work?”

“It….I can’t believe I’m doing this, it has a charge in the cylinder. And a light. The light attracts the bugs and when they fly too close...ZAP!”

“Ingenious! Does it work on people too?”

“Sometimes…. Look, Fritz! I know you don’t just drop in for casual conversation. I don’t have any brandy, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Ach, nein nein! Smoke your pipe, Thomas. I will speak with him.”

In the blink of an eye Fritz appeared seated next to Shatner, sitting cross legged upside down. The tails of his heavy, woolen waistcoat of 19th century vintage hung down behind him, lending the unsettling illusion that he was a fly with wings at rest tucked behind him. I could not make out their discussion, only the muffled, distant buzzing of their low voices. They appeared to be holding an intelligent exchange with even temper and few gestures. Given Shatner’s flair for the dramatic flourish the entire discussion was surprisingly absent of much animation at all. This went on for several minutes and then, as suddenly as he had appeared above, Fritz was back at my side and Shatner had vanished. The bug zapper remained.

“Well? What did he say?”

“About what?”

“The bug zapper!”

“Oh, ja ja...the zapper. Thomas, the zapper is of no consequence. You are seeing the zapper because you are remembering a specific time in your life. This life, that you are in now...”

“I’m sorry Fritz, I’m not following this...”

“Ja, the Captain said you would not. Hör mal, bitte! The first time you ever saw one of these devices you were a boy. It was summer. Can you remember that year Thomas?”

“Vaguely.”

“Thomas, you were of the last generation of boys to enjoy play themed upon the American west. Cowboy hats and gun belts, with shiny cap guns. Your mythology was gunslingers and heroes riding to the rescue on horseback. Mock rifles and toy soldiers. The Rifleman and The Lone Ranger on your television. You do remember these things?”

“Yes. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Lieber Gott, you are an impatient man Thomas! I am arriving at the point, just hear me out. Now, your Captain Kirk arrives on your television. There is the space program, the moon landing… it was what you Americans call a “sea change”, I believe? The world changed Thomas and little boys were no longer interested in dusty old cowboys. It was the beginning of a turning, verstehen?”

“Yes… I understand what you mean. Go on.”

“Ausgezeichnet! Captain Kirk has come to let you know that he has crossed his final frontier. This turning has passed, my friend. You have entered the fourth turning and Captain Kirk is leaving now.”

“Yes Fritz, but what does it mean?

“It is like your Dylan. It means everything and it means nothing. At once. When you are dead like me you will understand.

“I see. And how long will that be?”

There was no further reply. Fritz was gone, until the next time he should decide to drop in. I will have to make it a point to stock more brandy. If not soon, then at least some time before I die.

A suite of six undilutable slang truths

 

Never trust people who walk around with clipboards. They are paid to collect your signature or your money. Or both. They are equipped with a script and usually know next to nothing about whatever they are collecting for.

I don't give two shits about Caroline Leavitt, or any other bleach blonde flak. She may very well be a lovely person, but whatever talents she may possess would be better suited to a REAL circus. The only person on the planet who is equipped to do a proper job as WH Press Secretary is Bill Belichick, and he has better things to do.

Your convenience is feeding someone else's greed.

Plato was full of shit. There are no rules in a game where the opponent doesn't have to obey them. 

If you present your message in the form of "the top six things that...", you probably don't have anything worth reading or hearing. Also top 5,10, 20....any number.

Muslims are inbred savages who have no place in western society. Welcome them in at your peril.

Those are my six undilutable slang truths for today. I didn't say they were the top six. Just six at random. Because I was bored and uninspired today.

Oh, and if you are muslim and you are offended? Be offended. Don't care. If you are not muslim, and you somehow feel obliged to be offended on their behalf, you are a tool. Go fuck yourself.

Midnight and other beasts will be back later in the week, rounding out our August '26 edition. Hopefully with something more substantive.

The Jealous Pool

 Her waters are seen and oft mistaken

Her depths colored green for hopes forsaken

All will drink from this toxic well,

most unknowing and few would tell

Thou shalt not covet,

we are admonished

Some think nothing of it

then act astonished

when they are rebuked for the deed

Kissing cousin to a thing called greed

and other dark colors deep within

Some like to say it’s original sin

Most of the isms drawn from this font

are leveraged upon what others want

When all their falsehoods have filled your head

you’re left blind to the fact it’s for them instead

There is no care for what you think

After sating their thirst on that poison drink

Count Binface: Truth in Advertising

 

Defeat is only temporary...

Given the farcical nature of politics, I expect we've not seen the last of ol' Binsy. After all, there were ten thousand voters in Clacton who voluntarily cast their ballots for a rubbish bin. A container full of garbage. It's actually pretty good branding when you think about it. The only thing more honest would be a candidate with a toilet bowl or a box of disposable diapers on their head.

Binface may well be the bastard child of Sarah Ferguson and Robot Chicken's humping robot...

The Duchess pictured on right

What next? What about a dead hamster? Or a spooge rag? Would the results be any different? Probably not.

I'll be honest: I have not done a deep dive on this. I don't know who Binface is, who may be behind his candidacy, or if the whole thing is designed to take the piss out of British electoral politics. I'm only sharing these observations because it amuses me. I don't give one single shit about Clacton. Hell, I don't even know for sure where it is.

But I do know something about the nature of politics.

If Binface had won, there would be no distinguishable difference to the constituency of Clacton. In countries that call themselves "democracies", the leaders are popularly elected. Ostensibly. So, it is a popularity contest. It is the very nature of any popularity contest to draw a certain type: the Narcissist. Is it any wonder then, that participants in the electoral process are ever disappointed?

Maybe they are all going about this the wrong way. Maybe, instead of elections, there should be a draft. They keep getting people who want the job. Badly. Too badly. That should be a clue right there. Desperation has an unmistakable stench.

Instead of having a system where office holders literally thirst for power and authority, we could instead have a system where the duty is regarded as an onerous task. A job that NO ONE should want. Twenty-four months and you're done. Next! There are a multitude of arguments that may be mustered against this idea, but to each of those I counter with this: Would it be any worse than having a rubbish bin in charge?

Vert

 

Wet

Emerald green velvet

where wood nymphs whisper

Guardians of a sylvan secret

these creatures of light 

they glow as fireflies in the night

welcome the Muses in their flight

from a world gone mad

Spirit away these gentle Wraiths

to the quiet sanctum within

they chant their woeful hymn

and weep silver tears to kiss the soil

They are the lost and abandoned Foil

to ears that hear yet no longer listen

Their Gifts unappreciated

desensitized and vacant

no attachment to the Ancient

a quiet exit

Exile