Wednesday, January 18, 2017
10 Aug 1914
Somehow, it was Paris, clip-clop, messy, in a phrase - the only city from here, all along the coast, from London in the north, to Brussels in the East, nowhere in the West and South. In fact you could to find Paris, as the one true city, in all the land of France. Because anything that you could think of that was in the land, had its best was representation there and only there. It was, again, morning, but shorter, but not enough so you would know. The sun was not up quite yet, nor were the children awake. In fact there were only two people awake at all, the old man who is downstairs sharpening everything that he had to sharpen, an upstairs, made during all things that she knew had to be done, but were disagreeable to everyone, so they were to be done sight unseen.
If only they could be done as before, in the 80s, the 90s, what time that would be, the German hordes had retreated, all the riffraff which gathered around Marx had blown over, all was gay, and that did not mean homosexual, but pleasant and gentle and all the things that meant the older definition of the word. But that was not to be, there was up ahead in the distance, a decision to be made, should I stay, or should we go. Though people talked in the old dialect with its wordy verbose nature, people who that it's a was dying, as if going to sleep, and never wake up again. In this house, it was not wanted, but it was coming anyway.
In other places in the district, the new voice was a shattering voice. But here it was whispered edge which came to most people, children, the mother, and every one else, talked to them themselves. Them there was Peternotes, who only talked people when they talked them. Right now, he was a closet, and no one talked to him for two days, because he did not want to talk them. He knew that his time was coming, but not quite yet, though a ray from the emerging sun was creeping its way, down to where he was. He nudged his way, up into the light, but not so close as to be seen.
He mumbled to himself, and nodded, and whispered. But these were actual noises, there was no question that he was awake, and listening intently to the carrying on, though now it was just too people soon it would be more, and more noisy.
Truly, this moment of the day perplexed, and derided, him. He did not like how all of the other toys were dead, he did not like how the people were asleep, off in a dream world which he could not get to, though he knew that something was going on inside their mind. He wished that he had a companion, some like him who he could talk to through the hours of the night. It would be comforting. But it was not to be.
So he waited, waited if that moment, where the children listen to him intently, their secrets unlocked, and they're minds awakened to what he would have the say. Because he, and only he, Peternotes, would tell them what was going to be happening. And he would be right, that world was gone and he was going to tell the children about a new world, new in every detail, which the people of books time would recognize. Even if you do not, you would recognize that it had come, and gone.
But then he froze, because someone was opening the door, and since the hands and feet were so small it had to be one of the children, probably J since her hands and feet were so tiny and petite. As said before, Peternotes did not want to speak to either of them, because he came from the time which the future which he could see was only glimmering in man's eye, which had caught wildfire in 1860's, into a magic breath. One which spoke of marvelous things, of woman's equality, and all people being free. And then lost it again, because there was something they wanted more, even though they were not going have it. It was marvelous time, full of marvelous ideas, but has yet it was unformed. Peternokes was made by a man that had captured these, he saw in a novel in fact. And remember novels were quite a new thing. They had changed him for the new century, and combined only a few which were decent.
And in this dream world Peternokes slid from and to hear until finally he arrived in the hands, and he knew that this was the time, but not quite yet. These children, but not quite yet. Then the hands and feet did not enter this inner sanctum, and he slipped back, and rested. He always wondered what dreaming would be like, if only he could dream. So he dragged the Cat behind him, talking to himself and, maybe, to the Cat if it could understand him.
On the other side, the boy understood more than anyone could imagine. He couldn't read it's mind, but the could feel rage that Peternotes felt, even Peternote did not know he felt as strongly as he did. He could feel the animosity, and he realized that it was going to have it be relieved somehow, though as a boy he could only think of some violent fisticuffs as resolution. He knew that there was a better way, but he did know how to resolve them. You would have to think about it, because that was the first barrier, barrier between Peternotes, and the two people who meant him the best thing in the world. He would raise this in quite of the evening with his sister. He would make it clear that this would have to be the first thing.
Thus he turned away from the door, and picked up blocks, and played with them. But in the back of his head, there was a spinner around, and he would in fact tell his sister about what he had felt. She, first had listened, because he did not know exactly how powerful is voice was. Then she then spoke: “I never knew just how angry he was, we have to do something about this, I agree. What do you have in mind?”
He got annoyed, he had been waiting for an answer from her, not the question that he had asked. And he showed his annoyance replied:
“If I knew I would have already been. I was open that you would have an answer. Do you?”
Actually she did. But biting her lip was second nature.
“I think I do, argue with willing to listen?”
Of course he was, in fact he was annoyed that she would ask, rather than starting in on the plan. Then he realized, in recent months, that she was being polite.
“Of course I'm willing...”
“Well then, Peternotes would only rest his anger if he could see that we're angry, too.”
“Yes, but how do we do that?”
“Reasoning will not work, nor will a temper tantrum.”
“I agree with that, but what will work? That's the thing that I want to know.”
“Realize, himself, how angry he is. That will be the turning point, if he realized he's so angry, then he will moderate himself. But until he does, there won't be any point in talking.”
“Get him to realize that this angry? Is that it?”
“It won't be as easy as you think, will have to play a trick on him.”
“Do you have an idea? Or this this a question for us both to answer?”
“I think I have an idea, if you would like to hear it.”
He nodded, trying very hard not to get in the way.
“We have let him talk, and talk, and then will, all on his own, realize that he is angry, just as you realized it by listening to him.”
He nodded. It was very clear that he was so desperately angry. Desperately so.
And that was the beginning of a plan.
The cat was not impressed, and went back to washing it's paws. Actually it went back to washing its paws as if nothing happened.