Close Encounter of a Personal Kind

He woke sluggishly, groggy from a deep, contented sleep,

Crawling his way most begrudgingly from

The enchanted and curious land he had happily inhabited,

And wondering what it was that had disturbed him?

Fumbling, he hit the clock and listened

To that oh so familiar, electronic voice tell him

That it was 2.33 a.m. and 11 degrees centigrade.

It was as black as the pit, and then he heard it.

At first it seemed like a hissing sound,

Maybe a burst pipe or, somewhat unlikely, snakes.

He nudged himself mentally.  He no longer lived

Where there were any seriously sinister snakes.

He lay, listening intently, a seemingly irrational dread

Slowly tightening like a third fist within his chest,

As his mind tried to make sense of the sinister sibilance.

Suddenly then he realised coldly , it was whispering!

Harsh, venomous, cruel whispering, toxic whispering,

Whispering that he knew was not warm or kindly.

He could make out the words, scratchy words,

Words which tore at his ears in such a manner

That he wondered that they did not bleed,

But their meaning totally eluded him.

As he reached to turn on the light and arm himself,

Fear being supplanted by adrenaline fuelled anger,

Something turned his urgently darting eyes,

Clawing for some sort of input and understanding,

To the ceiling, a little to the left of his bed,

To a place where air would ordinarily be.

When he saw it he bleakly dismissed thoughts of fight.

This was something, he somehow knew,

Which could not be shot or stabbed,

Kicked, kneed, throttled or gouged,

And somehow he knew too

That flight was not an option.

It was steady at about two metres up,

And solid, left of his bed somewhat,

At maybe 45 degrees from the horizontal.

It was like a tear in a nightmare’s black curtain.

Shades of grey it was, but no light escaped from the tear,

To lighten the room; it hoarded it

Like some aspiring black hole

Defending its event horizon,

And for reasons he knew not, he wondered

Why its edges looked tattered and torn?

Within the tear were two faces, also grey.

They fluctuated as though he was viewing

A poor signal, or observing them through ripples,

Just below the surface of a pool of water.

Each was similar, with elongated features,

Their chins long, almost pointed, noses similar,

Ears a little like a Vulcan’s, he randomly thought.

Each had high cheekbones and foreheads,

But he saw no facial hair.  Both were wearing  

Black skullcaps and had stiff, extended collars

Which reached halfway up the back of their heads.

Their most notable features were their eyes,

Granite-hard eyes, deeply sunk in cave-like sockets,

Drilling into him like chrome vanadium gimlets,

As mouths clicked and to each other they whispered.

Though he understood not, he felt their tension,

And their malevolence, which was palpable.

They wanted him, he felt it;

Craved his core, his very soul,

That which made him, him and no other,

And he knew from a deep, primeval place within,

That here was an antediluvian enemy,

An adversary he recognised to be malevolent,

And it would be desperate and dreadful for him,

If they managed to reach through the gap, the tear,

The portal to another dimension, which was what,

He was abruptly most positive, it was,

And drag him in!

His mind momentarily wandered away from his predicament,

Trying to rationalise, to make some sense, to escape perhaps,

Excited instead at this surely certain evidence

Of alternate dimensions, as he now knew this to be,

And whether or not it sat comfortably

Within the physics supporting quantum mechanics, or in

String theory whether it proved a 10 dimensional universe,

M-theory with its 11 dimensions to spacetime or

Bosonic string theory dimensions posited at 26?

Such thoughts insanely flashed across his mind momentarily,

And then his attention crashed back to what appeared to be

A very real, cold and present danger.

He recognised that thinking would not help him this time,

Nor his curiosity or persuasive words, for they wanted him,

Wanted him badly and, as he felt the warmth

Leaching from the room and into the grey, shimmering portal,

He knew in his bones they were oh so very close;

It unequivocally was only two metres,

And horror clutched his heart

With renewed vigour.

He stared at the wavering faces, transfixed,

A wretched rabbit, part of him noted objectively,

Caught in the glare of a car’s headlights.

They had a somewhat bizarre beauty, he realised,

Or perhaps they could be beautiful if they didn’t have

As his instinct assured him they had,

Darkness at their very twisted core.

He wondered, somewhat resignedly,

What it was they wanted him for?

It wasn’t going to be agreeable!

His atypically fatalistic pondering unexpectedly eased

As a gentle caress of hope stroked his heart,

For he felt their growing, distressed frustration,

Saw it writ plain upon their faces,

And, too, yes, their fear.

Something was preventing them

From hooking him and reeling him in!

His mind darted from possibility to possibility

As to what it was that they feared in his dimension,

That which was preventing them from

Taking their seemingly defenceless prize?

Riley, he knew from his snoring, slept by the bed,

Undisturbed, as were his fellow ‘guard dogs’.

Incredulous then, he realised in some instinctive manner

That it was the cats; there was something about cats

Which frightened them, perhaps recognizing in them

A capacity for cold, utterly merciless,

Completely calm and casual cruelty

Even greater than their own!

He felt Squeaker on the pillow beside him,

Coco on the duvet, lying soft but solid against his knees,

And somehow, his searching eyes having adjusted

To the dark, and a cloud, perhaps, having

Slipped away on its journey to who knew where

Allowing Selene to wash the room

With silver light, he could see, too, the two ‘Gingies’

Sitting up, bookending Joey and their sister Charlie,

And all were calmly staring, unafraid, unblinking,

Almost owl-like, at the rent in space time,

And the two faces, with fear now writ large upon them.

He felt more of the tension draining from him,

Feeling that the menace was receding,

Speculating, whimsically, what his blood pressure was,

And whether or not the cats were guarding him purposefully,

Whether they knew it, had been set to it (if so, by whom?)

Knew what was happening, were there specifically

To ensure his safety against this specific threat,

Or if he’d just got very lucky?

The thoughts were almost as bizarre

As the situation with the iniquitous entities

Reaching for him from their alternate, inimical dimension.

And as he thought on it, hissing muttering continued,

Words tripping over each other in their haste,

And then, unexpectedly, wondrously,

The tear slowly closed, ragged pieces marrying perfectly.

And as it did so his guardians turned their attention

Away from the vile and most alarming phenomenon,

And reverted to normal cat business, washing,

Stretching limbs, almost shrugging lazily,

A minor incident in the past,

Nothing interesting to see here anymore,

Winding themselves around each other,

Into positions both unnatural and uncomfortable

For him to consider personally,

Settling down to sleep again.

He lay quietly considering his final sight of them,

The two beings still whispering,

Fraught now, frantic,

Perhaps urging each other to take action,

Action both were too fearful to take,

And he lay there, wondering

If they would return,

And try again?

He knew he was awake; no dream this.

He realised he had experienced something

Most extraordinary and personally perilous.

It was also, most certainly, truly inexplicable!

It did tell him, however, a different story from the one

He had learned heretofore about the makeup of the universe.

It was, as his studies had increasingly informed him,

Multidimensional; that it was possible

To reach from one to another,

And that there was one, at least,

Which, most certainly, was inimical;

And somehow he knew his two visitors

Were not aberrant exceptions within their dimension,

But standard representatives of a realm most foul!

And he reached to stroke Squeaker

As he heard Charlie purring herself to sleep,

And he considered again, how bizarre cats were,

And whether they knew or not, or cared,

That they were his most certain guardians,

But whatever the answer might have been,

With the seeming protection they gave him,

He fell back into a deep and untroubled sleep.

And when he awoke at 7.00 a.m. to the alarm,

Her electronic voice and a tinny cockerel

Doing their daily duty of dragging him

Into another perfect day to seize,

He flicked on the light, and as usual,

Found himself still surrounded by cats,

With big Whisper strolling in for good measure.

He felt immeasurably thankful

For their presence, for their protection,

Felt, too, a little moment of triumph

At the frustration of his nocturnal visitors,

As he most clearly visualized them again,

Even with his eyes open.

He sensed the truth of them,

And their degenerate and total depravity,

Reaching to the very centre of his being,

Within every resonating fibre in his body,

Though he so very much didn’t want to,

And a little chill washed over him,

Prickling his skin, squeezing his heart,

For he knew not what their visit augured –

Certainly nothing good! –

Pondering, too, if he was a specific,

Unique target or whether their ilk,

Went fishing for ‘souls’

Regularly, and only those,

Surrounded by cats,

Survived the night,

And lived to tell the tale,

To a totally disbelieving world?

And would they come visiting again?

And as the days and nights flitted by

And there was no reappearance

He wondered if it had been a dream,

Or perhaps it was insanity, dementia

A fascinatingly complex paranoia,

Or, indeed, all three with knobs on,

Because he very much wanted it to be so,

But he knew with certainty that it was not,

That his nocturnal visitors

Were real, were hunters of souls,

And thus it was that he did not protest again about

How many cats chose to sleep in his room.

And so, too, he wrote it down as

A quirky poem / story,

Knowing no one would believe it,

But hoping that at least a few

Might consider letting their cats

Sleep on their bed at night,

Just in case.

Lost and Found

I bumped into a dragon

A few weeks back;

Not in itself surprising, perhaps,

But you don’t generally meet them

Walking round the lake at Meneac.

I was, in truth, totally to blame

For I was looking at the ground,

Thinking of this and that,

And not very much

When the next thing I knew

I was flat on my back

Looking up with astonishment

At what appeared, from my angle,

To be a very large Brussel sprout.

The dogs were barking,

And dancing,

As they do,

Whilst the Brussel sprout,

More helpfully,

Produced a long arm,

At the end of which was

A proffered helping-hand,

With curved, scimitar-blade swords

Where fingernails should be.

Tentatively I took it and rose to my feet,

Seeing then, as I did so,

The error in my perception.

I bowed, as one should to a dragon and,

Since they are the most formal of creatures.

She bowed her long neck in response,

Apologising  for bumping into me.

I readily accepted the apology

Whilst owning up to my own carelessness

And then I sat on a nearby bench,

Whilst we talked,

Telepathically, of course,

As I’m sure you understand,

The shape of their mouths being such,

As to make speech a great difficulty,

Though as you know,

They can put out

A jolly good roar!

Apparently my new acquaintance

Was somewhat misplaced,

Really quite literally.

She had set off from the moon

During a lunar eclipse,

As was normal,

But had lost her course

Due to having to avoid orbiting space junk.

Her original intent had been

To visit her Aunt Matilda in New York,

An aunt for whom she had a great affection.

She very much wanted to see her

Before she died,

Which would be soon.

As you probably know,

When a dragon decides to die,

And spread its wings in the next domain,

They ponder over many years

All that has occurred in their long lifetime,

Resolving all dilemmas,

Purging all uncertainties,

And then they transfer

All that they have learned

To one who is young and dear to them,

In this case, she being a spinster,

Her eldest niece, my new companion,

In an effort to pass on

Her hard-earned wisdom,

And also enter the new realm,

Cleansed of any doubts, and ready

To fully live the new life

And take the next step

In further developing the understanding

Of what the whole kit and caboodle

Of consciousness is about.

This was all very interesting,

Though probably like you,

I knew most of the

General stuff already,

But I had things to do,

People to see,

And so forth,

And the dogs, quite reasonably,

Were getting a little restless.

I could not, however, just wander off

And leave poor Henrietta –

For thus she was named –

To muddle on through,

For I now understood

That she was a youngling,

And in need of assistance.

Now, as I relate to you

What next occurred

I know you will perhaps

Think me foolish,

For dragons have received

A very bad press

As being unpredictable

And capable of real nastiness.

You must understand,

Much is exaggeration

Misunderstanding or fake news.

For instance, that whole thing

Of them liking to be attacked by knights in armour

Because although they were difficult to peel,

Just as we find prawns,

The taste of the roasted meat was better,

Since the armour held in the juices

Which tenderised the meat;

That was only true with rogue elements

Of dragonkind.  The vast majority,

As most of you are well aware,

Are either vegetarians or vegans.

Anyway, that aside –

In an age of information at our finger tips,

Not knowing the ways of dragons

Is merely the sign of an idle intellect –

There was something rather sweet,

Innocent and vulnerable about Henrietta,

So I could not leave her in the lurch.

Thus it was we set off

Back to Kerlanguet.

Our little convoy of me and the dogs

In the old Rangy,

Hazard warning lights and headlights on,

Followed by Henrietta who chose to

Ambulate behind us in a series of long,

Low hops and subsequent short glides,

Causing a little consternation

In some other road users,

Though the more cosmopolitan accepted that our

Sedate procession was reasonable enough.

After but a few minutes we arrived,

Home at Kerlanguet,

And she leapt skyward,

Her great wings coming down with a crack,

Propelling her well above the gate,

And then landed four-square in the quad.

Within but a few moments

She was surrounded by

Nine of our ten cats, of course,

For as I’m sure you recall,

There’s nothing cats adore

More than a dragon.

You will wonder, no doubt,

Why one of the ten was absent;

This is readily explained.

My most beautiful Squeaker is,

As is recognised by all who have

The extraordinary privilege of meeting her,

A true and clear princess

And as such took her time

To meet Henrietta on her own terms.

That said, Henrietta took the worshipful praise

Of the new nine adoring fans

In her stride, as they rubbed, purring,

Against her scaly sides.

She knew cats of old,

Her great Uncle Tobias having run a cattery,

Deep in the Martian tunnels,

And she knew, too,

That the princess would come to her

In her own good time.

Dragons have plenty of that.

While Jade and Matty introduced Opie,

It being a fairly rare opportunity to do so,

And discussed what sort of vegan meal

They could put together for her –

A curry, of course.  Everyone knows that! –

Ali and I considered her plight.

How could we get her to New York?

Suddenly it came to us!

Henrietta, to everybody’s joy,

Remained with us for several days and nights,

Sleeping in the large hangar,

Eating us somewhat out of house and home,

Her passion for Jade’s curries being

Apparently insatiable.

During that time we fine-tuned the plan.

Step one, I would drive to Rennes airport at

The somewhat unearthly hour of 6.00 a.m.

With Henrietta flying above me.

Step two, at 7.45 she would follow

The Air France flight to Paris,

Landing in Charles de Gaulle

At approximately 8.45.

There she was to ensure that

She did not make herself visible

To human sight,

As they were security mad

In such places;

Probably dragophobes,

As sadly so many are,

And much worse,

Gun-toting and trigger-happy,

And though the bullets

Would merely bounce of her,

She was aware that they could

Ricochet, causing damage to

The more squishy human folk.

She was also to take care that

She kept out of the way

Of all traffic, ground or sky.

I pressed upon her that

She needed to stay alert.

Perhaps I overdid it as

She laughed at me and

Asked what a lert was?

Odd sense of humour, dragons!

Step three, at 2.10 p.m.

A now rare Air France A380

Would set off to New York where,

Most conveniently, her aunt lived

In a cave directly under JFK airport.

Being somewhat deaf

The noise did not trouble her

And as she said,

She had been there

Long before the airport,

She liked her cave,

So why should she move now?

Henrietta winked and told us,

One quickly tuned out the noise,

Generally by surreptitiously,

To avoid any possible offence,

Stuffing ones ears

Full of cotton wool!

Anyway she could follow that flight

With ease, it merely flying at a cruising speed

Of Mach 0.85 with the flight being of

But 8 hours and 40 minutes duration,

Arriving in  JFK 4.50 p.m. local time,

So she would be just in time

For a late afternoon high tea,

Which pleased her greatly,

As the homemade relish her aunt

Spread thick on cucumber sandwiches

Was absolutely delightful.

I sat outside with my laptop

Henrietta peering over my shoulder,

Breathing curry breath,

And we looked at pictures of

Air France A380s so she would be sure

To follow the correct aircraft.

Since the cruising height was nearly 11,000 metres,

Alison insisted on sewing several blankets together

So Henrietta had a scarf.

Ali did not wish for her to catch a cold,

Since the air temperature would be -56.5 C.

Henrietta tried to reassure her,

Telling of visits to her Grandfather’s place

Under the North Pole

And temperatures in the upper caverns

On the dark side of the moon

Where they kept harvested crops

To keep them cool and fresh,

But Ali was obdurate;

The scarf was to be made,

And the scarf was to be worn!

As an aside, a little something I learned;

I have been told more than once

That dragon dung is great for the roses.

What I didn’t know was that

It smells like whatever they last ate,

So in Henrietta’s case, curry.

Something else I did not know

Was to dogs the smell,

Like fox poo,

Is irresistible,

And though she was

Both discrete and tidy

In her private doings,

All the dogs smelled –

Let’s be honest –

Truly delicious!

All that said, the time came

For Henrietta’s departure.

On that eve she did us two great honours.

Firstly she offered to take Opie 

A-dragonback, on a flight.

You will realise, I’m sure,

What an extraordinary offer this was.

Jade, with some understandable trepidation,

Asked if she could also go,

To ensure that Opie was secure,

Which meant Matt felt obliged

To ask to accompany them,

To keep them both safe from falling,

Whilst secretly hoping that three passengers

Would be one too many.

This, however, was not so.

Having agreed they would go au famille,

They commenced to climb her scales,

Which she somehow shifted,

The way dragons can,

To form a living stairway,

And then again shifted

Some scales on her back

To make high and secure saddles.

When all were secure,

Again there was a great crack

As Henrietta’s wings came down

And she leapt into the sky,

With Opie squealing with delight,

Jade just squealing,

And Matt grimly silent

Concentrating on keeping

His sphincter muscles closed

Whilst Ali and I waved,

And quietly counted our blessings

That this extraordinary honour

Had not been offered to us also!

The trip did not last long,

For which Opie was somewhat sad,

Whilst his parents almost

Fell to the ground

To kiss it like a Pope,

So delighted were they

To return to terra firma,

Though recognising

The great honour which

Had been shown them!

Next Henrietta put on

An out of this world light show,

Shooting flames way above the barns’ roofs,

And curling them;

Burping balls of fire and

Drawing flaming pictures in the sky.

The animals were not impressed

But we humans were enthralled

And little Opie in a

State akin to ecstasy!

Matt and Jade were sorry she’d be going,

Though both were knackered, in truth,

As dragons can consume pretty much

Their own body weight in curry,

If it is a good one,

And Jade’s always are.

Opie, too, would miss her,

As would Ali and I,

But the cats were

Absolutely beside themselves

In their profound misery

Until she promised to revisit

And see them and us again

On her way back home to Selene,

Her bustling commune on the moon.

So it was that early one cold Autumn morn

I set off for Rennes,

Pursued by a dragon

Wearing a most colourful scarf.

As you are probably aware,

A dragon’s night sight is outstanding

And Henrietta had no trouble

Following the Jagular.

When we arrived at the edge of the airport

I stopped and got out

To make my farewells.

Henrietta was effusive in her thanks,

And nearly crushed me

In a great dragon-hug.

She again promised to return

And then we both bowed low

Showing mutual respect in

What was now a friendship.

Seconds later she blinked out of sight

As she leapt into the airport

And I pottered inside

And had a quiet coffee

Before making my journey home.

A few days later we received

A postcard showing the column

Upon which the Statue of Liberty stood,

Before High Marshall Trump

Had it removed and replaced

By a large sign which

Informed any reader that

They were not welcome,

Especially if they were

Poor, or huddled masses,

Yearning to breathe free.

On the reverse of the card,

In very neat handwriting,

Henrietta informed us of her safe arrival,

And thanked us yet again for our assistance.

She rhapsodised about how glad she was

That she had worn such a fine scarf.

(Ali was most pleased with that!)

She noted, too, that her Aunt’s place

Had become generally very quiet,

Since there were nowadays so very few

Airlines flying to the Trump Domain.

Her aunt found it difficult getting used

To the long periods of silence.

Funny old world, eh!

I was taking my daily limp with the dogs round one of the beautiful lakes we have locally, ruminating in a random sort of way about things and people in the past.  Maybe it’s something old men are prone to; I’m not sure.  Plato said "An unexamined life is not worth living" and I think it’s good to do a bit of ‘examining’ now an again, as long as it doesn’t lead to one becoming self-obsessed or too introspective.  Anyway, mostly it’s enjoyable but there are, of course, some regrets, typically associated with people, not things, and I had a thought, a sort of metaphor for life, that it is like a jigsaw.  Now, when I got back it seemed to me that other people would be bound to have had the same thought so I put, ‘life is like a jigsaw’ into good old Google and right enough, there were plenty.  I was unsurprised and initially a little disappointed (an ego thing!) but as I trawled through them I found that they were different, mostly giving advice as to how to reorganise one’s life.  Mine is not so useful, merely a reflection, one which sits comfortably in my own worldview.  What I thought was that when one is born one is given a jigsaw puzzle.  There is no picture, it’s 3D and during one’s life one has to grasp the pieces, gently or firmly, as appropriate, live them and try to understand them, though if one doesn’t they will come to one anyway.  (More of that in a moment.)  As one goes through life one collects more pieces and slowly one starts to see some sort of picture forming, a developing picture of the world and a partial picture of one’s place in it.  Depending on how one lives one’s life, the more or less interesting that picture will be, and the more one thinks, understands and looks for pieces that one considers will fit into one’s picture, the more one learns of oneself and the world.  It is only at the end of one’s life that one can look at the jigsaw and see the whole picture, the complete world and universe and one’s place in it.  If one has gone out and lived life to the full (carpe (ing) the shit out of every diem!) one’s jigsaw will be a wonder to behold, bright and full of colour, though inevitably there will be areas of shade and dark here and there; if one has not, it will not.  Just a thought.

The Search

When one has the luxury of plenteous time in retirement – or, rather, one hopes one has the luxury of plenteous time – one’s mind can turn to the little ‘fripperies’ of life and consider them in more detail.  One such ‘frippery’ surely, for all thinking and feeling human beings, I trust you’ll agree, must be toilet paper, or to be more precise, the perfect toilet paper, the one which is as soft as a lambs fleece, as absorbent as 25 ply blotting paper and as tough as the cellophane one thinks will rip easily but after 5 minutes one concedes and attacks with scissors, having tried variously and vainly a finger nail with a ragged edge, a butter knife, a biro point and the door key.  

Now, I’m 67, and so far on life’s generally jolly journey I have yet to find it and, by God, it’s not through lack of trying!  That said, I wouldn’t like you to think that this is an obsession for me, no, no, not for a moment, but from time to time I am still, in precious and most private moments, brought short by the fact that my search may be over.  I have just returned from such a precious and private moment, as I write.  

Having completed the task at hand I reached for the fresh roll, a brand new product, in my experience, and therefore redolent with potential and my continued, possibly naïve, hope.  As I pulled the paper tentatively toward me it felt like gossamer, soft, silken, like the combined webs of a thousand industrious spiders.  My heart, as I sat enthroned and enthralled, skipped a beat!  Tenderly, as one would stroke a most timorous mouse, I drew it toward me.  It was a tactile delight approaching ecstasy and I thought, oh joy, the time had come!  

The sensation of its beautiful softness and gossamer thin sheets became familiar, however, indeed one could say common-place, as the realisation and reality came to me that it was of such a fine and exquisite sensitivity because some remarkable entrepreneur had managed to manufacture a product less than a nanometre in thickness.  

I sat, silent and still for a moment considering this truly wonderful breakthrough for humanity, whilst resting my now weary arms from pulling so much of this marvelous and magical material to put to use in a manner far too crude for one to be comfortable with, since, when paper is as thin, almost, as the very air itself, much must be employed for the task for which I required it.  

After my unexpected twenty minute peregrination I was still at a loss as to worthy employment for the miraculous material, and so much was my mind taken by this thought I nearly fell over two dogs and three cats who had gathered outside the door, concerned, I think, for my welfare during this most uncommonly long absence.  

I confess to you now, though I remain awestruck by the properties of this most unexpected and remarkable product, I can think of no proper use for it; what wonders it could be used for in the quantum world or the world of the microbe are beyond my limited knowledge or imagination but, sadly, of one thing I’m sure, it isn’t toilet paper!  The search continues.   

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