Post by Mina Crow on Jul 13, 2006 5:22:21 GMT 12
[There’s a movie coming up to Portugal, named Strings. Shakespeare all over – and the trailer made me think of Jade and Havoc as puppetmasters of that sweet little world where everyone’s connected by strings. I end where you start… Fitting enough, in my humble opinion.]
Oh, you found this – nice job, darling. But who’s to say this record holds the truth? Who’s to say I’m not just tricking you into believing on a fairy tale? You know, Santa really exists. And the Easter Bunny as well. So says New Pork’s Pied Piper – and you’d better believe him, or he’ll feed you to the high sovereign of the rat people. Now, then – will he? Or is this just a lie?
My name is William Norton. Jade dubbed me Havoc – fit enough, I think. No, I don’t have a journal of my life here in New Pork, so stop wondering about it and don’t get any ideas about looking for it. That’s not a good plan. This record is enough, dear – be it truthful or not.
Where to start? The beginning, they say. But the beginning isn’t easy to discern from the end, and the web is rebuilt over and over again. At first, just small patches – a string here or there, torn out by a most disrespectful bug; as the web grows, the need for patches gets more frequent, until the scurrying spider can’t help feeling her web is no longer her own.
We were the Advent Children. The names sounds so promising, so pompous – are we the redeemers of this world, the ones who’ll set it free from its chains? So many clichés, and no way to escape them. All the stories have been told, all the ideas come to life; we are nothing new. Our lives have already been lived by someone else, our stories written by some unknown author, our dreams shared by another lover Another time, another reality. Another truth.
But I drift from our subject. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?
Fifteen months have come and gone since I arrived here. When I arrived, the Wharf Rats were already one of the largest tribes – a crowd of voracious little rodents. A court of nobles, all plotting behind the others’ back, all struggling to set foot on firm ground before they drown in the muddy waters. It wasn’t a conscious gesture – at least, not for my part, but I have the feeling Jade planned it, as ever – yet I took on the role of Beta with a strange sense of ease. Weird, but fitting; I don’t know. The coil of yarn gets too tangled over that part – credit where it is due: I don’t think I’ll ever manage half the plots Jade juggled with her eyes closed. Or do I hold twice the puppet strings my master did? One-third, five-quarters? The puppets are not supposed to know how many take part on the show.
Could it really be, that we shared something beyond leadership? Did the strings run tighter between us, entwining the puppets on a twirling dance? How could that be true – and how could it not be?
Dearest – don’t search for answers if you don’t know the questions yet. If you skim from a question mark to another too quickly, you’ll never get the whole beauty of the story.
Blind, deaf, mute; the puppets are not the messengers of truth. Their will is their master’s only – and so the strings hum softly under the moonlight. Heed them, and join their song.
Oh, you found this – nice job, darling. But who’s to say this record holds the truth? Who’s to say I’m not just tricking you into believing on a fairy tale? You know, Santa really exists. And the Easter Bunny as well. So says New Pork’s Pied Piper – and you’d better believe him, or he’ll feed you to the high sovereign of the rat people. Now, then – will he? Or is this just a lie?
My name is William Norton. Jade dubbed me Havoc – fit enough, I think. No, I don’t have a journal of my life here in New Pork, so stop wondering about it and don’t get any ideas about looking for it. That’s not a good plan. This record is enough, dear – be it truthful or not.
Where to start? The beginning, they say. But the beginning isn’t easy to discern from the end, and the web is rebuilt over and over again. At first, just small patches – a string here or there, torn out by a most disrespectful bug; as the web grows, the need for patches gets more frequent, until the scurrying spider can’t help feeling her web is no longer her own.
We were the Advent Children. The names sounds so promising, so pompous – are we the redeemers of this world, the ones who’ll set it free from its chains? So many clichés, and no way to escape them. All the stories have been told, all the ideas come to life; we are nothing new. Our lives have already been lived by someone else, our stories written by some unknown author, our dreams shared by another lover Another time, another reality. Another truth.
But I drift from our subject. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?
Fifteen months have come and gone since I arrived here. When I arrived, the Wharf Rats were already one of the largest tribes – a crowd of voracious little rodents. A court of nobles, all plotting behind the others’ back, all struggling to set foot on firm ground before they drown in the muddy waters. It wasn’t a conscious gesture – at least, not for my part, but I have the feeling Jade planned it, as ever – yet I took on the role of Beta with a strange sense of ease. Weird, but fitting; I don’t know. The coil of yarn gets too tangled over that part – credit where it is due: I don’t think I’ll ever manage half the plots Jade juggled with her eyes closed. Or do I hold twice the puppet strings my master did? One-third, five-quarters? The puppets are not supposed to know how many take part on the show.
Could it really be, that we shared something beyond leadership? Did the strings run tighter between us, entwining the puppets on a twirling dance? How could that be true – and how could it not be?
Dearest – don’t search for answers if you don’t know the questions yet. If you skim from a question mark to another too quickly, you’ll never get the whole beauty of the story.
Blind, deaf, mute; the puppets are not the messengers of truth. Their will is their master’s only – and so the strings hum softly under the moonlight. Heed them, and join their song.
