2. In Which You Become Stearns . . . Eliot Stearns

! ! ! KA - ZAM ! ! !

A flash of light, a whiff of phosphorous, and you are in the process of becoming someone else - an abrupt and unheralded transformation. When it is complete, you will experience these adventures through the eyes of our Protagonist, in fact they will become his adventures.

You feel a bit peaky as everything pulses slowly on and off into negative around you, like a cheap special effect in a particularly poor and deservedly forgotten episode of Doctor Who, known only to the most rarefied of the most obsessive devotees. Involuntarily you tip your head back and clench your teeth, and the ground also tips this way and that as in an earthquake. You throw your arms in front of your face to protect yourself - a futile gesture. You tingle all over, you feel something scanning through your memory like a computer searching through files to erase them - you feel your long-familiar and cherished personality melting away like a dab of butter in a hot frying pan - your limbs change, getting thinner and lengthening, becoming masculine if you are a woman - suddenly everything is still, the process is over, light normal, ground level, and you tentatively explore your new body and personality to find out who or what you have become. A werewolf ? The Incredible Hulk ? George Clooney ? Robert Plant c. 1974 ?

Suddenly it clicks and you know. You have become Stearns . . . . . Eliot Stearns - elongated, balding intellectually, dressed in tweeds and brogues. You - henceforth he - are famous for among other things waving a coffee spoon in a threatening manner, which is thrilling to ladies of a certain disposition. He also is often seen and pictured with a literary-minded spinster draped adoringly on each arm - the only drawback with them is they do rather tend to come and go, talking of Michaelangelo - which however good that painter is, and his merit does not require my reinforcement - can get insufferably tedious. 'What about Giovanni Bellini ?' Stearns sometimes inwardly protests, but noblesse oblige . . . . every station in life has its drawbacks. He has indeed become philosophical, almost Senecan, but whether that infamous gap between precept and practice which bedevils so many issuers of advice - the Max Stirner problem as we call it in Our Mythology - is a feature of our Hero - as it definitely was for Seneca, Rousseau, Francis Bacon, [insert your favourite example here, then nod sagely, content in the excercise of your erudition] - which will have to be left for this Tale to reveal.

Eliot was in front of the Mushroom, with the Matt-a-pillar on top, who was only intermittently curious at the shenanigans just described and seemed as ever to have a significant part of his attention focussed on inner voices. Whether Eliot could be said 'still' to be there is a question not easy to resolve, because although he had not moved, nevertheless he was until a few moments ago someone else i.e. you. However that may be, he was in front of the Mushroom and the Jukebox.

"How are you feeling ?" said the Matt-a-pillar.

"I'm growing old, I'm growing old . . . ."

"Yes ?"

"I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled."

"Nasty ! Well, no doubt you'll feel better in a minute. How are all your faculties ? It's most important that they're in tip-top condition before you go any further."

"I don't know, I really don't know," said Eliot. "How could we test them ?"

"Well, the best and most infallible way, a diagnostic tool found across all cultures and epochs of humanity, like the belief in goats - "

Eliot wasn't quite sure he'd heard that right, but since he wasn't sure about the state of his faculties either, or the state of his judgement, he let it pass.

" - is to recite something from the classics - something you've always known, and is very widely known."

"Mmmm. Do you think so ?"

The Matt-a-pillar disdained to reply, but his expression said quite clearly "I have stated it, therefore it is the case." You can see he was not overburdened with humility when it came to his opinions, I'm afraid - it was one of his qualities which he felt fitted him so well for Pope. (His plans for the Church when he was enthroned were well-prepared and terrifying/sacrilegious or hilarious/long overdue depending on your point of view; but the exact details of them are another thing which will have to be left to this Tale to reveal.)

Eliot had an idea for something to recite. He said:

"How about 'Atlantic City' ?"

"Capital !" said the Matt-a-pillar. "A superb piece - just the thing," then added pointedly,"he's a far better poet than you, you know - it's just that people get stuck on categories, 'high'/'low' culture, think they must stick with one or the other, terrible shame, miss out on so much. Anyway, if you're going to recite some of the Boss, there's someone nearby who I think should join us - "

The Matt-a-pillar made a gesture towards a copse of trees nearby, and - Eliot found this distinctly unnerving - one of them detached itself, approached, and stood next to the Mushroom unmoving, giving Eliot a chance to study the new arrival, whatever it was.

It was an extremely tall figure, 6'4 at least, completely covered in a cloak of camouflage material with a large hood - Eliot could not see its feet or hands, if it had any. But it did certainly have hands, because they emerged and pulled back the hood, revealing a striking face, long blonde hair like a Viking or an Angel, and two particularly remarkable features: two tendrils grew out of its or rather his mouth, one on either side, which reminded Eliot of medieval carved representations of the Green Man (which was quite appropriate because the figure was in fact among many other things the Green Man); the other feature was the eyes - as Eliot looked at them they were an ordinary if bright blue, but suddenly the figure tipped its head back slightly, smiled in a not altogether reassuring manner, and his eyes, the whole eye socket, became completely green like the Sea, one seemed to see waves and currents passing across them, they were infinite, menacingly indifferent, one could imagine sailing on them endlessly in pursuit of some splendid and elusive goal, some Hesperides. Then the figure tipped his head forward again and the efect disappeared.

"You're no doubt wandering who this is, " said the Matt-a-pillar to Eliot, and went on before he had a chance to reply one way or another, "This is Standalf the Magus, and among his many other talents, attributes and ritual taboos he is one of the foremost authorities on Bruce Springsteen in Jukeland - in fact in the known and unknown Universe."

Standalf said nothing to this but merely smiled in acknowledgement.

"It is most fortunate that he is here to hear you recite because his opinion is held to be decisive, and is sought and treasured by even the most learned in these matters, somewhat as if he was a top rabbi or imam . . ."

Eliot was vivibly more and more nervous.

" . . . Not that this should put you off," added the Matt-a-pillar maliciously, then sharply, "Well - in your own time . . . "

Standalf's alert silence was even more intimidating than the Matt-a-pillar's rudeness. Eliot felt four glittering eyes upon him, and was not at all sure about the wisdom or efficacy of this course, but plainly he was tied to the stake, so -

"Come, come," said the Matt-a-pillar. "'Atlantic City', as promised - "

- Eliot began -

Well they put up a chicken house in Philly last night

Yeah, they moved in the chicken too

Out on the boardwalk they're looking forward to their eggs

Gonna see what that chicken can do

Can't get no eggs from out of state

And the co-op has completely run out

Gonna be some omelettes a-sizzlin' if that chicken comes through

And scrambled eggs as well for anyone else who's about

Chorus: Oh, baby ! - Every chicken flies, baby, that's a fact
Maybe every one that flies some day comes back
Make your parody close, make your parody witty
And meet me tonight in Atlantic City !

When he had finished Eliot felt the unvoiced contempt of his auditors quite as strongly as if it had actually been spoken.

"That is not quite right, I'm afraid, " he apologised.

"It's nonsense from beginning to end," stated the Matt-a-pillar flatly. "Heresy by thought, word and deed. You are evidently a man of unsound mind."

There was an awkward pause. Standalf, though obviously disgusted, still said nothing. Then the Matt-a-pillar made one of his curious abrupt transitions, as if all that had happened up to that point was forgotten entirely, as if it had not happened.

"Have you ever seen a Bardic riddling contest ?" he asked Eliot cordially, who was mightily relieved to be cleared of his difficulty so easily, and willingly replied,

"No - but I would like to. How could I see such a thing ?" which was a big fat fib because he didn't really know what one was.

"It's the easiest thing in the world," said the Matt-a-pillar, glancing across at Standalf who met his look and smiled conspiratorially. "We'll give you a demonstration, a friendly so to speak."

And abruptly they began shouting lines at each other, first the Matt-a-pillar, then Standalf, as if it was a well-rehearsed game; and this is what they shouted :

What is the Spirit that grows in the Leaves ?

What is the Spirit that grows in the Grass ?

What is the Force when a lover's chest Heaves ?

What is the Force in a beautiful Arse ?



What's so Delicious that resides in the Face ?

What's so Delicious that vibrates in the Voice ?

What is the Knowledge beyond Time and Space ?

What is the X-ness beyond all Choice ?



All is Contingent, that's all we can Know

Though we can Dress up that Insight a Million Ways

Understanding resides in the Flow

And then they shouted the last line in unison -

The Less a man knows, the More he says !

Standalf reached over and slapped the Matt-a-pillar on the back, and they both collapsed into delighted laughter, clearly extremely pleased with themselves; although Eliot felt that their rhymes, while vigorous and zestful, were painfully old-fashioned. He bridled inside. Had they not heard of Modernism in this strange realm of Jukeland ? Could anyone really be so backward ? But he merely observed,

"If it was a contest - who won ?"

"Well, it was a friendly," said the Matt-a-pillar, out of the corner of his mouth, both because he was lighting yet another thick cigarette and because he was still chortling, as indeed was his cohort.

"The thing to bear in mind is, I know his, " indicating Standalf, "secret name. Obviously I'm not going to tell you what it is, but observe - "

And he bent over and whispered in Standalf's ear. A look of understanding passed between them, and Standalf nodded and smiled. But whether the Matt-a-pillar really did know Standalf's secret name, or whether the Magus was content to humour his friend's strange quirk that he thought that he did, neither Eliot, nor I, nor you, will ever know !

TO BE CONTINUED.

TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR DRAGONS, BEAUTIFUL MAIDENS TIED TO ROCKS, MUSCLY PROTAGONISTS, FRACTIOUS GODS, RUNAWAY TRAINS, BLOODTHIRSTY PIRATES, A HEROIC LAST STAND . . . . ALL THE USUAL IN SHORT . . . . THOUGH UNFORTUNATELY THIS TRAIL IS UNRELIABLE AND NONE OF THE FOREGOING MAY OCCUR . . . . IT MIGHT IN FACT FEATURE A MIDDLE-AGED MAN IN SLIPPERS SAT CALMLY READING THE PAPER, WITH A MINUTE DESCRIPTION OF THE PERFECTLY ORDINARY ROOM HE'S SAT IN . . . . ONE OF THOSE POINTLESS LITERARY EXCERCISES WHERE YOU THINK AS YOU'RE READING 'SURELY THERE MUST BE SOME POINT TO THIS', BUT IF YOU'RE BRAVE OR FOOLISH ENOUGH TO STICK WITH IT, YOU FIND OUT THAT THERE ISN'T . . . . YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO TUNE IN NEXT TIME AND SEE !