Two hundred and ninety-eight posts ago Works Well set out to turn technology into a cantata, a Hawksmoor church, a Blake couplet. Camshafts that resonated with plainsong, printed circuits spilling out free verse, Brancusi in a power drill. Against which the sound of the Fireblade would be heard throughout the land.
As any fule know it didn't happen. And the author of this quixotic venture found himself tarnished by a misinterpreted text, seen as low-brow, incapable of responding to J. K. Rowling, frequently laddish, a curtain where there was need of light, celebrant of the obvious, prophet of polystyrene rather than fine thoughts. Desperate references to Sterne and Messiaen failed to alleviate his condition and he was for ever type-cast: a man preferring a pacemaker to a real heart because he liked watching the wheels go round. Suspected of spending too much time in his shed.
A condign fate for one who set out to steal virtual fire from Microsoft. But lately, disappointed and forced into contemplation, he has recognised a form of redemption. To his circumscribed world has flowed enlightenment. About language, cooking, flowers, ordnance, parenthood, the plastic arts, the deep waters of medicine, life in remote parts, forgiveness, encouragement, jousting. At his age he will not change but he can be touched.
It is over a month early and the tone is suspect but if I were to send out a Christmas card this would be a likely prototype.
Novel progress 25/11/09 (Working titles: The ruined con-rod. Or Con-Rod. Or The Connecting Rod. Or how about something based on bearings?). Chs. 1, 2, 3, 3A (Interlude), 4: 15,288 words. Ch. 5: 6136 words. Comment: Huge chapter, not finished yet.
