Monday September 12th 2016Tim
day here amongst the interstitial fluids, think of it as
the oil in a venerable Briggs and Stratton and let's
hope for a working oil pump so that slopes can be
climbed without the kind of damage that precedes the
white smoke of surrender. Our hero has entered the
portal, it was built in the Victorian Age. The roof, in
places, leaks from lack of funds, the damp produces
interesting blooms on ceiling plaster, windows wait
months for the glazier, but the food is good for those
not accustomed to the much-ness of plenty, the Cherry
flavored jelly is the treat for good behavior and on the
Sunday lunch there are tinned Mandarin Oranges in it.
And oh yes, Crabtree has accepted the existence of The
Rabbit. Which is an awesome temptation.
And by "awesome"
your writer of pulp himself sits upon the precipice, stares
down into the wonderland of a narrative that pulls its
strength from something like a toothache, rather than a
whole well thought out series of considerations, or what I
supposed some might call plot. The thing about plot, it
reduces exploration, becomes more like the hurdle race where
highly tuned thighs leap fences to reach a preordained
conclusion. Call it a climax and you'd be right to blush at
the sight of a straight line that runs so endlessly it could
be called pointless. However, down here we are what Walking
Stewart calls a Beast in the Forest, or more properly a
Beafft of the Forefft. Two F's equaled an S for the printer
in the 18th Century. And the other thing worth noting, I
know how the Rabbit of Usk ends, and I'll call it cheating
to save you the trouble.