Milk To 1-40, Caffeine to 1-80

Milk To 1-40, Caffeine to 1-80 is a great name for a coffee shop.  A few tables, for those of us who vant to be alone.  The entire back wall, filled with the bee-like shadows of baristas, punctuated by the hiss of steam and the slow, sensuous searing of milk.  None of the darkened, underground gloom of the big coffee chains.  It lies in an area of the city, where it used to be ill-advised to walk late at night.  A liberal application of both coffee and hipster made it into a trendy area.  It lies next door to an antique shop, filled with both the possessions and dreams of other people called Buy Curios.  The other side is filled with a Christian bookshop called Crosswords.  The weather is unseasonably warm and bright for a December day; somewhere between Black Friday, Cyber Monday and What The Fuck Do You Want For Christmas Tuesday.  

A 4X4 pulls up.  Something muscularly Freudian and designed to be driven across warzones.  A man locks the door.  Dressed in a fashion belonging to those with either an extreme sense of flamboyance; or no concern for other people’s opinions.  Zero fucks are given by this muscular, elegant man in a red velvet suit and black boots.  If this was a few years ago, no-one would dare touch the car for fear of imminent violence.  

Heart breezes in and causes several coffees to be spilt.  He orders something, that generally would cause headaches in most people.  He sits down and searches for WiFi. He looks up and sees the sign:

‘WiFi Password: There is no WiFi Password.  Have A Conversation.  Order Another Cup’.

He searches for WiFi on the phone, picks up the one of the Christian book shop across the road.  Everyone knows that the password is 5loaves2fishes.  

Heading towards this street is a sinuous woman on a bike.  Flowers in her hair, a Summer dress flowing in the February chill.  Pink sunglasses casting a magenta shade.  She leaves a cloud of perfume behind her.  Not enough to pollute the atmosphere, or cause people to gag.  However, it does cause admiring glances from several men.  And at least four women.  Soul chains her bike to a lamppost outside Milk To 1-40.  She might be a complete flowerchild, but she’s not stupid.  She looks into the plate glass windows and waves at Heart.  It might be Christmas Shopping Time; but the café is relatively empty.  The sense of loneliness and Winter light gives it the sense of an undiscovered Hopper painting.  She waves at Heart, Heart waves back.  A frisson of excitement settles across the Winter air.  

Heart, has already ordered.  Like most men with an excess of testosterone, he camouflages this macho dickheadery as an act of pure Medieval chivalry.  He has ordered a coffee which has come from Ethiopia.  It is served alongside a glass of water - such is the insidiousness of the caffeine.  Alongside it is a wedge of Hummingbird Cake.  Despite its name, this bird is earthbound by banana, pecan, cream cheese and coconut.  For Soul, he has selected a Camomile Tea and a slice of Victoria Sponge.

 ‘I’ve ordered for you!’ he says, with an expansive gesture as she walks towards the table.  

She peers over the glasses, then peers closely at the cake.  ‘Is that a Victoria Sponge?’

‘It should be, I paid for it’.  

‘Technically…’ she underlines this point, as she sits down and removes her glasses; ‘It’s not a Victoria Sponge.  A true Victoria Sponge has jam only; not jam and cream.’

‘It’s a fucking cake!’ Heart says, slipping into the darker elements of his psyche.  He removes his sunglasses and is momentarily calmed by the cerulean depths of Soul’s eyes.  Time passes, empires rise and fall.  Dying stars continue their slow breaths.  These are immortal beings after all, and anything could happen.  

‘However,’ she says, underlining the words with the merest flourish of a finger; ‘I fancied some cake.  And I accept your kind offer.’  She moves the fork sideways and with a combination of light and firm pressure, takes a mouthful of cake.  She washes it down with a sip of tea.  A long and awkward silence follows, the kind that there shouldn’t be on a first date.  Heart breaks it, as he says through a mouthful of cake:  ‘How’s Anima?’

‘She’s fine.  What is all this about, anyway?  This doesn’t feel like a date.  And technically, I’m spoken for.’

‘I’m offering you a business proposition’, he says through another mouthful of cake, followed this time by a slug of coffee.  ‘I’m getting tired of being an Agent Of Spirit.  And The World is spinning down to the next catastrophe.  Dunno what it is yet.  Pandemic, Asteroid Strike-‘

‘I’ve seen that one.  Nasty, nasty stuff.  Still, tropical flowers everywhere would nice.’ Soul, is at heart (every pun intended) a dreamer.  She sees the best of every situation and can see the merest chink of light in the darkest of clouds.

‘What I am proposing’ He says; absent-mindedly tracing a line in the sugar he has spilt on the table ‘Is an alliance.  Not a romantic one, but me’, he bangs the table, disturbing the mid-afternoon coffee break for several people. ‘And me’ he knocks again, causing a further frisson of fracas and the abandonment of several novels that were well reviewed by The Guardian, but will remain on the shelves of the local charity shop for at least a year; before returning to the trees that gave birth to them ‘working together’.  

And for a moment, eternity hangs by a single, Damoclean thread.  I mean, this thing happens more often than you think.  Soul is actively considering the offer.  A union of Heart And Soul?  Humanity could be saved from itself.  Peace, justice and equality.  With lots of flowers.  Pretty flowers, waving in a Summer breeze….

And then Anima walks in.

Anima is a, gender-fluid creature.  As the name suggests, she is the spiritual embodiment of the space between the Male and Female psyche.  She’s moving through the door, exchanging furious glances at some customers and apologising profusely to others.  She’s in a relationship with Soul.  At the moment, anyway. She has previously been in a relationship with Heart.  And several other spirits.  To say ‘it’s complicated’, would be an understatement.  She sits down at the table, dressed in a hoodie which has seen better days and leggings which have seen better years.  You couldn’t cut the silence if you tried.

‘Afternoon Anima.  Who are you today’ says Heart, as he takes a slug of coffee ‘and should we be scared?’  He smiles insincerely.  

‘Fuck you and the horse you rode on, you macho prick.  Hi Darling.’  She kisses Soul in such a way that several customers conclude that this is the most interesting date they’ve seen.  Heart points a finger in the air at the nearest barista and points at the table.  

‘What’s cooking?’ says Anima, as she traces the patterns of distant galaxies in the spilt sugar.  She’s almost childlike now, smiling and stealing glances at Soul.  She reads the barista’s mind and she places her coffee and cake on the table.  She’s studying art history.  She’s talented, definitely.  At the same time, she has a haughty disdain for anyone else.  Her dreams of being a famous artist will crumble, due to this fatal flaw.  She’ll end up teaching art history to snotty teenagers.  Her own snark will chase any lover away.  

‘Heart here’ she points at him, he smiles back.  ‘Is offering an alliance.  Me and him working together.  Creating a utopia.’

‘And I wasn’t invited?’ questions Anima.   She looks back hurt, with a single tear running down her cheek. Soul traces the path with a finger.  

‘My darling…’ she says, speaking in a child-like way to a child-like spirit ‘I didn’t even know…’ This apology is accepted.  

‘So’ says Anima, still idly tracing pretty patterns on the table; ‘You two are going to work together. Which ‘generally’ leads to peace.’  She does the air quotes thing, so let it not be said that elemental spirits aren’t fucking irritating too.  ‘The Pax Romana, The Long Peace, that sort of thing?’

‘You got it one sister’, Heart says with a double thumbs up.  I refer you, gentle reader to the previous point about macho dickheadery.  

‘The Pax Romana was plagued with civil wars.  The Long Peace was underpinned by the threat of nuclear Armageddon, only prevented by Stanislav Petrov.  Thanks Stan!’ She raises her coffee cup and drinks it in one sip.  

‘She’s got a point, you know’.  Soul smiles at Heart.  He can feel a deal - which would grant him a power that would match that of The Spirit – slipping away, dripping like water.  

‘Ok’ he says, looking at the half-drunk coffee and half eaten cake.  ‘What is the alternative?’

‘When you say an alternative, do you mean something that gets you what you want?’ Soul smiles sweetly.  The scent of flowers is fading away and the cool water of pure rationality is flowing through her veins.  

‘At the moment, me and Soul are in a relationship.  And that is the way it is going to be for quite some time.  Isn’t it, my love?’ They kiss in public again, causing the turning of several different heads and the deletion of at least four dating apps.  ‘Humanity is at a crisis point.  It is more than capable of exterminating itself.  It’s a junkie, addicted to the possibility of a multiple-choice apocalypse.’

‘Nice image’ nods Soul.

‘Humanity’ says Heart ‘is a junkie, I agree.  It’s addicted to cheap sentimentality.  It’ll cry at a dolphin getting caught in a plastic bag; whilst voting for governments that let children starve.’

‘I agree’ begins Anima.  ‘But where does this change come from?  Women.  Young people.  Activists.  People who are tired of being racially abused or murdered by police officers.  People who just want agency over their own sexuality, their own gender preference.’

A long pause settles over the afternoon.  Heart remains silent.  He’s itching to say something in the general ballpark of sarcastic, flip, passive aggressive.  But he can’t.  He knows in his heart of hearts, there is no comeback.  This is the truth.  In this sense, immortal beings are truer to their own souls than mere mortals.  And he also knows that humanity will find the answers.  Maybe slower than he would like. But there will be a glad dawn, some uncertain time away.  

‘Come on’ said Anima.  We’re leaving.  ‘Work to do.  Minds to change, ideas to be formed and souls to be tweaked.  Least of all: yours.’  They leave, arm in arm.  Heart leaves soon after.  

And so, it came to pass on a late Winter afternoon, humanity was saved.  Not by machismo, or force but by the quietest part of its personality.  This small point in history, made in a coffee shop was never noticed.  It was a grain of sand on an infinite beach.  A side street in civilisation.  That rarest of things; a useful argument. 

 

 Me, on BBC Radio Devon:  one hour in.  https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0b3sgmd

 Book Review:  The Left Hand Of Darkness by Ursula Le Guin 

Christmas approaches and with it, the annual rituals of books and films. Some people swear by A Christmas Carol.  I find Dickens to be almost forensically written and morally complex at the same time.  If you want something apposite for long, cosy nights and crackling firesides, the above could be it.  

Set in in a distant future, Genly Ai is an investigator for The Ekumen; a galactic empire based not on force, might and conquest, but "curiosity, adventure, delight."  He has come to Gethen, a planet in a permanent state of Winter, to convince them to join The Ekumen.  Ai's friendship with King Argaven's advisor Estreven makes him a pawn in a political game.   

That's the basic narrative of the novel, but it doesn't really reveal it's style, which alternates between the analytics of Ai's field reports, Gethenian fables and sacred texts; plus, the actual friendship between Ai and Estreven.  Which, it is suggested has the potential to be much more. 

I'd also draw attention to worldbuilding, which for me is as much a capital crime for writers as info dumping.  The fine details of life on Gethen come conversationally.  So, we learn Gethenian's become the opposite gender (called Kemmer) for a few days each month.  This biological fact has shaped every part of their society as much as climate.  The cold means that Gethenians eat constantly, strangers are both welcomed and given shelter and buildings have two sets of doors to allow for snowdrifts. 

In that sense, it comes from that late 1960's era of science fiction.  But it's easier to read and more graceful than something like Dune.  I'd probably class that as something like Catch 22 or Ulysses: a K2 or a King Lear of a book; where everyone makes an attempt but few succeed. 

But it's perfect for Christmas, as it shows one human life as dependent on another. The title comes from a religious ceremony called a foretelling that Ai attends. The celebrants of which worship a female messiah called Meshe, who died over two Millenia ago. 

Ai is seen by some as a sexual deviant for his permanent gender status.  He's also seen as a curiosity on a planet with no birds or insects, so the concept of flight doesn't exist.  Space is referred to as The Void, where the souls of sinners go. 

Estreven's name might mean traitor on Gethen, but he is Ai's saviour in a greater cause.  Ai is a young man who has given his life towards it.  He's actually over one hundred years old, having travelled from Earth at near light speed in suspended animation.    His crewmates will awake in a few years' time as a security measure, but he is literally alone in an alien land.   

Le Guin is seen by many as an icon of fantasy and science fiction; but I think that isn't enough praise.  I'd also mark her personally in the same league as Bulgakov or Spark.  I've read one book by each and I am terrified to read another, lest it isn't as good. 

However, now we are near the equinox and we're all out of Whamaggedon, why not join me in my ritual?  You'll learn that "a single voice, speaking truth is a more powerful force than fleets and armies, given time."  See also "Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made like bread, remade all the time, made new."   

   

 

 

 

 Book Review: War of the Worlds 

 

Ah, Autumn.  My favourite season.  To quote the well-known philosopher my dad, “there’s nothing to look forward to except football and crumpets.”.  It’s not that bleak though, there’s my birthday, my stepson’s and the possibility of the Martian Tripods roaming through the landscape. 

I recently saw War of the Worlds referred to as “a great book for children”.  I mean, all kids love books about the end of civilisation.  I first read it at the age of 13, so I can’t complain.  It made me into the well-adjusted adult, socially confident adult I am today.  I can hear my wife laughing as I type. 

For a book which celebrates its 125th anniversary next year, it’s no surprise that the darker themes of the book, such eugenics and the belief that The Martians are God’s punishment on a sinful humanity are missing in more recent adaptations.  These also dispense with the idea of them being Martians (they’re Venusian, anyway) and the more shonkier elements of the book.  Do our new alien overloads really arrive and construct their tripods; like they’ve bought them from The Mount Olympus branch of Ikea?   

War of the Worlds is so much in the bloodstream of popular culture, it's been used as a metaphor for climate change, cold war paranoia and post 9/11 doubt.  Take my tentacle, let’s look at the adaptations and choose a few that are worthy of your attention the next time you are trapped in a cellar.   

Jeff Wayne’s version is The Progrockalypse.  For an audio version, try the BBC version from 2017. It’s strangely not available on BBC Sounds, but you can get it on the archaic medium of CD or Amazon Audible.  Truly terrifying, with our narrator getting home to his wife.  Who now expects him to be the third wheel in a polyamorous relationship.  It’s what Wells would have wanted. 

Visually, the BBC TV version from 2019 starts well, striding through the “beats” of the story, making it perform some new tricks (the tripods are biomechanical, leaving skin flakes as they walk).  However, it suffers from some ideas that don’t work and telling the story back to front.  Still, it’s nice to see my native Liverpool used as Victorian London.  And another tick for making the protagonist a woman and her partner the one disturbed by events.   

Possibly the best visual version is Spielberg’s 2005 film.  Despite the odd idea which doesn’t make sense, it perfectly captures the crawling terror of the book, making its way through the “beats” of the story as much as Independence Day does.  It amalgamates two characters (the astronomer Ogilvy and The Artilleryman).  Plus, the idea of the aliens as tripodal is genius in itself, let alone the idea of them being psychotic farmers using human blood as fertiliser. 

Completely ignore the Fox version on Disney Star.  An overbaked europudding, wasting good actors and the aliens attempting to kill us off with a lethal combination of neuropathic weaponry, robot dogs, subtitles and extreme boredom. 

For a truly original take, try Volume 2 of Alan Moore and Kevin O’Neill’s series of graphic novels The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.  A superhero team up using characters from English Literature, the awful 2003 film with Sean Connery shells it short.  The sequel would have used this version.  it captures the nightmarish elements of the book well, against a backdrop of two immortals falling in love.  Humanity is saved by an act of outstanding bravery/lunacy and another of Wells’ characters.  Who also created the characters from Rupert Bear in genetic experiments.   

So, plenty of stuff to see you through those dark Winter months.  But War of the Worlds is actually set in Summer.  You knew that already though.  Didn’t you?