kagablog

That scene in Alexander

Pork por-ki-pies into the lounge. Following the ripples. Takes up his seat. Peach is already up to her whiskers in fun. She’s picked insect today, it seems. Quite a vigorous fellow too. Up it goes again, and up she goes, paws practically clapping in the eternal recurrence of her kittenish delight. After a brief romance across the tumbling rug (the only Persian Peach condoned in her presence), the little mouse that could paused to take stock. Something was very wrong here. And it was beating hugely in its little cavity. And symmetrically! The little mouse that could realised that it was still very much alive. Everything inside the little mouse that could was well-versed in the knowledge that this was highly improbable. It should have long succumbed to the Maw of Darkness. All of its dreams – her intransigent visitations, her inverse echoes – had concluded much more economically. The little mouse that could twitched its whiskers. Maybe.. just maybe it really could! The mouse made an altogether impressive dash for the garden door, where Peach lay waiting.

Pork glances over his shoulder. Their Slow One was coming. Pork’s tummy smiled happily. The little mouse that could blinks up at Peach, who gives it a friendly swipe. Peach swishes excitedly when the front door opens and the Slow One walks in.

A careful study of Peach’s romps with her various short-lived toys, reveals her to be an accomplished and highly imaginative choreographer, who excels in what may be called instant composition. Her playthings were for the most part mere pawns, deftly manipulated, and unaware of their own contribution to Peach’s skilled improvisations.

But there was a secret behind Peach’s experiments with the limits of organic continuity; one that only her Slow One had begun to sense. Peach was a direct, self-conscious contributor to a healthier future for our rodent and feathered friends. Peach, in her genius, was actually training her toys; knowing that the longer they last, the more they learn. The more fun their future selves would be. Peach knew that the evolutionary learning-curve communicates, and communicates perhaps most crucially, beyond the salient channels of the reproductive. And so, patiently, and guided by love, Peach was training the Future.

“PeeaHch..!” Peach loved that sound. Her Slow One’s eyes glinted approvingly, dotingly. “RRRrrrrrrrrrrHHHHHHRRRRR .”, he went on, in that embarrassingly crude attempt to mimic the nestle-texture of Purr (Peach didn’t mind, he was only human after all); her inner acoustica responded automatically.

Pork’s eyes swooned as his Slow One’s fingers led jagged ripples down his spine. Blinked wetly up at him. The Slow One considered the game. The mouse was pretty worn down but still looking vital, eyes flashing. Its humble genome was blinking several times a second, processing information at desperate velocities. After another acrobatic stint with Peach-the-Juggler, the little mouse that could got up, turned to face its nemesis, little eyes working. And then the little mouse did something that only dim legends had done in ages too far back for domestic currency to recall. The little mouse reared up, on its hind legs, its brave little paws defiantly lifted; its eyes roaring black specks. Like that horse in that scene in Alexander. The room was dumbstruck. If squeaking hadn’t been so intrinsically diminutive, the little mouse would have squeaked. Pork looked on, rapt. Peach was infinitely less impressed. Took the opportunity to stretch. Cleaned her left paw. Sent the little mouse that could twirling up, up, up. Peach considered the alarm in her Slow One’s eyes. Silly Romantic.

And then the little mouse that could was no more. In littler and littler bits. The room looked on in silence. The Slow One stepped out for a cigarette. Pork yawned.

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