burns_so_brightly | Second Stanza: [ACTION/WRITTEN/VOICE]

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Second Stanza: [ACTION/WRITTEN/VOICE]

[Sitting in the tea shop, Julian Bell is looking restless, his tea untouched and growing cold. He chews the end of his pen as his journal lies open on the table before him. All at once, he starts writing furiously.]

Expose the world, anatomize,
Strip clothes from skin, strip skin, then flesh, from bone.
Himself no surgeon, true, can sterilize,
But yet the self-infection can be shown.
Corrode and doubt; anesthetize the heart;
Morphia or curiosity drown the reviving smart.

Clear as white water in the stream we see
Shadowed the species of eternity;
The working process, self a working part:
For not one necessary fiction's grace
Can quite make mask th' observer's outward face,
Or thought one extra atom's movement start.

The moving pointer tells, and having told
Not the immediacy of hot and cold,
Nor yet the pale abstraction of a mind
(For algebra and instruments record
No immanent emergence of the Word.)
Tells solid, painful foothold all we find.

Why turn, why seek, why question for an end?
Why hope? Time flows: shows useless to defend
A cosy corner in the rising flood.
The tide is coming in: the dykes are down:
War, Terror, Poverty, swing through the town,
And the cold wind claims to be understood.

[It feels like it's been too long since he wrote. He's trying to get the juices going again, but this lazy, mind-numbing monotony of Luceti life is making it hard, so he started with something he's already written. Heck, maybe someone will give him feedback and he can better it. Some ten or fifteen minutes later, he picks up the journal and speaks.]

I think we should have a philosophy club here, or some such thing. Nothing exclusive, just a few inquisitive minds wanting intellectual stimulation. Mondays at eight in the tea shop. Any biters?

[OOC: Feel free to run into him around town as well as at the tea shop. He'll be getting groceries and checking out the library, and tonight, he'll be at Cloud Nine.

Also: the above poem was written by the actual Julian Bell and not me. No profit made from it.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Your commentary was always beautiful, even while it spoke harshly.

[Guy recognizes the poem immediately as something he's read a good many times. For on nights he thought of Julian back in London, he often picked up one of the poet's published collections. Works from Winter had always been a favoured one.]

I do like the idea of healthy intellectual conversation. It's been a bit lacking here.

[He doesn't introduce himself. He knows he doesn't have to.]

I was hoping you'd join.

[It's completely sincere, not merely polite. Julian doesn't bend over backwards to make his friends feel good about themselves. He has real esteem for Guy, so it's not needed.]

I couldn't possibly resist, and I'm far more than willing to help you with the club.

[This is very much his cup of tea, so it all interests him. Julian Bell, good intellectual stimulation, and tea. All he needs is to bring the liquor to put in it!]

Good. We'll be the Luceti Apostles. [He's speaking metaphorically, not officially naming the club.]

Does that mean lunches on the grass when the weather warms?

[The smile on his face is effervescent in his voice.]

Even if we wear our coats.

Just like old times, with the three of us. I guess we can bring Philby if we have to.

It would be nice of us to.

[Although just the three of them some afternoon... might be a good thing. Certainly nostalgic.]

Speaking of good and old times spent together, I wanted to ask you if you would like to join me some evening before the weather warms. There's a lovely ice skating rink here in Luceti that can be fun.

[He won't go into details about the race with Jack Sparrow. That was one of his many moments that lacked subtlety, tact, and grace.]

[The grin is audible.] You'll have to prove it. Not like I'm doing anything tonight.

[That is the best thing he has heard all damn day, if not all week.

Definitely all week.]

Tonight it is. Dinner beforehand? Your choice, of course. Seventh Heaven has a fairly good selection.

[He tries not to sound too eager, too zealous. Casual invitation of company for dinner.]

[A laugh.] Seventh Heaven. It's a date.

[Spoken in such a jovial tone, too. He's being purely metaphorical.]

[He's excited and nearly crushed by how teasing the phrase is. Still, Guy will take his wins as he earns them, and keep the plans in mind as a date regardless.]

Do dress warmly. Otherwise I'll be obligated to give you my coat.

[To have Julian this way is better than not at all. He'll rationalise it that way and wash it down with an afternoon drink.]

[More laughter.] Five-thirty? We'd be skating in the dark.

There's a can for a bonfire by the rink. Or, if you prefer, skating first and a warming dinner after.

[How bell-like that laughter is. Guy's spirits raise with each moment.]

It's best to exercise first, isn't it? Three o'clock, then, while there's still light?

Exercise? Is that what skating is? Here I hoped for a bit of fun!

[His turn to chuckle.]

Three o'clock. I'll knock on your door.

[After ending pleasantries, Julian waits for Guy to arrive. He couldn't say why he switches shirts and jackets a couple of times. Always want to look good going out, right? But it's still ice skating, so he doesn't want to mess up his best clothes. He eventually gives up and makes himself a cup of tea, and is sipping at it when Guy arrives.]

[Guy walks up in a suit he's since acquired at Luceti, a well-tailored tan three piece, a checkered shirt with red and blue and white, and a red bowtie. His usual hat is tilted over his hair, slicked back to tame the curls that still tend to bend and lick up with time. Hung over his shoulders, long and warn is his coat, his hands gloved in a dark, chocolate leather. Overall, he's gone through a fair amount of trouble to look dashedly good, or as good as he can hope to be in front of Julian. Still, there's a slight, hazy cigarette smell in the suit that is him.

His gloves make for a slightly muffled knock, three times on his door. Then he leans against the doorframe, waiting. He leans because it's he sort of posture he naturally assumes, and because if he were to stand straight, he would surely bounce on his toes.]

[At the last second, Julian throws a scarf around the line of bruises circling his throat. He is not going to wear a tie.]

Come in!

[Guy opens the door, stepping in with a bounce in his step that is rarely seen. He feels boyish and bright, anxious to see Julian, nervous about the whole bloody charade of simple friendship.]

Ready for a bit of fun? A little showing of what we've got here for us.

[Still, there is a smile he gives, endearing and telling if only Julian had ever known that it had always been for him.]

[A smile shines back at Guy.]

Ready. [He sounds hoarse when he speaks, but doesn't seem mindful of it.] Let's go?

[Guy's smile falters when he hears the gravel-like quality to the normally chipper tone of Julian's voice.]

Feeling well?

[He studies Julian with his eyes.]

If you're not, we'll have tea and lunch. Damn the skating.

[He clears his throat. Of course it does no good.]

Nothing. Just sinuses. I think the winter air might be better for me than a stuffy old flat!

[Guy walks over and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Such touches come naturally from a time spent tugging hats back and forth on the greens of Cambridge.]

Promise me if it gets worse, that you'll let me see you fed and and back to your flat so you can get better.

[Forever concerned.]

[A slightly irritated but touched smile.] I'm fine, Guy. [He pushes open the door.] I've had worse!

[Guy follows him.]

Haven't we all.

[It doesn't matter Julian. He will take care of you.]

I'm relieved to hear it. I've been looking forward to this since we spoke.

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