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

And?

[He keeps a lively pace next to Julian, for once untempted to put his hands in his coat pockets as they walk in the brisk air.]

You know, I didn't even think to ask. When did you last skate? I'm assuming you have before.

When I was at Leighton.

[As a teenager. It has been that long.]

[A chuckle.]

Eton.

[You're not alone, Julian.]

Before here, anyway. It's not so bad. Like a bicycle, as they say. One can always pick it up again once they know how to!

[Going down the stairs now.] Then you've skated here, or...?

Yes, that's how I came to know about it. Invited to the rink one evening, I gave it a go. It was something of a social event.

[Guy walks down the stairs rather quickly, for each step down leads closer to the rink, open air, chill and the rink.]

[Julian's legs being longer is not an advantage on stairs when it comes to keeping up with Guy Burgess' speed and energy.] How did you do?

Very well, I think, for the circumstances.

[He waits at the bottom of the stairs, glimpsing over his shoulder.]

[He catches up with a grin.] We'll see how you do this time. [Pushing the door open, letting Guy through first. Guy is wearing some kind of product--in his hair, on his body, something--the smell of which Julian is finding oddly distracting.]

I expect vast improvements. [Guy is blissfully unaware of the smell that the combination of what he used to slick his hair, aftershave, and cigarettes. Though he did make an effort to smell pleasant.]

Am I supposed to actually have ice skates for this, or are we sliding around the rink on our shoes like boys?

[A laugh.] I'd like to have your guess.

Lead the way there while I think.

[It's not a terribly long walk to the ice rink. Guy leads them both to a bench just beside it where two pairs of skates sit.]

What sort of date invites the other without being equipped for the activity?

[He plops down on the bench, smiling.]

[A laugh.] I'm not very bright, clearly. [Unlacing his shoes now.]

[Guy doesn't even bother with unlacing his. Using his toes pressed to the heels of his shoes, he kicks them off.]

Everything points to the contrary.

[A small, lingering look before he reaches for the skates.]

[A look Julian doesn't catch. He pulls on his skates.]

God, I haven't done this in so long. You'll have to teach me again.

Don't tell me you've forgotten everything!

[Guy fusses with the laces, which are far too long even after putting them through each hook and tying them at the top.]

You may not need me at all. Rather ridiculous predicament, don't you think, if we both end up stumbling about like drunken auditioners for Moscow's circus.

[Another laugh. He stands up, unsteady.]

Looks like I'm ready.

[Guy stuffs the extra loops inside the threaded laces and stands up, walking toward the rink.]

It will be worse on the ice. [A teasing smirk cast over his shoulder.]

[Grinning, Julian tries to start off with a smooth motion. Hey, not so bad...but his leg is traveling faster than his body already, and he stumbles around, stabbing his skates into the ice to regain his balance.]

Whoa!

[Guy follows, far more controlled than he had been on the night of the party. Still, there isn't much grace to his skating, though he stays upright wonderfully.]

I spent most of my time skidding on my coattails the last night I was about on the ice.

[He holds out a hand in case Julian needs it.]

The lack of gin certainly is steadying.

[Julian grabs Guy's hand and tries again, doing better this time. He laughs, and the laughter does not leave his eyes.] It would be!

Have you met a fellow who is... roguish, has unusually kept facial hair, tanned, and calls himself a pirate?

[He grips Julian's hand, and finds it as steadying for himself as it is for Julian. He grins in the light of Julian's mirth.]

I think so? Over the journals? Captain Swallow, or something.

Yes, our pirate Captain Sparrow. He and I had a bit of a race the last time I was here on this very rink.

[Holding Julian's hand... it's difficult to think of any other way he would rather be spending his afternoon. He can't stop looking at the poet's face, which does little for skating in a straight line. Hopefully Julian is paying attention!]

I won because I fell last, and because my fall was off the ice entirely.

[Not the most flattering story, but he's going for a laugh. Anything to see a smile on Julian's face.]

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