Steampunk fiction, reviews and interviews

Elevenses: #inktober 50 shades of tea

Greetings! I may have got a bit behind with inktober postings but rest assured the old pen and brushes have been whirring behind the scenes…

Here is Jules WHY-Verne  in ink and excitingly his first lil story book has all the words finished and will be well on its way to being published in the near future 🙂

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Here also is Christina taking her tea  in the back passage, painted in tea and coffee. I think I’m getting better at the backgrounds, I just love the way you can build up these little clouds of colour. This one isn’t finished, I’ll be building up the layers of coffee over the next few days to give  a rich, dark sheen to some areas.

 

and here also is the little excerpt from Jack and Marjory which sets her in context… Jack and Marjory (who were trying to smuggle a priceless historical teaset which everyone seems to want) have just been captured by a ruthless band of beatnik poets and taken to The Golden Lion in Lancaster to wait for Max, the leader of the revolution, to be hung on Friday…

There were poets everywhere and everyone was talking, some were reciting and some were conversing and some were just ranting loudly away to themselves or perhaps the room at large or perhaps the universe or someone in particular on the other side… and men and women with quills and nibs and paintbrushes and wells of ink and mugs of cold black chicory coffee were writing all over the walls the things that were being said or thought or sung around them or inside them so that they became essays and poems and novels by the look of some of them… and still others were reading aloud what was being written as if it were prophecy or scripture or a recipe for the most sinful cake in Devon…

…all come to the golden lion… all come to see Max… get hung…

The Golden Lion ; a shrine and a womb and a cathedral and a tomb and a chrysalis all at the same time…  all to see one man who wasn’t perhaps, by his own admission,  even a man at all, get mullered for love.

« Cause that was all it was, really » Johnny Moonstruck, owner of the Garish Theatre Company is standing with his foot on a bar stool rocking it back and forth back and forth while he drums with his paintbrush on the side of his mug »

…is this really just chicory they’re drinking…

«  love of a woman, love of too many women, love of too much tea, love of One’s own autonomy and freedom, love of being Utterly Oneself »

We nod, we understand the narcissistic drive that says ‘I bloody well can and will and the devil take me I shall. » but he’s not done …

 

« … the love of Oneself and then of course the sacrifice of that love for love of another but, in the hope of what ? That love then being reciprocated ? It’s the same with The Cause, the fight for One’s own freedom has to be the fight, eventually, for every One’s freedom, but it’s all driven by that same Utopian ideal of love eternal and unconditionally reciprocated, be it platonic or otherwise. That’s what lead him here, that’s what has lead us all here. Look around you , Mary, »

« Marjory »
« Marjory… »

« and Jack »

« Right… It’s not even that they believe or care about any Goddess or any old heretical religion, or even Amelia,  they don’t really give a damn, they just want to love what they love and who they love and be left alone… have you got enough cake ?»

« …the soul of the teapot… the soul of the commonest object… the last bag of flour… the poem in the heart of the treacle miner…»

 

That might have been the theme that ran through all the words and pictures and pantomimes as we moved from cacophonies of colour  to grotesqueries of sound, but it might not have been as well. We couldn’t say if there was any truth in that reduction of all things either, havin experienced little of this love thing ourselves, we was more inclined to say, from our own perspective, that survival was what had brought us here and the random kindness of one crazy Land Pirate.

Even if we could possibly have said something that would add to that… even if we could have found a voice through all that upper-middle-class artistic ego venting … we had no one to say it to. This was hardly about us at all…

« Hey, hex slinger are you ? Mm, mm, that’s what it’s all about, taking back the magic…hey, Wainright, get this woman some cake… »

And that was how it went in The Lion for days on end. Pushing the seams, pushing the rafters…pushing…

« …the limits of the diaphane… »

and Christina walked among them all like a china doll, like one of Amelia’s automatons…a little white idol of a goddess they’d created in her own bloody image… wearing Joyce’s words poured out onto teabags and stitched together into the daintiest little wafers of dresses and long bridalesque trains that just might melt given enough steam…

« the soul of the commonest… the dream in the heart of the treacle miner… »

JACKANDMARJORYCOVER

 

I’m afraid I’m running a day behind so Mrs Baker will be in her soup kitchen tomorrow with a cute little grey furry helper… in the meantime, Blessings on your brew and all your inktober endeavors 🙂

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