Behold, I tell you a mystery: we are all change, every moment, every twinkling of an eye, every last trumpet. Taranta-ra, taranta-ra, taranta-ra, ra-ra-ra-ra; we can handel that, appaulling how the apostold it differently then but we can't any longer see it, except by very great Acts of the Imaginations, A1, hey Theophilus? We (Luke warms to his subject- malta tempestuoso) set out once again on the Medinarration Sea. Cyn and Buzz sit over pints at the Gower Inn, yes, they were there before closing time; and inside out it all seems too. So strange to suddenly be there, let's detail it, at the well-worn wooden table, one of the ones nearest the carpark, where the Transit (property of Oxford County Council) stands creaking as hot metal contracts in this cool evening. Enough? No, scenepainting only- what happened? What happened? What had to happen. But what was that? It was what it was, is, and evermore shall be so; a linguistic structure was assembled by a process of definition through description, interpretation, comparison, and so on, until a functional vocabulary specific to recent experience was achieved. This was then used creatively and to the satisfaction of both parties, until the pendulum of exchange was at rest. Give extracts from this process. Is this an imperative I see before me? I see. Well, it's not that easy, because the structure was highly complex with overlaps, unconformities, and sometimes complete washouts. There was faulting. Frequently too, the sequence was interrupted by seaming irrelevancies concerning the immediate practical application of understandings arrived at, also subsidiary themes pursued, commentaries elaborated; the unforseen need to expand. Excuses, excuses. There is a marked reluctance to tell the tale. Idiot? yes, I suppose. It's rather selfconciously signifying nothing, speaking for itself, in its own terms, tip of the iceberg only. Oh, we're in for the glaciation features now. No, I won't take that up, let it stand, a terminal moraine. But I thought- terminal? In the sense of stopping paying attention to. Ah. The serpent eats its own tale. Linearity only one among many constructional functions. Wha? Tale I told you, walking shadows. Take it up again. How it sparkles! Cefyn brilliant in the sunshine, this O what luvverly morning, cor, 'ts a conglegation of all right, in their own view. Readers' choice. And a gain, I say how beautiful up here on the mount of Transituation, not a cloud in sight and shall we make Three Cliffs down there look you, Oxwich Bay below the 425 feet of them that reach the beach, mintchoc chip for me, the goodspell of found meaning, here's a piece! Break it off with your fingers, freezethaw loose, crumbly quartz conglomerate, in the sunshine, tetraheed the flashback and on too again and another gain there. Where's it all come from? Coarse, its identifiable constituents, metamorphic logoids and ingenious tricks, repetitions rich in detrital feltspasms, suggest derivation from- Whoosat shouting? Angel voices ever singing drift up here through the still air. Air and Angels, those were the days, Donne with that now, metaphysics. Quartz conglomerate, sez Cyn, turning it in her fingers so's he can see it sparkling, his head bent close to hers, little bit of linearity now, heh, it's the following day, they've come up here to the cairns and detail, detail! Where did they pass the night and how? Isn't there a chance here for an erotic episode worthy of the name, an excitingly detailed account of how they, they. There is, was, but right now I'm enjoying the simplicity. Let's go down now. First you must put a stone on the cairn. Oh, right. They pile up stones, then, that'll never balance, yes it will, there, I told you, there, O well done. And off they go running so happy hurls for them, oh half hurls earth for them off, un-der, their, feet. The Transit stands in the long grass, petrol scented, hot plastic and smoke scanted, Cyn gets her fags off the dashboard and looking at her through the mirroring screen Buzz sees himself and her in one and all and has a happy wholeness, just for now, let's not kid ourselves, not torture ourselves with loseable paradises, in the sunlight dazzling back he looks away, this too is too like the. She looks back up at the old hill where they were, can you see our little cairn, that we made there, altering the skyline? They turn to go. Say, children, how they went, the two of them. They wuz holdin hans! Smokin fags too, yer gho some in yer bag, Debs? Ee, y'll ghe lung cantser! Do children talk like this? They wen over the road, I spec they've wen furrer nice cream at the Pissed Office! The pissed- haa, I add toffee flavour burri made me feel sick should've adder... Cyn'n'Buzz'd mintchoc slurpycool yummy. And walked on down the track past the farm, the perfumed hedges loud with insects saying Buzz. No one mentions Cyn, there are no snakes in this paradise garden, or none speak to them. They come out onto the sandy grass, pass unscathed through gorse, its identifiable constituents prickles and yellow flowers. And then. Listen. The sea. Not the sound of the sea, not that only, listen. Softly the warmsoft sand, slither and stumbling down at last, what is traeth? They are there, here we are. Here we are then! Look how lovely, while it lasts, the empty beach, the bend of bay and swerve of, sure, sure. Let them strip to their knickers and run laughing into the sunlit surfeet splashing
(That's enough. Let's go home now...)