Summer, In Winter
I sit here with the better part of a bottle of 2005 Moscato and a very small glass. This allows me to successfully absorb the late and dying heat of an Italian summer which I have never experienced, turned into a flowery bouquet and the aftertaste of fruit which I am now experiencing.
At the same time, I am reading Dave Gibbons's Watching the Watchmen, the behind-the-scenes exposé of how the Hugo Award-winning graphic novel came to be. I read of John Higgins's hand-calibrated colouring, using the limited print technology of the 1980s to produce murky, bleached, hues which were somehow suitable for the noir atmosphere of the final product, but yet not good enough. I read of the quirky Alan Moore yet again, that most extraordinary gentleman with the Moorcock-era New Wave creative streak a mile wide.
And I remember what it was like, being a lad in the Army and reading issues of Watchmen as they came out — and reflecting on how different on a psychological scale the rushing about with M16S1s and modified ex-Israeli armour was, compared to the threat of nuclear armageddon. I reflect that since then I have enjoyed many a summer, and the swan has not yet sung.
Tomorrow, I am certain that some people will get up on some podiums somewhere, arrange their notes on some lectern and read some blithering nonsense. And some part of the world will cringe before each of them. But others will speak words that seem given by a higher authority, not merely a higher power. These latter words will shape the world through the hearts and minds of their listeners.
"Who watches the watchmen?" goes the old Latin saying. "Watchman, what of the night?" is found in the book of Isaiah the prophet. We watch the watchmen; they watch the night. And if nobody watches the night, and if nobody watches the watchmen, then Chaos and Old Night and all the other powers of the Fall will steal the last breath of summer forever.
But here I sit, my half-bottle of Moscato and I. We read together the story that Moore and Gibbons told so long ago. We remember an even older tale, involving watchmen in a field, angels, sheep and new beginnings. There is the promise we hold close; out of every winter comes summer, and summer can be bottled for darker days.
At the same time, I am reading Dave Gibbons's Watching the Watchmen, the behind-the-scenes exposé of how the Hugo Award-winning graphic novel came to be. I read of John Higgins's hand-calibrated colouring, using the limited print technology of the 1980s to produce murky, bleached, hues which were somehow suitable for the noir atmosphere of the final product, but yet not good enough. I read of the quirky Alan Moore yet again, that most extraordinary gentleman with the Moorcock-era New Wave creative streak a mile wide.
And I remember what it was like, being a lad in the Army and reading issues of Watchmen as they came out — and reflecting on how different on a psychological scale the rushing about with M16S1s and modified ex-Israeli armour was, compared to the threat of nuclear armageddon. I reflect that since then I have enjoyed many a summer, and the swan has not yet sung.
Tomorrow, I am certain that some people will get up on some podiums somewhere, arrange their notes on some lectern and read some blithering nonsense. And some part of the world will cringe before each of them. But others will speak words that seem given by a higher authority, not merely a higher power. These latter words will shape the world through the hearts and minds of their listeners.
"Who watches the watchmen?" goes the old Latin saying. "Watchman, what of the night?" is found in the book of Isaiah the prophet. We watch the watchmen; they watch the night. And if nobody watches the night, and if nobody watches the watchmen, then Chaos and Old Night and all the other powers of the Fall will steal the last breath of summer forever.
But here I sit, my half-bottle of Moscato and I. We read together the story that Moore and Gibbons told so long ago. We remember an even older tale, involving watchmen in a field, angels, sheep and new beginnings. There is the promise we hold close; out of every winter comes summer, and summer can be bottled for darker days.
Labels: Odd Questions, Watchmen, Wine
etched with acid at 3:26:00 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home