video | un: dollhouse

[thedreamer]

Hello, gang! ...Gang? No, not the right word. Team? Better. Do we have a name? Those of us displaced and trapped here. Well, there we are.

[ As if the semantics are really important. Moving on. ]

I'm the Doctor, if we haven't spoken yet. And if we haven't - first of all, why haven't we? Second of all, I'm very glad we are now.

[ He's moving around a lot as he talks, walking in slow circles, just restless. ]

Hearing what everyone's uncovered recently has been helpful and I believe I can add something of value to the mix.

In conversation with our caretaker in the Mouse House, Ma'am Mariol, I learned more about the plague that swept through. When the sickness struck, it fractured Serthica. Those up here believed it came from down below, the Mouse House; the first to touch anything imported, anything crossing the sea, they assumed. Prior to that, it was easier for those down below to come and go up here. Much more difficult now, nearly impossible, and so the people down there, the children, they suffer.

[ He has to note that for a moment because he will remain displeased until he can fix their situation. ]

The children we've met in the Mouse House were orphaned as a result of the sickness. All of them. To anyone's knowledge, not a single person who was infected survived. They referred to it as the coal sick; called that because an infected person's hands, toes, face would go dark, like coal dust and rot. Rot - familiar word, that one, eh?

What else - right - it infected quickly. Someone could be healthy one day and then nearly dead the next. Coughing up blood, teeth chattering, wandering back and forth to keep warm.

I hoped to ascertain how the splitting of Serthica was decided, how people were sorted, if some were exiled down below who'd previously lived in the citadels, simply for fear of spreading illness. There's at least one woman that I know of in the Mouse House, who used to live in the citadels. She receives letters from her daughter, who lives up here. Evidently, this woman ended up in the Mouse House around the time the sickness swept through, yet her daughter remains here.

Don't worry, that won't be the end of what I learn. I'm still working it out. [ He gets a bit more restless, impatient almost, pacing more urgently. ] Brain isn't working fast enough. Thinking and thinking and more thinking. I have to be careful how often I go down there, so I'm told - not that I've ever listened to that sort of thing - but if there are other questions I've missed, tell me. Maybe I'm standing too close to see everything.

Many heads are better than one, so the saying goes. Unless it's a multi-headed predator of some sort. Not the best odds, in that case, if you're the prey, though very good if you're the predator. All creatures have a right to it, though, of course, so can't judge that one. Survival of the fittest. You'd be surprised, though! A very good friend of mine, his name was Bertram; a beautiful, tiny Snorclax with a rainbow shell. He told me once he faced down a three-headed serpent wielding nothing but a pencil. [ This has nothing to do with anything at all, but that hardly matters. He just likes to tell stories and he has a captive audience. Unfortunately for the audience. ]

Comments

[matermali]

[ She'll have to find out if he's met any of her favorite poets. Another time. ]

That should not surprise me. What is he like?

I am not over-fond of most of his writing, but there is a passage from one of his works that has always stayed with me. A twist on one of Wordsworth's stories. The White Knight shares a song with Alice. Do you recall what the name of the song is called?

[thedreamer]

[ Spoiler alert: yes. All of them. ]

Bit shy, wondrous imagination, very fond of music boxes. He gave me one, actually. I still have it.

[ Here, he does smile, though she can't see it. ]

Oh, clever. Good one. One of my favorites. I can recite it from memory. Haddocks' Eyes.

[matermali]

[ Vanessa should not be so tickled to have discovered someone else who will appreciate literary humor, as well as someone with a keen memory for poetry. Of course, he can likely be anything he wants to be when he puts his mind to it and leaves his heart at play. Is that not the very intent of the jest? What is in a name? What is in the name of a thing, the name that it is called? What is it beyond that name? Who is the Doctor?

Did it ever matter? Whatever he is, what name gave him life, he seems to have met everyone and lived everything. It will never be enough, and that alone should keep her frightened. Also...hopeful. She must ask him about this music box. He likely doesn't have it here.

Vanessa, too, has a near photographic memory when it comes to literature, and she trusts him to carry on his part. ]

I'll tell thee everything I can:
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head,
Like water through a sieve.

[thedreamer]

[ To his great frustration, that music box is far from him, locked away in his home, in his beautiful, blue box, the one he's still convinced will turn up any moment now. He won't stop hoping for that, too. Better days ahead, when his old girl turns up and he can take everyone away from this place, wherever they want to go. ]

I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know —
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo —
That summer evening long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

[ He could spend the rest of the night doing this. He would be happy to. One of his favorite things. Well, one among many. ]

Who are your favorites then?

[matermali]

[ The fact that he skips right to the end seems a cheeky joke in and of itself, and she must admire it. She even chuckles, though he can't hear it. He seems to understand why she pointed out the passage, and nothing further needs to be said on the matter. ]

Oh, to decide on only one would be a criminal act on my part. I suppose I am rather partial to Shelley. [ She might quote Percy Shelley a bit too often, and also... ] Keats, as well. They two are ever linked, of course. There is also quite a bit to be said about Wordsworth. And then, John Clare is never to be discounted.

[ She really can go on. That is but a small list. Too many books in her head, as a dear friend had once pointed out. ]

Have you met any of them?

[thedreamer]

[ The passage of poetry she chose, the question in it, and the way she's accepted his answer without further inquiry, makes him likewise appreciate her even more. They are both, to varying degrees, their own mysteries. Mysteries within a mystery, here in this place. ]

Keats and Shelley, delightful. Met them at a party. Grand time. I spoke with Wordsworth at a different party. He still owes me his sister's recipe for dinner rolls. Clare - poor fellow. Not the easiest of times in his later years. Remarkable, all of them. Their names will always be remembered.

[matermali]

[ It ought to sound impossible, really, to have met them all, but she chooses to believe it. There isn't much force to it, given all she's seen. Can she doubt he's whatever a Time Lord is after her visions? Certainly not. Perhaps it's harder to imagine him as a socialite. Oh, he's social enough, but his energy is...unique. ]

That brings me a comfort on their behalf, to know that their works carry through the ages. Perhaps on my behalf, as well. It seems less lonely to imagine that someone else will always find a connection to the words they penned.

Is there a poet whom you favor?

[thedreamer]

No no no you can't make me choose! I refuse!

[ Liberal use of the exclamation marks with this one.

But, after about five seconds: ]

W.H. Auden

[ Another ten seconds pass: ]

W.S. Merwin. Oh you won't know him. Rilke! Oh, Rilke, what a beaut! Robert Burns, Emily Dickinson - oh we'll be here all night. I'll surprise you with some, ones you haven't heard of yet.

[matermali]

[ She can understand the reluctance to choose. She had shared her own list, after all. Still, there are names she doesn't know! That may happen more and more, but she's eager to learn of them. ]

I don't believe I have heard of most of them, except for Burns and only just recently, Emily Dickinson, if it is who I am thinking. I read something that was published just over a year ago, so it's rather new and I haven't it memorized. What do you favor in her work?

[ It may be different than what Vanessa has seen, considering how much of the 1890 publications were edited for 'Victorian standards'. Her name isn't exactly prolific just yet. ]

[thedreamer]

[ Oh, good. A chance to share what is, in fact, one his favorite poems of all time. Quite the esteemed designation, too, given how much poetry has been written across time, across planets. Everywhere. His memory is such that he can recall exactly how it looked on the page, and so he keeps the same styling as he recites it back to Vanessa, so that it might seem as though she's reading from a book herself. ]

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

[matermali]

[ Vanessa hasn't read that one before, and she takes some time to appreciate it. The punctuation, the breakage, is unique. What she had read in London hadn't been written in such a fashion, but she wouldn't be surprised if pompous editors had altered something that a woman had written to make it more pleasing to Victorian standards.

Her response may be short, but it isn't thoughtless. Vanessa is trying to commit the poem to memory. ]

I see why she is a favorite of yours.

[thedreamer]

We should do this more often. There's poetry enough, don't you think? A poem every night. Or every week. Something like that.

[matermali]

Something to remind me of home. A grand idea.

I dare say we would never run out, with the years that you carry. I may need to begin searching for local poetry if I am to keep stride with you.

[thedreamer]

If you run out of any, don't worry! I'll just do double the work that week. Do you write poetry at all or just admire it?

[matermali]

I am no poet. I am more practiced at taking rather than giving, I suppose. My nature is selfish, in this.

[ And other ways. ]

What of you?

[thedreamer]

Dabbled a few times. A very long time ago. When I was still very young, only a hundred or so. Maybe I'll come up with something new here.

[ Being trapped somewhat clears the mind for other things. As if there isn't plenty going on around them. Yet, he would still find a way to be bored in idle time. ]

[matermali]

A good poet needs only a muse, no? I suspect you have had countless during your travels. The words will come to you, I have little doubt.