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Oliver Walker
Oliver Walker

The Naked Cage Torrent


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The Naked Cage torrent


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*** A demented scientist forces a man and his robot friends to watch an old Hollywood movie, which they greet with a nonstop torrent of jokes, gags, and smart-alecky remarks. The picture they're heckling is a shorten-ed version of "This Island Earth," an entertaining 1955 fantasy that deserves more respect than the MST3K folks give it. But some of their wisecracks are funny, and the show is short enough to pass pretty painlessly. Jim Mallon directed the satire, which is identical to the award-winning TV series that spawned it. P V


There wants not some, who affirm, that in that great Counsell of Birds, there were some Decoyes (and 'tis well known where Decoyes Holland. were first bred) who called in, not onely these mongrill obstreperous Birds from abroad to commit such outrages as were spoken of before, but drew after them also many of the greatest Birds, who sate in that Assembly, to follow them whither they listed: Others, who were of a more generous extraction, disdained to be such Buzzards, as to be carried away hood-wincked in that manner, to be Birds of their feather. Thus a visible faction was hatched in this great Counsell, as if the said Decoyes had disgorged and let fall some graines of Hemlock seeds amongst them to distemper their braines. Or, as if some Spinturnix, that fatall incendiary Bird, or some ill-boding Scritch-Owle, which as stories tell us appeared once at Rome, in a famous, though unfortunate great Councell (when there was a schisme in the Popedome) had appeared likewise here. There wanted not also amongst them some Amphibious Birds, as the Barnacle, which is neither Fish nor Fowle; and the cunning Batt, who sometimes professeth himself a Bird, sometimes a Mouse. I will not say there were any Paphlagonian Birds amongst them, who are known to have double hearts: But 'tis certaine, that in this confusion there were some malevolent Birds, and many of them so young, that they were scarce fledg'd, who like the Waspe in the Fable, conspired to fire the [Page 10] Eagles nest, (and a Waspe may sometimes doe mischiefe to an Eagle, as a Mouse to an Elephant.) Moreover, some of these light brained Birds flew so high, that they seemed to arrogate to themselves, and exercise royall power, but foolishly; for we know what became of the Crow upon the Ram's back, when she thought to imitate the Eagle: And it was observed that they were most eager to attempt those high insolences against Jove's Bird, who had been stark naked, and as bare as Cootes, unlesse he had feathered them; so that the little Ant was more gratefull to Esops Bird, then those Birds were to the Eagle, their liege Lord. But the high-borne Bird with the two golden wings, the noble Faulcons, the Martlets, M. Hert. the Ravens, the Swan, the Chough, and all the ancient Birds of theE. South. E. Westm. mountains remained faithfull and firme to the Eagle, and scornedE. Worce. to be carried away by such Decoyes; As also the generous Ostriches, E. Dover. Wales. who unlesse they had had an extraordinary stomach, couldDigbies. not have digested such yron pills as were offered them. Amongst other great Birds which banded against the Eagle, the flying Dragons, E. Pemb. green and white, were busy, specially the white; And for theE. Warw. Green, considering he was an ancient bird of the Mountains, and that his Progenitors had been so renowned for their rare loyalty to the Crown, every one wondred that he should be drawn so far by the foresayed Decoyes, as to be the first of his race that should clap his wings against his Soveraign Liege Lord.


Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.


We are pirates. We carve the skies, siphon the oceans, rake the land, and seize the stars. No glittering reservoirs of mineral, nor ancient, forgotten technology, nor cultured wonders of biology remain in the tail of our plunder. Even those intangible pearls residing under tongues of naked oysters our crew will eventually find and claim. The properties of a clawed, antennaed creature optimal for faring the open seas; the memory of an ageless folk tale about Reunicle the Challenger; the concept of "gratitude"; the impossibly harmonious, wailing dirge a species of great iridescent birds sings for the death of each and every one of their kind, the tears we wept after.


But, the water below ran too deep, and soon, I was swept off my feet, gasping for air as the rushing torrent tossed me in the direction of one of the towers. Treading hopelessly against the current for what seemed like hours, eventually a wave grabbed my body like a fly-swatter before flinging it against the wall of a pit, such that my head lurched over the side as the cable roared down the chute.


like an angel in a cage I can do nothing from mycelllike a philosopher I sit and ponderponderingabout what I have doneand what I have yet to doI tryto think butnothing comes to my mind


"What if I die under it?" The thought recurred again and again, as I walked home from Haddon's. It was a purely personal question. I was spared the deep anxieties of a married man, and I knew there were few of my intimate friends but would find my death troublesome chiefly on account of their duty of regret. I was surprised indeed, and perhaps a little humiliated, as I turned the matter over, to think how few could possibly exceed the conventional requirement. Things came before me stripped of glamour, in a clear dry light, during that walk from Haddon's house over Primrose Hill. There were the friends of my youth: I perceived now that our affection was a tradition, which we foregathered rather laboriously to maintain. There were the rivals and helpers of my later career: I suppose I had been cold-blooded or undemonstrative--one perhaps implies the other. It may be that even the capacity for friendship is a question of physique. There had been a time in my own life when I had grieved bitterly enough at the loss of a friend; but as I walked home that afternoon the emotional side of my imagination was dormant. I could not pity myself, nor feel sorry for my friends, nor conceive of them as grieving for me.I was interested in this deadness of my emotional nature--no doubt a concomitant of my stagnating physiology; and my thoughts wandered off along the line it suggested. Once before, in my hot youth, I had suffered a sudden loss of blood, and had been within an ace of death. I remembered now that my affections as well as my passions had drained out of me, leaving scarce anything but a tranquil resignation, a dreg of self-pity. It had been weeks before the old ambitions and tendernesses and all the complex moral interplay of a man had reasserted themselves. It occurred to me that the real meaning of this numbness might be a gradual slipping away from the pleasure-pain guidance of the animal man. It has been proven, I take it, as thoroughly as anything can be proven in this world, that the higher emotions, the moral feelings, even the subtle unselfishness of love, are evolved from the elemental desires and fears of the simple animal: they are the harness in which man's mental freedom goes. And it may be that as death overshadows us, as our possibility of acting diminishes, this complex growth of balanced impulse, propensity and aversion, whose interplay inspires our acts, goes with it. Leaving what?I was suddenly brought back to reality by an imminent collision with the butcher-boy's tray. I found that I was crossing the bridge over the Regent's Park Canal, which runs parallel with that in the Zoological Gardens. The boy in blue had been looking over his shoulder at a black barge advancing slowly, towed by a gaunt white horse. In the Gardens a nurse was leading three happy little children over the bridge. The trees were bright green; the spring hopefulness was still unstained by the dusts of summer; the sky in the water was bright and clear, but broken by long waves, by quivering bands of black, as the barge drove through. The breeze was stirring; but it did not stir me as the spring breeze used to do.Was this dulness of feeling in itself an anticipation? It was curious that I could reason and follow out a network of suggestion as clearly as ever: so, at least, it seemed to me. It was calmness rather than dulness that was coming upon me. Was there any ground for the relief in the presentiment of death? Did a man near to death begin instinctively to withdraw himself from the meshes of matter and sense, even before the cold hand was laid upon his? I felt strangely isolated--isolated without regret--from the life and existence about me. The children playing in the sun and gathering strength and experience for the business of life, the park-keeper gossiping with a nursemaid, the nursing mother, the young couple intent upon each other as they passed me, the trees by the wayside spreading new pleading leaves to the sunlight, the stir in their branches--I had been part of it all, but I had nearly done with it now.Some way down the Broad Walk I perceived that I was tired, and that my feet were heavy. It was hot that afternoon, and I turned aside and sat down on one of the green chairs that line the way. In a minute I had dozed into a dream, and the tide of my thoughts washed up a vision of the resurrection. I was still sitting in the chair, but I thought myself actually dead, withered, tattered, dried, one eye (I saw) pecked out by birds. "Awake!" cried a voice; and incontinently the dust of the path and the mould under the grass became insurgent. I had never before thought of Regent's Park as a cemetery, but now, through the trees, stretching as far as eye could see, I beheld a flat plain of writhing graves and heeling tombstones. There seemed to be some trouble: the rising dead appeared to stifle as they struggled upward, they bled in their struggles, the red flesh was torn away from the white bones. "Awake!" cried a voice; but I determined I would not rise to such horrors. "Awake!" They would not let me alone. "Wake up!" said an angry voice. A cockney angel! The man who sells the tickets was shaking me, demanding my penny.I paid my penny, pocketed my ticket, yawned, stretched my legs, and, feeling now rather less torpid, got up and walked on towards Langham Place. I speedily lost myself again in a shifting maze of thoughts about death. Going across Marylebone Road into that crescent at the end of Langham Place, I had the narrowest escape from the shaft