And it does if you remain with the living, even if you place yourself outside or stay in touch with it half in dream, with that vague opium-like feeling where you can't believe what's unfolding. That which is being closely observed by your very eyes, that which draws you to stare even though the sight is quite revolting, like the poor table manners of modern weaned children as supervised by modern parents. What is this waving of the fork? and the licking of the knife? Both implements held with a strange grip, of the sort I've never seen before: their hands somehow twisted round the handles making it impossible to spear and saw, so that instead they're fed like chicks when they should be much further along in their development. See. Do. See. Do. The parents do the same: inexpertly cut and tear and then throw these morsels into their gaping mouths. The table a picture of debris, as if there had, at some point in these proceedings, perhaps to entertain these youngsters, been an unsuccessful attempt to whip the tablecloth from under the dirtied cups and plates, although to my knowledge this establishment didn't use them, preferring to wipe clean with a disinfectant spray and cloth rather than brush down. Still, an exception could have been made I suppose...the mess might not have been theirs in spite of the bare facts laid out.
This family went unnamed (and untamed) in my record of them. There were too many like them. Then, under observation, as of now. For they are the new nuclear family, to which most humans conform when they form a unit and multiply and begin undoing years of civilisation. Grunt. Point. Stare. Draw with a finger in the sand or with a stick on a wall. Fight over food. Eat with hands. Talk with mouths full.
What I'm trying to emphasise is that they're not as rare as they would have been had they been visible, or an arresting a sight as, say, in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, and as compared to other modern sightings I've given labels to: The Mini-coopered Clown; Countess Dracula; Helium Boy; The Bushwhacker; and The Pop Art Transsexual, and stored along the banks of Memory River.
This river has as many twists as it has turns, which to some of you will sound like the same thing. They're not. Turns are more ordinary, more straightforward; twists are more happen-stance, more liable to appear when they weren't there before and go back on themselves more easily. Twists enter the river and make a current, a small ripple of novelty, and there'll you find their banks are lined with the people to match them: the unusual, the eccentric, the amusing, though they may not have appeared that way to others. It's as individual as saying 'oh, my goodness' or liking tomato sauce sandwiches. On its own, spread on slices of buttered bread and without the chips in-between. Or vinegar on Shepherd's Pie. These guilty pleasures aren't made up, I did both as a child (I don't now – I have others), at home and where, it should be noted, they were eaten civilly. Children can be fusspots, I get that (I was one!), but let's not recommence that argument so soon, as there aren't the words and frankly, I don't have enough breath in my body. It has, after all, very little to do with river banks and those that pitch their tents alongside them. Then move camp as their nature and nature itself compels them to, and which, whilst it confuses, adds to their originality.
These characters, though real and far from imaginary, that appear at random and I, with my keen observation, take note of are all too strong, for having made an impression they continue to people my inner world and call themselves up uninvited. Set up shop. Set up home. Fish. Boat. Wash their naked selves and scrub their clothes. Make a fire to warm and cook by. It's a very back to basics, nomadic life, which they must like for they've allowed an imprint of themselves to remain here. Though occasionally one or two, worried they're weakening, will renew their thread to me with a live sighting or use a prop to trigger a fresh remembrance.
Picture credit: River Rug, 1903, C F A Voysey
