• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 06

A childish fancy

In a world populated by fantastic clouds and finely dressed fairies, only the onlooker is transient. From behind the barrier, a child reaches out his hands and attempts to capture the one dimensional colours and impressions laid out before him. To fly, to dance, to dream without restriction. But perched on a chair to the left of the artwork sits a middle-aged man in a blue security jacket, who, observing the disruptive behaviour of the child, rises from his seat and approaches the mother, giving her a firm piece of his employer's mind. This being completed, he retreats in the manner of a snake seeking shade, and picks up the Sunday Times he left beside his chair. He considers why every child is so fascinated by colours, shapes, mess with no meaning, but cannot discern a plausible explanation. Now the words on the page are blurred by his irritation, and he can no longer focus on the murder, or the natural disaster, or the strikes. He sets the paper aside and watches as the child is whisked away in tears. What a strange world it is that willingly removes the children, is the shared thought from within the frame. Our devout listeners! For combined in the pale green shades and woven into the hems of our pretty dresses are musical notes. Sweetly they fall on sleepy ears, like raindrops on lilies. Only an unmuddied mind will perceive the secretive majesty of our melodies, and be tempted as Eve was by the serpent, to reach out and touch the canvas, to rinse their senses with it in its entirety. How we miss the artist's touch, and the change it brings with it! Now we are stiff with sameness. They hardly realise that it is change that robs the children of their ability to hear them, to love them. When neglected, a bridge will erode over time, and these childish listeners are neglected by their elders and betters. Sent to learn numbers and fear art, sent to obey orders from nowhere and read of the results, the childish dream dies. The fairies are powerless against the barbarity of man. Why haven’t they wings? A body cannot stay suspended in the air without wings


A childish fancy

to hold them up! Never mind that, why is the sky green? One can hardly be expected to see their faces without glasses. The whole thing is preposterous, utterly preposterous! And they retreat to their houses and forget their frustration in the sea of wine and idle gossip, taking their children away with them.