Spaced Out Somehow

Rocket spaceman waves

Rocket spaceman waves

HE’s just come back from somewhere, dressed in his favourite Elvis spacesuit. Noticing the attention of the artist’s imagination, he raises his hand in saluation. “Hey, spaceman, where you been?” He ain’t gonna say nothing, especially if you start resorting to bad grammar and americanisations. No zee here. But from that blank look on his face, you can tell he has seen so many things that he no longer feels or remembers anything. It’s all just one big blur.

How does he manage there? How can he have enough physical strength to hold onto his rocket craft? The propulsion forces must be enormous, the heat of the rocket must burn his butt, but no he’s okay and yes maybe it’s not so good but he doesn’t care anymore.

Can we do a story with you, Mr Rocketman? Can we do a story for children to inspire them, to fire their imagination and to present a simplified view of morality and the universe? No? Well, whatever happend to Strange New Worlds and the carefree splitting of infinitives? Well, that got buried with the passing of the years and the terrible mess of realism and all the terrible sadness in our lives.

Hey, spaceman! Don’t go! Don’t leave us to our dreariness and mess! Too late. He’s off.

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