Iamgrim

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The Shadow In The Cathedral - Released

Textfyre’s second game, The Shadow In The Cathedral, has been released! Go here to buy a copy, or check out Emily Short’s great review over on ifdb.

“Rosalind was calling me; the real Rosalind, the one who dwelt inside, and showed herself too seldom. The other, the practical, capable one, was her own convincing creation, not herself. I had seen her begin to build it when she was a sensitive, fearful, yet determined child. She became aware by instinct, perhaps sooner than the rest of us, that she was in a hostile world, and deliberately equipped herself to face it. The armour had grown slowly, plate by plate. I had seen her find her weapons and become skilled with them, watched her construct a character so thoroughly and wear it so constantly that for spells she almost deceived herself.

I loved the girl one could see. I loved her tall slim shape, the poise of her neck, her small pointed breasts, her long slim legs: and the way she moved, and the sureness of her hands, and her lips when she smiled. I loved the bronze-gold hair that felt like heavy silk in one’s hand, her satin-skinned shoulders, her velvet cheeks: and the warmth of her body, and the scent of her breath.

All these were easy to love — too easy: anyone must love them.

They needed her defences: the crust of independence and indifference: the air of practical, decisive reliability; the unroused interest, the aloof manner. The qualities were not intended to endear, and at times they could hurt; but one who had seen the how and why of them could admire them, if only as a triumph of art over nature.

But now it was the under-Rosalind calling gently, forlornly, all armour thrown aside, the heart naked.

And again there are no words.

Words exist that can, used by a poet, achieve a dim monochrome of the body’s love, but beyond that they fail clumsily.

My love flowed out to her, hers back to me. Mine stroked and soothed. Hers caressed. The distance — and the difference — between us dwindled and vanished. Neither one of us existed any more; for a time there was a single being that was both. There was escape from the solitary cell; a brief symbiosis, sharing all the world….

No one else knew the hidden Rosalind. Even Michael and the rest caught only glimpses of her. They did not know at what cost the overt Rosalind had been wrought.  None of them knew my dear, tender Rosalind longing for escape, gentleness and love; grown afraid now of what she had built for her own protection; yet more afraid still, of facing life without it.

Duration is nothing. Perhaps it was only for an instant we were together again. The importance of a point is in its existence; it has no dimensions.”

—— John Wyndham, The Chrysalids

Edinburgh Shows

Second day of the Edinburgh Festival yesterday, and me and my lovely set off to sample the afternoon’s delights while spending as near to nothing as possible. This is easier than you might think with the plethora of shows that are part of institutions such as the Free Festival and Free Fringe. Armed with only our Fringe programme, our disregard for organisation, our poverty, and our attitude of devil-may-care adventurousness, we met up in a Rose Street pub and planned our afternoon on the back of an envelope.

The comedy song is not an unfairly maligned musical genre; the malignity is frequently fair. But I rather enjoyed Pig With The Face Of A Boy (The Newsroom, 13:55, 55 mins,) who played some silly and occasionally tasteless songs. Donald is a mild-mannered proto-Hugh-Laurie, and Dan plays the accordion. Their most memorable song titles included “Man ‘Flu (Has Crossed The Barrier Of Gender)” and “I Want To Eat Your Placenta,” but the real reason to go and see this Boy-Faced Pig is for the grand finale, “The Complete History Of The Soviet Union (To The Tune Of ‘Tetris’).” A perfectly respectable way to spend an afternoon. 2/5.

We crossed from east to west for Banterland (The Rat Pack, 15:10, 1 hr,) of which the best that can be said is that it ended early. Three nervous young comics, but no material, so no laughs. 0/5. I don’t mean to be cruel, and it is early days in the festival calendar, but I can’t advise anyone to go and see this. We were only there at all because it preceded the following:

I might have a biased opinion of Bad Things Happen In Trees (The Rat Pack, 16:20, 1 hr,) because I unexpectedly won a very welcome cup of tea from the awesomely hirsute Nick Helm, whose pleasingly ramshackle act alternates songs of sweetness with furious ranting poems and some tree-based disasters. My tea was very enjoyable too, although in one of his more ferocious moments I felt that perhaps Nick needed it more than I did. It’s an odd sort of mix, but rather a charming whole, so do go and see. 3/5.

Enjoying beautiful sunshine on the first day of the Edinburgh Festival!

Keeping an eye on @Textfyre !

Considering appliying to http://newedinburghorchestra.org.uk/