Wednesday 26 February 2014

PERFECT OBSESSION: orange ones:







Perfect Obsession

This project began with an idea I had for a talked about FBI Winter spectacular, it was originally suppose to be a simple bright way of celebrating FBI in a festive environment.  This however wasn’t the case as my first attempt at making these didn’t turn out right due to me over whipping the mixture. This has become a continuing project about the obsession of making something perfect or at the very least highlighting my failures as I try to create something to a set perfect looking standard. My Most recent attempt ( the above) has been a complete failure although I like the bright orange colour of the mixture it was completely over-whipped, turning it into orange slop. it was also over baked making the paper stick to the bottom of the Macaroon mixture. Meaning I then tried to cut the paper from the bottom with a knife which didn't go so well, its at this point I begin to wonder if I should stop my quest for Macaroon Perfection while I have all of my fingers left. Or forget the recipe and try to make them my own way.

Monday 17 February 2014

4. Charles




The city is old, nobody knows how old but I do not live in the old part, and I like to venture there sometimes to walk in the steps of my ancestors. I sometimes think that to live in those ancient times would have been so much simpler a quieter view of life I would have liked. But this city with its flashing lights and sirens, its arguments and the sounds of transports and phones ringing is the place I belong. The one my ears have to ring with daily and the smog of which my lungs have to cope with. I slapped the book shut and rubbed my tired stinging eyes, the book was the only way I had of escaping into the past. The still sepia pictures of its cobbled streets and stone buildings pulled me in. But in my tired state the pictures silence was being overruled by the blazing noises of the city’s nightlife. I didn’t live anywhere near the old parts my home was a small flat in a well-conditioned estate. The residents could sometimes be noisy, so loud even ear plugs would not block them out. It was late and the night outside was dark, the city’s unnatural orange glowing lights seeped through my thin blue curtains. I had heard Mum coming home bolting the door behind her, she was a nurse and her shifts were long and late. It had always just been her and me my Farther having gone "overseas" without so much as a goodbye, at least that is what they told us. My Mother said I reminded her of him, she said I was educated and had a curious way about me, and my Father's light brown hair everything else she said was from her. I was glad I was not too much like him as I did not want to be his ghost, my Mother had given me everything I had ever needed and I rarely wondered about him. Recently though we had grown apart her late shifts at the hospital cutting us away from each other. I turned off my lamp as quietly as I could and shuffled my way through the stacks of books I had upon the city all modern, old, and ancient. It was late and I had training in the morning, something I dreaded. I pulled myself into bed and wrapped myself in the rough covers, like every other day I would get through it somehow, figure out something to do, some way to defend myself...

The digital clock shone dully out of the glass front buildings showing it to be almost nine by the Establishments timekeeper I was not late. I preferred the chimes of the old city clock miles away in the centre of the ancient town; it was audible through the buzz of the modern city. I ran up the 3 flights of steps as the ancient timekeeper silenced its chimes, and the large digital numbers flickered to 8.59 as I ran beneath them, almost skidding into the automatic doors. The receptionists barely looked up from the screen of her computer at the noise of my entrance. As the sight of me rushing into training sessions was common as a result of my self enforced late night study sessions. When I approached a crowd of faces I recognised but did not want to go near, down the corridor I stopped and found a quiet place against a wall where I allowed my breath and thoughts to calm. To stop the pulling weight against my shoulder I dumped my bag on the floor letting the weight of the books within it thud on the hard dirty-carpeted floor. Unlike the others I was not especially happy to be back. A group of well-built lads tall and muscular turned their heads as they tried to see the professor coming and noticed me. They glanced at me wearily and tapped one another on the shoulder and began talking to each other. Ignoring this I stood patiently.

“ Oh look the professors here” I whirled my head around and looked for the professor.
The corridor was still void of him seeing this, the group of boys turned to me smirks on their faces, and boxed me in against the wall before I could move.
“ Are you eavesdropping Sir Charles,” The oldest cockiest spiky haired boy said putting on an exaggerated toffee snob voice.
He gave me a shove against the wall, undaunted I looked him square in the eyes, without retaliating.
“ You shouted it to everyone” I said
He did not like this reasoned response, so rushed his head to me as though he was going to head butt me. I flinched to avoid him and bumped the back of my head on the wall.
“ See Professor” the boy jutted his head back as he laughed at me
His lips pursed and mouth open his aim didn’t miss as his slaver hit me square in the face...


 The splintered wood thudded and split as we bashed our fists on it, the candlelight darkened as a few of the flames were smothered out by the jumping liquid wax. We shouted and screamed and laughed sinisterly in the dark:


           “ Spin the bottle, spin the bottle, pull it out and shout the throttle”.

The dark green bottle flashed orange in the candlelight as it span around us in the centre of our circle. As the spinning slowed our fists faulted and our chant faded, the clink of the bottle made the room silent. Still and tense all eyes were on Celery her green spiky hair quivering as our hearts pounded following the point of the bottle.  Celery looked down at the bottle like it would explode and stretched a shaking hand out, she took the bottle making the small roles of paper dance around until one fell out onto her hand. She unrolled the scroll

And after a small falter said “ I accidentally killed an Establishment soldier and buried it”.

The room flinched slightly in the knowledge that if it were ever found out that they knew, they would join the soldier. Celery held out the paper to a candle flame and dropped the flaming role into a metallic dish where the fire consumed it. She placed the bottle back in the centre of the circle and span and we pounded our fists against the wood:

( Extract from: We only Defy The Laws Of Gravity When We Have too, chapter 4. Charles)