Charles and the zoo

 Ok. I mentioned yesterday that I was going to put down some details concerning the ongoing feud between two schools here down in Cambradelaide.

hmm...anyone has any idea what Cambradelaide even means? It's just a weird compound word that popped up in my head, like how random thoughts on creation popped up in God's head when he was slaving away in those seven-day overtime hours of grave labour, perhaps the most fateful for the creatures and times to come. 

I'm not God, nor a god. I may be inclined to worship the gods from the ancient civilisations around the world, Greek ones not being the most ancient of them all, but I only do that out of an appreciation for culture. When it comes to the soul and the spirit, I'm an unapologetic monotheist. Jesus is my one and only Lord and King, both in this world and the next. 

Although none of us mere mortals has the luxury of being God, or a god, we can still enjoy some privileges only the likes of the deities can have, such as creating new things out of nothing. In this regard, my creating the compound word 'Cambradelaide' is an act of creation. By word of declaration, I bring forth into existence this being, a township by name Cambradelaide, and so it shall be. It shall not be called anything else, for I said so, on the day of creation.

Digression is a disease that kills the brain. Before anyone drops dead over their screen, I better move on from explaining this locus iste business. 

Anyway, I said yesterday that I was going to explain the counterpart of the likes of Kings vs. Trinity based here in Cambradelaide. The more I think about it, the more I realise it's not the most pressing matter for me right now to put into words. A couple things happened over these past couple days, and they annoyed me. I have to get them out of my system before I'm able to move on to more cheerful topics such as giving Trinity the scissor-fingers (I do need a bigger hand for special effects: Edward, could I ring up Tim Burton and get him to rip off yours just for one gig?)

Source of grumpiness number one: Charles.

First and foremost, sincerest apologies to anyone called Charles. None of you has ever offended me, and I'm usually a fairly passive person that's slow to being offended. I'm just putting forward the name Charles as a symbol to analyse why it can symbolise annoyance for me in general.

I never realised I actually have a number of close family members called Charles until fairly recently, but that's not the point. I couldn't care less if anyone in my family was called Lars, Hendrik, Matthias, Jan, or better, Johannes. But Charles just stands out in a weird way, like a back tooth just starting to show signs of decay, but not enough to affect the neighbouring denture nor the gums, and the dentist struggled to pick it up until now. 

My people, if you ever become interested in linguistics, try this: pronounce the list of above-mentioned names the way they are meant to be pronounced at their respective places of origin, and feel the sounds glide over your tongue like the soft breezes over the Baltics, gentle and refreshing, like a squeeze of lemon over a plate of gently pickled herring stretching out over a piece of darkest rye, lazily bathing in the short yet golden hours of pre-sunset glory by the arched cloisters and cobbled ports.

Then you come back to this final name Charles, and pronounce it slowly. How did you feel? What did you sense?

I myself sensed a piece of dried up charcoal, stuck in my throat, like a cough I couldn't throw up or get down. 

Language, for me, is as sensory an experience as a glass of wine. Not that I drink or am allowed to drink, I'm thirteen. But that's how I imagine wine tasters would feel, if you put forward to them this language vs. wine tasting analogy. 

So, folks, please don't despair if you happen to be called Charles. A name is just a name. It doesn't and shouldn't define who you are as a person. 

Just look at me. I sound like I hate anyone called Charles, including every Charles in my own family, but I don't. I really don't and I really don't dare. There is even a Charles I absolutely adore. His surname was Darwin.

To make it up to him, I'll dispense with manners befitting his time, and simply call him Charles. He might riot, but Victorians are known to be stuffed up, so we can pretend they are just constipated, and they do look so in pretty much all of their portraits. 

Charles travelled the globe and wrote books on animals. He probably only focused on animals because a certain round-cheeked and bewigged Emmental chewer by name Linnaeus bullied him into leaving all the plants alone, I wouldn't know. Anyway, Charles had a particular affinity for monkeys. These little primates fascinated him beyond measure. He studied them like they were his own siblings, and in many ways, we do the same in our very own society right till this day. At childcare, we drop off our thunder-footed offspring into the enclosure where a senior primate by name 'nanny' presides, and we chat with said primate for a couple minutes, doing some social handover, while stroking each other's fur in an allegorical manner, picking out lice and making each other clean. Then, we return home, offspring-free for the glorious next couple hours, off to our earthly toils, happy and unladen. 

We are Charles's subjects. We are Charles ourselves. Each and everyone of us is a Charles, under Charles's rule. And if you are a female, you would be called Charlotte, only because every name has two versions, one for the boys and one for the girls.

So, Charleses and Charlottes out there, you are either one or the other. I'm a male, so I'm by default also a Charles, whether I admit it or not. My own name matters little. Charles is an animal scientist, and we all know how scientists work. They only look at figures and categories, never the individuals. 

To the most senior Charles, in a clan of highly sociable primates called Charleses and Charlottes, the only thing that matters is that we as an entirety are well-behaved and do nothing out of the ordinary.

For only then can he reign. Only then may he reign. Whether long and prosperous,or short and semi-disastrous, only God knows, but certainly, that is how the ruling Charles wants us to behave.

To be obedient, like a flock of sheep under Jesus's care.

Except that Jesus is the Good Shepherd. He attracts sheep to him, including the lost ones and the black ones. Charles, not so much. Charles is not a good shepherd, let alone the Good Shepherd. Charles is just a senior primate in charge of a society of not so senior primate commoners, and he can be mean to the lost sheep, the black sheep, the straying lambs, and the ones already sizzling on the barbie. 

Take me for an example. My real name is James, but according to the above zoology ramble, I am also Charles. Let's shorten me to JC just for the sake of this second drag of ramble.  To help you guys better memorise my new initial, I have a suggestion for an alternate name that happens to share the same monogram.

Julius Caesar.

Pardon the typo. It should be Iulius, not Julius, but my Latin isn't that good. I can never write this ramble in Latin, so let's temporarily butcher the Latin language and introduce some forced importation. I'm sure Caesar wouldn't mind, because he is long dead and his dressing is as lame as his hair.

Alrighty.  I, Julius Caesar, was planning to visit the Cambradelaide zoo yesterday, to visit the Charleses. I wasn't able to after all. I was a bit unwell, sore throat and stuff, which is kind of unusual given the Greek climate we enjoy at this time of the year down in Cambradelaide.  

Also, my plan was to pick up a late Edwardian style bicycle from the shops and then cycle my way into town and right up to the zoo. I wasn't able to do that either. My bicycle got confiscated by the shops. They told me they were going to help me assemble it and then let me know after they are done, but it's been well over 30 hours and I still haven't heard from them. After I worked out exactly where I stand with my own share of family-based Charleses, early this morning, I realised what had happened.

Charles confiscated my bicycle. It was a gift from an old praefectus from my own alma mater a century ago, and who does Charles think he is, how dare he take away a present sent by a man never subject to his reign?

There is a statue of Edward VIII not far from where the Cambradelaide zoo is situated, I walked past him the other day. I should have lodged a complaint at his feet, but I didn't. All I did was marvel at his highness, being mounted so lofty and worshipped so unreachable, there is no way he could have heard my pleas and made Charles return my bicycle. 

Today I was given orders by my doctor not to leave the house. He thinks I may have covid, despite my presentation suggesting otherwise. I'm a medical person without a licence, being underage and ID-less, but I know. 

I was in bed trying to ring up the shops to get them to deliver my bicycle to my house, and they put me on hold for ever and ever.

There's no amen following this. Only bloody hell. And Edward Scissors hands.

I'm too sick to leave the house for now, so I have to stay cocooned plotting revenge for the next 7 days. No worries. After day seven I shall rise from the grave and chuck my lancer Charles's way. I even have a bike helmet that resembles Achilles's Myrmidon headgear. I shall triumph and get my bicycle back, and I, Julius Caesar slash Achilles, shall storm into Cambradelaide zoo and terrorise the likes of Charleses with my holy lancer and my imaginary chariot. 

James

p.s.: I'm getting old. All the fonts to choose from, and yet I went with courier. I need to stop looking at my google chromebook and imagine it was a typewriter. Where is my monocle? the vision in my left eye is significantly better than my right, so technically all I ever need is a right monocle. 

Gods' sake, God save us all and God save Charles. My optometrist emailed me this morning that they are closed for a couple days next week. Obviously they are terrified I might order a monocle.

Charles, you need to stop micromanaging your lowly subjects' lives, and most of all mine, because I share the same monogram with the Roman Emperor, and you need to salute me before you die in the coloseum.

end of ramble. time for sanity to return and peace on earth. 

p.p.s.: sorry, guys, whenever I type Edward followed by the Roman numerals, I always mean VII, yet always ending up typing VIII. There's no point fixing it where it is but I have to put this down here separately so you don't wonder and suspect my history is down the drains. It never is. This is also Charles's doing. He knows I admire VII, and he is green as jelly and wants it confused with the naughty and American-bound VIII so he could play his favourite blame game with Albert. How dare he bully Albert, the second greatest man next to Churchill?!his own mother would have been ashamed of him, and his own father would have had him horse-whipped for his impudence, or better, packed off to a land far away to forcefully minge with the likes of Hans, Jan, Lars and Apostolis. My own name, if rendered in the context of the final one, would be Apostolis, so here we are, face to face on the battleground.