Reminiscences

As Hoehleaffen maniacally sketched out his ideas (for he had been rendered speechless by the Shades’ – pardon me, Hoehleaffens’ - unprotesting devotion), the Hoehleaffen collected their thoughts, as the dying strains of Silver Fox rang in their ears, amplified by the cavernous acoustics they had just left behind. What they had SEEN down there had not surprised them, just the usual prehistoric cave drawings juxtaposed with more recent artistic exploits they had come to expect from earlier forays into the earth…

Picture by Karl Eklund

“Nurture the craft of concrete visionaries / Cave painters screaming "Loosen the cuffs!" / Cave paintings get the natural history feather dust / Pick a lust.”

…and an almighty mess of paper cut-outs, spraycans, paintbrushes, red ochre and ash, indicating that a master of many media had vacated the spot just before them.

The Hoehleaffen were starting to suspect that they were hot on the heels of Brian, he of the sinister sneer, he of the receding hairline, he of the explosive, Rooneyan temper, he who had initially twisted the thumbscrews on their shaky souls, but now the tables were turned! On the floor lay, as if disposed of with casual disdain, but more likely with deliberate callousness, a strangely coloured image.

The Hand of the Master? Picture by Daan Isendoorn

But despite all this, the Hoehleaffen were overwhelmed not visually, but olfactorily, as an indescribable smell – the smell of decay in recesses or progress in clearings? - brought tears to their eyes. A stable after all then, of an artist on the run, riding the winds, clutching his nefarious pictures under his armpits, en route to a new studio.

¡Mira companeros! exclaimed Hoehleaffen, and with a flourish lifted his pyjama / cassock over his head and spread it over the table. The Hoehleaffen gazed and were amazed… this bordered on sheer lunacy, or did it?

Away to the rodeo

Amkreutz took the shades underneath his trenchcoat, and skipped over the landscape, taking only the necessary detours.

They looked through the window at the voided danger, with pangs in their spleens, at the tremendous loss of Arthropoda that had been swept from Amkreutz' mustachioed lip.

Resolving to take the name of Hoehleaffen for this chapter in life, Amkreutz refused to be called by any other name except that. Or call any other being that, until honour had been avenged at the rodeo. The Hoehleaffen protested obdurately, then sweetly, then not at all, retreating from Amkreutz' (Hoehleaffen) glare. He took up a pencil, with an ease that betrayed years of experience, and sketched his intentions on the collar of his crisply starched pajamas.

Brian?

Pausing awhile, the shades looked outside, and saw that the sky was darkening. Was this Brian?

Past the ivy...

...a paved floor and a serpant awaited them. Was this a stable or not?