Read Online The Transfiguration of Mister Punch by Mark Beech, Charles Schneider, D P Watt, Cate Gardner - Free Book Online Page A
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the child within him. He remains a destructive adolescent lunatic king. He fails at the prime human relationship that matters most we are told. He kills the Other, and is tempted by Pretty Polly, a siren figure. He meets his animal familiar, a creature that he does not own. He can never contain, can never be the master of this ruffle-collared beast, as much as he might dream of it. All he can receive from Toby is a chomp on the nose. The ghost of his murdered love appears, and the audience shares his true terror. The fear that the show generates is real. The skeleton and devil might be amongst a child’s first exposure to such soul-shaking images and ideas. The horned demon our Mr. Punch sends back to the flaming realm shares the fire within his wide blue eyes.
When Mr. Punch cries in despair, in horror, at what he has done to his spawn and spouse, he is forced to remain grinning, the chiseled wooden teeth are almost skeletal. He is cursed. He is kin to Victor Hugo’s Gwynplaine, in The Man Who Laughs , who has had a clown-like grin carved into his actual face, to perform as a living grotesque. Like Punch, this tragic figure transgresses all social boundaries and enters the domain of the real and the sacred.
Before this world there was chaos. There were no laws waiting to be written. Punch is a spirit which demands we recognize our own potential for freedom, wildness, craziness, expression, ludicrousness, death and blinding colours. The survival of the show suggests the survival of the instincts that drive the drama.
The show that will never die.
There are already signs that He has Risen.
We are all Mr. Punch.
That is why he will live forever.
He MUST live forever. He must continue attacking and betraying all secular religion. He must betray his child, his wife, the state, the devil and the authority of God. He must negate all meaninglessness, and continue his scarlet and yellow dance of random chaos. He must show no remorse until his guilt begins to torment him. Tell-Tale Punch. His is a randomness that has been collectively honed and repeated for so many eons, by countless performers. They all tell the same strange and tragic ritual story endlessly, with delightful and exquisitely infinite variations. It shines like a cackling diamond of shimmering madness. If he does, the sun will always shine upon the pier.
Shall I state it pure and simple? Every Punch and Judy show is actually a ritual slowly evoking a gathering power. If the little, timeless drama stops, the wheels of terror will begin to churn. The moment the last Punch and Judy show ends, It will be unleashed. The Punch and Judy phenomenon is the largest Winchester Mystery House on the planet. The hammers must never stop, lest there be unrest and malevolence from the armies beyond the grave. The world would swiftly turn into the yawning grey hell of living black flame we are already jettisoning toward. Only Punch can save us now. I am putting signs up around town to let everyone know. So if you see a hunched little fellow putting up a strange screed with a brush full of flour paste, you know that I am in your neighborhood. You must awaken. Again, as in the start, I implore, I beg you. Listen. Awaken. Speak. Shriek. From pulpit to pit, from puppet-stage to mountain peak, I climb and shout for all to know: A change is coming soon, with the next red rain.
Someone, somewhere must always perform His immortal and most Tragical tale. Our story. The crimes he contains within the wooden frame or brass chamber will seep out like black fog. ‘MAN KILLS FAMILY, POLICE OFFICER IN SHOOTOUT.’
Is time travel possible?
The World will choke upon Puppet Smoke.
Strings that are alive as serpents of flesh will now puppeteer the human and animal dead.
The stars will scream and burn.
Pits will open, turning the planet leprous.
From these wounds will emerge the living automata, the gilded demons, the Star Orchids, the insatiable Leeches with their hungering.
I am so sorry
When Mr. Punch cries in despair, in horror, at what he has done to his spawn and spouse, he is forced to remain grinning, the chiseled wooden teeth are almost skeletal. He is cursed. He is kin to Victor Hugo’s Gwynplaine, in The Man Who Laughs , who has had a clown-like grin carved into his actual face, to perform as a living grotesque. Like Punch, this tragic figure transgresses all social boundaries and enters the domain of the real and the sacred.
Before this world there was chaos. There were no laws waiting to be written. Punch is a spirit which demands we recognize our own potential for freedom, wildness, craziness, expression, ludicrousness, death and blinding colours. The survival of the show suggests the survival of the instincts that drive the drama.
The show that will never die.
There are already signs that He has Risen.
We are all Mr. Punch.
That is why he will live forever.
He MUST live forever. He must continue attacking and betraying all secular religion. He must betray his child, his wife, the state, the devil and the authority of God. He must negate all meaninglessness, and continue his scarlet and yellow dance of random chaos. He must show no remorse until his guilt begins to torment him. Tell-Tale Punch. His is a randomness that has been collectively honed and repeated for so many eons, by countless performers. They all tell the same strange and tragic ritual story endlessly, with delightful and exquisitely infinite variations. It shines like a cackling diamond of shimmering madness. If he does, the sun will always shine upon the pier.
Shall I state it pure and simple? Every Punch and Judy show is actually a ritual slowly evoking a gathering power. If the little, timeless drama stops, the wheels of terror will begin to churn. The moment the last Punch and Judy show ends, It will be unleashed. The Punch and Judy phenomenon is the largest Winchester Mystery House on the planet. The hammers must never stop, lest there be unrest and malevolence from the armies beyond the grave. The world would swiftly turn into the yawning grey hell of living black flame we are already jettisoning toward. Only Punch can save us now. I am putting signs up around town to let everyone know. So if you see a hunched little fellow putting up a strange screed with a brush full of flour paste, you know that I am in your neighborhood. You must awaken. Again, as in the start, I implore, I beg you. Listen. Awaken. Speak. Shriek. From pulpit to pit, from puppet-stage to mountain peak, I climb and shout for all to know: A change is coming soon, with the next red rain.
Someone, somewhere must always perform His immortal and most Tragical tale. Our story. The crimes he contains within the wooden frame or brass chamber will seep out like black fog. ‘MAN KILLS FAMILY, POLICE OFFICER IN SHOOTOUT.’
Is time travel possible?
The World will choke upon Puppet Smoke.
Strings that are alive as serpents of flesh will now puppeteer the human and animal dead.
The stars will scream and burn.
Pits will open, turning the planet leprous.
From these wounds will emerge the living automata, the gilded demons, the Star Orchids, the insatiable Leeches with their hungering.
I am so sorry
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