Nacht und Nebel
(to softly and suddenly vanish away).
I don't mind the night, I usually find it a comforting time of day. But joined with the fog it is another world, and it doesn't seem right at all.
Sopwith Camels didn't often fly at night, partly because the technology for night flying wasn't sufficiently advanced enough during the First World War, and partly because there wasn't any real reason to go out in the dark anyway. For similar reasons, they tended not go go up when it was foggy either. No-one was doing anything that the aircraft could have usefully observed, interfered with, or assisted. The war was still nice enough to allow each side to get some sleep ready for a new dawn and a renewed vigour to dodge the metal and dig for survival. It wasn't until the subsequent war that each side realised that fighting in two shifts made economic sense by potentially getting the same amount of death and destruction done in half the elapsed time. Of course, once a Camel was up in the air it could always fly into some cloud if it really wanted to know what flying in fog would be like. There are several mythic stories of World War 1 pilots entering cloud never to be seen again.
After my Indian summer holiday spent ghost-hunting in East Kent I have returned to the land of dark wintry mornings and even darker evenings, to a sense of dread, and disappointment.
Dread, because the fog is back, and if there is one thing I fear it is hurtling through the white void without a hint of what is out there ahead. Unlike the camel I can at least slow down and try to take it safe; I have no minimum speed below which I would plummet to the ground. But if you drive too slowly, even in fog, you run the risk of vehicles behind you thundering up on you at speed and possibly not swerving or slowing in time, despite your rear fog lights. Lorries and vans seem to be able to drive faster in the fog than cars, maybe due to the higher seating position giving them a cleared view, but maybe because their increased time in the driving seat gives them a sense of false confidence. It is not pleasant to be crawling diligently along in thick white fog and watch the lights swoop into your rear view mirror with menacing intent.
Disappointment, because on an impulse I bought the latest Scissors Sisters CD. I have grown so used to my impulses being correct that it hurts when I get caught out. I'm not going to pour scorn on them or rubbish the album, it is technically very good, but there was none of the fire and quirkiness of the debut CD. I felt cheated, but forgave them for it. I don't think they set out to lower their sights or sucker me in.
It wasn't all bad though, since by another strange quirk of fate I caught the beginning of a series I became fascinated by two years ago. I watched the first ever episode of 'Dead Like Me' the other night. It wasn't a surprise to me, because I had been able to intuit the events based on the subsequent episodes that I had actually seen, but it was nice to close the loop. I have always thought George to be one of the most unlikely heroines, and I suppose a lot of people would find her flat narrative view of life (or afterlife) unappealing, but somehow it stuck with me.
She isn't actually my favourite character in the series, (my tastes tend towards Roxy for female interest), but found myself always eager to see what Rube was going to do next. Perhaps I'm shifting my choice of role-model to someone more realistic, more in line with my own choices and possibilities left to me in life. That has to be a strange admission, stating that a dead man given a second chance is my ideal. I suppose that it shows that I am taking a more realistic view of life, but it also worries me, because another SciFi series that captured my imagination a while back also featured a dead-man-walking character, Kai in Lexx. Is this an intimation of my own mortality? Did those two series prompt me subconsciously to base my blog presence on the ghost of a long-dead fighter plane and pilot from nearly a century ago?
Or had the plane and pilot been grooming me for years without my realising it, building up to the point where they could begin to tell their tale to the modern world?
I don't mind the night, I usually find it a comforting time of day. But joined with the fog it is another world, and it doesn't seem right at all.
Sopwith Camels didn't often fly at night, partly because the technology for night flying wasn't sufficiently advanced enough during the First World War, and partly because there wasn't any real reason to go out in the dark anyway. For similar reasons, they tended not go go up when it was foggy either. No-one was doing anything that the aircraft could have usefully observed, interfered with, or assisted. The war was still nice enough to allow each side to get some sleep ready for a new dawn and a renewed vigour to dodge the metal and dig for survival. It wasn't until the subsequent war that each side realised that fighting in two shifts made economic sense by potentially getting the same amount of death and destruction done in half the elapsed time. Of course, once a Camel was up in the air it could always fly into some cloud if it really wanted to know what flying in fog would be like. There are several mythic stories of World War 1 pilots entering cloud never to be seen again.
After my Indian summer holiday spent ghost-hunting in East Kent I have returned to the land of dark wintry mornings and even darker evenings, to a sense of dread, and disappointment.
Dread, because the fog is back, and if there is one thing I fear it is hurtling through the white void without a hint of what is out there ahead. Unlike the camel I can at least slow down and try to take it safe; I have no minimum speed below which I would plummet to the ground. But if you drive too slowly, even in fog, you run the risk of vehicles behind you thundering up on you at speed and possibly not swerving or slowing in time, despite your rear fog lights. Lorries and vans seem to be able to drive faster in the fog than cars, maybe due to the higher seating position giving them a cleared view, but maybe because their increased time in the driving seat gives them a sense of false confidence. It is not pleasant to be crawling diligently along in thick white fog and watch the lights swoop into your rear view mirror with menacing intent.
Disappointment, because on an impulse I bought the latest Scissors Sisters CD. I have grown so used to my impulses being correct that it hurts when I get caught out. I'm not going to pour scorn on them or rubbish the album, it is technically very good, but there was none of the fire and quirkiness of the debut CD. I felt cheated, but forgave them for it. I don't think they set out to lower their sights or sucker me in.
It wasn't all bad though, since by another strange quirk of fate I caught the beginning of a series I became fascinated by two years ago. I watched the first ever episode of 'Dead Like Me' the other night. It wasn't a surprise to me, because I had been able to intuit the events based on the subsequent episodes that I had actually seen, but it was nice to close the loop. I have always thought George to be one of the most unlikely heroines, and I suppose a lot of people would find her flat narrative view of life (or afterlife) unappealing, but somehow it stuck with me.
She isn't actually my favourite character in the series, (my tastes tend towards Roxy for female interest), but found myself always eager to see what Rube was going to do next. Perhaps I'm shifting my choice of role-model to someone more realistic, more in line with my own choices and possibilities left to me in life. That has to be a strange admission, stating that a dead man given a second chance is my ideal. I suppose that it shows that I am taking a more realistic view of life, but it also worries me, because another SciFi series that captured my imagination a while back also featured a dead-man-walking character, Kai in Lexx. Is this an intimation of my own mortality? Did those two series prompt me subconsciously to base my blog presence on the ghost of a long-dead fighter plane and pilot from nearly a century ago?
Or had the plane and pilot been grooming me for years without my realising it, building up to the point where they could begin to tell their tale to the modern world?
posted by Sopwith-Camel | 6:58 pm
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