I have waffled on incessantly over the past three or four hundred years about how time seems to rush by in the blink of an eye. I’ve tried to control it, stop it, and on occasions speed it up for some reason, but I have never grasped the ultimate skill of time control. I will do, one day, which will probably be the day after I refine my weather control powers. I’ll apologise now for any strange behaviours in the weather over the next few days. I can’t be certain that it is my doing that is causing them, but just in case. Sometimes, messing with the weather, or any natural force, can produce very different results to those expected. Oh, I didn’t say, did I? I’m leaving time alone for now so I can use different powers of control I have.
Not that I’m a control freak, you understand. I’m not fussy if things aren’t done in a certain way. I can always do them again later, if needed.
One thing, before all else, that I need to get control of, is my hair.
It comes to something, doesn’t it, when you have to hope for a sudden gust of wind to appear from nowhere so you can explain why your hair looks the way it does. A sudden downpour of heavy rain as soon as you step outside, to make things look better. A power cut, so that everywhere is dark, and really significant things go unnoticed. Or that somebody else has even worse hair than you, and you can listen carefully to their excuses to see if you can ‘borrow’ or ‘share’ them.
I feel that I must add here that I’m not overly concerned with how I look.
I’m graced with the body of a Greek God (Adonis, I think), and hide it beneath layers of designer clothing and a coat. I’m always cold and need to wear a coat. I blame this on air conditioning. You never see paintings of Greek Gods wearing coats, do you? I can hear Apollo laughing at me now. Come to think of it, I don’t think the Greek Gods had any need for weather control either – they just got on with it. So will I!
When I say designer clothing, my cloths have been designed by someone. Not necessarily the big named fashion designers you’ve never really heard of, but somebody somewhere designed them. They aren’t the most modern of cloths either. I have a hand-me-down tunic in my wardrobe from Mediæval times that I wear occasionally on a Saturday. I only wear it occasionally as it itches, and can be a bit much with the hay fever. And, before you say it, I intended to write cloths rather than clothes. You should see the ties I wear, too. I’m not keen on wearing ties, I think they are superfluous, so deliberately wear ties that clash with the shirts that I am wearing.
Even looking that good doesn’t detract the feeling that everyone has noticed the utter awfulness of my hair. Every now and then, it tries to exert it’s own personality. If it didn’t have my own, it would grow legs and walk itself, it feels that strong.
Here’s me, confidently stating that I will control time. I will control the weather. I will control Fred (my inner driver) and Bernard (my nagging inner voice) and my inner demons (far too many to name here). I will soar through the stars. I will discover my connection to 1642 and the early part of the Seventeenth Century. Yet, I can’t even control that lively collection of individual strands of hair that sprout outward, upward and forwards from my head.
My inner Apollo, and my inner Adonis for that matter, are telling me to take control of it. They are also having a conversation between themselves as well (I’m quite used to these conversations going on inside my head) but they are saying things that they obviously want me to hear. Apollo, the God of poetry, and a poem about Adonis from the Seventeenth Century – hmmm… I’ll look into what they are rambling on about at a later time, for now, I’m taking control of my hair.
Not because my inner Gods have told me to. Not because I need the wind to rearrange it into a better style. But because I have just caught a glimpse of myself in the candle-lit reflection in the mirror. I have a triangle on my head. A triangle. I thought that the severe flick a few months ago was bad. This is worse. Much, much worse.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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