Once in a while, when I'm not far off land, I yoke me old portable TV up to the generator and give the airwaves a spin, to see what's to be had for a night's entertainment. Tonight I gave this a try and managed to tune-in to a station showing Boris Karloff's Frankenstien. To celebrate such a rare and wonderful find I broke open the good biscuits and allowed meself two of the decent cigars I keep safe in the bottom of me old map box, in a little metal tin with a drawing of a panther on it. I added a generous jug of rum to the mix and snuggled in close to the stove. What a great film it is! And how timely, in these terrible moments, to remember the nature of monsters. Y'see monsters sometimes arrive fully formed, ready for awfulness from their first breath. But more usually they are made. Created. Sure, the raw materials have to be there - an inclination, a potential. But it requires circumstance, or experience or a deliberate effort - sometimes a mix of these - to truly create a monster. And when, in the film, the villagers arrive at the castle with flaming torches, full of fury, I often find myself feeling sorry for the monster, the creation. I reason that he is what he was made. The real monster is the one who made him, the one who gave him life.
As I said, a timely lesson on the nature of monsters.
Now it seems like time for me to stub out the last of this stogie and get me head on the pillow, for the clouds look stormy and the seas are choppy. I'll get me sleep while I can.
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