Currently carrying around David Foster Wallace's ridiculously long 'Infinite Jest.' Tis a library copy, though... If anyone has a copy (and has read it) would love advice on whether you think its pleasant to read in paperback. Im reading hardback, and though its size of phone-book to carry round, print is large enough so you can forget you're reading a page and just get engulfed in the sentence... Er... Then there's the problem of which edition... Whether the ten year anniversary edition has any other perks other than Dave Eggers introduction... Is print different size, book easier to handle... Thinking of investing in a copy... Will pay $50 if its right book for me...
Recently aquired (library) copy of William Gaddis The Recognitions and begun listening to language on first few pages... Definitely must aquire personal copy for life-long perusal... Am currently just signing up to study a B.Teach to enable myself to be paid to teach English in New South Wales high schools... Because I basically don't give a fuck about academic articles, so I wouldn't go down that road... Also just yesterday had a gig at my old primary school in which nobody paid any attention to me - something I will never get used to. Actually, I don't mind it when people leave me alone off-stage, but once I'm on there... I vow never to play to anyone at a cocktail gathering, or where any consumables aside from beer are involved... Wasted so much good material on unreceptive ears... Apparently I have a lot to learn about how receptive the world is going to be to me... Or fuck that. Have recently developed a penchant for swearing in everyday speech... Haven't yet tried it out on loved ones... Its great fun but.
Um... Am working, when I do, primarily on my food/crazy piece currently called 'Flux' aka Food That Eats You! Veering away from sillier title... I enjoy stories with humour, but I hardly ever read things with joke titles... I take my humour seriously! Think that's probably it. Um... Also working at my old primary school, same school where I had gig - that's how I got it. We're having a health inspection soon... And today on the news there was a botulism scare... All these things are milling around my head... 'Infinite Jest' is full of names of drugs and diseases - loads of jargon. That kind of technical detail doesn't interest me as much as the concepts... As far as my own writing...
Am enjoying 'Infinite Jest', up to pp 60 ;)... Gaddis is calling me though... He's saying strange things...
Monday 19 February 2007
Sunday 18 February 2007
Lyrics: Take Me To Your Planet
I used to know you well, now I don't even figure
In your master plan, for the future of the race, wo, wo, wo.
Your space-ship leaves today, for your alien planet
Two examples of perfection, plus me in the baggage cabin, wo, wo, wo.
CHORUS:
I plan to make you take me with you
I'd hijack a personality if I had to...
In preparation, for the breeding zoo...
Please, please, cldnt i come along,
As an example of what went wrong,
I'll just quickly grab my jacket,
then take me to your planet...
I might look like a freak, but my DNA is beautiful
like my personality, I keep it on the inside, wo wo wo.
I might have an extra toe or so, amputated by a war
from a slight case of incest, in my ancestry wo wo wo.
CHORUS
Probably expected something else; Me i'm not set on myself,
Performing all my life, I'll play any part you like, wo wo wo.
Dont say i'm on the short side, you might get knifed in your backside
Unless you've got an eye there, dont walk by here, wo, wo, wo.
CHORUS
I watched you fly in the sky; To a world where there's no rain
Without saying goodbye; you left me to decay, wo wo wo.
Now that I've lost my place, In the perfect human race
I don't even feel I belong, Inside this little song...
CHORUS
In your master plan, for the future of the race, wo, wo, wo.
Your space-ship leaves today, for your alien planet
Two examples of perfection, plus me in the baggage cabin, wo, wo, wo.
CHORUS:
I plan to make you take me with you
I'd hijack a personality if I had to...
In preparation, for the breeding zoo...
Please, please, cldnt i come along,
As an example of what went wrong,
I'll just quickly grab my jacket,
then take me to your planet...
I might look like a freak, but my DNA is beautiful
like my personality, I keep it on the inside, wo wo wo.
I might have an extra toe or so, amputated by a war
from a slight case of incest, in my ancestry wo wo wo.
CHORUS
Probably expected something else; Me i'm not set on myself,
Performing all my life, I'll play any part you like, wo wo wo.
Dont say i'm on the short side, you might get knifed in your backside
Unless you've got an eye there, dont walk by here, wo, wo, wo.
CHORUS
I watched you fly in the sky; To a world where there's no rain
Without saying goodbye; you left me to decay, wo wo wo.
Now that I've lost my place, In the perfect human race
I don't even feel I belong, Inside this little song...
CHORUS
Saturday 17 February 2007
Prose: The Baron's Childhood
Introduction by the Author
THIS PIECE IS COMPRISED OF TWO EPISODES FROM THE VERY FIRST THINGS I EVER WROTE ABOUT THIS CHARACTER CALLED 'THE BARON.' I THINK I'VE CORRUPTED HIS CHARM A LOT SINCE THEN, SO WHILE THIS PIECE IN PARTICULAR, BEING ONLY 5 PAGES INTO THE FIRST 100-page BARON DRAFT, MAY SEEM HALF-BAKED, I THINK IT HAS A CHARM ABOUT IT...
The Baron's Childhood
I am a lover of words, yet in the castle where I spent my formative years, it was words I was denied. Father once said:
“The greatest constipation and procrastination in the history of our species has been the fault of words.”
Before I could open my mouth in defence of language, my father would bark for me to eat my caviar and be grateful I hadn’t been sent to a workhouse years before, as all his other children had, and his father’s children, and his father’s father’s children, ad infinitum.
Though my father detested language, he realised it was the bread upon which the outside world was buttered, so, to acknowledge this, he bought me a wall-chart of the different titles one must use to address those at different strata of society, which everyone knows is the most trying social law a boy must learn. Here is a sample for your pleasure of “The Forms of Address” chart by Franz Kafka:
If addressing a lady one does not wish to wed, the title “Dear Lady” is fine.
If addressing a lady one wishes to wed, the title “My Lady” is kosher.
If addressing a woman who is not a lady, the title “woman” is common.
If addressing an old lady who is rich, one says, “old lady.”
But if addressing an old lady who is not rich, one says, “old woman.”
If addressing the son of a rich man, one says, “Good Man.”
If addressing the son of a poor man, one says, “you boy.”
The chart was impressive indeed, I remember, almost covering an entire wall. A number of my peers, on Sundays when Visitors were allowed, remarked upon its forbidding massivity. Father was proud that I put it up and was determined to learn it; and I felt it was a good present indeed. I was well on my way to starting off in society by learning it, my father said.
“Your father did alright for himself without learning it,” mother said. I was puzzled by this.
“Why did you not learn the chart, father?” I asked him.
“I was raised as a stinking rat in a workhouse, like your brothers,” he replied. And I never brought up the subject again. He used to speak at great lengths about his life in the workhouse, relishing in descriptions of grime, languishing in descriptions of pain – but never did he tell it to me, and nor did I ask about it, but I’ll get onto that later.
The driving force of my family has always been lineage. Our great quest has been to march forward, on and on, into history. You might call it a modest cause: some families aspire to greatness in their group profession, some to smuggle their way into the royal family. But the Spanglers were satisfied with merely pushing on, with existing ad infinitum. And with any luck, centuries from now, some noble descendent of mine might remark that in some way every Spangler from back in history has lived forever. And what more could the world ask, but to be enriched with Spanglers to all eternity!
I do over-simplify the cause, however. It is not sufficient merely to blow one’s seed on just any willing participant; one must extend the line within the confines of The Social Code, at all costs. Which generally means obtaining the most socially respectable applicant possible, to give the line the greatest chance of vivre eternal. And “applicant” is not an un-apt term, for auditions were held for the position, in the days of my mother’s reign. You see, my father ruled the castle during the first ten years of my life, after which he got lazy and allowed my mother to usurp his position; so it was that my mother was in charge of finding me a suitor during my adolescence. Woe betide she who presented herself to my mother as my potential mate. My mother took out a lease on a storefront in town, to my great embarrasment, and called it “Auditions for Good-Quality Wife.” I remember on our first day of business we were bombarded by a horde of desparate spinsters, to who, naturally, it was my job to break the bad news that the husband in question was none other than myself. The horde voiced their displeasure at this information by hurling insults and spitting on me, until suddenly a bottomless supply of rotting fruit materialised, which seemed to do the job much better. I took these complaints on board while mother waited patiently inside.
Mother had to amend the sign to read “Auditions for Future Wife of Society Child.”
I’ll never forget the day a girl called Ursula took us by surprise outside the scheduled audition times one day at a pet store, where we were looking at fertiliser.
The girl tugged at my mother’s skirt, then blushed and curtseyed. She seemed totally unaware of the chocolate smudges on her cheek.
I liked the way the girl looked, even her little stomach that poured over the top of her pants. But mother broke out in laughter at the sight of her, much to my distress. “Well, what do you expect to find,” she remarked, “when you go to a pet store, but an animal.”
Ursula looked at us like a little Buddha, as if with some secret knowledge, as my mother led me out the store, cackling as she went. I fell in love with Ursula that day, and began my courtship the next. It did not last, however, as she was not faithful. She was five years older than I, as were all the girls my mother introduced me to, for she was an ambitious woman.
My mother prided herself on being the best at everything. Or, at least, if she were not, we would all have to pretend she was, including my father and homeless uncle Milton, for fear of a smack. To my great misfortune, this pride of my mother’s also applied to finding me a beau. I was to have a beau before any other boy in polite society, for fear of a smack, even if it meant starting at an age where girls are generally believed to possess certain toxins fatal to boys.
I’ll never forget the day my mother showed me the correct way to squat and relieve myself, which owing to the painfulness of the memory, I have never been able to do any other way. It was a Sunday Evening at Lord’s, a gigantic department store which was having a clearance sale of wedding dresses. My mother and all her girlfriends, all seventy-seven of them, made up a large part of what the Ancient Romans might have called an angry mob, who rat-a-tat-tapped on the big imperial doors of the shopping palace at exactly nine o’clock in the morning, like so many screaming banshees. It was a frightful scene, and enough to turn any boy against marriage, let alone courtship. Boy I was, and boy was I expected to start early, which was not helped by the fact that mother insisted on publically shaming me at every possible opportunity. I still hold that she did it accidentally, like at the department store, for instance. We were in the dressing room, and I told her politely, reasonably, that I would really like very much to go to the bathroom. She ignored this request, so I dropped my pants and pissed on the hospital-smelling carpet.
This was, I admit, a gross error in judgment; but I was, after all, only eight years old. Well past the age of pissing in public, I am aware, but it wasn’t something I considered appropriate, more an act of desperation. My mother was, to say the least, not understanding of my plight. She began to scream bloody murder at me, at the top of her voice declaring what an inviolate little brute she had for a relation (she used this term). She began to spank me, and drag me out of the change rooms, before I had time to pull up my drawers. She managed to drag me, against my will, along the floor of the department store (which can’t have been sanitary on my bare rump), still managing to bend down and aim a good spank at my person every now and then. But the worst part, her favourite torture, was when she began to list a catalogue of my previous wrong-doings:
Just like the time you pulled down your pants for the girls at kindy, you pervert;
Just like the time you embarrassed us all by spanking the bottom of the Jenkinson’s daughter,
Or the time you ran away from me at the grocery store,
Or ran onto the road in Lodge City,
Or threw that tantrum at that Jetson’s theme restaurant because George wouldn’t sign your autograph book. I told you, his hands weren’t real, how could he hold a pen! And you cried like a little girl.
After each item, she would shake her head at me, and steam would emanate from the bolts in her neck. As I said, my mother was a determined woman. She was determined, on this particular occasion, to have my offending organ displayed to the entire department store community, and drag me, body and soul, to the front of the store, where I was to apologise to the store managers for so foully defacing their property. This was her plan of action, and by golly she was going to carry it out. By the time we did reach the front of the store, the store manager was not difficult to find, since he was busily trying to find us, and usher us out of the store. It seemed nobody felt I was welcome there. What had previously been the angry mob, now seemed like merely a lot of separate people, quite normal people, staring at us. The shoppers, including mother’s seventy-seven society mothers, watched as my mother shaped my body into a squatting position of the floor in front of the manager and said “that’s how polite girls piss, not standing up like brute – if you cry like a girl, piss like a girl,” she told me.
The onlookers, who included mother’s seventy-seven girlfriends, looked on, with dropped jaws as the manager tried to calm my mother, saying things like “ma’am, he’s just a child,” or “he seems like a fine boy,” or “really ma’am, I’m sure it was just an accident,” but she would not be consoled. At this point she re-directed her fury at the manager (who turned out to be a university-educated public relations man, instead of a manager, someone with real authority, which only seemed to inflate her anger), which seems like an appropriate place to end this episode, since my mother used words that would be considered inappropriate if this writing is to maintain its (g) rating.
"I don't know," Mother told me, on our way out to the carriage, "if your behaviour is acceptable to the outside world, it will do danger to you to be in it. Quickly, to the castle before we're corrupted any further."
Lyrics: 'Love Song At The End Of A Rope'
Introduction by the Author
FIRST LINE'S A REFERENCE TO THE FAMOUS GETTYSBURG ADDRESS... THIS SONG IS AN EXAMPLE OF HOW I'M EQUALLY AS SERIOUS AS I AM NOT... SERIOUS. ITS SUNG BY A MAN HANGING BY THE NECK, IN THE SECOND WHEN WORD SAYS 'YOUR LIFE FLASHES BEFORE YOUR EYES'... ONLY I DIDN'T USE THAT CLICHE, I WROTE THIS INSTEAD:
Love Song At The End Of A Rope
Four score and heartache ago
Butchered and bargained to know
The length and the love of my life
Trees have hands and they’re coming alive!
And now I’m going black and blue
And I'm not fit to see you.
I would give a thumbs up
But my thumb's falling off
Oh it hangs from a thread
Tenuous at best
I lie asleep on the rack
There's bodies asleep on my back...
Coins in the hollows...
Light in the gutter..
Now I’m going black and blue,
And I’m not fit to see you...
And so pull off my arms
If you’re strong enough
String me up, baby
I’m in nature & I’m in love...
Squeeze out my eyes
And make me surprised
Eat me for lunch
I am nature and I’m in love...
I numbered among your dead
Shouldered up above your head
A victim of a shady past
And a flag at half-mast
And now I’m black and blue
And I’m not fit to see you
So bring me a quill
Bring me a sheet
What do I own
I can bequeath
Lay me a bed
Leave me in peace
Return me to nature
Return me and leave...
FIRST LINE'S A REFERENCE TO THE FAMOUS GETTYSBURG ADDRESS... THIS SONG IS AN EXAMPLE OF HOW I'M EQUALLY AS SERIOUS AS I AM NOT... SERIOUS. ITS SUNG BY A MAN HANGING BY THE NECK, IN THE SECOND WHEN WORD SAYS 'YOUR LIFE FLASHES BEFORE YOUR EYES'... ONLY I DIDN'T USE THAT CLICHE, I WROTE THIS INSTEAD:
Love Song At The End Of A Rope
Four score and heartache ago
Butchered and bargained to know
The length and the love of my life
Trees have hands and they’re coming alive!
And now I’m going black and blue
And I'm not fit to see you.
I would give a thumbs up
But my thumb's falling off
Oh it hangs from a thread
Tenuous at best
I lie asleep on the rack
There's bodies asleep on my back...
Coins in the hollows...
Light in the gutter..
Now I’m going black and blue,
And I’m not fit to see you...
And so pull off my arms
If you’re strong enough
String me up, baby
I’m in nature & I’m in love...
Squeeze out my eyes
And make me surprised
Eat me for lunch
I am nature and I’m in love...
I numbered among your dead
Shouldered up above your head
A victim of a shady past
And a flag at half-mast
And now I’m black and blue
And I’m not fit to see you
So bring me a quill
Bring me a sheet
What do I own
I can bequeath
Lay me a bed
Leave me in peace
Return me to nature
Return me and leave...
Prose: 'Tom Foolery' Chapter 1
Introduction by the Author
THIS IS THE OPENING EPISODE OF THE PROJECTED ADVENTURES OF TOM FOOLERY, WHICH CONCERN TOM BEING HIRED BY A MAN TO DISTRACT HIS BROTHER DURING A BIG BUSINESS DEAL.
1.
I have a little writing desk set up in the sun room of my apartment. I don’t use it, but it gives the impression I have something to say at parties. The kinds of parties I get invited to are given by the kind of people whose parties I wouldn’t want to attend, unless it were to have a bit of fun at their expense. Even though I’m by far more attractive, I'm consistently neglected in favour of my brother, because I’ve often inspected his garbage and found invitations pre-dating mine by the time it took him to receive and reject his. This phenomenon exists for many reasons, but, to scratch the surface, my brother is higher up than me because he rarely accepts invitations, and is generally entertaining and well-rounded. I, on the other hand, am unfulfilled and have rounded out since my days as a swimming champion. In our youth, ah, things were different. When I was about seventeen, my father once told me he admired me. He said he admired that I maintained my social profile despite my atrocious behaviour. If he meant it, it might be the only thing anyone ever admired about me that wasn’t my body. My body used to be something to behold, particularly at swimming carnivals where all but the most modest per centage of it would be on display: rosy-nipples, taut skin, jaw-line well drawn as if by a master sculpter (who I do not believe in), just some of the highlights. Externally, I was a work of art. I had a different girl at every party, with none to tie me down. No matter how offensive I behaved, people still laughed. Then my twenties happened. My father didn’t live to see my twenties. He died of emphysema, smoked himself out of his hole. If he did, I’m sure he would have said it was my fault for losing my hair, my fault for not getting picked for those swimming teams, my fault for quitting. Quitting is something I’ve taken pride in doing far too many times. By the time my thirties rolled around, I was no longer someone receptionists were glad to see, and it bothered me into bitterness, so I took comfort in making everyone else feel worse than I did. Developed it into an art.
I never dreamed someone would pay for me doing it until one evening when I was minding my own business, abusing a society mother (who must have escaped the under-30 screening process at the club) for asking me for my brother’s autograph.
“You slug, you worm,” I was saying to her, in good humour, “if this is all you live for, shall I strap you in bed, rig you up to a drip, liquefy my old Disneyland autograph book and feed it to you, because I have it at home underneath my bed beside my Danish pornography,” then I nudged a white-capped gent beside me and uttered, sotto voce, “the Danish material is,” and mimed how delicious it was by kissing my thumb and forefinger and winking. “You know, eh? Am I right?” But the gentleman was not very supportive and shook his head vehemently, causing spittle to fly from his floppy lip. He was entertaining two girls who looked just barely too old to be let in. If they were under half his age they were twice his shoe-size. Standing together they looked like a “W,” but one of those voluptuous handwritten W’s with a middle stalk at half-mast. I continued to stare at the gentleman because I thought it bothered him, when suddenly something occurred to him. He put on his monacle and said, “would you say that again?”
“Ah, certainly.” I cleared my throat and began from the top, even though my virtue was spontaneity and I withered with repetition. “… am I right?” I finished.
“Oh I see,” the gentleman said. If he was eighty the two giant ladies must have been forty, on my earlier arithmetic, which is the best age to still be in one piece, one better than forty-one.
The gentleman utterly surprised me by quoting his profession, with no relevance to the current situation.
“Sir, I’m a sort of freelance entertainment agent, and…”
“How very nice for you. I’m a daytime bat exterminator.”
“I didn’t know there were daytime bats.”
“There aren’t many, but when there are, they’re ill-tempered. My work requires immense creativity: in passing the time, and in getting jobs, before the great daytime bat extermination of last week, it wasn’t as if we could get hired by average citizens to kill wild bats, what claim did they have over a particular bat? Then the government gave us our biggest job since we opened ten years ago and we’ve been living off it ever since last week.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Lord no, actually I’m trying to be irritating – is it working?”
“Actually, its mildly entertaining.”
On all levels, an unsatisfactory response. He paused and examined every shadowy place on my face his eagle-eye could dart in a moment. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know, can you afford it on your pension?”
He looked down at his liver-spotted hand and smiled wryly. “I am a working man. I think I mentioned it.”
“Did you? I think I’d recall such an improbable claim from such an old gent,” I said, still just about as curious as I am in antique shops, as we entrenched ourselves at the bar, laying down fortifications against the encroaching hordes of go-getters and gimme-that’ers, all clad in I’m-important city-gear, suits or dress-suits, itself protective armour against the X-factor of the city. I made no excuses to the forgettable characters I’d accidentally got bogged down with about pairing off with the old gent. I was a free agent at this party, I’d brought no wife, lover, poker buddy or lawyer with me just so I could maintain the liberty to go where I please till I was (god forbid) ready to settle down.
“You must be the oldest working man in the country,” I jibed him.
“I’ll be eighty next August.”
“You’re mad - that’s what happens if you plan your after-life poorly.”
“I work because I’m the only person in my company who knows the identity of our biggest-paying clients. The day I retire, they’ll have to look for another patron who shares my… discretion.”
I felt my face elongate like a talking television horse.
“Sir, you have intrigued me like reality television has failed to do for the past few weeks.”
“I’m flattered to hear it.”
“Don’t be.”
The bartender finally paid attention to us, at which point my new little old friend whispered something to the bartender, which caused him to nod and click his fingers (literally) which, in turn, caused a genie in a white suit to appear.
“Good evening Mr Trowell, I trust your evening has been fine.”
Trowell, eh? When I first heard it I thought of a garden implement, which made me think of a garden gnome which in turn brought a pet cemetery to mind; a strange chain of command which stuck like embalming fluid to my mental picture of this “Trowell” from that moment on.
“It has been fine, Robert,” Mr Trowell said and some money exchanged hands in a secret hand-
shake.
“Hey!” I said, darting my face down to make a fuss. “What was that?”
“It was nothing,” Trowell smirked, “lead on Robert.”
“I saw that, you gave him money,” I was carrying on, fishing for a reaction, still cock-eyed to the fact that this man might be offering me a job, which was lucky, because it transpired he was after somebody who refused to behave himself.
“I’m glad,” Trowell said, baring a gold tooth at me, which made me flinch the first time I saw it.
The fellow Trowell had given money to for no apparent reason – tipping is an uncommon practice in Sydney, Australia – led us to a velvet door deep in the bowels of the club. He knocked thrice upon its threshold and the face of yet another good-looking romeo appeared (all club-staff are chic and matchlessly cloned).
I heard “Robert” say something about a velvet room, which gained us access to some inner-sanctum. My tongue was numb from anticipation, but it wouldn’t have mattered what he had on his mind, I would have agreed to anything, no matter how repellent I usually would have found it. As it turns out, his proposition was to be the single most delicious of my career. It was my career.
The short hallway was dark but for strips of lights that appeared to have been lifted from the aisle of a very tiny aeroplane, a minor aberration in taste for an otherwise exquisitely designed club. He sat me down in the most exclusive environment in the entire club. Two martinis were waiting for us. Something told me he was trying to impress me.
So I thought of the only critical thing I had on my mind.
“Those lights on the floor out there are a bit tacky,” I said, looking into his bloodshot eyes.
He rubbed his receding scalp. He looked exhausted – I’m sure if there was any other place for him to meet potential clients and employees he would have been there.
He took his monacle off, which was a relief because it had been tickling my funny-bone ever since he put it on.
“I’m not going to ask you why you acted like a fool out there, and I’m not going to ask you whether you want to give up bat-farming.”
“Well, its bat catching, if its anything.”
“Its not important. I’m not going to ask you what you really do with your days, because I know I won’t get a straight answer out of you, but luckily I’m not interested in getting a straight answer out of you. I want to hire that quality, and the others you displayed outside, and perhaps more you’ll acquire, to loan out to private contractors who need
“Its part private detective, part reality television, but there’s no cameras rolling. You might be asked to play the stooge at a family gathering, to pretend to be somebody’s husband who wants to never have to see their relatives again. You might be hired to trip somebody up, just a quickie, or perhaps, a slow-burner, to work alongside them, gradually driving them crazy.”
“How would that work if they didn’t hire me?”
“Our organisation could take care of that.”
“How…”
“We are a small agency well supported by our wealthy clients, and we reciprocate this trust by keeping their identities secret. I’m not on the lookout for new clients, and nor will you ever find out about that part of the process, so don’t even consider trying. You will never be asked to enter a situation with the client themselves. Whatever the character, clients come to my group, which is very secretive, because we don’t ask questions. If you contravene that clause of your contract, it will be terminated. Any questions?”
“About a million…”
“Even though I just told you I’m after people who don’t ask questions?”
I still had to think for a moment. “Now I think about it, maybe I don’t have any questions.”
“Good. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate what you do – its what I’m hiring you for, but if you learn to focus your identity and switch between the persona required when you’re on a job, and the more reasonable gentleman who talks about that persona in the third person, then you might better preserve your sanity.”
Following the train of this logic almost made my eyes uncross: I have lived with one lazy eye and one hyperactive brain for as long as I can remember, and I’ve always found it gave me a head-start in convincing people I was unhinged. I’ve never really needed to say much to accomplish this, but I do say a lot because it brings me joy.
“How does that go hand in hand with sanity?”
“You must distinguish between your identities in an orderly way, like a scientific expert on your own identity.”
“Alright pops, I’ll see how I feel about it when the time comes.”
I got up to go but Trowell seized me by the wrist and pulled my ear down close to his.
“That time has already come and gone.”
I brought my good eye around and looked right into his: from this distance I could see the guy sitting in the next room behind him.
“And you made the wrong choice. Get in control of your personality, Bygber, before it begins to control you.”
I shook myself free of him, adjusted my black coat and uttered the obvious: “I didn’t tell you my name.”
Trowell showed me his teeth again and tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Now you’re getting it,” he said.
I frowned at him, more confused than I was normally comfortable being. “Alright, Trowell, you’re the boss.”
He liked that, I could tell because it made him bare more of his teeth than I’d yet been privy to, which made me wish I still hadn’t been privy to them.And that’s the story of how I met the man of my dreams. I must admit Mr Trowell was about sixty years, a sex-change and an appointment with a dentist-to-the-stars miracle man away from my tastes. The jockey-past-his-prime thing left nothing to be desired. On a scale of stranger to open book, I would say I had a mere sketch of Mr Trowell. I knew the way he talked, the way he looked and some vague conjectures about his business, but did I know where it was located, its business hours? How about what brand of underpants he favoured, his understanding of fine wines or the great inventor Leonardo Da Vinci who managed to imagine humans flying and paint an ambiguous picture of a woman (both world firsts)?
* I have only 11,000 words so far, let me know if you think this is worth going on with.
THIS IS THE OPENING EPISODE OF THE PROJECTED ADVENTURES OF TOM FOOLERY, WHICH CONCERN TOM BEING HIRED BY A MAN TO DISTRACT HIS BROTHER DURING A BIG BUSINESS DEAL.
1.
I have a little writing desk set up in the sun room of my apartment. I don’t use it, but it gives the impression I have something to say at parties. The kinds of parties I get invited to are given by the kind of people whose parties I wouldn’t want to attend, unless it were to have a bit of fun at their expense. Even though I’m by far more attractive, I'm consistently neglected in favour of my brother, because I’ve often inspected his garbage and found invitations pre-dating mine by the time it took him to receive and reject his. This phenomenon exists for many reasons, but, to scratch the surface, my brother is higher up than me because he rarely accepts invitations, and is generally entertaining and well-rounded. I, on the other hand, am unfulfilled and have rounded out since my days as a swimming champion. In our youth, ah, things were different. When I was about seventeen, my father once told me he admired me. He said he admired that I maintained my social profile despite my atrocious behaviour. If he meant it, it might be the only thing anyone ever admired about me that wasn’t my body. My body used to be something to behold, particularly at swimming carnivals where all but the most modest per centage of it would be on display: rosy-nipples, taut skin, jaw-line well drawn as if by a master sculpter (who I do not believe in), just some of the highlights. Externally, I was a work of art. I had a different girl at every party, with none to tie me down. No matter how offensive I behaved, people still laughed. Then my twenties happened. My father didn’t live to see my twenties. He died of emphysema, smoked himself out of his hole. If he did, I’m sure he would have said it was my fault for losing my hair, my fault for not getting picked for those swimming teams, my fault for quitting. Quitting is something I’ve taken pride in doing far too many times. By the time my thirties rolled around, I was no longer someone receptionists were glad to see, and it bothered me into bitterness, so I took comfort in making everyone else feel worse than I did. Developed it into an art.
I never dreamed someone would pay for me doing it until one evening when I was minding my own business, abusing a society mother (who must have escaped the under-30 screening process at the club) for asking me for my brother’s autograph.
“You slug, you worm,” I was saying to her, in good humour, “if this is all you live for, shall I strap you in bed, rig you up to a drip, liquefy my old Disneyland autograph book and feed it to you, because I have it at home underneath my bed beside my Danish pornography,” then I nudged a white-capped gent beside me and uttered, sotto voce, “the Danish material is,” and mimed how delicious it was by kissing my thumb and forefinger and winking. “You know, eh? Am I right?” But the gentleman was not very supportive and shook his head vehemently, causing spittle to fly from his floppy lip. He was entertaining two girls who looked just barely too old to be let in. If they were under half his age they were twice his shoe-size. Standing together they looked like a “W,” but one of those voluptuous handwritten W’s with a middle stalk at half-mast. I continued to stare at the gentleman because I thought it bothered him, when suddenly something occurred to him. He put on his monacle and said, “would you say that again?”
“Ah, certainly.” I cleared my throat and began from the top, even though my virtue was spontaneity and I withered with repetition. “… am I right?” I finished.
“Oh I see,” the gentleman said. If he was eighty the two giant ladies must have been forty, on my earlier arithmetic, which is the best age to still be in one piece, one better than forty-one.
The gentleman utterly surprised me by quoting his profession, with no relevance to the current situation.
“Sir, I’m a sort of freelance entertainment agent, and…”
“How very nice for you. I’m a daytime bat exterminator.”
“I didn’t know there were daytime bats.”
“There aren’t many, but when there are, they’re ill-tempered. My work requires immense creativity: in passing the time, and in getting jobs, before the great daytime bat extermination of last week, it wasn’t as if we could get hired by average citizens to kill wild bats, what claim did they have over a particular bat? Then the government gave us our biggest job since we opened ten years ago and we’ve been living off it ever since last week.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Lord no, actually I’m trying to be irritating – is it working?”
“Actually, its mildly entertaining.”
On all levels, an unsatisfactory response. He paused and examined every shadowy place on my face his eagle-eye could dart in a moment. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know, can you afford it on your pension?”
He looked down at his liver-spotted hand and smiled wryly. “I am a working man. I think I mentioned it.”
“Did you? I think I’d recall such an improbable claim from such an old gent,” I said, still just about as curious as I am in antique shops, as we entrenched ourselves at the bar, laying down fortifications against the encroaching hordes of go-getters and gimme-that’ers, all clad in I’m-important city-gear, suits or dress-suits, itself protective armour against the X-factor of the city. I made no excuses to the forgettable characters I’d accidentally got bogged down with about pairing off with the old gent. I was a free agent at this party, I’d brought no wife, lover, poker buddy or lawyer with me just so I could maintain the liberty to go where I please till I was (god forbid) ready to settle down.
“You must be the oldest working man in the country,” I jibed him.
“I’ll be eighty next August.”
“You’re mad - that’s what happens if you plan your after-life poorly.”
“I work because I’m the only person in my company who knows the identity of our biggest-paying clients. The day I retire, they’ll have to look for another patron who shares my… discretion.”
I felt my face elongate like a talking television horse.
“Sir, you have intrigued me like reality television has failed to do for the past few weeks.”
“I’m flattered to hear it.”
“Don’t be.”
The bartender finally paid attention to us, at which point my new little old friend whispered something to the bartender, which caused him to nod and click his fingers (literally) which, in turn, caused a genie in a white suit to appear.
“Good evening Mr Trowell, I trust your evening has been fine.”
Trowell, eh? When I first heard it I thought of a garden implement, which made me think of a garden gnome which in turn brought a pet cemetery to mind; a strange chain of command which stuck like embalming fluid to my mental picture of this “Trowell” from that moment on.
“It has been fine, Robert,” Mr Trowell said and some money exchanged hands in a secret hand-
shake.
“Hey!” I said, darting my face down to make a fuss. “What was that?”
“It was nothing,” Trowell smirked, “lead on Robert.”
“I saw that, you gave him money,” I was carrying on, fishing for a reaction, still cock-eyed to the fact that this man might be offering me a job, which was lucky, because it transpired he was after somebody who refused to behave himself.
“I’m glad,” Trowell said, baring a gold tooth at me, which made me flinch the first time I saw it.
The fellow Trowell had given money to for no apparent reason – tipping is an uncommon practice in Sydney, Australia – led us to a velvet door deep in the bowels of the club. He knocked thrice upon its threshold and the face of yet another good-looking romeo appeared (all club-staff are chic and matchlessly cloned).
I heard “Robert” say something about a velvet room, which gained us access to some inner-sanctum. My tongue was numb from anticipation, but it wouldn’t have mattered what he had on his mind, I would have agreed to anything, no matter how repellent I usually would have found it. As it turns out, his proposition was to be the single most delicious of my career. It was my career.
The short hallway was dark but for strips of lights that appeared to have been lifted from the aisle of a very tiny aeroplane, a minor aberration in taste for an otherwise exquisitely designed club. He sat me down in the most exclusive environment in the entire club. Two martinis were waiting for us. Something told me he was trying to impress me.
So I thought of the only critical thing I had on my mind.
“Those lights on the floor out there are a bit tacky,” I said, looking into his bloodshot eyes.
He rubbed his receding scalp. He looked exhausted – I’m sure if there was any other place for him to meet potential clients and employees he would have been there.
He took his monacle off, which was a relief because it had been tickling my funny-bone ever since he put it on.
“I’m not going to ask you why you acted like a fool out there, and I’m not going to ask you whether you want to give up bat-farming.”
“Well, its bat catching, if its anything.”
“Its not important. I’m not going to ask you what you really do with your days, because I know I won’t get a straight answer out of you, but luckily I’m not interested in getting a straight answer out of you. I want to hire that quality, and the others you displayed outside, and perhaps more you’ll acquire, to loan out to private contractors who need
“Its part private detective, part reality television, but there’s no cameras rolling. You might be asked to play the stooge at a family gathering, to pretend to be somebody’s husband who wants to never have to see their relatives again. You might be hired to trip somebody up, just a quickie, or perhaps, a slow-burner, to work alongside them, gradually driving them crazy.”
“How would that work if they didn’t hire me?”
“Our organisation could take care of that.”
“How…”
“We are a small agency well supported by our wealthy clients, and we reciprocate this trust by keeping their identities secret. I’m not on the lookout for new clients, and nor will you ever find out about that part of the process, so don’t even consider trying. You will never be asked to enter a situation with the client themselves. Whatever the character, clients come to my group, which is very secretive, because we don’t ask questions. If you contravene that clause of your contract, it will be terminated. Any questions?”
“About a million…”
“Even though I just told you I’m after people who don’t ask questions?”
I still had to think for a moment. “Now I think about it, maybe I don’t have any questions.”
“Good. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate what you do – its what I’m hiring you for, but if you learn to focus your identity and switch between the persona required when you’re on a job, and the more reasonable gentleman who talks about that persona in the third person, then you might better preserve your sanity.”
Following the train of this logic almost made my eyes uncross: I have lived with one lazy eye and one hyperactive brain for as long as I can remember, and I’ve always found it gave me a head-start in convincing people I was unhinged. I’ve never really needed to say much to accomplish this, but I do say a lot because it brings me joy.
“How does that go hand in hand with sanity?”
“You must distinguish between your identities in an orderly way, like a scientific expert on your own identity.”
“Alright pops, I’ll see how I feel about it when the time comes.”
I got up to go but Trowell seized me by the wrist and pulled my ear down close to his.
“That time has already come and gone.”
I brought my good eye around and looked right into his: from this distance I could see the guy sitting in the next room behind him.
“And you made the wrong choice. Get in control of your personality, Bygber, before it begins to control you.”
I shook myself free of him, adjusted my black coat and uttered the obvious: “I didn’t tell you my name.”
Trowell showed me his teeth again and tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Now you’re getting it,” he said.
I frowned at him, more confused than I was normally comfortable being. “Alright, Trowell, you’re the boss.”
He liked that, I could tell because it made him bare more of his teeth than I’d yet been privy to, which made me wish I still hadn’t been privy to them.And that’s the story of how I met the man of my dreams. I must admit Mr Trowell was about sixty years, a sex-change and an appointment with a dentist-to-the-stars miracle man away from my tastes. The jockey-past-his-prime thing left nothing to be desired. On a scale of stranger to open book, I would say I had a mere sketch of Mr Trowell. I knew the way he talked, the way he looked and some vague conjectures about his business, but did I know where it was located, its business hours? How about what brand of underpants he favoured, his understanding of fine wines or the great inventor Leonardo Da Vinci who managed to imagine humans flying and paint an ambiguous picture of a woman (both world firsts)?
* I have only 11,000 words so far, let me know if you think this is worth going on with.
Prose: 'The Baron Blows The House Down' (short)
Miraculously, all this demolition had given me an idea. Breaking social rules had not worked. Acting like a crazy homeless person had not worked. I had somehow to convince the town I was now high-ruler or that my past-history had been forged. That my castle was counterfeit, just a movie-set, hollow on the inside.
The simplest way to do this was to plow the thing down.
It was a grand decision to make, and the power that came with making it was exhilarating.
That castle was my family’s past. I was playing with fire; but I had forgotten all my other aspirations for the present. All I wanted was to be able to spit in public. I had forgotten reason, I had forgotten the traditional virtues, I had primarily forgotten my family’s quest to carry on the line. But this was not haunting me yet.
The next day I walked around the castle, choosing ten possessions from everything I owned to save from the “natural disaster” about to befall Spangler Manor. I did not have many left to choose from, since Olivia had expunged most of them. She took apart my Decorative Poisons Rack, tore up my banned literature and dismembered my armament cabinet. All my antique rifles, bayonets, grenades, even my prized canon, one of the first ever constructed, were deposited at the local tip one day when I was away at the university. I did not even get the chance to get marvellously richer out of them – who knows what my cannon might have retrieved at a private auction, or how many potential bidders it might have taken out, cannonball-style. She also had my Ned Kelly helmet removed from the castle – I never found out where it went either. It was an original. It came with a signed picture of its original occupant and a declaration of ownership from said bushranger which ran:
I Ned Kelly do solemnly swear that this is the original helmet I wore during all that bushranging I did including the one I was shot down in and hung in. Signed, Ned Kelly.
Though it was considerably less articulate. I’m sure Ned, wherever he is, will thank me for socio-economically improving upon his articulation. Anyway, of my remaining possessions, I rescued these:
1. My 16mm print of Frankenstein.
2. My projector.
3. My copies of Tristram Shandy, The Great Gatsby, Ragtime, The Bible – all others, to the bulldozer.
4. My mother and father.
5. Of my staff: Gran, Mortimer and Head chef Marion the Faithful. All others, to the bulldozer.
6. My claw-footed sponge bath
7. The wall chart of the forms of address my father had given me.
8. The skeleton key to the whole manor, which I’d taken charge of when I relegated my folks to the dungeon. I fixed it to a necklace and wore it round my neck, with fond remembrance.
9. The urn of my wife, just to be sure she never escaped again.
10. My autographed copy of The Social Code, in case it ever came in handy.
(There is another story, but I shouldn't tell it here, as I'll forget the present one...)
At 10:46 the next day, on the great hill where Spangler Manor had stood in all its glory and acres of surrounding dead land, was nothing but rubble, and dead land.
Maddeningly, high society loved me for it. In the new air of the 70’s, it was as if I was saying “down with the old,” or “down with the establishment” by pulling down my old digs. I was taken up by everyone. The working classes took me for a working-class hero, since they recognized the tractors, bulldozers and workmen and associated me with them; the lower classes thought I was allying myself with them, since now we had a lack of a home in common; and high society found everything amusing, and loved how eventful my action was. I had given them something to talk about, so they heralded me for it. Literally. Instead of actually talking about me, they would say: “yes, but you have to admire the man, look at the excitement he’s given us all. Look at what he’s given us to talk about.” So they would end up not getting around to scorning me, because everyone would take up the call of saying how much they had to talk about. The bourgeoisie, at least, were the only ones not impressed.
Everyone else, though, embarrassed me to tears when they began carrying placards saying what a top bloke I was – I had unified what was usually a properly stratified society. Then, predictably, as soon as the bourgeoisie saw everyone else doing something, they had to get in on the action.
“Down with the castles!” “Down with the old!” “Spangler forever!” “We Love Spangler!”
“Hertfordshire is the new Spangler Manor.” “Spanglerland!” “Spangler for King!”
King, eh?
I wrote a letter to the Queen that requested the recession of Hamphertfordshire from the monarchy, and requested Hamphertforshire to be recognised as its own monarchy and empire, with Baron Spangler as King and Lord High Ruler.
The note was rejected, but I didn’t tell anyone that.
I had Mortimer erect signs outside town saying “You are now entering the monarchy of Spanglerland.” And “You are now leaving Spanglerland.” I also set up toll-booths and passport checks on the border, and had an airport built, not to reinforce the point too much.
I was so occupied with my new duties of being a monarch that I forgot my quest. I kept wanting to be ejected from society, but everything I seemed to do only raised me higher up its ladder. I hoped, deeply, that the old adage was true: the higher they rise, the harder they fall.
When all else had failed me, and my wife and I stood on the wreck-site like Buster Keaton and
his girl next to the railroad tracks where a train had just demolished their portable home, I kissed Marjorine longingly, lovingly. When we broke away, she stared into my eyes, confused but happy.
“You know, my dear,” I said to her, “I think I did care for you after all.”
She grinned, but suddenly felt cold in her chest. She put a hand there. “Suddenly I don’t feel…” she started to say.
“But you know, dear, I simply can’t have anyone thinking they control me. I mean…”
Her face started to go green.
“I’ve let this go on for a while now – through my ruling a university, a fun-park, a town, and now a realm. But now…”
Her face was contorted. “I feel bad,” she said.
“And so you should, my dear,” I told her. “But I forgive you.”
She collapsed on the ground at my feet.
I had had an arsenic capsule on my tongue. A special design, designed for a kiss of death.
The simplest way to do this was to plow the thing down.
It was a grand decision to make, and the power that came with making it was exhilarating.
That castle was my family’s past. I was playing with fire; but I had forgotten all my other aspirations for the present. All I wanted was to be able to spit in public. I had forgotten reason, I had forgotten the traditional virtues, I had primarily forgotten my family’s quest to carry on the line. But this was not haunting me yet.
The next day I walked around the castle, choosing ten possessions from everything I owned to save from the “natural disaster” about to befall Spangler Manor. I did not have many left to choose from, since Olivia had expunged most of them. She took apart my Decorative Poisons Rack, tore up my banned literature and dismembered my armament cabinet. All my antique rifles, bayonets, grenades, even my prized canon, one of the first ever constructed, were deposited at the local tip one day when I was away at the university. I did not even get the chance to get marvellously richer out of them – who knows what my cannon might have retrieved at a private auction, or how many potential bidders it might have taken out, cannonball-style. She also had my Ned Kelly helmet removed from the castle – I never found out where it went either. It was an original. It came with a signed picture of its original occupant and a declaration of ownership from said bushranger which ran:
I Ned Kelly do solemnly swear that this is the original helmet I wore during all that bushranging I did including the one I was shot down in and hung in. Signed, Ned Kelly.
Though it was considerably less articulate. I’m sure Ned, wherever he is, will thank me for socio-economically improving upon his articulation. Anyway, of my remaining possessions, I rescued these:
1. My 16mm print of Frankenstein.
2. My projector.
3. My copies of Tristram Shandy, The Great Gatsby, Ragtime, The Bible – all others, to the bulldozer.
4. My mother and father.
5. Of my staff: Gran, Mortimer and Head chef Marion the Faithful. All others, to the bulldozer.
6. My claw-footed sponge bath
7. The wall chart of the forms of address my father had given me.
8. The skeleton key to the whole manor, which I’d taken charge of when I relegated my folks to the dungeon. I fixed it to a necklace and wore it round my neck, with fond remembrance.
9. The urn of my wife, just to be sure she never escaped again.
10. My autographed copy of The Social Code, in case it ever came in handy.
(There is another story, but I shouldn't tell it here, as I'll forget the present one...)
At 10:46 the next day, on the great hill where Spangler Manor had stood in all its glory and acres of surrounding dead land, was nothing but rubble, and dead land.
Maddeningly, high society loved me for it. In the new air of the 70’s, it was as if I was saying “down with the old,” or “down with the establishment” by pulling down my old digs. I was taken up by everyone. The working classes took me for a working-class hero, since they recognized the tractors, bulldozers and workmen and associated me with them; the lower classes thought I was allying myself with them, since now we had a lack of a home in common; and high society found everything amusing, and loved how eventful my action was. I had given them something to talk about, so they heralded me for it. Literally. Instead of actually talking about me, they would say: “yes, but you have to admire the man, look at the excitement he’s given us all. Look at what he’s given us to talk about.” So they would end up not getting around to scorning me, because everyone would take up the call of saying how much they had to talk about. The bourgeoisie, at least, were the only ones not impressed.
Everyone else, though, embarrassed me to tears when they began carrying placards saying what a top bloke I was – I had unified what was usually a properly stratified society. Then, predictably, as soon as the bourgeoisie saw everyone else doing something, they had to get in on the action.
“Down with the castles!” “Down with the old!” “Spangler forever!” “We Love Spangler!”
“Hertfordshire is the new Spangler Manor.” “Spanglerland!” “Spangler for King!”
King, eh?
I wrote a letter to the Queen that requested the recession of Hamphertfordshire from the monarchy, and requested Hamphertforshire to be recognised as its own monarchy and empire, with Baron Spangler as King and Lord High Ruler.
The note was rejected, but I didn’t tell anyone that.
I had Mortimer erect signs outside town saying “You are now entering the monarchy of Spanglerland.” And “You are now leaving Spanglerland.” I also set up toll-booths and passport checks on the border, and had an airport built, not to reinforce the point too much.
I was so occupied with my new duties of being a monarch that I forgot my quest. I kept wanting to be ejected from society, but everything I seemed to do only raised me higher up its ladder. I hoped, deeply, that the old adage was true: the higher they rise, the harder they fall.
When all else had failed me, and my wife and I stood on the wreck-site like Buster Keaton and
his girl next to the railroad tracks where a train had just demolished their portable home, I kissed Marjorine longingly, lovingly. When we broke away, she stared into my eyes, confused but happy.
“You know, my dear,” I said to her, “I think I did care for you after all.”
She grinned, but suddenly felt cold in her chest. She put a hand there. “Suddenly I don’t feel…” she started to say.
“But you know, dear, I simply can’t have anyone thinking they control me. I mean…”
Her face started to go green.
“I’ve let this go on for a while now – through my ruling a university, a fun-park, a town, and now a realm. But now…”
Her face was contorted. “I feel bad,” she said.
“And so you should, my dear,” I told her. “But I forgive you.”
She collapsed on the ground at my feet.
I had had an arsenic capsule on my tongue. A special design, designed for a kiss of death.
Prose: 'The Baron's Bust of JFK's Killer'
But my most-missed artifact, deposed by the reign of evil Olivia, was a bust of John F Kennedy’s Killer (it was a rather unfinished sculpture, not enough to make a positive identification, simply titled ‘anonymous’). It was intimidating when it snuck up on you in the dark hallway, but it made for a good guessing game with new guests.
This reminds me of an amusing story: I once invited the Head of the University Senate, who I thought was very important because of his fancy title (but since have found out that the senate is largely composed of a revolving body of senior (but nevertheless) students, who are a nuisance but a necessary part of the university machine.) The things I said to that stupid kid (who I wasn’t much older than, but I was working on my second run through) when I thought he was a person of significance. I took him under my shoulder (I could afford to do this as I was and remain quite tall) and praised him for,
“I mean, throw caution to the wind, you’re young after all.”
“That’s right,” he smiled politely like the stupid sycophant he was.
“Who cares about the current trends,” I said, looking desparately into his eyes, daring him to disagree. “Shirt out! Who cares about shaving – cause you’re dealing with stupid kids all day. Delinquents with too much money.”
He looked confused – good.
“Smash their faces in – who cares, they’re stupid kids.”
Now he really got awkward – remember, he was still nestled under my arm.
“You agree with that, shorty? You believe all foreigners should be killed?”
“Now hang on a second,” he said, breaking free.
“Ah!” I said, menacingly, raising a finger to him. “Good, you passed the test. I was testing you, Grahame.” That’s a silly name, why did I waste a name on this stupid kid.
“I don’t think you were,” Grahame said.
“No?” I said, pursing my face up sarcastically. “Lucky no-one cares what you think, kid.”
“Don’t call me ‘kid,’ I’m the head of the University Senate!”
“So I keep hearing. Good for you, Grahame. But let me show you something I want you to keep in mind.”
And I again steered him with my giant muscular arm. I led him, as I’ve led many a better man before him, over to the window and nodded out at the moat.
“You see that down there. See those little jumping fish. See them?” I shook him and he answered with a pathetic nod.
“Yeah, well they’re not jumping cause they’re happy friendly little fishes, yeah. This is not a children’s book, Grahame.” Grahame – pah! The number of sods I’ve set fire to without giving a passing thought to what their names might have been, and yet this little twerp’s name somehow escaped the sandpapering of time.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? I’ll put it another way.” And I led him out into the front hallway, right near the guests. I had to intimidate through coded messages. “I’ll put it this way: do you know who this is?”
“Its not anyone, it just looks like the artist sold their raw materials to you as a finished piece.”
I let go of him so I could cross one arm across my chest and tap a finger on my lip. This was my thoughtful pose.
“Hmm,” I said, further adding to the impression that I was deep in thought. “Are you an art collector?”
He turned and looked me in the eyes. I pretended I didn’t notice, then darted a glance at him while he wasn’t looking.
“No,” he answered.
“Hmm,” I said. “Are you then an appreciator of the fine arts?”
“Well, not really.”
I was satisfied I could get away with pretending any knowledge of art, so I began, “then how dare you abuse my most prized possession. This is a very important artifact dating from the… Jurassic era of conceptual self-sculpture. It expresses the artist’s longing for identity and ultimate rejection of the ideal of communism. Do you deny this?”
At this, he had the nerve to smirk. “I’m loathe to deny anything about art, since I’d never consider myself an expert, but my sister is an art critic and… well, I’m pretty sure you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I rolled back on my heels and resumed my intrigued posture. I smiled and nodded, then I bowed to him. “You are a worthy opponent, sir. Could you follow me out to the moat? I have something I just need to show you for a second…”
He studied me. “No, actually. I think I might see what’s happening with the appetizers…”
“Quickly, come on.”
“No, I’d rather not…”
“Come on, outside with you.”
“Gee, its getting late,” he said, pantomiming a big yawn. “Maybe I better go home.”
“Alright. I’ll escort you out.” I motioned for Mortimer to make sure no-one followed me out.
It was a frost-bitey night outside. The crickets were roaring in a chorus, seeming to toll the end for glorified extra Grahame.
We stood at the edge of the moat. I smoked my pipe and looked contemplatively at the jumping piranhas.
“You know I could have been an important person in your story – I’ve got a proper name and a title – you like people with titles.”
“I like sirs and dukes and corporals.”
“If you let me live I’ll call you Baron.”
At this moment, miraculously, the sun came up. I looked at my watch. It was ten p.m at night.
“That is strange,” I said, “but I refuse to be impressed.”
This ‘Grahame,’ against my best wishes and machinations had touched on a nerve. I had always wanted someone to call me Baron. I could pretend I was a Baron to my heart’s content, but having someone who was prepared to call me it regularly was quite tempting.
I drummed my lip (this time I was actually thinking). “Okay, boy. I’ll keep you on my staff as a part-time sycophant, but you’ll have to forfeit your position at the university.”
“What a tempting offer," he said. "I'll take it."
"Great," I said, smirking. I was watching his eyes - a long moment passed - I knew what he was going to do. He was going to run off to his university the second my back turned.
I clasped my hands together, held them high, and bumped him with my hip, sending him down into the moat.
Don't get me wrong, I have fond memories of him, but I have fonder memories of taking over his position at the university...
This reminds me of an amusing story: I once invited the Head of the University Senate, who I thought was very important because of his fancy title (but since have found out that the senate is largely composed of a revolving body of senior (but nevertheless) students, who are a nuisance but a necessary part of the university machine.) The things I said to that stupid kid (who I wasn’t much older than, but I was working on my second run through) when I thought he was a person of significance. I took him under my shoulder (I could afford to do this as I was and remain quite tall) and praised him for,
“I mean, throw caution to the wind, you’re young after all.”
“That’s right,” he smiled politely like the stupid sycophant he was.
“Who cares about the current trends,” I said, looking desparately into his eyes, daring him to disagree. “Shirt out! Who cares about shaving – cause you’re dealing with stupid kids all day. Delinquents with too much money.”
He looked confused – good.
“Smash their faces in – who cares, they’re stupid kids.”
Now he really got awkward – remember, he was still nestled under my arm.
“You agree with that, shorty? You believe all foreigners should be killed?”
“Now hang on a second,” he said, breaking free.
“Ah!” I said, menacingly, raising a finger to him. “Good, you passed the test. I was testing you, Grahame.” That’s a silly name, why did I waste a name on this stupid kid.
“I don’t think you were,” Grahame said.
“No?” I said, pursing my face up sarcastically. “Lucky no-one cares what you think, kid.”
“Don’t call me ‘kid,’ I’m the head of the University Senate!”
“So I keep hearing. Good for you, Grahame. But let me show you something I want you to keep in mind.”
And I again steered him with my giant muscular arm. I led him, as I’ve led many a better man before him, over to the window and nodded out at the moat.
“You see that down there. See those little jumping fish. See them?” I shook him and he answered with a pathetic nod.
“Yeah, well they’re not jumping cause they’re happy friendly little fishes, yeah. This is not a children’s book, Grahame.” Grahame – pah! The number of sods I’ve set fire to without giving a passing thought to what their names might have been, and yet this little twerp’s name somehow escaped the sandpapering of time.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? I’ll put it another way.” And I led him out into the front hallway, right near the guests. I had to intimidate through coded messages. “I’ll put it this way: do you know who this is?”
“Its not anyone, it just looks like the artist sold their raw materials to you as a finished piece.”
I let go of him so I could cross one arm across my chest and tap a finger on my lip. This was my thoughtful pose.
“Hmm,” I said, further adding to the impression that I was deep in thought. “Are you an art collector?”
He turned and looked me in the eyes. I pretended I didn’t notice, then darted a glance at him while he wasn’t looking.
“No,” he answered.
“Hmm,” I said. “Are you then an appreciator of the fine arts?”
“Well, not really.”
I was satisfied I could get away with pretending any knowledge of art, so I began, “then how dare you abuse my most prized possession. This is a very important artifact dating from the… Jurassic era of conceptual self-sculpture. It expresses the artist’s longing for identity and ultimate rejection of the ideal of communism. Do you deny this?”
At this, he had the nerve to smirk. “I’m loathe to deny anything about art, since I’d never consider myself an expert, but my sister is an art critic and… well, I’m pretty sure you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I rolled back on my heels and resumed my intrigued posture. I smiled and nodded, then I bowed to him. “You are a worthy opponent, sir. Could you follow me out to the moat? I have something I just need to show you for a second…”
He studied me. “No, actually. I think I might see what’s happening with the appetizers…”
“Quickly, come on.”
“No, I’d rather not…”
“Come on, outside with you.”
“Gee, its getting late,” he said, pantomiming a big yawn. “Maybe I better go home.”
“Alright. I’ll escort you out.” I motioned for Mortimer to make sure no-one followed me out.
It was a frost-bitey night outside. The crickets were roaring in a chorus, seeming to toll the end for glorified extra Grahame.
We stood at the edge of the moat. I smoked my pipe and looked contemplatively at the jumping piranhas.
“You know I could have been an important person in your story – I’ve got a proper name and a title – you like people with titles.”
“I like sirs and dukes and corporals.”
“If you let me live I’ll call you Baron.”
At this moment, miraculously, the sun came up. I looked at my watch. It was ten p.m at night.
“That is strange,” I said, “but I refuse to be impressed.”
This ‘Grahame,’ against my best wishes and machinations had touched on a nerve. I had always wanted someone to call me Baron. I could pretend I was a Baron to my heart’s content, but having someone who was prepared to call me it regularly was quite tempting.
I drummed my lip (this time I was actually thinking). “Okay, boy. I’ll keep you on my staff as a part-time sycophant, but you’ll have to forfeit your position at the university.”
“What a tempting offer," he said. "I'll take it."
"Great," I said, smirking. I was watching his eyes - a long moment passed - I knew what he was going to do. He was going to run off to his university the second my back turned.
I clasped my hands together, held them high, and bumped him with my hip, sending him down into the moat.
Don't get me wrong, I have fond memories of him, but I have fonder memories of taking over his position at the university...
Lyrics: Sinner & The Saint
Introduction by the Author
With a title inspired (read: stolen) from a Charlie Mingus jazz album (the late Mingus had the kind of personal life that led him to dedicate the "Black Sinner" album to his psychiatrist... and his jazz shouldn't be identified with any other generic label other than "craz-y". This is a simple -song, probably, because I fear its irony is either not detectable or not detectable enough - but that's the basis of a recurring nightmare I have where I'm trapped in a vicious circle where no-one can understand me, and my feet are hands, and... Well, I shan't go on.
Anyway, the narrator of this song is a man of god... And he don't take too kindly to unclean women... That's about the depth of it. I've posted this in case my band and their fans are interested in knowing the actual lyrical content which is most likely (going on every other gig I've ever been to) incoherent owing to a certain quantity of white noise being produced by drums/sound guy incompetence/room space/life...
So if these lyrics are disappointing, they should at least give that satisfaction of "ah, that's what the fuck he was saying"...
Sinner & The Saint
Rolling her words
With permission from her
Understanding is more
Than I like to offer
She lies around
On her back on the ground
She’s given up
On washing it off
Send a lease/Alise
To be sure...
To the sinner
A whore with a heart of gold...
On the tongue of a saint
Here lies her name
She should like to be said
By sterilized lips
But where is my mind
Thinking of her
Up in my tower where
Everything’s pure
CHORUS
ROCKOUT
With a title inspired (read: stolen) from a Charlie Mingus jazz album (the late Mingus had the kind of personal life that led him to dedicate the "Black Sinner" album to his psychiatrist... and his jazz shouldn't be identified with any other generic label other than "craz-y". This is a simple -song, probably, because I fear its irony is either not detectable or not detectable enough - but that's the basis of a recurring nightmare I have where I'm trapped in a vicious circle where no-one can understand me, and my feet are hands, and... Well, I shan't go on.
Anyway, the narrator of this song is a man of god... And he don't take too kindly to unclean women... That's about the depth of it. I've posted this in case my band and their fans are interested in knowing the actual lyrical content which is most likely (going on every other gig I've ever been to) incoherent owing to a certain quantity of white noise being produced by drums/sound guy incompetence/room space/life...
So if these lyrics are disappointing, they should at least give that satisfaction of "ah, that's what the fuck he was saying"...
Sinner & The Saint
Rolling her words
With permission from her
Understanding is more
Than I like to offer
She lies around
On her back on the ground
She’s given up
On washing it off
Send a lease/Alise
To be sure...
To the sinner
A whore with a heart of gold...
On the tongue of a saint
Here lies her name
She should like to be said
By sterilized lips
But where is my mind
Thinking of her
Up in my tower where
Everything’s pure
CHORUS
ROCKOUT
Lyrics: 'Reasonable Guy'
Introduction by the Author
The following lyric is a good sample of my approach to songwriting. I was very influenced by a subject I did in my MA on the way the wave of singer/songwriters in the 70's were able to play with their own identity as the "I" in their songs. This is a thing I love doing in my songwriting, but I think I run into the same problem Randy Newman does (see Short People). After one of my gigs this old barfly was getting enthusiastic, as they do, about classic artists... You know the kind, real authentic genuine artists... Unlike the one he'd just been witness to before he started hounding me about Paul Simon (who I love, incidentally. If you don't like him, you might be swayed by the (dickily titled) pre-moustache album There Goes Rhymin' Simon, which, though it doesn't contain the jingoistic cultural imperialism of his more famous solo work (see Graceland for African music and Paul Simon for reggae), Rhymin' Simon contains such maturity and beauty its an album to take with you, for as long as you both shall live.
Reasonable Guy
(20.5.06 )
I don’t mean to entertain you
Its a happy accident
I mean to shout and spit
And run very fast in quiet places
I’ve kicked so many asses
My legs are different lengths
I’ve loaned my character out so much
I introduced myself to him
I’ve leaned out over ledges
And trusted way too much
Don't I deserve
As much?
CHORUS:
Why, I’m a reasonable guy
Except that one time I told you to die
But hey! People can change
I swear I’ll never swear at you again
I’ll be clever at least twice
Then shut the hell up
I’ll trust my instincts only once
Then trust everyone else
I’ll say only six unique things
The rest’ll be a mess
I’ll go on a genius binge
Then take an IQ test
I wouldn’t say I’m dangerous
My head is full of bread
I eat glass for breakfast
And clean my teeth with lead
Still, I’m a likeable guy,
Except that one time I told you to die
But hey! People can change
I swear I’ll never swear at you again
My bedroom is a maze
Full of things I hate
I waste half my life each on
Collecting and navigating
I go loud unexpectedly
Go quiet when I’m mad
Even I wouldn’t trust me
To sound like who I am
My levels need adjusting
Could you monitor them?
While I skip out for a bit
I’ve got some errands to run
CHORUS
The following lyric is a good sample of my approach to songwriting. I was very influenced by a subject I did in my MA on the way the wave of singer/songwriters in the 70's were able to play with their own identity as the "I" in their songs. This is a thing I love doing in my songwriting, but I think I run into the same problem Randy Newman does (see Short People). After one of my gigs this old barfly was getting enthusiastic, as they do, about classic artists... You know the kind, real authentic genuine artists... Unlike the one he'd just been witness to before he started hounding me about Paul Simon (who I love, incidentally. If you don't like him, you might be swayed by the (dickily titled) pre-moustache album There Goes Rhymin' Simon, which, though it doesn't contain the jingoistic cultural imperialism of his more famous solo work (see Graceland for African music and Paul Simon for reggae), Rhymin' Simon contains such maturity and beauty its an album to take with you, for as long as you both shall live.
Reasonable Guy
(20.5.06 )
I don’t mean to entertain you
Its a happy accident
I mean to shout and spit
And run very fast in quiet places
I’ve kicked so many asses
My legs are different lengths
I’ve loaned my character out so much
I introduced myself to him
I’ve leaned out over ledges
And trusted way too much
Don't I deserve
As much?
CHORUS:
Why, I’m a reasonable guy
Except that one time I told you to die
But hey! People can change
I swear I’ll never swear at you again
I’ll be clever at least twice
Then shut the hell up
I’ll trust my instincts only once
Then trust everyone else
I’ll say only six unique things
The rest’ll be a mess
I’ll go on a genius binge
Then take an IQ test
I wouldn’t say I’m dangerous
My head is full of bread
I eat glass for breakfast
And clean my teeth with lead
Still, I’m a likeable guy,
Except that one time I told you to die
But hey! People can change
I swear I’ll never swear at you again
My bedroom is a maze
Full of things I hate
I waste half my life each on
Collecting and navigating
I go loud unexpectedly
Go quiet when I’m mad
Even I wouldn’t trust me
To sound like who I am
My levels need adjusting
Could you monitor them?
While I skip out for a bit
I’ve got some errands to run
CHORUS
Poetry: Strange Phones, Chairs and People I Know
Strange Phones and What They Know
All day
Strange
Phones
Mention me to their mammals
They say,
Seize
Throats
Before they seize up
Take a
Trip where
Frogs
Climb devil’s vine…
But with
Lead
I arm
Blank pages from love.
No Chairs
Famous strangers
Lap at the shore
Faces gape up
In thanks
For ceilings
Mantlepieces,
Places called home
And dreams.
The eyes tunnel –
There’s heaven up there
But no chairs
Sixty People I Know
There’s like
Sixty people
I know
Trapped in
Introductions
Meeting
By accident
Trading nothings
Freely
Liking each other
And the arrangement
Just fine
Novel: 'Food That Eats You'
Introduction by the Author
THIS NOVEL REVOLVES AROUND FOOD AND WELLNESS IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE ALMOST LIKE THE REAL ONE. FOR THE NOVEL ITSELF, I'LL HAND OVER TO XAVIOUR, WHO TELLS IT IN HIS IMPATIENT MANNER...
Chapter 1.
I’m not supposed to know about the bucket of blood but somehow I do… In the men’s bathroom chewing my thumb-webbing… Thinking bloody murder… Tracing an invisible line on the ground… Might draw anything, a map of the train system under the floor for instance... No matter what I draw, its still invisible...
Something tells me I have to go outside. I have to walk under that doorway and I have to be bathed in pigs’ blood. Who knows… Is infection, blood-disease, a workers-comp risk? Certainly not a normal one… But is the blood clean… Will it make me clean?
Hand on the handle, about to open the cubicle when Jim and Joe come in, squeezing each others scrotums (figuratively… and literally… who can say, I’ve got no vision from this position…) talking shit about their superiors… Some people I don’t know, don’t care to know APPARENTLY are incompetent to such a degree that they can’t even piss for themselves… Discussion revolves around some punning giving of hands and kissing of asses that its not in my nature to repeat… I have a sense of propriety… But these guys aren’t worried… If they knew I was writing this stuff down, they’d think a bit first… Bit of forethought peeled back… Mighta kept them from pissing pants… A gust of wind comes in and blows them out…
Unlatch and unilateral movement, as always, out into the unstable outside… The Factory contains lots of rooms… Some have journalists inside, some have ghostwriters… Some have researchers, editors, photographers… The system of communication between these rooms is arcane and filtered through spying and guesswork… The final product is masterminded by the evil genius known as the Head Editor, who bangs on doors and yells at people hiding behind them, which causes these "people" to make creative guesses about what the other departments are doing through the walls on either side of them… They are aided by listening horns and gaps in walls… But each department generally believes it solely is responsible for the life of the paper, and so stubbornly trundles on with its own task, leaving it up to the one next door to copy down what they can overhear and make up the rest, adding their own component whether it be pictures or spatial organisation and omission of too obvious unfacts…
And in the engine room is the printing press… A pretty standard set-up for such a factory, of which there are only seven in the country. These seven, though, produce material which ripples wide and bleeds into the lives of every street-person and business-person alike, as long you read the paper it doesn’t matter what you do with it afterwards, throw it out the window or use it for a blanket…
The Factory Floor... "Where magic happens"... Darkened with animal blood. My upcoming experience is not a novel one here… Think most gophers are scared off in a similar way, when they’ve breached the limit of their superiors’ patience… Or, more likely, when the fucks have got a spare five minutes and get bored… Someone’s gotta be there when the bucket falls, and I don’t know if they even care who that sucker is.
Quiet here… In an obvious way. Littered around the office like forest critters, they peer out through nooks and crannies… Soundtrack to this scene is provided half by the evergreen photocopiers half by the idiots snickering at their own cleverness… Why do we have to work? Want to watch them back, want to tell them I’m brighter than they think I am, I have untapped potential…
But somehow, I know it isn’t true…
&
Nothing I like to do more after I’ve had a pigs’ blood bath – under duress - than to loll about at the Doctor’s place. Why, when its next door, should this feel like being ‘out’, who knows, but its more exciting than just lolling around at my place, I know that much. Doctor’s place is full of books he hasn’t read… I can’t prove this, because he’s always quoting me things, and it would involve more imagination to have made them up than it would to have just read them… So I don’t know what to believe… Just find it annoying. I call him the Doctor, but he’s not my doctor; I’m pretty sure he’s not a doctor at all. He seems to be still working on his thesis, of seven years, but he’s very protective of it… He’s one of these people that keeps his nickname going by asking people to call him Doctor, or Doc for short. It makes him happy, so I participate in this charade, even though I’m ninety-eight per cent sure there’s zero per cent of him that’s a doctor of anything.
What he is… Is resourceful.
Doctor comes… He’s carrying a kit. Never sure what’s inside it, probably a black hole, cause he seems to be able to pull out anything required for the occasion… Things as divergent as a band-aid, a lolly-pop and a street directory… So, a travelling glove-box.
Tends to begin the morning with something cheerful but absurd from his brain: like now, ‘Have you ever thought about wallpaper, Xaviour? Really thought about it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I embraced my wallpaper this morning. If nothing else, I’m grateful for its service: hugging away at the walls all day long, thanklessly playing its small part in the large organism of the world, blissfully ignorant of my thesis and all the great things of the world.’
You have to just look the other way when he says things like this. He doesn’t want you to say anything back. Suspect he wants you to squirm… But can not confirm… I like to change subject to something I know will make him squirm. We have a healthy relationship.
‘How is the thesis coming?’
‘Like a rocket. I wrote a million words this morning then deleted them.’
That’s the other thing he does.
‘Not again.’
‘They were too beautiful.’
‘You could have used them for something else.’
‘They were too beautiful to be read. I wanted them to stay beautiful.’
Doctor’s always saying things like this, and he’s usually sober when he says them, which makes it worse.
‘So where do you want it?’
Gives me my medicine. Hear his breathing. Heavy breathing: so heavy its almost obscene.
Doctor’s saying something about maybe weaning me off my medicine when suddenly occurs to me to dance. Rise like an old man the wrong side of a generation gap at a party and throw myself on the Doctor.
‘What are you doing!’
‘Look, we’re dancing – dance with me.’
Dance for a while, but don’t think he’s too keen because he just kind of stands there. I pull out and lie there, breathing heavily, dissatisfied. The doctor has a moon face and a secret contract with a television station to deliver them news. He’s trying to sleep his way to the top of the factory where I work, but he hasn’t been able to get past me because I’m an insomniac. He doesn’t know that I know this, and it gives us both something to do. I’m pretty sure he supplies me with medicine with the intention of extracting information from me, but I don’t know any information, so I’m not bothered.
‘Let me take you out to dinner, we never go out anymore.’
‘I don’t eat in front of people.’
‘Nonsense – you won an eating competition.’
‘I never. You made that up.’
‘You’ve still got the pendant up on the wall. Its right there.’
Look over, it says ‘orange eating competition’ which was supposed to be a pun on ‘aren’t you eating.’ Small-town humour. Date now seems a million years ago, location looks to be the long-buried city of pompeii, depending on how accurate my eyes are today. See Doctor eyeing the walls.
‘Get your eyes off my wallpaper.’
Smirks bashfully.
@
Drunk and oblivious at the revolving restaurant and its not even dark yet; most likely one of us will not get to fully digest their revolving meal. If its me, I hope the doctor, in his revolving generosity, is paying.
‘Hey, what time is it?’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘Not past five again is it – think I was supposed to work today…’
‘Come on, you’re an errand boy, they won’t even notice you’re gone.’
‘I play a certain role at the factory... I do my bit.'
‘Oh, I’m sure its very significant, you’re an important guy.’
‘I am! I’m the reason bestiality is illegal.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Don’t know – been happening a lot lately, think there might besomething wrong with me?’
‘Forget that… let’s go back to what you were saying, big shot.’
‘Listen to me, think I might be coming down with dementia.’
‘You’re not coming down with dementia. I should know, I examine you regularly for it.’
‘Still, its something to look forward to.’
‘If you’re worried, maybe you could write to General Chemistry, I’m sure in his wisdom he’d know what to do.’
‘Yeah… bet he would.’
‘I was kidding – surely not.’
Whenever he thinks I’m drunk enough to give out information, the doctor imagines himself the host of his own TV show.
‘So tell us some gossip from the factory – what’s up with General Chemistry and those food spills?’
‘I never go into work, I don't know anything, I don't even know how to work. I only got that job cause of who my father was.'
‘Why do I waste my life plying you for information, and even worse, why do they keep employing you – do you have an answer for that?’
‘I don’t question it, I just sit back and enjoy it.’
‘Why don’t you tell me everything you know about your milksop boss Henry Tenderloin?’
‘He’s a great guy, really, a card-shark, a supermodel, a wine drinker.’
‘You’re making that up!’ (Ridiculous jaw-chewing fake laughter)
‘You got me.’
‘Well why don’t you tell us something true... About you. Something revealing.’
‘I’ve been to your apartment a million times and I’ve never found your medical certificate… And I really look...'
‘He’s a card this guy!’
‘What does that mean?’
(Shares a joke with audience – think this guy’s crazy?)
‘Uh, help me out here friend, it means you’re some character!’
‘Who’s clapping – stop that.’
‘There’s no clapping, Jimmy.’
‘Don’t call me Jimmy.’
‘We’ll go to a break and we’ll be right back!’
Doctor leans in close and breathes heavily, ‘you gonna give me some information, Useless?’ and suddenly I pull back and its like I’m watching myself from above...
Xaviour vomits in the good doctor’s face and lifts him up in a wrestling manouver and brings him down on the edge of the table hard. He brushes the foodscraps off: a whisker of cabbage on his cheek, a tomato stain on his piano necktie, and laughs. ‘Was that fun or what?’ Doctor doesn’t answer. Xaviour nudges the doctor, but he’s slumped over the table and his neck is broken.
‘You’re going to pay for that.’
It’s the waiter.
I look down at the bag of bones.
‘That? I didn’t do it.’
‘I knew you weren’t on the list. You two gentleman have been trouble since you came in. Come on, get out, and take your doctor with you.’
‘He’s not that kind of doctor.'
Suddenly we were outside on the pavement, and the doctor was up, brushing himself off.
‘You!’
I quiver, rear away from him.
Curls his arm round shoulders and says, ‘sometimes you just have to look at yourself and say: if pain persists, please see your doctor…’
$
At his finery-filled hovel, not six feet from my food-wrapper filled hovel, Doctor and I familiarise ourselves with some bad chemicals.
‘You ever look at the sun?’ Doctor wonders.
‘Plenty a times.’
‘It can burn holes in your retina, ya know. Since I heard that every day I can’t help myself – its like, cause I know I’m not supposed to, I can’t help looking. And its up there the whole time – temptation’s endless!’
‘Move to the arctic. Night all day.’
Ponder the doctor’s dilemma, suddenly overwhelmed.
‘Whoa, too much information here… Finding it hard to keep track …’
‘The remedy for that is a good dose of television.’
‘No!’
But its too late. My medicine’s in me and I feel my mind return to its usual mushy state. Eyes begin to droop, questions of life or death leave and I’m free.
Strange happenings on the outskirts of town, the report runs. We’ve heard strange tales from children’s television shows, but this is the strangest that’s actually happened around here. Everything was normal for two centuries as far as we remember, nothing much happened, then suddenly this: bacon rind. (They mustn’t have heard about the caffeine yet, I guess). Bacon rind. A great big pile of it. Yep, experts claim we’ve got no idea where it came from or what we can learn from it, but experts say we better not buy bacon for a while in case there’s some evil force living in it. Back to you Bob.
They would have driven to the outskirts of town today in their people trucks and makeup trucks and food trucks. They would have round-tabled the strange phenomenon of the over-sized pile of bacon-rind and come up with a series of happy alternatives, then decided which was more interesting. Of course its more likely that the rind had fallen off the back of a truck belonging to a bacon manufacturer, transporting its off-cuts in an unncessary cross-country mission; but they’ve gone with that old adage: the most tantalising explanations explain nothing...
Poetry: A Series of Patriotic Poems
The Great Australian Bite
First Published, without my punctuation (which I would insist on these days) and under 'Ben Parker', in the four w Anthology No.16.
Took a bite out of the ass of Australia...
Spat it out... It tasted like shit...
My Country
I love skin-cancerous country
A land of babbling blokes
Who wouldn't know high culture
If you shoved it down their throats.
Six Signs I Saw at the Hospital
Due to a decision
By hospital admin
Bathrooms have been removed.
Please feel free to hold
Till a more convenient time.
Due to a need to free floor-space,
Waiting rooms have been removed
Please feel free to wait
In your homes, anywhere
But please... Not here.
Due to news we learnt
From our Aunt Margret,
Beds have been removed.
Turns out hard floors
Are really better for backs
Due to more learned intelligence
Our pills have been set free
Water and fresh air should do as well
If pain persists, out complaint place
Has recently grown out of proportion.
Due to a strike admin
Responded poorly to,
Doctors have been removed.
Things should run smoother now...
Hope you get well soon.
We've enjoyed doing what we can, but
We have to think of our preservation...
Its not our fault we've been bought out
Its a question of revenue...
Canteen staff are welcomed to stay on by,
Your Benefactors, McDonalds.
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