Monday, 22 October 2007

GENDARMENMARKT

Dear Lorraine,

its really too hot for me here. Things were particularly bad over the last few days and I have no contacts here of any kind. Today I went to the Freibad in Oranienburgerstraße (the orange bit - because oranien probably means orange - is probably an allusion to an actual connection between the Kaisers and the House of Orange. Also Berlin Zoo is near Bellevue. All in all Berlin is much closer to Belfast than Munich is. Munich is very catholic and conservative. In Munich the punks look wealthy, in Berlin the punks actually look like real working class kids looking for expression beyond the traditional fare. Berlin has a London feel too.
There´s a great statue of Bertolt Brecht at Frederichstraße and the actual house where he lived in the GDR is in Mitte. Today it is a Museum. Right next to the house is the Friedhof where he and Helene Wiegel are buried, along with Fichte, Hegel and others.

Another famous Berliner is Alexander von Humboldt, an explorer and naturalist in the mould of Charles Darwin. I passed the house where he lived in Oranienburgerstraße today. Another famous monument in that street is the Synagogue, which was destroyed in Kristallnacht (the night of breaking glass, an anti-Jewish pogrom in 1937 when the full weight of Nazi anti-semitism was first really felt.).

All in all I get a very positive impression of Preußland (Prussia) as it was known - today it is Brandenburg. The Prussians seem to have been positive, built on a large scale, optimistic and explorative. The portrait of Alexander von Humboldt in the Alte Nationale Gallerie (he´s sitting in a cave on a tropical island examining a local flower, exudes confidence, well-being and a delight in discovery.) particularly demonstrates this. His brother, Wilhelm von Humboldt, founded the oldest university in Berlin, which is in the very historical street, Unter den Linden (named after its Linden trees, which are today, alas, no more).

This evening I went to the Gendarmenmarkt to listen to classical music out doors and talked to a couple from Texas about the recent climactic abnormalities in their region. The Gendarmenmarkt was originally designed for military manouevres, there are two churches there and a concert house (Gendarme comes from Middle French, meaning Knight). That area is spectacular and gives an impression of what Berlin might have been like in the 19th century, breathtakingly beautiful. E T A Hoffmann, the writer, was born around the corner too.

Liebe Grüß,

Paul

Saturday, 13 October 2007

Ovid Masticulate/the Black Sea Cafe

The Dacians fought with the scythe-like falx, a tactic the Romans countered by giving their legionaries complete leg armour, not just a pair of grieves and more body armour too. (as you can see, history fascinates me) Ovid was yet another victim of Nero, one of the most heartless tyrants in history (and apparantly black as his name suggests). Any tyrant is cruel, just look at Blair!?! Heartlessly exiling poets to the nether slums of Brighton, often without adequate heating, blankets or rations of marzipan. His epitaph speaks volumes: here I Paulus Murphicus feverishly ate the nutted gizzards of mice and quite depopulated the local rat population. Please give me more Danegeld....
"Yes, Ovid is dead in Tomis, his statue of Constanta and his epitaph are very expressive: Hic ego qui iaceo/tenerorum lusor amorum/ingenio perii/Naso poeta meo. At tibi, qui transis, nec sit grave quisquis amasti/ dicere Nasonis/moliter ossa cubent. To Russia & Rome: I don't know, I don't believe. The eastern frontier of Rome's empire was in Dacia felix (Romania).

Neuerscheinung Lyrik

hi paul,
thanks for your e mail. now I've corrected your text again:
danke sehr Armin. Es ist nicht so warm hier und der Herbst beginnt. Ich mag diese Saison, und Du?

Die Website funktioniert jetzt :
www.parametermagazine.org
Yes, I've been there already and gave you some comments to your paintings.

Ja, ein bisschen wie Jawlensky vieilleicht. Und was ist Deine Meinung von meinen Bildern? I liked them. Ich mag dein Gedicht, ist es komplex? yes, a bit experimental. I've used some words which aren't normally existing in the dictionary. Jetzt ich bin in der Bibliothek in der Stadtmitte. Es ist ruhig, leer und frei. (The Germans would never say: es ist leer und frei. But I don't know why, because it is correct. We would say: es ist ruhig, es ist nichts los, es ist keiner da something like this.)

Letzte Nacht habe ich nach dem Schwimmen zu viel Bier getrunken, aber ein sehr gutes (Stella Artois, ein Bier aus Frankreich... not Belgium?) und bin am Morgen früher aufgewacht. Ich bin noch selbstständiger Maler, aber ich habe Möglichkeiten, von Neuemn in Paris, Berlin oder London zu arbeiten.
Where are you at the time? In Belfast?

So, bis dann,

Paul
... und bis dann
Armin

das Westend

Hi, tomorrow night there´s a reading in Schwanhöhethaler. Armin Steigenberger and friends. This area of Munich is known as Das Westend (theWestend) and had a former reputation as a rough neighbourhood with lots of Turks and Greeks marginalised economically and no doubt having to fight their way in. The reading is at the Kulturladen, a small venue for readings and meetings. I´ll write a fuller report of the event. All these writers read at the Lyrik Kabinett last week, in Amalianstraße, Schwabing. A venue very like thePoetry Library in London.

I joked with Armin that the Lyrik Kabinett (and Munich) was very bourgeois. He doesn't like my perceived affiliation with the artistic avante-garde and (what he views) as its anarchic fringes, where everything is a bit topsy turvy for him, the floor unstable. Munich is the most middle-class place I've ever been in, so obnoxiously middle-class I'm sure that they'd bring the King back at the drop of a hat, and are merely waiting for the chance. In Munich I always imagined that Bing Crosby would pop up from behind the cushions to sing 'White Christmas'.

Nietzsche vs Godzilla

W.B.Yeats (1865-1939): Irish poet, occultist and Magus. Yes, that’s what the biographical dictionaries say, but what, indeed, is a Magus? Yeats - member of the Order of the Golden Dawn. But what is the Golden Dawn? These esoteric questions or questions about esoterica are answered in any examination of the 1890s [aka the fin de siecle, last decade of the century, a period of summation, perhaps, of monumentalism in art (one recalls the symphonies of Gustav Mahler, architectonic, rhapsodic, obsessed with death and it’s antithesis, resurrection.), supposed endings and possible contrived resolutions.] The Order of the Golden Dawn, an hermetic sect dedicated to ‘magick’ (or ‘sex magick’ as Aleister Crowley – another member of the order founded by McGregor Mathers which included such luminaries as Madame Blavatsky, aka The Anti-Christ – formulated his own particular simony.). This ‘magick’ manifested itself in (mostly harmless) initiation ceremonies, ouija boards, planchettes (useful for automatic writing) and even more ceremonies, naturally.

Of course, one accepts that W.B.Yeats was a poet and not bound by any strict or obvious convention to conform. If such ‘machinery’ was useful for his poetry then we need look no closer nor farther for rationalisations, raison d’etres or explanations for his behaviour and involvements. Simultaneously, Yeats was developing an interest in politics, more specifically, Irish Nationalist or Republican politics. Yeats’ politics were a combination of seeming romantic and naïve commitment to ‘traditional’ rural mores and the seeming traditionalism of an enlightened yet benevolent aristocracy and a romanticised, poeticised peasant class. Of course, this really ignored the ‘real’ trajectory of Irish politics, the rise of an urban bourgeoisie and, concomitantly, an urban proletariat. (Marxist terms and possible anathema to Yeats and his aristocratic, remote patrons such as Lady Isabella Augusta Gregory. However, the Order of the Golden Dawn was also a front for radical views and counter-culture stratagems very like those of the post WW1 fall out and of the period after 1960. Intrinsically they sought to question the relations of man to a world ruled over by a fallen angel or anti-christ or a world in which all values were inverted or negated.) It seems that Yeats’ despairingness at encroaching Modernity, (although he is sometimes viewed as something of a Modernist, hence his affiliation with the American poet Ezra Pound – Ez and Old Billyum – who was, for a time, his secretary and editor.) – that ‘filthy modern tide’ (Yeats’ summation of flicks – an Irishism for films, no doubt summoned up by the projector’s silky hum, jazz, dance hall days and the complete subordination of art to filthy lucre and the intrusiveness of mass propaganda techniques. Significantly, Yeats was born in the era of steam trains, the American Civil War, Karl Marx and Frederich Engels when an aesthetic of ‘art for art’s sake’ was commonly accepted but died in the era of Joseph Goebbels, ‘Battleship Potemkin, the Spanish Civil War and Joseph Stalin. An enormous, epochal shift had occurred.

This general or generic discussion of Yeats brings me to the ‘illness’ (state, condition??) known as Asperger’s Syndrome and named after the Swiss analyst (aren’t all analysts Swiss? – Carl Gustav Jung??), Hans Asperger (Biography:Hans Asperger was born on a farm outside Vienna, the elder of two sons. At an early age he showed special talents in language, and already in the first school years he was known for his frequent quotations of the Austrian national poet, Franz Grillparzer (1791-1872). He had difficulty finding friends and was considered to be "remote". In the youth movement of the 1920's, however, he met with some comrades with whom he maintained contact all through his life. He was conferred doctor of medicine in 1931 and assumed directorship of the play-pedagogic station at the university children's clinic in Vienna in 1932. He married in 1935 and had five children. From 1934 he was affiliated with the psychiatric clinic in Leipzig.Hans Asperger had a special interest in "psychically abnormal" children. His paper, submitted to the journal in 1943, was based on investigations of more than 400 children with "autistic psychopathy" beyond his home district. However, since he travelled little, and all his publishing was in German, until recently Asperger's name was not as well known as that of Leo Kanner, who described infantile autism in 1943.In the later part of World War II Asperger served as a soldier in Croatia. He was habilitated as a lecturer at the University of Vienna in 1944 and became director of the children's clinic in 1946. He became professor at the university children's clinic – the Universitäts-Kinderklinik – in Innsbruck in 1957, and from 1962 held the same tenure in Vienna. From 1964 he headed the medical station of the SOS-Kinderdörfer (SOS Children's villages) in Hinterbrühl. Asperger was became professor emeritus in 1977. He was working until the last, delivering a lecture six days prior to his death.His list of publications counts 359 items, a majority of which concern two themes: "autistic psychopathy" and"death".) Asperger’s Syndrome, a benign form of autism, in other words, the positive expression of the condition and has been linked recently to names as diverse as Andy Warhol, Eamonn de Valera, Albert Einstein, Isaac Newtown and Yeats himself. The main ‘symptoms’ (I use this term hesitatingly, the term ‘illness’ too because ‘mental illness’ does not follow the same dialectic – diagnosis/prognosis/cure – as physical illnesses. There is unfortunately no real cure for psychosis or autism of any of the other major mental illnesses – bipolar affective, schizo-affective or manic-depressive psychosis. All of these illnesses have overlapping, shared symptoms but also much divergence and also differing sets of treatments and medications, thus making them very difficult to talk about in general terms but a set of symptoms are connected to the human, empathetic functioning. Empathy, in itself a coinage and the conjunction of the German word ‘einfuhlung’ (meaning ‘empathy’) and sympathy. Another related term is the generic ‘emotional intelligence, (a trope in itself since emotions and intelligence are palpably separate) covering a seeming multitude of human behaviours and behaviourisms. Most of them can be easily recognised: self-awareness, control of impulse, empathy, self-consciousness. So, here we have two coinages, a newly coined illness and a newly coined term describing a set of symptoms that we can define as in some way ‘new’ and specific to the 20th century.

Yeats’ interests therefore bifurcate towards romantic nationalism and towards theosophy and the occult but these two concerns are also directly connected together through his poetry, his infatuation with Maud Gonne (the obsessional characteristics of this infatuation mimic the wasted and ultimately futile obsessions of the autistic. Incidentally, sufferers from autism are much more likely to be male, thus iterating seemingly typical male preoccupations with logic and systems rather than feelings and emotions. Men who suffer from autism are very often referred to as being ‘more male than males’.), his inner development as an artist.

NIETZSCHE VS THE SMOG MONSTER

(I had to try to get Nietzsche into this essay, so pardon this banner heading. Imagine being whisked out of your living room suddenly by aliens and then given a free ride around our solar system. This is an exercise for you and some real imaginative work.)

NIETZSCHE VS GODZILLA

The difference between early Yeats and late Yeats (apart from his early affinity with Blake, Swedenborg and Boehme among other mystics and visionaries, adherence to Victorian yellow wallpaper sentimentality [Victorian yellow wallpaper possibly adorned with a poet’s bloodied tuburculosis vomit.] is the toughening of his work via his encounter with the philosophy of Frederick Nietzsche. Nietzsche influenced many creative writers of this period (G.B.Shaw, D.H.Lawrence, further influence in Germany and Italy in Anarchist political movements possibly because of his materialist and anti-Christian stance although there are significant and strongly anti-Liberal, authoritarian tendencies in Nietzsche’s writings, and Expressionist artistic and literary circles in Germany, particularly the movements der Blau Reiter and die Brucke.) possibly because creative writers find heavily systemised works and rather long tomes tiresome and enjoyed the aphoristic and decidedly succinct writings of Nietzsche.

The real development of Yeatsian ontology, his widening political and social awareness, and his aristocratic, neo-Nietzschean contempt for masses, mercantilism and markets, can be demonstrated by a poem such as ‘TO A WEALTHY MAN WHO PROMISED A SECOND SUBSCRIPTION TO THE DUBLIN MUNICIPAL GALLERY IF IT WERE PROVED THE PEOPLE WANTED PICTURES’ which I quote in full here:
TO A WEALTHY MAN WHO PROMISED A SECOND SUBSCRIPTION TO THE DUBLIN MUNICIPAL GALLERY IF IT WERE PROVED THE PEOPLE WANTED PICTURES YOU gave, but will not give againUntil enough of paudeen's penceBy Biddy's halfpennies have lainTo be 'some sort of evidence',Before you'll put your guineas down,That things it were a pride to giveAre what the blind and ignorant townImagines best to make it thrive.What cared Duke Ercole, that bidHis mummers to the market-place,What th' onion-sellers thought or didSo that his Plautus set the paceFor the Italian comedies?And Guidobaldo, when he madeThat grammar school of courtesiesWhere wit and beauty learned their tradeUpon Urbino's windy hill,Had sent no runners to and froThat he might learn the shepherds' willAnd when they drove out Cosimo,Indifferent how the rancour ran,He gave the hours they had set freeTo Michelozzo's latest planFor the San Marco Library,Whence turbulent Italy should drawDelight in Art whose end is peace,In logic and in natural lawBy sucking at the dugs of Greece.Your open hand but shows our loss,For he knew better how to live.Let paudeens play at pitch and toss,Look up in the sun's eye and giveWhat the exultant heart calls goodThat some new day may breed the bestBecause you gave, not what they would,But the right twigs for an eagle's nest!

Yeats bemoans the loss of the idealised ordering of the past, aristocratic patrons who might boast superior ‘breeding’, intelligence and insight and contempt for the masses as an ignorant mob, wholly uninterested in art but only in debased entertainment, pleasure as against seriousness. Of course, the Renaissance period was marked by widespread questioning about the nature of power and its uses and mis-uses, by challenges to power not simply of a political nature but also shifts in scientific understanding such as the Copernican revolution in knowledge. In fact, it is hard to believe that Yeats’ romantic, elitest and aristocratic attitudes could possibly have persisted into the modern era given the incredible changes that had occurred during the era he prefers to idealise. Of course, such attitudes could only persist in Ireland because of the lateness of industrialisation and the island’s generally peripheral status in relation to the rest of Europe. By 1900 the complex frisson created by Yeats concluded with various historical epochs – Byzantium, Renaissance Italy, Medieval Ireland – that could not possibly be compatible with the development of Ireland in the direction of Nationalist and Socialist politics. A further identity (or mask) is Yeats status as a Celtic Bard or Shaman in the ancient traditions of Bards and Shaman. Such figures as the Celtic (Welsh) Bard Taliesin (see ‘Gwion’s Riddle’, Robert Graves’ ‘The White Goddess’) and their Shamanistic powers, magical abilities, special powers influencing everything from animal behaviour, weather, physical illness, fertility and, of course, very similar to the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenics. Yeats’ association with the I.R.B. (Irish Republican Brotherhood, a nascent form of the Irish Republican Army or I.R.A. Latterly, this organisation split into two parts, the Official I.R.A. and the Provisional I.R.A. The Official I.R.A. were motivated more by their Marxist associations and gravitated away from violence as a means of perpetuating their political project. The Provisionals, however, embraced Green Republicanism with the aim of a United Ireland although some members, such as Martin McGuinness claim to be Marxists while asserting that their Marxist views were fundamentally at odds with their membership of the Catholic Church [Note the very strongly anti-Marxist and reactionary views of the ruling hierarchy of the Catholic Church.] rather than a Socialist Republic or Soviet. Today the organisation has once again split into the Provisionals who want to maintain the Good Friday Agreement and other splinter groups as the Real I.R.A.) was a harmless affiliation and Yeats’ aim was a loosely focussed and seemingly sentimental Irish Nationalism which was possibly the result of a reaction against his domineering father. Yeats came from a Protestant, Orange background and was first inspired to write poetry by a book of Orange rhymes. His Nationalist, Republicans views would have seemed decidedly odd to many of his contemporaries given his background and also deeply contradictory. These contradictions, symptoms of a search for identity, seem to be the foundations of Yeats’ art. Oddly, Yeats wasn’t much influenced by the vogue for Realism and Naturalism, current on the Continent in the early part of his life and throughout the 1890s and exhibited in the works of Zola, Flaubert, Ibsen and Strindberg. Naturalism was mainly associated with the novel and theatre. Ibsen rejected verse drama after his early work ‘Peer Gynt’ and adopted a lucid prose style to deal with the rather anti-poetic (it’s hard to say exactly what this means but probably alludes to dead traditions in theatre and poetry that Ibsen was rebelling against.), drab, sunless Norwegian landscape (light being an important metaphor for Ibsen – Osvald demands ‘more light’ at the end of ‘Ghosts’ - in such plays as ‘A Doll’s House’ and ‘Ghosts’. All in all Naturalism is an overt reaction against the conventions of the bourgeois novel and of the bourgeois theatre, recognisable, comfortable themes, verse drama, resolution, comforting and familiar depictions of domesticity and women. Since Ibsen dealt with themes of women’s oppression, schizophrenia, syphilis, guilt, repression, indeed a host of Victorian taboos.

Friday, 12 October 2007

GREAT ECONOMISTS IN HELL

Play 1 John Maynard Keynes in Hell~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

`The dreariest of sciences.' - Malthus

JM - I've just seen the whole of my life flash past. I got it wrong, you know: men don't love one another. My economic theories can't work.

1st Demon - Submit it to a Post-Structuralist analysis. The Devil says this works: but only on Mondays, his day for counter-factuals.

2nd Demon - So. Day and night, man and woman, white and black....

1st Demon - Dichotomies, all diamond bright and arrayed like shiny white pearls, like little sins - dichotomies.

JM - I'm worried. My left molar is bitten through. In Hell I just can't get a good dentist. Demon 1 said he could manage all the medical problems that came along - we're all dead after all - but eating all that soot and ashes is so - well, its irritating and boring but also painful. Smithian supply and demand economics, they're just not suited to Hell. Only living people can say they renounce love. But we have renounced - not just love - but coal, oil, clothes, food. Frankly, I'm sick of Hell. It's not the dystopia I once thought it. I think a Maoist Republic might be preferable. Maybe the half-living people of Beijing, maybe they occasionally find some human warmth, even if it is miserable, freezing, suffering and very, very small.

2nd Demon - You're a sentimentalist, John! At Versailles, you thought that Germany should not be punished in such a vindictive way. That would have made it even more difficult to defeat it the second time around. The Devil thinks you don't pull your weight, even when it comes to eating soot. Your not cut out for Hell, John. You might even ask yourself, why was I sent here?

JM - Why?

2nd Demon - You were sent here as an observer. Hell has no objective existence except in your mind. Wish it away or regard it as a play. If you'd been truly objective, then you might have become Tsar of Outer Mongolia or some other trans-Siberian depot. Instead you invented the Arts Council! (screaming)

Play 2 Karl Marx in Hell or Instruction Manual for Survival in Inhospitable Places~~~


KM : The proof of my theories is the fact that I'm being talked about at all! I said 'a spectre is haunting Europe' but, really, a spectre isn't haunting Europe. A child, maybe, lost, frozen, half-dead....

Demon 1: (whirling past) Hurry up!

KM: I can't go any faster: you told me the ball must be rolled to the top of the hill. I roll it up, it falls down again. Over and over again. (exhausted)

Demon 2: You said - and I refer you to the application form that you filled in personally at the start of your visit - you said, Hell in a Neo-Classical manner:-

KM: Yes...

Demon 2: Not Baroque Hell or Romantic Hell but Hell in the manner of your own Phd thesis on Greek Philosophy. Am I right? (yelling)

Demon 1: Hurry up now! You can't kick against the pricks! You asked for Hell after Sisyphus. You could have had Hell after Judas Escariot or the Hell of a minor Roman Pope.

KM: I changed my mind. Everything would have been settled, but Trotsky chose to end Krondstadt by comparing it to the last day of the Paris Commune. It was the exact anniversary. The point is this: I supported the Commune. I can't continue with a Christian Heresy by choosing a Christian damnation, can I?

Demon 1: You can't change to a Plan B Hell. Its too late. Any decision relating to such a matter would have to be made by the Guvnor.

KM: The Guvnor?

Demon 1: Lucifer, Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies, Satan, in Persian Zarathustra. The Devil!!!!

KM: (rattling on) How can you have morality in Hell? And truth! In Hell neither exists at all. As I said at the start: I am important because you still talk about me and looked forward to my company. What I actually said is a matter of no importance. Even the fact that you ceased to be an audience: but you stormed off and xy and z saw it. They realised that you had no refutation of my arguments.

Demon 2: (whirling past, yelling distantly) You can't kick against the pricks...


Play 3 Adam Smith in Hell~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Demon 1: The Guvnor wants a word with you!

AS: I've only just got here...

Demon 2: (interjecting) You've been here five years.

Demon 1: For the purposes of sniffing. You know the cardinal rule of Hell: no private soot piles. Remember, the Guvnor placed a 10 million year lease against his own rehabilitation. No private soot piles, and definitely not for use as a personal snuff box. Come on!

Darkness - glimmer of infernal fires

Devil: (booming voice) Well I never! Adam Smith! Can you explain to me why your private abundances should scorch my misery. Hell is built on greed. My infinite greed, my selfishness, my hatred. You cannot replace my private greed with your own. You'd privatise Hell and sell off slim percentages to the damned. (whispering) What was the percentage, I mean the percentage of net profit you made on the sale? Can you tell me? What investments can you advise?

AS: You mean monopoly...

Devil: Monopoly, monopoly... (whispering) yes, I'll talk to you later. Please, it's very helpful, I hope to re-mortgage the place in five years time. (in an official, booming voice) I will not tolerate your arrogance any longer. On the other hand, there's no where else for you to go. This is the lowest circle of Hell. (whispering) Couldn't you just disappear for a while, take a flight to the North Pole, be seen photographing...polar bears...with Japanese tourists, then come back. I'd make you into a minor Demon. Beelzebub, well, there's a problem with Beelzebub. He doesn't inspire terror, yes terror, but something more. At first he inspired terror, sure, but then there were many hiccups. Many regrettable things happened. My plan to change the North Sea into an oil slick: the adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan. They didn't go (harrowed and anguished) according to plan.

AS: Why? You are the Devil after all, with limitless foresight and insight. What happened?

Devil: The overall plan was fine, but we've had difficulty accounting for several things. The effect of terror and horror, yes of course there was lots of very effective terror and horror but I lost Beelzebub (moaning, utter gloom). He fell off the balcony of a hotel in Baghdad. We haven't seen him since. He was disguised as a Channel 4 reporter. O, the expense of his suits and rings (moaning). This ensured a catalogue of incidents. In short, things simply haven't gone according to plan.

AS: What do you think I can do?

Devil: Nothing. It's too late now. Events have left my grasp, things are out of control. Without my representative there I can't control the flow...the flow of propaganda and misinformation. (whispering) 5%, was it 5%, for the soot pile? How do you create these financial schemes? Can you ring up the Dow Jones or the Dax for me, now, place some bids. Please? I'll give you my...I'll give you my ducky for Friday night bath time. I'll give you my ducky. Duck, duck ducky...(sobbing) Nothing like this ever happened before...

Thursday, 11 October 2007

The Palace of Tears

The Palace of Tears

In memoriam - Henri Cartier-Bresson

Here is the Palace of Tears
A stolid, square building.
Bustling crowds cross and re-cross
Enter the U-Bahn, depart.

For homes, workplaces, infernal
Dwellings infested with machines.
Communication is no problem
For a street has a name.

People meet, populate cafes, bars
They have many trivial cares
And many trivial loves and likes
Such talk the future soon forgets.

Beneath the Palace of Tears
Are the trash cans, broken bottles,
Rubble, remains, a yesterday
Broken into, disinterred.

So the crowd disperses
It needs to be told what to do
So intimately, so easily
And a crowd can be led.

Raise a hand, wave a handkerchief
Read out the latest news:
Laugh, cry - the gamut of human emotions.
The eternal photographer grimaces, unkempt

His vignettes and silhouettes and Leica
Camera are everywhere, he is the neatly dressed man
On the train, merely immortal,
Well dressed but cold.

He fiddles with his Leica
He says nothing, he retorts (when questioned)
‘I am a photographer and untrained.’
Not so much a doppelganger

Your brother, he departs.
At the Palace of Tears.
The carriage is chill, not so
Chill as death but almost so.


Morgenrot

Morgenrot und grau in meinem Fenster.
Meine Traeume sind Echter als die Realitaet
und auch trauriger. Honig und rotwein
drei Pferde in meinen Traum.
Morgenrot oder Daemmerung sind
besser ohne Dich. In meinem Fenster
ein kleiner Vogel und ein grosser Baum.
Drei Pferde, blau mit grauen Augen.
Im Lustgarten mit dir, spaeter.
Ankunft der Zug in Hauptbahnhof.


Madagascar

Rangily annotated clear sunrise, inhabitants of an external shell
or Viennese suburb: elderly teachers of languages, makers of bread,
fermenters of beer, poets, novelists, Zealots or formalised formalists.
ranged like a morse code of dots and hyphens on an imaginary island
through the thumb nail telescope that originated from a limp mucus
a spoilt yoghurt of semen or inchoate globules of milk or bacteria.
The grammar, syntax of palm trees, unending beaches, each shark fin
an inverted question mark, a why, what or wherefore.

WHO IS BETSY KINGSMITH?

who you are, a mirage on a motorway
a get rich quick scam
something too good to be true and naked
on a car bumper, an imitation of something sexual:

hooker, policewoman, spy. deep Southern drawl;
a woman’s name, a Confederate balloon
hoisted to rouse the vicinity, empty pants, vacant chair.
a photo reversed lidless eyes.

images of Sheridan, broken shaking,
an upside down ironclad, line of bayonets
or tattered flags, Southern cross.
Antietam, Potomac - names that seemed

just as many pink or white spots:
host of pixels or manic pointillism
penumbra, iron shavings, tumbleweed
emptied barns, fields torn by the wind.

Ossiacher See

Spent the last week on the shores of Ossiacher See in Austria, in a village called Bodensdorf. Across the water is the Stiftskirche Ossiach, c 11th century, many fine concerts on a Schubert theme. The shop has lots of Arvo Pärt recordings, a composer who takes Bach´s tonal complexity and makes it simple enough. I have injuries from a waterski incident, bascially got overexposed to the sun, with the reflective material of the boat no help and then overnight developed intense pain in my left shoulder, cured this morning by ibuprofen, an amazing wonderdrug of modernity. The people who own the guesthouse seem strange, always answering my questions with another question, ie ´what time does the store close at?´
´what do you need?´
(a party pack of pink condoms, I think it´s my lucky night....)
what time does the library close at?
what books do you need?
(Karl Marx´s Das Kapital, the revolution begins tonight in Villach....)
I feel like saying ´mind your business you nosey twat´, but they´d probably say ´what colour and how many nosey twats?´
I think it´s all sarcasm, obviously, like saying fuck off without actually saying it. The other guests are fine, all German or Austrian. A very alive couple from Hamburg, the husband reminds one of late Spike Milligan, and a Berliner obsessed with table tennis, but really a very pleasant man. This morning the owners tried to double charge me for the room, alleging that my moaning and groaning was the consequence of fornication not the speed boat incident but it was all resolved.
Went to Klagenfurt and Mahler´s hut in Maiernigg am Wörthersee, also Robert Musil museum in Klagenfurt.
Obviously this is Haider country, he´s on lots of posters, now looking older and more avuncular.
So, lots of swimming in the lake, easier than it seems although it takes getting used to, table tennis and the water ski. Tried to climb up the mountain but everyone is eager to offer lifts etc. I did lots of hitching around Kärnten, its easy and quite simple to spot the average Austrian psycho a mile off. (touch wood, frig that´s my head...) Got into Á thousand Plateaus´and Nietzsche explained to me a little anyway. German improving but I detest the language now. Every guy in Villach is called Gianni and the whole thing looks like a rejected painting by moi. The mountains sweep down to the lake and this is unlike Switzerland. People try a lot harder in Austria than Schweiz, to please but they´re still a load of (relative) hillbillys, hence their election of Haider. Dr Jörg (I wonder what the PhD is in?) is omnipresent, would like to invade his villa and shoot his sheepdog but no one knows where it is. The only other thing is Großglockner but really I´ve seen it all and nothing creative has happened just lots of distractions.

Palast der Republik

Palast der Republik

Now they must destroy the Palast der Republik, a reminder that the old society was once new, for who wants such a reminder? Out with the new old and in with the new old new. They say that 'some people want to back to that'. (the new old) Perhaps it is the one in five Berliners who are currently unemployed, wearing rags or hand me downs. Perhaps it is they who thought that the old was once new (or even just a little younger). Back to the new old new. Now it has the chance to fail twice! Then they must make leisure freedom not work!

I'm in Berlin. Its -20. The streets are (naturally) deserted. got a job offer and this time it was a good one....

Stalingrad Madonna

So, sorted out with some accommodation although the architecture is definitely of the Stalinist era (I think they call it wedding cake style. grandiose, white, pimply buildings, so abstracted as to almost disappear beyond the skyline. Its hard to think that anyone could have such a minimalist or abstract imagination.) or rather a part of Berlin re-built after allied bombing (is hard to say which it is, the city has been through so much turmoil and still trying to establish its identity). Its still good to be here. I start work next week, 8 classes with Civil Servants from the Ministry of Agriculture. I´ve brought painting work with me so that I can get on with it even when I´m not teaching. There may also be some fallow days. I was in the Jugendherberge for 2 nights. Actually not bad but the loo paper is grey which just about sums up the rest of the facilities and the experience. (I think its the grey recycled paper, very ecological no doubt but not very good at their intended purpose) The Spree is frozen solid, with lumps of ice coagulating into little floes breaking the surface and then seeming to disappear. I´ve never seen a frozen river before. I have some days to myself now and intend to get on with my painting in that time, also visiting some of the museums to do a little sketching. Keeping myself to myself generally although I met a girl returning from a job in Sweden and struck up a friendship with her. She´s now returned to her home nr Leipzig. Visited the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtiß Kirche (aka hollow tooth - the roof was bombed in during the war hence the nickname) to see the Stalingrad Madonna, a loveless and wretched message in a bottle sent by the 6th Army during its encirclement - the most brutal and bloody battle in world history. The drawing was made of a Madonna and child by a German doctor on the back of map. There is an undoubted spirituality about it. The child and mother are wrapped foetus-like in a semi-circle. Around the pair words in German, life, love, peace, freedom, Christmas 1942, Stalingrad. Stayed in the hotel Les Nations in Zinzindorfer Str. for a night. They remembered me and gave me a room en suite at the economy price. The smart little man was there, speaking his perfect English and complimenting me on my bad German! I walked around the block, just enough time to gather icicles on my moustache and step into a steh cafe or imbiß joint for a roll and a coffee. Lots of Turks lounged around, smoking black tobacco and playing cards. PM

Meeting with the PDS

This morning an impromptu demo by the PDS (the former Communists). I spoke to them and bought their little paper Sozialschmarotzer. There is a great deal of waffle about Marxism and then lists of the leading Nazis. The strange thing is that they only mention the professions of their fathers. The occupation of Julius Striecher´s father hardly concerns me but perhaps it is on the tip of everyone´s tongue in Germany.

Fantasies of Revolution

They talked to me about the need for another revolution, that going back to Capitalism is not a revolution (I agree with this, that the Wende was not a revolution....), that when they get in again that everything will be different and better, they talked about the natural laws outlined by Marx in Das Kapital. The smaller one who seemed to have more authority than the others glared at me with a seeming strangeness. I noticed a spider burrowing into his little cap. The whole thing left an odd impression, but not the waffle. I´d heard that all before. The spider is burrowing into the head of a would-be Lenin on a sunny but cold morning in Berlin, burrowing and going deeper down into his fermented brain pan. Overhead a jet roars. Traffic deepens. The S-Bahn stutters. The spiders aim is to burrow its way to China. Then it can activate a China Syndrome of spiders. They take over the world and cheerily eradicate humanity. Spiderdom is born.

I slept but not well. In the morning I washed but there was no hot water. A cold shower in these temperatures!

Mitteleuropa

Yes a blog. There´s something so Grizzly Adams about it all, well its irresistable. When I get back to my room I have a hot shower and pass out for 5 hours. Then I get up, read or paint and then sleep until 6PM. A bleak Mitteleuropean winter, so horrible it makes Ivan Denisovitch´s Gulag look like a holiday camp, but wasnt that what it was intended to look like? O for a bowl of fish head soup, a kick in the head and some bleary eyed sleep, woken by the stasi guard for yet another joyous kicking! Makes Orangefield look like a holiday camp. (that phrase again) I seek the sauna and the company of naked nymphettes to do sport with, fornicate, throw soap and the like. This is all salt rubbed into the wounds. Somehow my metaphors have become so mixed its almost good writing - gulags, nymphs, saunas, kicks. On the bleak walk over the bleak former Stalinist kicking ground my head fell off and a group of men had a game of impromptu football with it. Still sipping the last scale of scaley fish head soup, my glassy eye improved with all those important fish oils, I became the first header of the season. Ouch those metaphors hurt this time. My head became a sputnik that failed to make it. blag, blah, blag

PRELUDE

OPERA 1 - DESCENT OF THE AVATAR

ROCKET SCIENCE (panoply of regenbogen light and angelic harping)

You know who I am but you can't bear to hear it. I know the stress fracture structure of the World Trade Centre like the back of my hand. I know the timetable of the planes from Palo Alto. I am the ghost in the machine. I am the bread and the butter also. I am the toothbrush moustache that lapped up just so much of Judy Garland's love juice. I am an Empresses dildo. (I am the Queen Dido.) I am the decimated atoms that Democritus saw. I am Anaxamander. I am Heraclitus. I am Parmenides. I am a whole army of pre-Socratics and we are coming to your McDonalds to wear Ronald McDonald suits, to dance for you. I am the light of 10,000 suns. I am become death destroyer of worlds. I am 50 million, skulls, skeletons, various rhizomes. I am the Hair Bears. I am the Banana Splits. I am the funky chicken. I am real ash on the carpet. I bore the banner before Alexander. I was there when Soddom and Gommorah fell. I sat before the Throne of the Great Distributor. I am Jesus. I am Krishna. I am Lazarus, come back to tell you all... I am the Word. I am alive in death alive in dreams dreaming of death.

Opera prelude - The Vampyr Schaden

Chorus: Emmendingen's a nuthouse, Freiburg's a gaol, Germany is the corridor leading into it and the whole world is its portal.
and the chief nut in the nut hatch is Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe, a coalminer's son from the Ruhrgebiet masquerading as a genius. Crappenscheiss is the name of his first book, an imitation of Italianate models brought by lackeys on the journey to Italy he never made. Fuckwit is the name of his wife, a blousy bitch with huge tits and an insatiable appetite for bonking. The Head of the Nuthatch is Professor Dogsdirt from the University of Feltch, an expert on head bumps and a dead cert to become Vice Chancellor of the University after he knocks off the rules one by one in his sinister laboratory, full of foaming chemicals, human engineering and jars stuffed with embryos, brains, organs of various refugees who have regularly poured through his fiefdom in the hope of asylum but not organ donation. When one day a travelling minstrel passes by and sets off an atom bomb thus immolating everyone and everything in the vicinity. Word eventually reaches Dogsdirt as he passes out somewhere near the eventual urn in which his putrid maw will sit for eternity (the next 5 minutes). Never setting out the working principles of freedom, since each word he received became a massive turd heaved in every direction (but actually caught and heaved back with aplomb), boom, boom...

SCENE 1: AT THE OPERA HOUSE

'I want to speak to you.'
'What is it?'
'I want you to construct a wave machine - there (points) cut to the usual dimensions but with a golden Cupidon perched at the centre. Two days (laughs)....

There wasn't very much I could do that evening but in the morning I returned and set about my work, 7 tiers of waves with rotating handles.

'What is it?', I said
I was cutting a length of wood. In the background footsteps and then silence.
(A feeling of tension and fear.)
Sometime later I woke with a sudden, incredible banging but it was only the door and the opera manager. He picked me up and started to slap me gently in the face.

‘I was attacked.’
‘By whom? Are you sure, you have no injuries?’

Later that evening my attacker made himself known to me as Wolfgang Schaden. He had cut deeply into my arteries, draining my blood . I sat draining cup after cup of wine, nibbling on a little bread. Time and time again I vomited, my stomach aching, throat lacerated and stinging. Sitting in front of me wearing a tiara he found in the costume cupboard. Occasionally giggling, his conversation was peppered with bad jokes he said he picked up from a Russian merchant he ate the week before.

‘Did I tell you the one about the Georgian whore?’
‘I don’t think so, tell me it?’
‘What do you find on top of a naked woman?’
‘A naked man?’
What do you find on top of a naked Georgian whore?’

The cup fell from my hand, Schaden was at my throat again. Fingers fluttered gently around my neck, he held my collar.

‘I wanted to be a librettist, you see, but no one would employ me.’
‘Really?’
‘So I became a carpenter.’

I am a regiment composed entirely of skulls, skeletons. I have 7000 limbs, each of them is squeezing the universe 'til it pops. I consist of evacuations, eviscerations, various rhizomes, roots, bindings. I have no centre. I know that I hear the awakening of difference.

I am the wanderer. I like a great deal that is out-of-date and unfashionable.


SONG (according to the book of Genesis)

For Johnny Algebra, Roy the Log, Max the Planck, Albert who got lost in Bern, and all the rest of the escapees…


MR ONESTONE GOES TO BERN

Albert: “I am only a Patent Clerk, my love, but when I look in your eyes…”
“You’re the deputy controller of instrumentation..”
“Exactly.”

The chorus strikes up

He’s only a Patent Clerk
Only a Patent Clerk
Patent Clerk
Patent Clerk
But when he looks in her eyes
Her eyes
Her eyes
He’s the deputy controller of instrumentation…
Tation
Tation
ion

AT THE MAX PLANCK INSTITUTE

“Albert why do you do a job as a Patent Clerk, when you could be…”
“Professor at the Max Planck Institute?”
“I suppose…”
“I’d have to join the Nazi Party, in any case, I’m a Jew, but I really think that that wouldn’t matter...”
“If you could build a nuclear bomb?”
“Of course, Anti-Semitism is only for those who are unlucky enough to be poor and not…”
“Physicists?”

Song

He’s poor and he can’t think of a weapon of mass destruction as fast as the Fuhrer can say Apfelstrudel.

We all know that the middle word
in life is ‘polyphiloprogenitive’
My love, for you
I crossed the Universe
the sun also rises
I saw Berlin backwards
Through the optic nerve
It jars you know
That I am here, so far from you
That Berlin is falling not rising

For your love
Your love
Lo
L

REHAB WOMAN - AN OPERA IN FIVE ACTS

OPERA PRELUDE


rehab women lurking in every corner of your mind
rehab woman, in your dreams
rehab woman lying in a pool of vomit
rehab woman eating another rehab woman
rehab woman enjoying quiche
rehab woman
rehab wom
rehab wo
rehab w


ACT 1

In the rehab clinic, Simon, a naive yet enthusiastic volunteer, depicts his seminal belief in altruism to a group of likewise philanphropists.

Aria 1

Simon tells of his readings in Benjamin, Adorno, Bloch, Brecht and other important members of the Frankfurt School of philosophy.

Simon:

I tell you the day I read Walter Benjamin
examining the state of the narrow wheel gauge at Portbou
the change from Europe to somewhere
neither European nor African
heat and light, the Spanish graiffiti
all the tourists, visitors, mere spectators,
of this dream, made me dwell on a variety
of wheel gauges scattered in desolate train stations
from Murmansk in the north to Algeciras in the south.
I recall the trip to Barcelona he never made
and examine the state of my soul.
have you ever read
the Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Production?
a very important seminal text and worth
considering on a seminal trip to a seminal place.
Go to Parc Guell, smoke a joint, play chess and do Tai Chi
With a variety of American tourists.
in the gardens overlooking la Sagrada Familia
where we sat all night watching the flaming fire flies
tongues of Spanish gargoyles lacerating spittle
down upon the heads of American tourists.


RIDDLE

One things for sure the price of a packet of sugar snaps never changes, no ambiguity, no confusion.

TMA1

So, these are the processes of deduction I have shown you. Call me Sherlock Holmes, Dupin, Marlowe, private eye, detective, logician, super-philosopher, deducer of old secrets, searcher in tombs, liberator of old mummy caskets, enbalmer of Aztec God Kings. I know the ENIGMA code, I am the Enigma code (O no not that riddle again), I've read - yes I can read - I hold in the palm of my hand the encoded atoms - the remnants of Troy, the Palace of Agammemnon, the golden grave mask of Achilles.

HAL 9000 COMPUTER

eins in a wearywide field there was einen mooksie. Diese mooksie war gross und strong, Jebelzbell artichokes darkened heart unfolding leaves. Ate. Sat. Nr bellplant mit heartrent crying petals und semtex stems. Roar, Rain.

EYE OF JAPETUS

Nice views of Narcissus flowers. Condemned to a pre-Christian Hell. In the morning Narcissus, in the afternoon Sisyphus, in the evening Tantalus.

STAR-CHILD

Lord of the Rings - porn version -
walk into the bedroom, open a wardrobe. A rubber blow-up, inflatable - the one with the leatherette bootkins - Nazgul falls out, fills the room. Orgies of Goblins and Orcs. A 12 man circle jerk at Lothlorien. O Galadriel, I always knew you'd be the best...

Lord of the Unlit Toilet!

Woolfie, Woolfie (who is this Woofie)

(book bit)
He had returned in time to the space that man call real. Down below on the glittering globe the great tracking telescopes
in a sudden efflorescence of death
to his will and in moments
History as men knew it would be drawing to an end.

'History is a nightmare from which I am trying to escape.' - Stephen Daedelus ('Ulysses')
'History repeats itself once as tragedy twice as farce.' - Karl Marx
'History is Bunk.' - Henry Ford

Psychobilly death star, raunchy non-leather trunks, Lenin boots.

all the products of our Grossenwahn - money. The next Grossenwahn - upsidedown terpsichorean rotating mechanical alligator - I seek money now for this project.

Troy but a heap of frozen poultry. Anaxiforminges!

Cyclopian drinks waiter the interminable cackling of Harpies
shield ring hoofy iron ring, occluded Ionian night
can't you hear their hoof beats, at my window
The daughters of Odin will ride this day, bloody their lances, tonight we will eat and sup in Valhalla. (in a Brooklyn accent)

Karl is feeding the sheep, Martha is forking the mist, Schweinimaus is bounding towards me over the turf...

Those surrealism tablets have changed me into a cold unfeeling reptile and, quite frankly, I'm sick of it.

THE MARRIAGE OF merkin muffley TO FRAU SCHWEINIMAUS

It's a dog-shaped world, a dog-shaped world including N.Ireland and Bavaria.

These are the lips that will kiss you, this is the puff adder snake that will sting you.

How you remind me of Picasso's portrait of Dora Mar. From beast to woman, from woman to beast.

OUTER MONGOLIAN THROAT SINGING

I understand the opera fades away, but then it’s awfully hard to sustain the pitch of purely imaginative writing. I tried to learn some musical instruments, including some wind instruments. Music is something you make when you want to. And absolutely no theory is necessary. Listening to Nietzsche's musical arrangements, conceived when the philosopher tired of his work, some Sub-Schubertian but not stunningly original arrangements. I'm interested in Wagner's music-drama but also the earlier singspiele of Mozart's era. Of course Romanticism offers a wider range of responses than music of the Classical era which is tied down by an overwhelming need to work with the forms. And this is also a legacy of the Enlightenment foregrounding rationalism but also largely denied a range of responses called emotions that may, as Schopenhauer said, explain human motivations more profoundly than the intellect. I investigated Mendelsohn's music recently which again is fully blown Romanticism and thereby more emotive, powerful than the rational little tubes of paint/music laid down by the Mozartians who must have seemed as hippies do to us. Handel too, lived in Bond Street, London. I painted his harpsichord as the world-famous harpsichordist Lawrence Cummings played and a petit soprano sang an unknown (to me) oratorio. (Later Jimi Hendrix was an occupier of the same house. Hendrix extemporised as Handel had once done, but by then the vogue was for guitar lead breaks, addendums to the Baroque style. But the configuration Handel-Hendrix demonstrates how the world had moved on. A black man afforded the unaffordable address of the composer from Sachsen-Anhalt. Handel, born in Halle, Sachsen-Anhalt, today a soot-stained museum of Cold War memorabilia/pollution. Handel's Messiah, premiered in Dublin, though written in London, the interconnection of benign, civilizing Germans, later on, black hippies arriving on my own doorstep.) After Hendrix, Punk rock arrived, demonstrating that hard white men could still be angry, passed quickly. Then Techo, born in Berlin and probably doomed to die there. Personally I like the German Band Wolfsheim. My friend Martha from Bayern introduced me to them. They cast their shadow back to 80s groups like Gary Numan but also to Kraftwerk, a German techno group 'growing up' in the era of Punk, a British/US phenomenon. Perhaps there is a dichotomy between the slightly mechanical, technology tinged music of Kraftwerk and Punk rock as there had earlier been a division between Romantic and Classical eras. In Muenchen donner und blitzen boomed like explosives, the first chords of Wagner's Tannhauser switched on to the mysterious non-switch of Alexander the Roth's radio. His own contribution, a painterly one, alone a mystery of itself, hidden behind his infamous nude women with beards sequence. Alas, an all too forgettable Ps to the development of that genre. At Schloss Neuschwanstein I lingered in Koenig Ludwig's once throne room, images all around from Wagner's Parsifal and indescribable sense of past pastness invoked intense nausea so I left. At Bayreuth I sat in Wagner’s library at Villa Wahnfried, and listened to Lohengrin, then stood before the Grab of Cosima and he, a simple burial mound as Viking or Nordic as it looked. Standing there made me realise how risky business history is, how even Saying 'the wrong thing' could influence the world, push everyone to the brink.

Paul Murphy

THE LAST CHANSON

Unfortunately, she's off to rehab and not the cornfield...

UNE ALLÉE DU LUXEMBOURG

Gérard de Nerval trans. James Kirkup (haiku)

Elle a passé, la jeune fille
Vive et preste comme un oiseau:
A la main une fleur qui brille,
A la bouche un refrain nouveau.
C'est peut-être la seule au monde
Dont le coeur au mien répondrait,
Qui venant dans ma nuit profonde
D'un seul regard l'éclaircirait!
Mais non, ma jeunesse est finie...
Adieu, doux rayon qui m'as lui,
Parfum, jeune fille, harmonie...
Le bonheur passait, il a fui!

She passed by - young girl lively and light as a bird,
holding in her hand a brilliant flower and on her lips a new song.
Perhaps she's the one person in the world whose heart would respond to mine -
who in my deep night with a single glance might be able to lighten
my darkness! ... But no ...my youth is finished...Farewell, gentle light, that cast
its glow upon me - sweet fragrance - young girl,harmony - and happiness passed by - it has fled!

How much for Britney's pubic mop? A fiver? The latest celebrity non-question. Perhaps if I had her (pubic mop) in a little tin, sniffing it every night before bed. Where once Britney's vaginal juices flowed plentifully (and perhaps other juices best left unmentioned). But I couldn't afford it. Shakespeare's moustache, Beethoven's wig, Wagner's codpiece? By all guestimates Britney must be a fabulously gifted artist, not a purveyor of simplistic pop tunes. 1 million $. loads of money, a very daft but fabulously wealthy American, a demented rock starlet. Not rocket science. Britney walks into her bedroom, opens her closet. A pile of her shit falls on her little angelic head. Now the shit is encased in gold, sold for $ on Wall Street. In the past artists were trained, they worked hard to perfect their art. They didn't expect sudden handouts. They got desperate, were ignored. Committed suicide in cornfields peppered with crows. Next week Britney's stunt will be forgotten. The next awful cry for help, for attention will be her sudden suicide. Demented, with a knife, she shears off her skin, internal organs. Down to a pile of bones (all sold off for chunks of gold), a pile of Britney's minging pee and shit, minging kidneys, heart. Britney's minging skull sings one last pop chanson, burbling on interminably, then stutters, stops.

(Michael has just told me that Wagner was a cross dresser. Why???)

Wednesday, 10 October 2007

tHE aRSENAL

Today a small yet vital football stadium, The Arsenal, moved in beside me. I plodded over to the window:

'nu...nu...nuffink'

'Wot?'

'nuffink!'

'Hold on I've got it: if you take the 3rd of the month, multiplied by 22, you get: instant coffee for half the present price!'

The crowd roared. I knew it was a devilishly good idea, but simply hadn't expected that kind of appreciation.

Later I cut out letters from the Telegraph and stuck them onto my door. 'Deep Thought' it read in black and bold lettering. (But little did they know that I was in there with 50 nixies or a zillion tinnies or, even, doing absolutely bugger-all-squared - even.)