a fiesta of charms

Kofi Boamah

a fiesta of charms

shorts

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© All work Courtesy of Artist Kofi Boamah

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a fiesta of charms

...a painting in words

shorts

Kofi Boamah

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...seven flamingos... one

...the taste of salty rain sunk into clothes like perfume, and rose

aside the reckoning that the small trinkets of Isabel’s: rose

coloured ornaments of elephants, bronze feet with blotches of

skin pink, blood red necklaces, and more were all illustrating a

latent and then forthright desire to express the myriad of ways

she had accepted life’s idiosyncrasies...the malady of the

absurd, the nature of what it could possibly mean to be a

woman often on the edge of sanity...

...her performance piece, articulations of a mosaic form, was

based around a performance by Guatemalan Artist Regina José

Galando, called Who can erase the traces? Of which Isabel

commented acted as a revelation...the ordeal, commented,

Hilaire seemed to be Isabel’s distinct pursuit of a sexual void...

...throughout the nights before Isabel’s performance she often

satiated a need for immersion into character by, simply,

becoming a different person with, sometimes, opposing

traits...hyper-sexual one evening, void and sullen

another...there seemed no real reflection on reality in ways that

were difficult to function around...donuts thrown on the floor

hysterically, nights orchestrated around a fiesta of tormenting

happenings...that often culminated in her crying on the

kitchen, though the sound of her laughter sprung from a depth

so deep it seemed transforming, obliterating in its capacity to

alter moods...

...the sense of mystique, even around people others deemed

absurd, seemed to seep out of her skin into the atmosphere,

into the ether surely nestled against the flowers, the dead

poets, the trees...

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the care home at Doncaster (part one)

...the old man seems to enjoy salivating, he often spends hours

doing so, and so you ask him...Savnañy are you salivating

because you’re hungry or what..? Which is usually met with the

words...it gives me something to do... so it seemed strange when

a few nights later after he died, that the coroner remarked that

he had died of starvation...I adjusted my dress shirt, in perhaps a

tragic way that can be expected in such a situation, slowly and

perhaps insinuating a remorse for what occurred...before

offering the thought that Savnañy would have enjoyed going out

like that...I remember enjoying the use of the phrase, going out

like that, as if scatting with a gangster on a dark street corner...

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...the silent festering of a moody atmosphere between a man and

a woman sat down in a cafe

...the taste of a hard papaya left for a few days in a cold fridge

...the muddy remembrance of a conversation had at a bus stop

with a woman you recognise again

...the smell of just fallen snow

...the taste of tomato sauce licked off a bare nipple

...the rousing feeling of exposed anger within a crowd

...the oily stains of paint on old pieces of clothing

...the grandiose tales of a con man met on a train from Halifax to

Manchester

...the dry humour of a suicidal old man in a pub pouring much

of the contents of a pint of Guinness on himself

...the ecstasy of understanding another human being, after a long

languid conversation

...the humorous immodesty of a model complaining of vanity

...the quiet eroticism of death

...the deluge of excitement when catching a glimpse of something

completely new

...the ordeal of deciphering a Poet’s words

...the sound of rainwater against a windowsill

...the overheard conversation of a woman in the outer regions of

Stockholm whispering of escaping, acquiring large amounts of

fruit, Foucault

...the Childish panic of just realised self expression

...the tastelessness of drops of left over red wine slithering

lethargically down your throat

...the deathlike stares of old depressed men at bus stops

...the world doesn’t need more reality gently muttered by an old

lady outside a hairdresser’s in Tooting

...the pedantic manner of a bird trying to scavenge through a

recycled green bag, soon strewn chaotically across the streets

...the aggressive nature of a woman many deem a cougar

...the collection of thoughts that feel almost real and tangible

until the painting leaves your sight

...the beauty of the violence of the painting

...death stares at ripe Plums

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...the martyr¿

‘So many things begin and perhaps end as a game’ Julio

Cortázar, Graffiti

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...It’s strange to know a terrorist, their cliche searches for

bomb making, and then their forays into a rather ardent liking

for Emma Stone seem too close to home, in a sense,

absurd...though he we are, I thought, as I walked about the

living room thinking of what to say...oh the Jews, or those pesky

Seculars, those swine...instead I pieced together a few sentences

that perhaps came across as trivial...something to do with the

man from Chile...Arda soon walked in and starts berating the

government and its insistent need to cower to what she strangely

referred to as the teat of existence...and then the gun then seems

to just go off, leaving blood seeping onto the floor over a few

magazines with Emma Stone on the Cover and a book called

Ways to Kill...Arda a few days later reconciled this death with a

martyred monologue of continuing the legacy...what legacy, I

thought, as the wind crept between us...I enjoy things that go

without saying, so I felt put out by Arda, and relieved to leave

the conversation without any commitments, though I was close

to suggesting meeting up later in the week, I became distracted

by a lady mimicking playing a piano walking through the street...

...it was only a week or so later that Arda reappeared at

my door asking to borrow some money, and suggesting rather

blatantly that she would struggle to pay the money back...so I

acted like I had thought hard about this, hand on head, and said

that I had no money because I had spent the preceding week

painting a series of canvas I would exhibit in the coming month,

adding that oil paint was more expensive than acrylics and that it

was important that I did this...Arda called the situation

ridiculous before making elusive comments about death, fires

and then the man from Chile...we had both been rather

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obsessed with this man, to the point that we accepted, stood in

my doorway, that the Labyrinthine nature of his disappearance

was particularly seductive...I think Arda had started to touch

her breasts unbeknown to her as her eyes were concentrating

on a woman walking past...I then spent two or three days in the

flat, just painting, sleeping and eating, before Arda arrived

again talking about a German man and something to do with

some stolen sausages...I felt obligated to only partially listen as I

was mostly thinking about Max Ernst, though I was reminded

about our recent death only when she mentioned that she had

sold all the DVD’s with Emma Stone...

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...maria, maria, maria...

...the brand of melancholy displayed by Maria seemed

rather morose, she came across the type of person that was

genuinely at the end of her tether, until she laughed...she had a

wicked laugh that sprung and lulled mostly about dark

happenings that were able to be reconfigured into some sort of

witticism, usually anyway, though most of the time her face had

this succulent tightness like a virgin...though when Patrice

arrived and spoke about Alex leaving him and splitting up with

him just as she left for India Maria laughed the same hysterical

laugh, though soon stopped when she perhaps realised it was not

on, it was just not on, so she then poured herself a Vodka and

soon looked like a George Condo painting, eyes bulging with an

insipid delight, whilst her drunkenness became more and more

distinct...profanity poured out into brief tirades on trains,

commuters, poets she saw as ridiculous, shadows forming in

summer where death saunters...

...she woke up in the exact same mood, sat up and poured

herself another Vodka, whilst commenting that a peculiar thing

happened a while back, something she hadn’t wanted to share,

but now felt compelled...and it seemed to instantly obliterate the

silence although I, personally, braved myself for something I

couldn’t enjoy, something I would fail to dislodge from my

mind...though it started fine, she, apparently, had been invited to

a party in Buenos Aires and was keen to go, mentioning that she

wanted to drink and see what the culture was like, though the

story continued in a rather dark manner, a man with abscesses

entering the apartment to talk about his dead wife, an old woman

falling out of a window to become something a scatter of birds

started to nibble on until someone noticed the body, a theatre



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play put on locally where a Chilean man shot and killed himself

at the end, a man with a big nose...

...it seems all too much, said Patrice with the feeling that

Maria was on a precipice we couldn’t ignore for very much

longer...

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...that Eddie from Aberdeen...

...they were talking in a refrained manner, eyes darting around,

bodies sat comfortably against the orange metallic seats that

arouse the suspicion of wiped off urine stains from noble

hobos...talking about an Eddie from somewhere they were

remembering as Edinburgh and then somewhere in Clyde

neither cannae pinpoint, adding that perhaps he was the one that

went to live in Bucharest with a woman the elder lady described

as a wee floosie, though she never explained why... they finally

after about ten minutes stumbled on the conclusion that Eddie

was from Aberdeen and that he had been killed by a Yorkshire

terrier a few years before...I could do with a battered mars bar,

soon mumbled the old man in a feint whisper...

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...abstract portrait...

‘“I’m going insane!” I say so loudly that I’m bashful again before I’ve

finished the sentence.’ Kjersti Skomsvold, Monsterhuman

...I am orchestrating thoughts of dying while doing my



laundry...the dry hum of the turning machine perpetrates a

sense of nothingness in a rather sweet way, that escalates the

feelings I am definitely having, or conducting within this body I

am rather alarmed by, staring at it in the mirror, the reflection

obtuse and fatal...like an open wound, or a pool of rain water

nestling a badly written poem about a dead pigeon or another,

you can never be sure if it’s you in the mirror, as the question

prevails...who am I..? The answer lies somewhere, unfortunately

perhaps so inside, deep inside I then think on the end of my bed

where I stare at the wall, at the tired excuse for a partition

between myself and Falu...who spends most days researching

conspiracy theories that amount to no real purpose, as the day

moves regardless whether a lizard like figure is persuing your

soul or not, perhaps this figure is chubby...Falu has something

against chubby people, even the last girlfriend he had, who was

rather chubby, ended in an unhinged argument doused in

accusations related to her chubbiness... at the window the usual

seems to continue to occur, people going about with their

despair perhaps pushed to the back of their minds that rather

pay attention to the rain or the soup that they’d eat that

evening...I’ve always hated scheduling anything, soup could be

eaten just as haphazardly as a decision to catch a train, who

knows, I like to surprise myself, which is why I bought the

dummy I sat up against the bed rest and use sparingly, mostly

Thursdays and Fridays because you need somewhere to put your

dick sometimes, although I’ve started to develop thoughts in

Maude’s regards (the name of the dummy) as I can’t fathom a

more real relationship...acquired actions include cleaning,

check, interactions, check and general maintenance...it’s very

much real, though I tell you that she speaks and I can hear

shouts of madman, but it is true, she often speaks of shoes and

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perhaps wanting to taste the food I eat...

...Falu complained earlier on tonight that I was being too loud,

escalating his voice to a disdainful tenor until I promised to

quieten down...Maude would soon complain that I was being a

pushover to the point that I felt bludgeoned by a responsibility

to regain a certain feeling Falu has squandered on making a

point that was shielding from his ridiculous life, though I

wondered if it was opportune time to propose a distinct

compromise to Maude, sat on the green chair in front of the

window surely enjoying the wind blowing an assortment of

rubbish from house 89 across the street...it was only

momentarily that I left the room, the destitute bathroom a

footnote in a life that was picking up I thought, Maude, a good

shower, not a perfect shower but a good shower and a few

beers...though I arrived back and saw Falu, knife in hand,

stabbing Maude, teeth exposed along with black red

gums...Maude was soon at the edge of the bed in tatters,

without a semblance of thought I wrestled with Falu, who was

shouting, you crazy fool...we wrestled until I stabbed twice, he

immediately stopped, claret dripped onto the brown and gold

carpet...

...with Maude back up and running, I ate a tuna sandwich, a

little chorizo, though I’m not too fond of meat, the world needs

less meat eaters, and a tall glass of milk...the milk happened to

be a little off, but things could be worse, I thought...

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...dusk without dawn...

...are you able to exist whilst fully orchestrating thoughts as if

another person? Agnous decided that he would try, sat up

staring into the night, just as Janeer walked up the stairs and

began to knock...Are you in there? You need to pay your rent

sometime... he sat still adjacent to a pile of manuscripts he

soon lifts to find one written a year previous of stalking a

woman only referred to as Lucinda, though he never quite

knew her name...he soon brought his initial thought into

practice after Janeer had stammered down the stairs into her

room housing a rather boisterous Cat called Freddy, even

though he was sure the Cat a female... as he moved towards the

window mostly because he thought Ramone would be doing

like wise, to start talking as if speaking with Fernan... mid

sentence he fell out of the open window with his last words

being, this is not like me...

...

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...Gagu...

...the light scent of a strawberry perfume emanated whilst the

hypnotic voice of Madras sounded...the words in hindsight

formed no real meaning, utterings only able to be deemed

pseudo intellectual of thermal dynamics, language and then

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPoseidon...Aly

moved out of the room half way through this

monologue, though the poetic nature of the perfume seduced...

...walking through the busy streets (it was around six pm) all the

different people sojourning to alternative destinies, the drift of a

pool of birds congregated around the edge of the tube station, the

obliteration of politeness in an exchange full of back slapping and

innuendos, the light smear of tomato sauce on a bagel eaten by a

man in a fluorescent coat and hard hat concentrating on listening

to a Radio playing some sort of pop song unable to be deciphered

over the traffic disbanding and forming...

...Gagu is stood outside the Pub staring at something within the

Pub like a religious ornament, a Priest at his own guilty

erection...soon the explanation summoned a reaction only to be

deemed quaint...the drip of an emptying glass of beer against the

wooden bar...Gagu has this sort of personality, much more

meaningful than scores of Madras’ Poetry, if at all it can be called

that, Gagu instead delighted in the periphery of existence in a

way that could only magnify life...the mouths of deaf people

whilst speaking enabling ideas on beauty...the slow fall of a red

dusk...the distant sounds of overhearing conversations...the life

of a roll of toilet tissue...

...Gagu moves against the Bar without touching the Guiness and

Mojito and touches a man’s face that we would soon come to

know as Jim, gently prodding at loose skin draped around the ear

and then upper neck...Jim didn’t say much until he asked what

Gagu was doing..?

...Jim, more at ease, soon explained that he had fought in the

Falklands War and that he had trouble organising his attitudes to

ordinary existence, which led to numerous days spent in near

empty pubs, long walks towards his flat at the top of Dalston,

empty cupboards in a kitchen seldom used...Gagu started to cry,

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tears fallen against skin, and then around the mouth, forming a

world of meaning...though I’d never off myself said Jim as he

stared at his glass a quarter full...

...the night captured a certain spirit only to be deemed absurd,

Jim and Gagu walking along the street smoking a joint Gagu had

bought from Madras...we soon took a bus and reached Kingsland

Road, a few people clustered outside a Pub a few minutes away

from the train station...Gagu then explains the importance of

solitude and how to embrace it: reading in a cafe, silently

studying a barman in a Pub, long languid Bus rides to unknown

places...Jim interrupts by mentioning that he had never been to

Romford before...

...Gagu disappears into the night without a trace of where, no

address, no other contactable methods apart from the words. I

might be here tomorrow at four...

...four seems to take an eternity to arrive, the restlessness of the

soul when waiting can feel disturbing when moving to the fridge

to open it and the close it, and then move back into the living

room, to then do this again, always with one eye on the clock,

ticking more and more slowly...

...a month later Gagu reappears walking along Dalston up next to

the Market to then explain that the previous week had been

spent in Barking with a person only referred to a

Kop...apparently Kop had been suicidal and intimated that he

would throw himself into the Thames...Gagu persuaded Kop to

live another day and perhaps try something new...

...the story appealed to the nature of there being more to

life...although these wonderings expanded into the late evening

when Gagu ignites an ambition...

...though perhaps madness enlivened as sat on the train faces

came out of their bodies, a whiskey light protruded against the

juddering carriage before Gagu disappeared, never to be seen

again...

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...Junipa...

...sanguine thoughts settled with the idea that a little panic

would be appreciated...the monotone voice would lull in a

fashion orchestrating dire thoughts on Sunday evening

suppers, long walks towards cold Churches, dust collected on

windowsills housing soiled underwear, bad literature and

perhaps an incompetently knitted sweater...

...the fatal she...

...on the morning of her award, that award I assumed would

mean so much to her... prize money and a year of expenses to

research anything in the anthropological world she desired, she

had intimated that something wasn’t right...throwing a banana

unpeeled at the clock on the wall whilst mentioning

Marxism...though I smiled at this, I soon became worried... later

that evening I started watching her through binoculars, where I

saw her speaking to herself in a roused manner, angrily

shouting words I couldn’t discern, until a few hours passed and

I reentered the flat...we ate dinner prepared a few days prior,

beef lasagne, salad with a bit of Camembert that she had

brought from her sisters place...a glass of red wine, as we sat

together but very much alone...she interrupts a long period of

silence I failed to contest with the idea that she felt she was

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disappearing into her own mind...the construction of the words

teetering on the brink...head tilted to the right, mouth pursed in

a manner I found strange...I mentioned the award and she said

something to the effect of life being a prelude to something else

all together...

...that November she disappeared, I counted all her shoes and

they were all left sat in neat rows, I checked her letters and there

was nothing...I asked around and heard only remnants of a

possible story that amounted to nothing at all...

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...1615...

...the taste of the night sat on the tongue, with a clarity that has

Al move about the darkness quietly and quickly... with heads

bopping to here and there Al arrived to 1615 and stood staring

into the long mainly off white hallway with a lone man sat about

mid way through drinking from a sun yellow bin... that housed

pornographic images and gravy stains... latent dreams...

...the sound of a bus wheels past to loud screams ascending in

decibels to the melancholic yawns of Al now ringing the bell...

the strawberry taste of flavoured condoms on the breath... o I’d

best mention Mahler... the rhythm of polite conversation a

systematic flaw of happening akin to a programme, a scheduled

occurrence, that even Al, as a newly released patient had long

acclimatised to... the nature of plight adorned with purple

mystique Al refers to as time spent with an Uncle, as they walk

along the long hallway and chit chat...

...One Eyed Johnny as Al soon called him fails to notice much,

more concerned with detailing amenities, the thin walls enabling

the noise of erratic sex between an Indian couple, the brown

gush of water when the faucet had been turned for more than

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two minutes, a stray cat that possibly had rabies lurking in the

hallways strangely called Candie, an unable to be closed window

causing a constant gust of wind within the room, the obvious

smell of eggs that One Eyed Johnny describes as a homely

musk...

...Al placed bags on the floor before sitting on the already

stained duvet... three customers in one night, mushroom pizza

with extra cheese, a can of Ginger Beer, the delightful residue of

a cockatoo named Lucinda...

...through the window, obviously with the usage of binoculars,

Al could make out P., closed mouth staring at a television screen

with pictures of what can only be referred as a BBW woman

being taken by an Asian man in a fashion Al mumbled of as

interesting, very interesting...

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...strange flowers...

...death never seemed particularly final to Carl, rather it

seemed like an idea based around opinions long accumulated by

people that have simply never experienced it... although, he

mentioned, the night before last, that it is possible to die without

actually leaving the body... though he still remained non plussed

in his disdain for the normal perspective of death...

...relative days of thick confusion were soon taken over by

conversations with Carl, about notions rather grandiose to where

we often sat... wall paper cherry red and pink, carpet beige... the

sterility of the beige constantly ushered in thoughts of hospital

rooms, padded walls with strange voices sounding obstructive

procedures involving apparatus pushed into and out of rectum’s

attached to bodies waiting to die... for Carl had spent a month

working for Dr Padow and had quickly become accustomed to a

weird fabric of life... existence adhering to different clandestine

realms, where experiments abound... in his third week Dr Padow

had explained how to treat a reptilian for wounds only referred

to as legions oozing some sort of unaccounted fluid... Dr Padow

would, according to Carl, always fall short of finishing his

sentences, which would instead drift into non sequiturs doused

in homoerotic discourses about the way things should be... the

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way to our hearts was through the tight end...

...Carl felt paralysed by certain ideals, the tropical

enchantment of control had in a position of power... the

gratifying feeling assumed had by way of administering near

comatose individuals that were simply waiting to die with

whatever his mind could muster... an afternoon spent watching a

man slice and then eat a part of his thigh off seemed strangely

unobtrusive as he would have expected...

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...autobiography at Manor House (Off The Grid)...

...I feel obligated to a certain way of thinking, I thought, as

I heard the door beside me go, overhearing a conversation about

money, time and desires as if one heard at a bank, post office, or

an off licence. I then sat upright and felt around for the sandwich

I hadn’t finished the night before... cheese, pickle, off date salami

and perhaps too much tomato sauce, as the taste of the sandwich

seemed terrorised by the amount of tomato sauce that happened

to just dullop onto it. The scent of the cheese had distilled by this

time and so I felt a morose feeling erupt, until the door went and

I got up to see who it could be. I did wonder as I dragged myself

to the door of who, as I had been in this destitute house for the

homeless for about six months and I hadn’t really seen the light

of day. Or even spoken to anyone for about a month, if I could

remember. The notion of being devoid of endorphins seemed a

point of note, but what is there to really achieve in life..?

...I opened the door and saw Benny, Hawaiian shirt, brown

leather jacket. He asked where I had been and I asked how he

knew where I lived. Benny had gone to live in Greenwich about a

year or two before this so I wasn’t expecting him, but I let him in

and we started shooting the shit. Talking about a fight outside the

Betting Shop on Broadway Market, a woman we both knew called

Marine now living in Clapton with a Pimp called Clyde. The

antics in the adjoining room more and more feverish, but neither

myself or Benny mentioned it. That’s the thing about the

underbelly of society it’s rather coy to obvious conversations.

People eat, sleep, shit and fuck, in no particular order, so there’s

no real need to comment on it all... it’s all so meaningless I

thought, before Benny asked about Gia... I told him that she had

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disappeared months before and that Gabo might know more,

just as an orgasm sounded...

...after Benny left I went for a walk, strolling along past

the tube station by the park, and past the buses moving towards

other parts of town, parts full of the terror of hope. I took one

swig of the small bottle of Teacher’s Whiskey and laughed at the

world, a wicked distinct laugh that soon entered my lungs. I

stood outside a Pub and drank down two pints of beer sat on an

empty table. The taste of lasagne was distinct in the first pint

which was offset by the normal tasting second.

A woman wearing a matching red jumpsuit jogged by with eyes

darting around her as two men exited the Pub worst for wear,

talking about their respective missus in objectionable ways... one

couldn’t cook to save her life apparently, the other was frigid and

probably screwing the black Congolese neighbour... casual

racism on the tip of the tongue...

...I carried on walking as the night crept up, the street

lights shifting in the blackness, as people motioned along the

streets a bit more quickly... I checked my pockets and had a few

coins, enough for a Bus Ride, so I stood at a bus stop with a few

people already waiting... a Jewish couple talking of something

being Salome, and three women that may have been from

Scandinavia as they’re accents reminded of a Swedish woman I

once knew called Maüde... they spoke about a man called Fred

in a disparaging fashion that spoke volumes for how we really

didn’t want to hear all the thoughts in the detritus of our

minds... we didn’t want the unadorned noise of words

unthought about, I thought...

...I sat on the back of the Bus and started to enjoy the

motion of it... the arrangements of seats decked out two in a row

and the random episodes of conversation able to be heard... an

idea relating to thermal dynamics took up a piquancy, though

this man soon started talking about a woman called Norma in a

way I found bitter, nearly spitting at an explanation of how she

ignored him most nights... I wanted to get back to the silence in

my mind, a silence interrupted by Benny that afternoon...

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...I remembered Benny’s last words before he left that

afternoon just as the Bus manoeuvred into Islington, the

tender hooks of desperation coupled with a fervent mood of

Criminality... a casual desire to escape the system...

...I soon got off the Bus and continued to walk, memories

transcending the old relic of time, the periphery of thoughts

mostly about when...

...when I would accept the humour of existence...

...when I would be relinquished of this burden of life...

...when I would accept the tyrannies of social order and face

up to the reality of doing what every other person was doing...

...when I would next speak, and which words would leave

these parted lips...

...the severance of today...

...now seemed most important, walking through busy

streets of commuters, stragglers, perhaps the possible like

minded individual... as I conjured thoughts related to the idea

that I should accept the monotony of existence or do

something about it...

...fabric of packing...

...I packed a small backpack... underwear, a few shirts

and put on a jacket... searching and finding underneath the

mattress some notes that I used to take a cab... a sense of

debilitation ran through me as the night took on a hue I hadn’t

envisaged, as if in the arms of a woman, but without

burdening life with the simplistic thought of a woman...

...I took the last train and accepted I was now off the

grid...

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...nonchalant disorder...

‘My face is like the face you have seen many times.’ James

Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

...the summer in her voice had tightened, though the softness of

her pronunciations of deeming life a forlorn loss, cultivated a

romance in her ways that was unable to be replicated... tea

stained laughter, precipice adorned eyes, death dialled up and

then hung up... with the thought that we had both decide our

own fate, I advised a frisson of candour, a moment of declaration

that stood for the acceptance that the wounded ascent of our

relationship seemed to be a furnace now... hot coal set on fire to

the sound of the falling rain...

Gabo walked into the living room, the living room I had spent so

much time alone, waiting for what exactly I didn’t know... now

hearing Gabo speak of problems related to Gabine...

xxx

...walking past the bridge I had once flung myself off, I

recognised the feeling, the same feeling I had that night and

started to laugh at the absurdity of things... cats crawling on wet

puddles... a bottle of Irn Bru half finished blowing in the wind...

a brown chair sat outside a flat now wet... an old big back

television with a cracked screen... two pigeons fighting over a

piece of Kebab meat bespeckled with white Garlic sauce...

memories distorting into current happenings that obligate a

sense of death looming...

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...we met up the next morning at the cafe next to the betting shop

Gabo would frequent... tired eyes revitalised by her natural gaiety

that appeared more sullen than usual... hands folded against chin

resting against table... she only touched her omlette, picking at

the red onions and mentioning the details of her ideas on death,

dallying around a few sentences about her Grandma living till



she was hundred and thirty and adding that there were rumours

that a lady in the village she grew up was apparently three

hundred years old... I wanted to tell her how her ways were like

daylight in the utter despair of my darkness, but the turbulence

of burden forced this not to happen... I didn’t want her to feel

like a caged bird watched over, so I finished the eggs and beans

and ordered another tea...

...the afternoon was met with a cocktail of nothingness... empty

conversation with a lady with a big rack outside the pie and mash

shop, a pint of Guinness sipped slowly at the Pub on

Queensbridge Road only housed by two other rather lonely

looking souls, one wearing a fanciful bogey green beanie...

...eyes at the corner of their sockets as Gabo walked in talking

loudly about someone double crossing him over a Vintage VCR

player... the rain started to fall simultaneously... amending the

scrutiny I was examining Gabo’s face, the crevices around the

distinct nose, the blotches on the bum chin, the lines in the lips

that had perhaps spoken a billion words...

...we left the Pub and went to Clapton to score what Gabo

explained was great weed, though I didn’t want to really smoke...

after the thirty minute walk we arrived to a flat with a yellow door

and knocked... a lady I would come to know as Gia opened the

door... five foot three, eyes five foot four, brown hair, attitude the

size of my big right nut... as she finished most sentences with the

words. Don’t try me... although when Gabo left I noticed another

side to her... she spoke about incidents related to her childhood

in a way I deemed tragic, oceans of tears welled up behind an

attitude she probably thought she must undertake, i mused...

...over the course of the oncoming week we spent an ample

amount of time, usually eating sushis and drinking a bottle of

Sake that she had said was left there by the previous tenant...

conversation ranged from peeling mangoes, birds swimming,

32

differences between linoleum and leather, noises affluent in

the thoughts of exile, planting Kiwi fruits, a distant feeling of

remorse for living, paintings, and an agreed distaste for

Poetry...

...it had been enchanted to think of Gia, being that alcohol

and the other Lady I had been destined to call Ladyday had

consumed to the point of dreams perusing daylight hours...

...asleep to dream, awake to desire what was dreamed, candles

burning on the fabric of death...

...the note was just sat on the kitchen table, after her

roommate Mauro let me in without mentioning a thing... of all

endings that of I never saw her again seemed ridiculous...

though the note rendered this so, mentioning coloured plates

with choices that amounted to her wanting to end it all...

...Ladyday walked into the Pub and I could only think of Gia,

our conversations now wrapped in possible death... staring

through the end of the pint of Guinness, with the other hand

clenched as if life would ascend through this pint...

33

...Alice, plum...

...I could only watch, her soft lips parting, or her curly hair

jutting in the light whilst she ate some type of Fruit... death

looms at the heart of desire, as the best sort of want is that that

is unfulfilled, unsaid, unspoken, unmade... at the turn of

midnight I asked if she would need anything from the off

licence with the feeling that I couldn’t contend with all the

tropisms, the altered light of unreciprocated desire that ravages

in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of our small world... she

looked, eyes slightly wet and mumbled something to do with

having enough Fruit... the taste of shadows fixated on my breath

with the weird green light in the hallway furnishing an

impassical feeling of reverie...

34



...homage to Dostoevsky...

...tired by the extremities of losing it, as mentioned to Chiga the

night before, she moved about near the edge of the bed looking

out through the window to see a few people go about their

day... an elder lady zipping up a lilac jacket that protected the

wind from a pair of particularly low hanging aged breasts, a

man wearing a burgundy turban half reading a newspaper and

half watching his footsteps, two women she knew as Clara and

Face... she nearly opened the window to call for the women,

but stopped at the thought before she picked up the bottle of

Jack that sat on the floor and took three swigs...

...the bath seemed less calming once in it, fidgeting in the dark

in the lukewarm water accidentally tasting the jasmine bubble

bath, whilst the front door went...

...the visions had started just as they reached the street corner

up next to the Pub that just closed, mostly because of the

apparent kiddie fiddler ring above it... good riddance ah...

Caba’s voice lulled towards the end of this sentence as she

remembers the week before when they went too far, she told

Chiga, without knowing that Chiga was rather complicit...

...the drunk reverie of the night turned into small violences that

she had grown accustomed to, a little punch up outside an off

licence, a bottle thrown under a lamppost lit light that

accentuates their nocturnal ways... jaded by all that was

occurring she moved ahead of them towards Dalston, past the

bars, closing clubs, towards Absie’s place... knocking and

waiting before Absie arrived to the door talking about how Fran

was up the stairs having a kip... there was a silence at this

point... before she walked in, tip toeing into the kitchen where

35

they spoke about Chiga’s Heroin, until Absie asked her if she

wanted something in particular..? bare nipples up against the

bottles of tomato sauce, barbecue sauce, they finished just as

Fran called out Absie’s name... she put her red knickers in her

bag, and walked out while saying bye...

...she started singing along the street, George Michael’s Careless

Whisper, as she ate a packet of Ready Salted Crisps that she

bought at the only open off licence on Kingsland Road...

deeming food this thing that we needed to just keep

consuming...

...near the park, she saw Ana on the corner talking with a

woman she had never seen before, they were gesticulating and

then arguing in a loud manner in Spanish she didn’t

understand...

...she crept past without either noticing, and then knocked on

Falu’s door, who opened the door boggle eyed, and naked, rack

like body dripping with sweat she laughs at... sitting on the sofa

she said hello to Fernan who was telling a story about how two

Met officers that afternoon had sex with her and stole her

weed... Falu, irritated, interrupted. And you don’t share...

Fernan wiggled in the purple lounger and then mentioned

something to do with the next Friday... she zones out and

deliberates her options... marry an Argentine tightrope Walker

she had met in Stratford two weeks before...start taking opium

or Crystal Meth on a routined basis...take up microdosing with

Crazy Lenny from Hackney Downs with the idea to experience

this new realm he had once persuaded her existed...

36

37

...mouths shut open...I

...against the natural order of things, happenings mostly

akin to the status quo... perhaps desires able to be pigeonholed

into tidy squares, a mortgage with a boyfriend and maybe a secret

black boyfriend to deal with cravings... stood the actuality of

things... the nighttime mood sequential in its shift towards

darkness, and not darkness in the practical sense but the other

type of darkness, white cooked into residue sitting on spoons

with specks of muddy red blood, weed smoke sifting into the

ether also emanating loud music, heavy drums, chaotic singing

Smithy starts calling wetty music... this here wetty music is all

about that witching hour you know..? Char looked about the

room... towards the cooker, back to Smithy next to Ally and then

back at the cooker... I’m sick of these kids coming with all the

lingos, B this, a benner that, when in reality they’ve never gone a

day without food... Ally moved about fidgeting and looking over

at the door... as a bottle shattered against the floor, and Sammy

walked in... everyone scattered into the night...

...Ally stood, one leg up on the wall next to Lebernum,

talking of Sammy and how he was a snitch, a two bit snitch with a

licence to act like a cunt... the dry corner of her mouth produced

a drip of spit that settles as the rain starts to fall, forming

puddles...

Seismic Shifts Of

...Candela just watched, putting down the letter from Julio

Ramone, whist the Doctor removed his apparatus from the

woman’s sleeping rectum... the scalpel placed onto the counter,

glistening silver plater housing three scalpels, cum...

Gangu

...with the feeling that they would find him, he moved

quietly down the long hall way, chocolate brown fedora hat

placed and then repositioned on head, baby blue jacket zipped up

to its collar, words sprouting out without warning... the dream

stealers and body thieves will surely find me now that I’ve run out

of those crystals Marcela gave me... on the streets, the

melancholic hue of the oncoming dusk channelled into a brief

respite moving into the tube station for the night...

38

...the pause between stations causing the juddering in a

soul vacant, for it had been months since explaining that they’d

taken the soul within, all that was left were remnants, a few

memories...

...bank...

...the money sat on the table top, as what Febo referred to

as Juju instruments, unknown blood, umbilical cords tangled akin

to electrical wires that according to him were usually bought at

the end of every month, for what reason this occurred is anyone’s

guess, though for an amount quantified as a bit less than the cost

of a secondhand Ford such perversions were accessed...

39

...mouths shut open...II

...silhouettes...

...the rest of the sentence seemed to slither out, words into

convulsive visuals that arrested the thought that Morly would

arrive later that night with the umbilical cords for Febo... that

they’d sell them at thirty each, though when Febo sensed

desperation for only twenty... as there was always a vacant shifty

look to them, as they were too marinated in the romance of the

underworld to be able to disregard that they were deep in it...

baggy eyelids, abscesses, syringe holed arms, missing teeth, and

that’s without mentioning the very probable sti’s... beyond this as

they spent hours on end in each others company they knew each

other more than they were able to hide from one another...

Morley’s time at the prison hospital unable to be hidden with the

usual junky rhetoric... I don’t care ‘bout shit... If someone pickles

my backdoor again I’ll do ‘em over...

40

41

...interpolations of mirage...

‘Reality had always been something of an unknown quantity to me.’

Anna Kavan, Ice



...notes all strewn over the tables, a little milk spilt on the

edge, body on the floor...

...the car had sat in the same spot, to the point that she began to

wonder if it would start, caressing the curtains with one hand,

the other holding a bottle of Asahi Beer... the voicemail

sounding as if a tanoy, the voice she only referred to as Pedro,

or when she was mad, Nobueno, the thought that death looms

at the forefront of the antics called life simmered, or so she said

so, only two weeks later in Hamburg Jungfernsteig where I met

her, stood outside Patrice’s apartment staring up into the sky,

mumbling. The birds hail a rhythm furnished by the sky, as the

wind glides them along... I didn’t interrupt her, but wanted to

tell her that I had been watching her... hair the colour of night,

ways the profusion of absurdities... why had she sat against the

window sill pulling at her own tongue, sounding the words,

performance art is merely a lack of distinction between real art,

life...

...up that very night with thoughts of the body, torso,

bones, skin. Patrice kept talking about that night’s theatre

without the recognition that it was just a chubby man in a

leotard acting verbose sprinkled with an assortment of musical

arrangements that can only be called silly, or at best

ostentatious...

Candles Sift Sunshine

...an ethereal mood sauntered into the night, where I

noted the casualness of many of her ways... a conversation of

death, merely a refusal to accept simple fatalisms, a young boy

on the news being run over by a car, a little thing that happens,

rumours of an earthquake in Peru, the Earth wanting to just rid

of a few people...

...watching her move through the high street, I wondered

what she would accomplish, soliciting as she were, or as if it

42



were pre wall days and such things were more clandestine than

they were now... Stopping two men, they all seems to walk as if

they had made plans long before... up into an apartment ten

minutes from the High Street, where I sat to eat two sausages, I

can never eat one sausage as I start to feel like there is more to

the story... perhaps one sausage is too abrupt...

...an hour or so later she was walking past a playground,

kids on swings, playing with balls, the detritus of cum on the tip

of her forehead against the hair on the right side...

...Patrice would always mention, and in particular that

same night that she would spend most weekends at the cabin I

already knew of. Of course, but the reason caused a tenure of

confusion, that confiscated a sense of liberation, or maybe in

hindsight it is liberation personified... death, life, sex, a history of

murder...

Diary One [4.25pm]

...I want to dispel a myth with this death of April, because it gnaws on

me, but it’s simply that danger is not just a male oriented thing, and it

simply isn’t... if you check the statistics many women fall prey to crimes

executed by other women... and so this is the case...

Fatal Extravagance

...the feeling mounted that she would arrive back that

Tuesday, usually in the same mood... melancholic or perturbed

by a throb, that I once noticed by a little blood on the neck, a

bright clarity to it that seemed to remind of a butcher or cattle...

...she spent that Tuesday evening with Clarise arguing

about Wittengstein, although I failed to decipher much else, her

history of working for the secret services was still, then, a secret,

along with her confliction of whether she was German or

Russian, although like her accent, this seemed to change as

fluidly as her knickers... she was particularly fond of cleanliness,

gloves, mostly black, although a few weeks prior a pair of yellow

gloves Patrice called OJ’s gloves... her retort that OJ was a rather

43

sexy man, seemed fitting and cliche for a person as her, but no

one else noticed, more taken by her eyes careening into the sky

or her distinct desire to wear a blouse that wouldn’t fit... perky

breasts slipping in and out...

Nobueno Calls

...we all went to the funeral, she wore a red dress with

frills at the hem, earrings and no make up... Patrice mentions,

jokingly, that death only hits the well dressed, and she

interjected, stern faced, with the words that death doesn’t really

exist...

...this became more apparent that night when she started

acting a new person, that I would come to find out later was her

second victim, the blood seeps into the skin through the soul’s

leaving the body into that of the perpetrator...

...ChubbyBack...

44

...Alice, asleep...

...the day kind of moved into dusk, shadows forming against

marble floors, where words lulled in through the door sat

ajar... you’re not on that facebaby are you..? the sound of the

television then rose, an episode of The Bill she thinks as the

walls began to vanish into an opulent pyramid brown... red

gums protruding whilst Johnny Panic spoke, leather Jacket

on, the whites in the eyes bigger than most... this is where

they usually would speak, behind the daylight of periphery...

45

...meeting Urda Alösa’s Sister (time)...

...trying and failing to move, staggering against the whiskey

light, brownish yellow accents, red gums against the profusion

of the incoming Dusk...

...she caressed his right arm, before asking if he were okay and

some other unrecognizable Swedish, before they commenced

to sit on a cobbled stoned floor and talk about plums, how he

was a painter and not a poet, and how she had, the day before,

taken the Hippocratic Oath...

...the bed so much softer than the floor, the night time lit by a

bed side dresser, he noticed everything, but said little... they

ate plums, apples and oranges as she explained that she was a

fruiterian... I have to move on from her...

...your flat, why do you call them flats here..? o the landlord is

this cockney geezer with a Scandy wife... I see, picturing the six

metal letter boxes... he didn’t know how to feel, Russian

weather changers on the news, he sat back against the headrest,

and mumbles...

46

47

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...illusory ambush...

“With the inevitable distortion caused by too much art…” —

Lawrence Durrell, The Avignon Quintet

meetings summon rites

...war impregnates like an over elaborate pause. As these

words left Nathan’s mouth a gust of wind blew from the

outside through the back door left open for such clandestine

discussions as this...

...and it was a particularly apt sentence. As this time the

War that had ravaged had a multiplicity of turns, somewhat

like a musical arrangement. Episodes of noises, more episodes

of apparent silences however constituted to what Elza called

the illusory ambush. She was on the balcony a week before

after another of our secret meetings cigarette in hand. Smoke

billowing out of her mouth. Sessions of time, sessions of

seasons, sessions of thought...

...It’s this and then it’s that, moving cigarette from

mouth closer to blue railing. Fernand standing next to her was

seemingly wanting to interrupt. Hand on lips, feet on toes.

Elza, the arch Anarchist of the group in many eyes. Though I,

according to Misklav a few weeks prior, was the conspirator.

48

Perhaps I was guilty, but that wouldn’t stop the war, I thought.

No these things happen because they are meant to happen, I was

about to say, but I didn’t. Instead I picked up a book on the

Cold War and wafted through a few sentences. You won’t get

any clues from that, moving towards the balcony to start


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA smoking as I mentioned...

...Fernand motioned around the edge of the balcony

playing with the tip of his black turtleneck mouthing the words

illusory ambush. A fly wafted in and out of gaze, like a world

onto itself. Nathan’s right… the necessity to structure things as

if a baby is very needed in such a sick and twisted abstraction of

a war, if we can even call it a war, moving hand from railing to

turn around and put the ashes out against the wall as right hand

cupped sizeable breasts that were sitting in a tight fitting red

blouse. Eyes as if a cage in one, a bird in the other...

...The previous week Al had mentioned that perhaps

entertaining ourselves be of utmost importance, right hand

wrapped around the top of the black turtleneck and eyes sat

high in their sockets. I mentioned that it was perhaps time we

dispersed as we were being watched. Sessions of time, sessions

of seasons, sessions of thought...

...Soon the living room was occupied with these thoughts

that can only be appreciated from the inside of this cranium?

and Maria. She was standing at the entrance to the living room

watching Elza climb the wall and move away. Her hands against

her top lip and eyes sauntering a heated beauty. Why do you

look at Elza like that, hips swayed to the left caressing cream

lounger’s arm. I didn’t know what to say, as words amount to a

futility, I thought. As the moment just too constipated to

negotiate any real ideas surrounding any such thing. I said

something to the degree of Elza being a personification of the

meaning of our group in political terms, but it fell on deaf ears

as Maria could smell the contradictions. The loose strands of lust

emanating from actions befitting of a war on to themselves...

...A personification sounds like claptrap, sitting up from

the cream lounger and turning around as if figuratively. I sensed

a mutiny beckon, as strands of neck hair sat on edge and the

49

thought of Maria leaving became too hard to swallow at a time as

this...

an intersection of calamity

...The sunshine caroused the bedsheets as a barking

neighbours dog interrupted the dream state. I looked around

and saw only visions of self. A multiplicity of thinking, or

perhaps too much thinking as Fernand would usually say as the

political force Fernand was. Art was just meaningless and at this

time too plentiful to amount to anything that political

rearrangement couldn’t fix. I closed these eyes that were at the

precipice of want and desire (need and will). And moved down

the stairs calling Maria’s name. Sounding the warmness of the

ria section of her name, the bit you can use your tongue with.

But there was no response. Cold remnants of expectation

moving from dining area to living room where Al had been

sleeping since February. The door went a while ago, waking up

with one hand on lushes long blonde hair...

...Rushing up the stairs to the cupboard, I felt the

inevitable pronounce itself by the night previous. The way she

turned her back. The way she spoke so conclusively. The

frigidity of the night...

pronouncements of happenings

50

...altitude...

...against remnants of cold stares, tattoos sitting in morning

light… whiskey on breath a few inches from Carl’s face after a

five minute in your-face-indoctrination of what Chocolate means

to hustlers… Carl mentioned all this to Jade who entered the

train’s car, full of apologies… I had a wet pussy, you know how

you get the hairs all wet, and then boom, then you’re late… Carl

adjusted in the seat... okay, what you been up to anyway..? just

working out the full dimensions of the Earth and all that Viva

stuff… well I just ate a huge hamburger so it’s probably rather

bigger now…

51



imaginings of Don DeLillo Walkin' Through A Town in

Finland

...he loved a lot of Matisse stories...particularly those about how

Matisse would be able to work a room. this added an ounce of

glamour to the Matisse that sat in Don's friend's mothers room.

although seventeen years old, in terms of how long they had the

painting, he would be bewildered at the freshness of the paint,

and how it made him feel, usually open mouthed... half lucid,

half drifting...along a semblance of dreamscape only then

interrupted by Jordan's Mother. i bought it in Monaco from a

guy with a strange tick and apparently one ball bigger than the

other. he laughed but felt a little off, as if the altitude was a little

drunk... he half giggling touched his head, before Jordan's

Mother, who was a dirty blonde, with a nice rack he tried not to

look at too long, touched his right arm with a touch as soft as a

feather. as if coming into a sea of roses with petals glistening

against his skin, as Jordan's Mother undressed, rather calmly...

like fragments of reality, or paint sitting in real time, they

continued, whilst, and he reinacted this part, the painting came

to life...came to life, he stuttered... I'm there doing this and as if

52

a Rothko or a favourite of mine, a Rembrandt, it came to life...

but soon, Jordan interrupts them... that's my Mother!!! on the

street walking through Finnish airs, lamppost lit pavements,

snowy side streets, all Don could think about was how beautiful

the painting was...

53

...Congo Nights...

‘Oily remnants of the reverie, the nighttime glistens over the

dazed thoughts of comrades...’ — Max



Mona Opusi

It feels funny to retrospectively see a situation before it

has happened, but here we are. Faces mounted in the sun

drenched streets, against thoughts spoken, thoughts into music

now playing out the radio.

I had packed with the very utmost thought of efficiency

and a desire to see that I could do as I had planned. The utmost

efficiency, I thought as an airport attendant asked what I were

doing on this visit? The words reverberated around this

cranium like soft blows to the heart, though I kept cool and said

just to see here. And the man, as if to reply in some sort of

wise-tell, said Knowing what you are doing is important here...

I wore a plan t-shirt and black shorts, so the journey to

the plane was rather cold, but where I stood after the slight

understated inquisition (I thought) seemingly fitting. The

cluster of taxi cabs heaving with an assortment of lives. Men

with expensive debts being paid off with rides into the City

hotels, people with secret boyfriends perhaps using the money

to hide their lives, funny asides such as addiction to cassava or

more routinely anywhere in the world, alcohol, spirits... I saw a

female taxi driver, but that seemed a little absurd in that I was

paranoid enough as it was, riding into the City with a rather

gorgeous looking taxi driver seemed movie esque and a silly

decision, against what I had planned...

I asked the man, after telling him the hotel name and

place to then turn up the radio, as I wanted to digest where this

place could be situated culturally, in terms of the feeling of the

place whilst I took in the sites. The driver, one I really had

54

chosen, as the first man I asked looked like a killer at closer

inspection, (I thought), perhaps he was waiting to drive to a

near-by ditch and leave with all the belongings I had...

Naseki Mingi

It was strange to leave not knowing whether Saä was alive

or not. And in a selfish way I decided that it were best not to

think about all of this, just as I got out of the taxi cab and acted

as if I were entering the most expensive hotel in the City.

Though as soon as the taxi driver left I walked out of the

driveway and into the City. I walked along the street thinking

about all the music on the radio, and I made a note of the name

of the album, the rather friendly taxi driver mentioned.

Soft remnants of memories and realisations of difficulty

arrested now. I would have to see to it that I did as I had

envisaged, before I even knew exactly what I would even wear,

though here we are. I thought.

The hotel sat on a corner of a run down part of the City.

There were a few junkies a few metres around the building and

a very cheap shop too. I bought a drink, a can and waited for a

little change before walking to this hotel with the quickness.

Memories of being fleeced in another episode had the thought

that I ought to treat this as it was, the last trip. I had left the

note to Meet Here, and made way to where I now sat. The walls

were plastered with old peeling off wall paper, blue and

burgandy and the bed had this very warm kente coloured quilt

that I felt was worth the money that I had handed over. It’s very

cheap here. I muttered that I was seeing a friend, and

inquisitively the response was, Who? I started Franco... Before I

was interrupted. O Franco, like the music... Yea, I said, like the

music, I love Komikosaka Te Na Basi... And before I could

continue (I assumed I had to) I was told about some

performance and this went on for a quite a time as I stood at the

front desk secretly waiting, though I was walked to this room

where I rested the bag as if a body, Luckily I didn’t have to go

that far (I thought).

55

Annie Obosani Ngai?

I saw a speckle of claret red on the bag sat in the corner of

the room, and in a reverie started to think about all that I was

escaping. No Exit, sat on the edge of the bed like Sartre speaking

directly to this body curled up in the warm bed... soft shadows

against the window seeping into the room, as a little music

caressed the air. Though not enough to disturb the sleep, but just

enough to hear...

Sala Omona Pasi Mbongo

It would be a week before arrival of her, and I knew if I

was right that it would be the only answer. I said this, as I

showered this morning, thinking that blood never... (these are

the thoughts that simmered as if confused flowers in a glazed

spring off set by a wind)

.....

.......I shouldn’t have killed Him......

‘roseate faces at the concert hall'

— Alex Kovacs, The Currency of Paper

56

...skin on shadows...

‘The Conceptual Death. By now these seminars had become a

daily inquisition into Talbot’s growing distress and uncertainty. A

disturbing aspect was the conscious complicity of the class in his

long anticipated breakdown.’ — J. G. Ballard, The Atrocity

Exhibition

sensual stares at rough fingers

The prevalence of this soft tissue, gripping against shadowy light

sauntered amongst the atmosphere. The taste of it, up and then

away, up and then away. Whilst Góstavo sat against the edge of

the couch contemplating a Gorky painting that was hung on the

wall opposite. Colours contrasting the death-like motion sifting

out of Charla’s bottle—Smoke penetrating the air, flitting around

bones hanging with skin, as if it had to be that way, I thought.

Why is anything just as it is?

Remnants of memories acted out, occurred through a mind astray

now... Rotting mangoes at the edge of the coffee table, next to

monographs of Nan Goldin and Paul Klee’s work, across the road

perhaps a role-play between cop and prisoner as the curtains were

barely drawn but the two figures there were jaggedly moving:

decipherable through the lamp-post lit street... an old man with

grey hair, grass green jogging bottoms, walked through the middle

of the road mumbling... attached to the thought of being here,

perhaps... gentle wind pushing against a purple plastic bag in the

middle of the street...

57

Paper only serves its purpose as money when you don’t need it,

mumbled Góstavo still at the edge of the couch looking at

Charla smoking from the bottle... the words felt like shadows up

against skin—moments visualised by natures poetry...

Still tied up, Charla stood and retrieved the muzzle, for words to

tumble out now, as if an essay enrapturing the silence... it

wouldn’t be right to finish me off, as I’ll just haunt you, in ways

you have yet to process and sit in your soul like some ashen

faced scarecrow when you least aspect it, when you stop with all

this junk and go right, when you’re at a bus stop with your new

born son or daughter...



The words continued as I stood at the window looking into the

open window at rough fingers gripping against skin sitting on a

flamingo pink pillow... the smell of junk simmering in the

background, along with that of strawberry tea...

candles against ice

...distorted memories happening like retrieved journeys to be

then lost again... thoughts absurd enough to bring about a slight

laughter as I arrived back into a realm, though not necessarily

the only realm, I muttered. I don’t know what you mean, said

Góstavo right up against hands now holding the muzzle, with

eyes staring up... we can’t just keep him here can we?

...sitting against knees, Charla still holding a bottle with the

other hand collecting what looked like specs of dust into a

collected mass... the words continuing to tumble out like an

obituary... blood on lips, neck, forehead... transfixed eyes in

darklight I saw figures arranging out of the darkness into a sort

of trance-like dance, a Matisse painting come to life, but much

darker and more brooding... I remember, by way of closing

eyelids, soft lips against neck, torso, face, and a sunshine filled

room that smelt of Paella and Rum...

the gunshot seemed an offshoot of the thoughts happening,

58

though its wound sat like a belated descent into hell, though in

the ambulance I apparently swore for a God, some God

somewhere as claret oozed through a wounded hand, index

finger hanging on for dear life...

drip

a festival of death-like antics, blackened-reddish gums exposed

with nocturnal eyes staring at the wound which felt only a small

part of injury perhaps less so than the mind caged in this

body... birds fleeing towards stars, as a lady from Caracas lay

opposite screaming bloody murder for something about a camp

fire, utensils, a cheating spouse, blood... the drip feels

refreshing... the fluid penetrating through skin, where through

the window a drunken man staggered through the ocean of

darkness holding a can of Guinness... a few police officers

loitering around, as one approached the bed with a bright yellow

notepad in hand... so, I’m sorry to bother you, but... and it

seemed stagnant to start the conversation in such a manner,

though the words seemingly feel empty... especially empty to

explain that we had kidnapped a well-to-do-City-fruit to extort

drug money when an ex-dealer broke in with a gun... fat

chance...

...after he left, I saw the figures again, the trance-like dance

come to life at the window, as the nurses were moving about and

soft shadows formed against the light coming from the window

and the Hospital light, which seemed awfully bright, whilst a

policeman started a conversation with the words: Death blows

like wind in this City... somewhere a radio plays Britney Spears

‘Lucky’...

59

...the Rent Boy...

"Well," I said, tapping my arm, "duty calls. As one judge said to

another: 'Be just and if you can't be just be arbitary." – William S.

Burroughs, Naked Lunch

...Bill or William to his friends, woke up, and he thought

only bad stories start with waking, but he happened to be inside

Nicky. Memeber still full blooded, but the rest of the blood

flowing viciously through his throbbing head...

...Neurotic thoughts, as if stuck in an episode of Seinfield...

Love that line in DeLillo's White Noise... Dirty Blonde, touching

loose strands of hair... Eighty Scrilla when it's a hunnid usually,

he then mumbled, still on the drawer... wallet, check, used box of

condoms... is this all I'm worth?

...Notions started to get twisted in the foilage of the

morning light as the alarm clock said 11: 57. Because tapping

sounds rung out from the ajar bathroom, which perplexed him.

I'm sure I didn't have shower sex, I hate shower sex... on the T.V.,

still simmering away since the previous night he saw Jamela...

why am I doing this? he thought, whilst inserting and re inserting

his member for a short while... And then he put one hand on his

phone, which read 37 new messages from Toñi [Hot Pusss*y07],

seven missed calls... Putting the phone down in perceptible

irritation, then starting to feel Nicky's rather large breasts... I was

watching everything from the window...

...I need that twenty, said Bill, waking Nicky...

60



...an Anointment of Crap...

"After a long distance of immeasurable time, I saw a light at the end

of the tunnel and felt relief and hope of survival." — Rob True,

Gospel of Aberration

...it had been severely strained, he thought as the sound

of the Eastenders theme tune simmered. properly strained. the

idea came to him to then go and see the stuff, or as he had

nicknamed it the Crap. everyone was talking about it and only

he had the key, secretly left at his place the day before it all

happened. and it was a real happening, his sister had said. Why

just do this?

...as if death asks an invite, he thought. besides even if he

isn't dead, which is strangely fine with him too, a finality is a

thought. final words, final cookies on counters, final quiffs out

of backsides. finals are just tidier. though instead the situation

was anything but, said his neighbour maybe intentionally out

loud and so loud he could hear beyond the locked door...

...the talk of the town it had become, in many ways, he

thought as the keys shuffled about his pocket whilst exiting The

Streets. sounds leaving car stereos blaring the words, Don't Mug

Yourself...

...walking up the Pembury stairs. a few people loitered in

the exact spot he had had a violent episode which resulted in

his finger being broken off by a sturdy Council door you'd only

find in a Council Estate as this, his girlfriend had said with a

mixture of pity and excitement. as he knew it excited her as that

night she just happened to cum four times.

...putting the key in the door, this thing that locks one

world from another formed into abstract thoughts. distinct are

the joys and cries behind The Doors. and all he could see was

61

Crap... newspapers, books, old clothes, boxes. how did this Crap

magnify itself as the talk of the town, he thought. just as he was

closing the door, a small man was passing by. firm skin hung off

cheek bones in a drapery manner, blue shopping bag in hand.

perhaps a beer after work, he thought as the man had a slight

bleary eyed look and black workman shoes on. O that's the

disappearing neighbour ah... sure, he said with a slight furrowed

smile, closing the door. And the small man then looked about

through the gate into the hallway leading to the dining area full

of boxes. gold is only a perspective of forms of Crap...nothing

means very much, nothing means very much at all when thought

about, even a diamond. the man didn't appeal for some sort of

prize for what he said as he just walked away pulling a beer from

his blue bag, a Guinness...

62



...concrete water, one...

'...To visit at the grave of a child I had lost, even longer ago than all of

this, named Adam. Why have I written that his name was Adam?

Simon is what my little boy was named...'

— David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress

candles burning

...so you’ve got to be responsible, right? face getting more and

more full, you’ve got to be. the blue lounger incurred an indent

now, soft pillows all purchased from a trip that one Professor

Veron had orchestrated. blue, white, yellow with bits of loud red.

as an anti poet I don’t think I need to be anything, the nighttime

glistened as the sound of a fox passing along the street sprawled

into the room like another guest. look, hands stopping midway

with pieces of cake still dripping onto his well manicured hand,

just stop all this battling and see things the way they are... please

no more speeches, I can’t take an sort of instigation of conspiracy

when it’s apparent that she’s gone. let me stop eating a second,

cake crumbs red jam now dripping onto the edge of Simoene’s

manuscript...

...we walked through the streets in a convoluted silence. his

63

words echoing. anti poet. anti poet. and it seemed strange as the

thought of being against something that seemed so fitting for him

revealed a sort of madness, in certain perspectives. we passed the

market’s late evening flurry. old men with rotund stomach’s

feeling mangoes for ripeness. courgette’s picked up whilst their

other hand is pulled by an impatient child, asking about powder

green bon bons. red arched awnings protecting cabbage, kiki

fruit, strawberries...

...we purchased some strawberries from the tip of the market as

Simeone loved strawberry. they’d be a surprise along with our

general early attendance to what was always a messy living room.

the bathroom always seemed even messier too. though the

bedroom door a closed off abode. a sanctuary of salaciousness

perhaps? Simoene has this clandestine need to hoard emotions,

stories, feelings, wind rustling against bag swapped from left arm

to right arm. it’s always with the words, remnants of shadows

glisten most when stood a little far enough to appreciate... yes

remnants of shadows glisten most when stood a little far enough

to appreciate is said quite a lot that’s true...

after gatherings amounting to

...drunk now, Simeone moved about the living room, glass in

hand swaying side to side to The Clash song playing on the

record player that had been purchased from the haemorrhaging

trust fund set up years before. there were about eight of us still

there as the darkness had long mounted and the lampposts shone

onto stray cats’ soft light against bones. ..memories distort, still

swaying side to side with right hand touching tip of genital hairs.

they don’t when all that has happened is a holy nothing, strong

greying beard touched with left hand and right now holding

Simeone’s glass hand as if to declare that enough is perhaps

enough. Lulu stop, what do you think you’re doing... it’s not up

to you is it... rhetorical question reverberating around the quieter

room...

this motion...

64



...and it had been a long difficult thing for Simeone. sobriety

very much a journey that had come from a period of time

fucking behind dark alleys for money, days moving into weeks

which could only be deemed psychotic by the way bodies would

end up slouched around, times spent walking about foreign

places without much sense prevailing. anxious calls from

random officials asking wh0 this person was. Lulu you’re just a

fat cunt, and the swaying had now stopped and spit had swept

up from out of Simeone’s mouth. wiping spit off slowly as if

lotion, you have a disgusting memory...

...memories amount to feelings that summon when a thought

arouses, carousing the mind’s eye until another commits itself.

the casual rendition of the memory seems simple, but it isn’t.

it’s arched with a feeling that amounts to colours. Simeone

being purple and Lulu being blue. so anti poet, said Georgeria,

do you think about that night? the room was now silent, as

many people had left since the spitting incident, knowing the

lack of drama that comes after some strange happening has

occurred. like those at school. a fight breaks out and once

dispersed everyone’s slightly emotionally spent, which makes it

rare that another fight would break out. it’s like concrete water,

the memories cascade against a backdrop of breakfasts, pissings,

conversation, sleeps...

...this soft gentle conversation a strange note over the grunts

emanating from Simeone’s bedroom. sounds that can only be

articulated by the word feverish. standing up against the hallway

listening to words as who do you think you’re spitting at... you

son of a bitch move your arm... putain...

Andy Warhol's 'Sleep'

...do you know what Georgeria? turning from the screen playing

Andy Warhol’s ‘Sleep’ (as some type of joke perhaps)... what’s

that? I don’t reckon you’d thought much about Algeria or even

Sudan... what are you tempted as usual by some sort of

65

Rimbaudian affair with strange exotic places or arms deals or

brothels at the edges of dusty villages? I’m not a poet! How many

times do I have to say this!

...over the balcony the street’s immediate lamppost lit a singular

sitting figure wearing a long mack jacket and a furrowed brow.

soft touches against side of face furnishing an afternoon shadow

perhaps. oily remnants of the day passed...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

plan zero one zero

...strictly Alice left because all the tropes about birds and the

winds amounts to that which is just the way it is, mouth filling up

with chocolate pastry. Can you not always be eating when we

talk? just tell me this plan you wanted to speak about, still

chewing and gripsing another from a purple bag. the plan is

simply that we go and speak to Misklav. Eastern Europe is far,

jaw arriving to an abrupt standstill...

...now moving from the window to the kitchen I then watch the

man from eighty seven stand naked on his balcony. hands

gripping a bowl of Coco Pops and spoon. milk nestling into chin

crevices. the wind gently blowing as I felt the secret swell like it

were stored inside stomach acids swirling around. it had been

four years and the memory simmered still over the conversation

of Misklav and of Eastern Europe...

we, flavourful cascadence

...we arrived and began knocking on this large teal door with

door knobs silver and worn out gold. Misklav should be around at

this time, left knuckled hand firmly against door. well he better

be, Baklava in hand. we came a long way. it would be hilarious if

he didn’t remember us, knuckled hand now hitting door with a

slightly extra force. the house next door’s front curtain began to

twitch, before a larger lady came out. scarf on head wearing an

apron. and she started speaking but we couldn’t understand so

we all, seemingly at the same time, just said Misklav. where is

66

Misklav? Baklava moving towards mouth. after some hesitation

the lady stuttered around the sentences not here and not seen

him before rushing back into her house perhaps to attend to her

lunch cooking.

we all stood in silence for a few minutes. journeys can exhaust.

let’s just go round the back and see if we can get in. the anti poet

has a poetic idea isn’t it!

...we eventually all arrived into the house after the back door was

toyed with. perhaps years spent on the edge of society weren’t all

wasted, rubbing hands together and looking around the old

Soviet looking kitchen...

...we each started moving about the house disparately. after a few

minutes a happening most definitely occurred...

the prevalence of virtue?

...Misklav lay naked on top of a red rug. mouth wide open. as if

flowers spewing into the atmosphere, on his corpulent chest is a

bunch of violets as if Georgia O'Keeffe painted a realm of

existence. tunnels into a new place, scene. I started to see

shadows forming against furniture and then a naked torso

appearing at the end window where Misklav’s body now lay in

between...

67

...betrayal...



1.

...it smelt of old rain, the Milanese are never ones to forget doing,

even in the rain. I arrived early, purposely to suggest a certain

feeling of urgency, because no one came to visit. The only

messages I received were from Marialana and even she was not

forthcoming about anything. In person situations change; their

colours, their textures, their anti-hues...

2.

Juan sat unaffectedly across from the asphalt sculpture that he

and his Father made. Hat on with his shirt on his lap and arm

propping up his chin. He used the beard to pronounce a

distance, explaining that he would not have recognised me in the

street. So I interpreted this as he wouldn’t want to recognise me

on the street. Either way, the dust usually settles. Though not

before it is dispersed accordingly...

3.

Juan, Alfredo and Liza’s stance on where particles were

deciphered among meanings was interpreted through the

perspective of Performance Artistry, and in the collective spirit

of Lucid Documentary. This had long been a fact. Though their

respective paradigms were affected by their origins, and where

much of this occasion was born played its mitigating factors.

Marialana was impartial to much of what occurred for a myriad

of reasons, I thought, as I walked past the asphalt sculpture...

4.

It was always tempting to dismiss this point of Performance

Artistry (as just that), but Alfredo summed it up one day when he

said that words merely confuse the conversations we all have

68

with; our bodies, hands, expressions. And when they did form

catastrophe beckoned, for him, though in this particular

happening—of the day at hand—words were more than the

needed tool of conveyance, and anything less would have been

seen as this catastrophe...

5.

The smell of the freshly done tarmac on the road closest to the

room wafted into the room from the wide open window, just as

Juan spoke of how humid the weather had been. Two kisses,

restrained one arm hug—he was never one to distance himself

from the temporal: mentioning the time. Asking which one

would be the latest. I don’t know, I said before I took a seat

quite close to him but with another chair empty in between.

The nonchalance of my movements told me that he shouldn’t

notice as subtle was not my approach for the moment, I told

myself...

8.

Marialana interrupted the conversation and these thoughts:

walking in with a cheery bounce and wave.

You look different.

You too.

Well… Her pensively thinking distinguished the idea that it was

really me that had changed since the last time we all saw each

other. The blueness of the sky opined an idea, an arrangement

of thoughts and established them with probable cause to

misinterpret (or interpret, depending) happenings as much by

what it quickly became. Pity. —She took a seat in the middle of

us...

9.

And it had begun to gnaw at me that nothing had been said so

long into meeting Juan and now Marialana—the conversation

mounting on foreign sweets—that I started to think about the

smell of the fire ablaze. And the sound.

69

...That Night - 1974...

It seemed strange to Rodrigo, that each element of the situation,

separate, seemed ordinary but in totality the wood fell far too

many feet from the tree. He got up and moved towards the bar's



exit. At least Ernesto would pick him up, he thought, after all

this. I arrived just before Ernesto pulled up and we both got into

the car.

Rodrigo seemed in a panic, his curly Guibert-esque hair

more messy than usual. Making strange sentences as, Last

night's Poetry night seemed strange. Alia seemed strange.

I was inadvertently looking at him through the rear view mirror,

watching Rodrigo's eyes move left from right as words left his

mouth. Hey man, calm down, said Ernesto, Alia wants all this

collaboration stuff, you know how things have been going,

you've been there.

As soon as we reached Nando's Rodrigo got out and

walked fast up the driveway without saying goodbye. Ernesto

made some comment about wanting to smoke a joint and off we

went. There was a little traffic after the roundabout, but we

didn't bother with meaningless small talk as years ago on a

greyhound from Mexico City to San Diego we had come to a

silent agreement, words were nothing but a virus as Burroughs

said. Nothing but a virus, said Ernesto whilst he sipped a coke

and I wondered if I should tell Rodrigo about fucking Alia that

night. Faces came out the air like Basquait's portraits, all out of

the lines and colourful.

As we drove I started to remember that greyhound more

and more. Especially so as we were confronted by a juggler, I

could smell his eyes. He jumped up against the car's bonnet and

surprised us both. When Ernesto realised what was happening

he looked at me and raised his right eye brow. Ignoring the

juggler, who was speaking some incomprehensible language.

It was a long drive so it was best to start some

conversation, I thought. And so we started to discuss Gramsci

and then Allen Ginsberg. Ernesto always felt strongly about

Ginsberg's lack of style, whereas I saw this as the very essence of

70



style, attitude. A fuck-you to society. Regardless, said Ernesto,

nothing compares to Borges, even when he's bad, he's good. A

silence shrouded the car.

What are we going to do about Rodrigo? I said. As it was

beginning to be more than a passing occurrence these flights of

fancy. A few weeks prior after seeing some George Grosz

drawings he started to morbidly cut into his thighs, I

remembered as I asked Ernesto what we would do. I need a

joint, said Ernesto, when we get there I want to lay down, smoke

a joint and let my balls hang.

We pulled into the driveway just after midnight, we

reverted into our usual mode of conversation after Ernesto

mentioned the joint.

Blood

The situation seemed inordinately strange, as we all the

night before had decided. It was eleven to two. Franco would

take four bullets at the gathering in Madrid. All in the name of

backed up injustices. So Rodrigo was right and wrong at exactly

the same time, as it was strange but not for us, as we had

meticulously planned each detail for weeks on end. Our poetry

had blood in it. It seemed summed up by Ernesto so well, Poetry

without action is nothing.

I watched him smoking his joint at the edge of the

balcony, whilst Cristina spoke about what she had been reading

to act as if tomorrow wasn't the day, but just another day.

Mentioning Lorca and then Shakespeare before asking Ernesto

if he wanted to fuck. Ernesto took another puff and said later.

If anything was to worry about, it was definitely Rodrigo,

blood has strange effects on hands, it doesn't really wash off, I

thought. It would seem strange but death is sometimes the only

option, said Alex as she moved towards the plants, touching the

leaves before staring back at me.

Something awfully poetic about a gun in the hand's of a

man with a flower in his ear. The Commo's had style, I thought

that morning whilst I watched Ernesto get dressed, dick hanging

out, pink shirt buttoned to his protruding chest hairs. Rodrigo

71

mentioning something his Grandma told him. I sat mostly

consumed with the idea of change, and what would happen next?

We then all gathered in the kitchen, the morning light

cascading onto our foreheads. Patric speaking as usual about what

Commo's means and what it should always mean. The gun in

Ernesto's bulging pocket, flower still in ear. And it seemed

strange that we cast lots to decide on this form of action. It

seemed surreal.

We arrived to the parade at about twelve, with the idea that

it was all planned out. I was to sit in a restaurant just off the

centre with a change of clothes.

I arrived to the restaurant and ordered Paella, even though

I knew I couldn't eat it, over all the antics occurring. Fish over

justice, blood, visceral motion. Just too much. The clocked ticked

as if slower than usual, minutes, seconds, milliseconds. The

waitress, had ringlets and smooth olive skin, the Paella a little too

salty but how was I to know, the smell as if I had run a mile, all

metally and coarse. I was breathing hard, but hiding it well, as the

waitress kept coming over and flicking her hair whilst asking if

everything was alright? We're about to commit an assassination,

otherwise the Paella is fine, I thought with a smile.

It's strange how a feeling of nothing surmounts when

expecting a fully thronged something. I just wanted news that it

was done and that Ernesto was somewhere hiding out safe. News

trickled slowly however, the waitress' father appeared from the

kitchen shouting and gesticulating. They tried to kill him, he

started as he made concentric circles near the kitchen's entrance.

They tried to kill him! The waitress smiled at me before moving

her father into the kitchen out of sight and asking him what was

going on. I looked at the clock.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Tangier

Exile is a place situated by forlorn characters, it's like

sitting on a tectonic plate moving against molten lava, ready to

overflow at any given moment. A memory unable to be attained, a

person, a feeling. Creatures of habit.

Cristina walked the dusty streets wearing a burqa, mostly

for paranoia. Our sex life a mere substitute for the passion that I

72

admittedly wouldn't want to try and compete with. Ernesto's face

in her almost consistently wet eyes, sifting through the world

poetry and then the torture of the happenings.

It would seem best to buy the tagine, I don't think I'm up

to cooking, she said whilst playing with her black burqa. Patric

would enjoy it either way, I said, as if that were the matter at

hand.

Voyage From Algeria

Patric had gotten into a mess in Algeria so he was glad to

be in Tangier, I could tell by the relief in his smile, all dramatic

hugs and hand shakes that did little to illustrate his inner world.

The turmoil. It had been a whirlwind since the attempt. We then

sat down in the small apartment in a short silence that disturbed

me. I momentarily tried to speak as if it were normal, but it

wasn't, we were all shaken up, dispersed and on edge. I saw a

single tear roll down Cristina's face as she placed the tea on the

table, and took a seat.

73

...fabric a la morte...

Flaying arms caressing the wind, as cars wafted by,

bicycles, buses. I stirred the hot chocolate round anti-clockwise

a total of four times, watching the liquid swirl around the

porcelain cup. The vapours of heat emanate.

Over the speakers, the funk soul brother...The sound

sitting in the back of the skull, stirring around the frontal lobe,

simmering between ears. As I realised that this letter had, in an

instant, altered the life I lived, so causally, so transforming.



Dry ink on wood...

The thought occurred, how simplistic life can be, at

times. Roses against bushes, neglecting thorns. I looked back

out through the window, and decided that I would give some of

the money away. I would give it to persons I was able to watch

from afar.

On the way back, I went to the bank and took out a

sizeable amount of the currency and moved towards Rosetta's

place. She worked nights, sucking, fucking, smoking. So

afternoons were her downtime. I paced around her hallway,

dimly light by the dark graffitied window. I wondered if it would

all end badly, with such an influx of currency? Though from the

conversations we had, Rosetta was living an inordinately

different life to the one she had imagined. I posted the envelope

in a flux of excitement. As if candles burntout, wet lips against

skin...

I had one other stopover before I reached home. Ronnie

was an old timer, in his fifties. His wife had left him a few years

prior but he would often do the repairs at the bottom of the

stairs, so we would talk mostly about Cuba. He had imagined

Cuba to be beautiful. I wondered if this envelope at the edge of

my finger tips and then nestled on his welcome map would

enable him to visit Cuba? His demeanour was all mundane, the

same blue jeans, the same brown boots, slow eyes.

I didn't know how I should feel, I thought, as I arrived

back to the apartment. Perhaps an effect of the accident, I

74



assumed whilst sifting through old photos. Faces, memories

forgotten, places.

Gone

I loitered around Rosetta'a apartment, after walking

around her usual spots, Cafe Ginette, the corner of that road,

and so on. And saw nobody. I came to the conclusion that

knocking would be quite innocent. As I did this I started to think

about Marcel, his cold stares. After three knocks there was no

answer. Though through the letter box I could see that the

envelope was gone, maybe her too?

The wetness on the pavement pronounced itself more so, I

didn't know why, as if the day was promising to be new, though

these are just fatal wounds. Against the pavement footsteps

languished as I started to wonder if I had caused a fast death?

Ronnie came out of his apartment looking quite dazed. I

had forgotten about that which I had given and was quite bored

by the topic at large. Though I wanted to just see what the

situation was. It seemed quite awful that it wasn't him that had

gone but Rosetta. The night time glistened as Ronnie moved

down the road, eyes strangely bloodshot red. He walked a total of

fifteen minutes before stopping to exchange what I had imagined

as currency for goods.

That night I watched as three women entered and exited

his apartment. It was only a week later that news arrived of

Ronnie's death. An overdose of a concoction of drugs said an

elderly neighbour upset by all the drama.

The freedom of currency very much a trap, caged bars

against winged tips.

Two Years...

I saw her walk across the street and then into the bar like a

mirage. Old memories cavorting the mind's eye as if years were

just a few days. I quickened up and followed her to find her at

the bar talking with the bar tender. I wondered if she would

remember who I was. So I just sat down at the bar, and before

long she noticed that I was sat there, our eyes met. Bonjour, we

75

greeted and she looked healthy, I always imagined I had caused

two deaths all those years ago, her's and Ronnie's. But she was

not six feet under, instead she was speaking about her new life

in Paris and that she was only back to collect something from a

friend. She said that she had married a Congolese tight rope

walker and that she would often tour South American and Asia.

I looked at her and started to laugh, as if an antidote to despair.

I think she wondered why I was laughing as she squinted her

eyes before picking up her glass, emptying the liquid. Like a

photograph of an old friend... mango juice dripping down a

laughing chin... warms hands against cold thighs... the gun

laying on the bedside table a fitting end after this...

76



...exotic forays into light (waiting)...

She had just finished her second novel, which one critic

deemed sullen and moody. She saw it as melancholic however

and emotionally sprawling. Which perhaps reflected in the life

she led: small but rather big, in terms of feelings. For she rarely

left the apartment she shared with her girlfriend Lily. Though

Lily, one night in November mentioned that she was thinking of

moving to Paris. She started to feel accosted and as if she were

given an ultimatum and one that amounted to her thinking that

the upheaval would just be too much to bare.

Lily demands that she think about her decision.

A week passes and she had barely written anything: just

small paragraphs of a few stories that had lingered on her mind.

Instead she had become obsessed with the news of a Mexican con

man that had moonlit as a tight rope walker. She became

infatuated with the photograph in the news of his face: a strong

chin, gaunt piercing eyes, she thought. She delighted in all the

details and the revelations of new facts related to the case:

throughout the week it was able to maintain a freshness. And by

the Saturday she had researched where the Mexican man had

been in-prisoned and written him a letter, in Spanish, because

she knew the language from her Grandma's teachings when she

was younger. All this annoys Lily who realised that the decision

to travel to Paris had been sidelined by other ridiculous things,

Lily said that Saturday evening.

That Monday after Lily had stormed out to her parents

77

home, she received a letter from the Mexican con-man. She knew

it was a response from the strange stamp and the written address:

all scruffy blue writing. For a while she just looked at the letter,

staring at the whiteness, thinking about what could be inside.

This lasted all morning until Lily arrived and asked her what she

had decided. She made some appeasing statement that alleviated

Lily's worries, as she moved a bag back into their bedroom and

moved out for the gym. The letter sitting in between an Elle

magazine on her desk.

She started to rationalise certain episodes. The letter

being absurd. The letter being poetic. The letter asking to meet

her. The letter being a love letter, as she did, crazily, send her

picture to him with the drawing she scrawled on her arm of him.

Or even the letter being dramatic. She wanted this feeling to

linger, though toiled with temptation.

Lily arrived back from the gym as she stood at the window

thinking. Lily, in a mood, started kissing and touching her but

she could think of nothing else. Especially so when four days

later Lily started to kiss and touch her again she had started to

think more and more about him, his body, the words, the things

he had done. She felt a fraud, as if a chief lesbian would appear

out of the woodwork and ridicule her, perhaps slap her with a

hot pink dildo whilst perhaps holding this letter. Lily would

catch on sooner or later, she thought. Her mind was elsewhere

and she knew she couldn't hide it anymore. But where was it?

That afternoon she booked a flight, packed a bag and left.

The flight seemed anti climatic, as if just crossing the road,

for the speed at which it was all occurring: idea to happenings.

Cognac in hand over the in-flight movie, The Godfather. She

wasn't really watching the movie, merely seeing it through her

eyes over chaotic voices in her head.

Close to the end of the flight, the passenger next to her, a

female with rather larger breasts, she thought, asked her about

her holiday. She stuttered around the words: friends, sight seeing

and then friends again. As the letter came back to mind and then

his face and now his body. She hadn't even remembered to pack

toothpaste.

She entered the room. The screen sat in front of a cool



78

plastic chair. She took a seat and waited, clutching at her

stomach. The wait seemed forever, she thought. But it could

have been ten minutes or so, before a man appeared across from

her. Protruding cheek bones on top of a languid and tall

silhouette, olive skin. They both looked at each other for about a

minute, neither reached for the phone. He picked up first, and

she then followed. Isn't this strange?

As if enraptured nothing else seemed there, just this man

and his deep voice, his eyes against her skin. She felt a little put

out momentarily by her low cut chestnut top, her cleavage

clearly displayed. Moving her right arm against her chest ever so

slightly, until she decided not to, as if more than slightly

aroused, she watched his mouth move as he spoke about owning

up to his crimes, the tangibility of his breath, she wrote that

evening, mixed with the distance seemed romantic, sexy. She

told him that she was seeing a friend that week and that she

would visit again in two days time. He then said something that

moved her even more: Am I just a little hobby for you? She

moved her right hand up to her mouth and looked him right in

the eyes, as if she could fuck him right there and then and said:

Just wait...

79

...the value of bodies...

We promised we wouldn't upset each other by speaking: it

(our relationship) would instead have to be the manifestation of

actions replacing words. So days were spent, strangely for two

wordsmiths, in what first seemed an inarticulate mass of

nothingness. Slipping into thoughts of desires and needs, I

wondered of the need for the whole thing, but only thought that

this weird "thing" was having no true affect. As it went on for a

while, spending days on end in silence because we both agreed,

after having read each other's book's: 'Mangoes as Fingers' (mine)

and 'Pedigree of Chumps', respectively, that we had said more than

enough and that the world didn't need anymore misspoken

words.

I told a friend about this arrangement and they looked at

me flabbergasted and as if they had pulled a hernia: all bogle eyed

with flustered cheeks... Then it turned into chins full of chocolate

wiped silently, time spent looking out of windows at the rain

together, eccentric outings where it was as if role's were secretly

devised and antics were stoked by some weird semblance of

communicating something beyond everything we had already

realised we had spoken through our works and the conversations

we had had. One night we ended up with two macaws and a cat.

Which is a rather long story that amounted to the thought that

perhaps it's love?

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81

...austere beauty...

...Kingsley sat amongst the pigeons thinking of death. The

park had just opened by a man called Finland, who had moved to

Paris from the port city of Bordeaux after a tumultuous divorce -

Kingsley had also known heartbreak for he had never

experienced love in his forty six years of life: elements perhaps,

but nothing concrete, nothing consuming. Feeling closer to

death than life Kingsley, with a cold hand against thigh (touching

the edge of the knife), made a strange decision as if dust wiped

off a mantel, or a page turned in a novel. Streams of laugher then

penetrated his ears and Kingsley was now in attendance by a man

he would only come to know as R..

R. took a seat next to Kingsley whilst still rapaciously

laughing, as newspapers were blown in the wind, and a baguette

was entering the mouth of an elderly lady....and Kingsley sat a

little perplexed. As to Kingsley there was something unhinged

about R., something he loosely knew from psychotic experiences:

laughter in darkened rooms, voices telling hilarious jokes,

abstract theories played out as if reality.

Although R. had disturbed him and his decision, Kingsley

felt a sense of liberation by the sounds emanating from R. and

was a little envious. Like a vivid brushstroke of red across a blue

canvas, a baby with chocolate smeared over their face, the

starkness!

They soon began to chat: R. mentioned that he was

laughing at the thought of something one Professor Matek had

said: something to the extent of there being less opportunity of

death when surrounded by clowns.

Kingsley, upon hearing this, didn't know whether this was

a metaphorical joke or just an unfunny statement. He then

examined R.'s face: wrinkly skin perhaps even wan, loose bags

underneath big eyes, sensuous wet lips rather feminine looking...

After a lifetime R. had concluded, he explained to a silent

Kingsley, that existence was inherently psychopathic in its

extreme vastness, for one thing, and in the millions of ways



82

people misunderstand each other everyday. The first part

resonated with Kingsley and had him wondering whether it was

just mere coincidence to hear this or whether it was just random?

The mere concern for the words arriving out of R's mouth

propositions him and now you wouldn't want to miss what

occurred. Though you stand afar, looking as if at sports or a

beautiful person, naked.

You like violence, I know, this is obvious by the way you

observe things keenly and even in the way you met your first wife:

after a fight outside rue de la Bûchere, she was turned on, or

perhaps it was all leather jackets and moisture in deep crevices!

Who knows!

You overhear more words: ...what are you talking about?

And then dip into your pocket for your novel, Camus' 'La Chute'.

You feel that there is something poetic about the two men sat

talking on a bench surrounded by pigeons and that there is

something ominous lurking underneath. And you would be right

Monsieur!

Oily remnants of sushi saturated your fingers, I know you

would find this rather annoying especially in the heat of the very

understated moment. Though you ignore the need to go to the

park's toilet and you move a little closer to the bench, closer to

the crescendo of voices... and a little closer, yes: eyes like patches

of wet paint, alive. Though you take your eyes off the "scene" for

a moment as Finland drives by in a buggy away from you and the

bench. In this moment the blood had already started to trickle.

How anti-climatic, you thought whilst repositioning your legs....

83

MR. FANTASTIC (first published in Open Pen)

“Everything alters me, but nothing changes me.”

― Salvador Dalí

1. Peculiar Confessions



Remnants of chaos distinguished itself by the broken glass still

loitering on the wooden floorboards. How can a person fall off

and leave a sorry note—her voice trembled though quickly

became soothing: a conspiracy is better than the thought of

death, it distracts, I thought and configures a sort of known

pattern. And one that prohibits the thought that, punishingly,

life rarely makes any sense.

I walked to the edge of the living-room towards the balcony

overlooking the City, stepping on foot prints of police shoes,

coroners’ shoes, the dead. Fluorescent lights blinked through

the curtains as people carried on their days: familial patterns all

seeming refracted through the lens of death.

In a way I was angry at the way things had gone: the thought of

relationships and their need for care, is also governed by

compromise. I failed in a sense but perhaps I was masking it all

with cliché sentiments. Ones that alleviated the pain of truth.

Inheritance is a strange thing. Yes, I know, it’s all a bit

materialistic and harsh. But things have owners, they don’t

decompose with the dead body.

I moved from the curtain to the dining room, sieved through a

stack of records: Serge Gainsbourg, Kraftwerk, and some

Romanian records I had never heard of before. Apparently, the

last record playing was Serge Gainsbourg’s ‘Comme un

Boomerang’. Don’t really know what that says about anything. I

think it constructs a certain element of character, perhaps…No I

reckon it says nothing. She moved to where I stood, at the

balcony, and started looking out onto the street. The thick gloss

84

of lights penetrated through the curtain and created a sort of

hallucinatory glaze of the outside world and the inside world.

Both seemingly subjected to a mergence—the danger of the

night seeming closer by the disturbed atmosphere in the

apartment. I need to go for a walk. There’s another key by that

purple lounger.

I left the apartment, closing the door behind me. And as I

exited the building, I was confronted by the lady at 86. Small

stature, wrinkly face as if fabric loosely wrapped around bones.

She spoke hurriedly as if I was awaiting news from her, I

thought: saying that I should collect the boxes left in her

apartment and that an Eagle had apparently flown into her

apartment the day that it all happened as if an “omen”. Great,

magic realism, I thought, all a person needs in an already

abstracted world benighted with huge absurdities.

I left the conversation by remembering the times I would visit

in younger days when I would see the lady and coyly walk past

her on the stairs whilst mentioning the rain in the City or the

heat in the summer. Some banality, I think, I uttered before

continuing walking.

The streets seemed occasioned with opportunity to forget or

become distracted: by men walking to meet their mistress’,

women clutching at their bags whilst hastily pacing through the

streets, shopkeepers performing rote tasks, — though memories

persist, as I reached the Cinema, and started to remember the

film, The Concept of Vanity. The penultimate film he made

seemed, now, doused in death: the non-sequitur plot, the blue

tinted colourisation of the film, and even the heavy dialogue;

full of monologues and uncertainties.

Particular elements struck me as unforgiving: the abrupt suicide

of Rita Burns’ character, the searching existential melancholy

that ached throughout the rather nonsensical plot, the aching

silences.

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I carried on walking past the Cinema, remembering the dozens

and dozens of letters he sent whilst at disparate locations and

the drawer I kept them in, mostly due to the exotic stamps on

the envelopes: there, but very much absent, I then thought, whilst

the distilled light from a broken lamppost shone into my

direction like a spotlight or as if a ghost-pen highlighting: the

drama of the world full of enquired reportage now under the

consideration of participation: since it all happened I have felt

closer to signs, symbols, existence— Wafting through into the

street is the smell of Curry.

Two junkies appeared out of an off-licence arguing. The shorter

one, with firmer features (large nose), kept poking at the taller

stockier fellow. As I walked towards them their argument

became less Buster Keaton: sounding off on dropped B like

pearl earrings, gold dust. Using words like: How could you? The

Universe will have you! They congregated like the world was

theirs, I thought, circling each other whilst throwing more

abstracted insults and weird wisdoms at each other, of which

came across as futile by the day I was having. Though instead of

pitying them, their illusions illustrated a peculiar position of

envy—I walked past more slowly than I had been walking;

soaking in the diversion in totality.

2. Cinematic Schema

Alone in the kitchen thinking innocuous thoughts of stray cats,

by the documentary on the radio about pets, I heard shuffling.

You came in late last night, didn’t you? I had loads on my mind.

The sunlight cascading into the warm kitchen, as she moved

towards the drawers. Opening one she then turned to look as I

sat at the table. It’s a drawer full of old films. Oh really? We

should watch all the films, maybe that will make us think

differently about the whole episode. I suppose we could. Long

walks are not always… I needed that time to think.

3. Mangoes & Films

86

The awning, which was skin pink, cast a shadow whilst Rita

Burns’ character stripped naked whilst performing a

monologue:

The grandiose tales of life grab you by the weight of the balls

hanging as if ghosts between legs spread open to the existential

fire, the absurdity of it all and the blinding fate…

She paused it right here and just looked at me: the morning

light casting shadows on the walls and the large painting that

had been there for over fourteen years; Picasso’s ‘The Old

Guitarist’. The air seemed a little tighter, I got up and tripped

over a tangled mess of his rosaries, dropped on the floor next to

the coffee table and chocolate-brown woven chair I sat on.

Claustrophobia perhaps. Oh you’re not going to stop mid film

aren’t you? I’m just opening the balcony door to get a little air in

here. The dulled fluorescence aping and angling the notions of

the splendour of the night. Though on the floor dead leaves

with watermarks from the nights rain, characters rehearsing

lines in films I’ll never watch, endless arrays of stories. She

interrupted my reverie: You know all this sex in these films, I

should tell you why I fell out with him for a while. Why’s that?

Well, it was pretty embarrassing to tell. I don’t mind

embarrassing, embarrassing is honest. Basically, it happened

one summer a while back when I’d just finished the

Anthropology degree and I was thinking about going to that

Siddi tribe in India… I came and maybe I was just being goofy

and playful, but we were talking about this and that and then

about that film he made with all those Spanish artists. The one

about the artists in exile? You know the one…well I just

happened to sit on his lap and after I did this he got an erection,

a real hard on. Weird. I got really angry with him and I felt

really adopted and like loose change, but he kept saying that it

was just an accident. And then you fell out?

…Well I remember the mango trees, the anarchic genius, the

folds in between skin draped with surprisingly soft skin, the odd

Romanian words in arguments… And days spent watching the

rain in silence. I don’t remember him like that. Well, it’s the

truth of the matter isn’t it? Doesn’t death forgive?

87

4. Candle Lit Sun

When I arrived back from the pharmacy, she was writing a note

on a blank sheet of white paper. And I was thinking about the

grandiose wise tales he would sometimes tell: those tinged with

notions of existence being a film. Perhaps it was then that I

started to think through this very lens. And it was also this

afternoon that we received news of the mango plantation in

India. As if stifled we, initially, ignored responsibility and

decidedly continued to watch his arthouse film, Candle Lit Sun —

whilst watching it, I could see that certain episodes were hurting

her: watching as Alejandro Aldodove’s character kept insinuating

to his daughter as the scenes were interspersed with colonial

plantation workers busy in a mid-day sun, close-ups of mangoes

and two naked women in a seedy motel fucking beneath a picture

of Jesus Christ wearing a concrete grey panama hat as green and

royal blue curtains swayed in the wind. She started to cry, as if

searching for meaning, I thought.

5. Some Things Left in Storage — 16th August

Gipsy looking embroidered table cloth, sixteen reels of old film,

four stuffed purple kittens, twelve large canvas by Oscar Durello,

two large black and white photographs depicting Rita Burns

naked in a motel bed with her hands between her legs wearing a

white rosary chain, five photographs of Indian mango plantation,

one mahogany table with engravings of Machu Pichu on its legs,

six boxes of books, costume jewellery, one pair of clown’s shoes,

a large (80 cm x 100 cm) photograph of sun baked Ajuda, three

Angolan artefacts (small statues), one large box of out-of-date

condoms, three boxes of magazines (mostly Playboy and Apostrof),

two white female mannequins, two silver boxes with old

remnants of the detritus of opiates, five boxes of videotapes, a

signed framed photograph of Winona Ryder in horn rimmed

glasses, a large sculpture primarily made of asphalt and marble,

an old black and white photograph of an anonymous lady

excreting on a marble floor…

88

6. Forensic Values

After the policeman left having provided more news of the

forensic report, I started to look at the apartment differently,

mostly as the policeman suggested that another inquest was

being undertaken to further examine the cause of death.

Intrigued, I studied his Arab face and looked at hers; stressed

with burrowed eye brows, pursed lips and wondered how much

it mattered, the cause of death, perhaps fatalistically, whereas

she saw things from a more ardent perspective: a thorough

investigation is the only thing that would suffice given the

circumstances, she said persuasively. Careful with his words,

only at the end of the conversation did it become apparent that

there was some alternative view involving Rita Burns and a

possible affair, and by this I started to feel territorial, as if

another animal was impeding our zone, our space.

The bedroom I slept in, (his bedroom) now seemed saturated in

death’s tentacles like a web, with the position of clothes; strewn

over chairs, underneath chairs, aching a desire to understand

like string in a cobweb coiling a labyrinthine design. I started to

see parallels in how easy it was to live in the apartment amongst

his things: Like a well-fitting glove. But one constipated and

further so as time moved along:

As I kept walking to where he apparently fell or was pushed off

and made concentric circles in aid of searching for details I had

missed, though apparently according to the policeman the major

detail that they were looking at was his body, which they

stopped from being cremated (as his will stipulated) and were

still investigating for evidence of a push or what they described

as a tussle. I had never met Rita Burns but, throughout the

years, it felt that she was an extended part of the family and

much more than a muse for him, being that she would surface in

so many conversations, usually about Art and life and their

interconnectedness. The framed pictures became strange to me.

89

7. The Splendour of Night Terror

—That evening when I slept, I kept thinking, rather lucidly, of

his dead body (from memories of the funeral), and as if I had

stepped out into another body to stand next to another sleeping

vessel, I saw this dead body now awaken and flowers (roses)

spewing out of his stomach, in pain. At once it seemed natural

to push these flowers together as if skin attachments and by this

the wincing waned before I started a fully-fledged conversation

with him that consisted of film, relationships, African

ornaments and even clowns. The conversation seemed long and

tangible, perhaps it is him, I thought. And even when I woke

up, I started to feel the lucidness of the whole episode; and the

reality of a spiritual encounter. One fuelled by the rustling of

Indian mango leaves, the sound of his deep voice, and breath,

the drama of him writing in the middle of the night or flipping

through the pages of novels he would read and reread:

Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Jack Kerouac, the scent of his cologne.



8. To Vouch For Oceans

Eating Lunch on Fallon Street, we spoke about the entrails of

forgiveness, whilst the sun shone on the rain drenched streets

and she sat up against the red leather seat quite upright, and

wetness nestled into all the crevices, against the restaurant

window, wiping away, starting anew. …We had to get out of that

apartment, didn’t we? Fixing the sleeves on her orange blouse. I

suppose I agree, though it seems perfectly feasible that we

become attached…memories are quite performative too. I don’t

remember him being overly nostalgic… It seems as the days

pass that there is more and more information and it’s starting to

affect the memory of him. I don’t reckon it is as simple as that, I

think it’s only right that things are thought about… it’s about

time, I reckon.

As we walked it started to rain again, just as we neared the edge

of Filmore Street, near the Cinema. We started jogging towards

90



the apartment but became tired and soon started walking in

the collapse of the rain. Through the windows of an electronic

shop with a purple and white sign on the front we both

noticed the replaying of his film, Matadors & Jesus. We both

looked at each other and then at the screens showing a scene

involving a nun at an altar interchanging with pictures of a

black casket on an overcast day. She Pulled her hand to her

chest and used her index finger to touch her lip. He had such

morbid fascinations. I doubt they were specific to just his

thoughts… What makes you say that? Julio was also an

influence on the cinematography. She moved her arms to her

side and looked me up and down. Her wet hair now a frisson

of curly and straight.

Arriving back, we coerced each other to forget everything else

and started watching another of his films, The Death of Ursula

Candy. Which he made in 1966 just after spending a year in

Prague, where he notably befriended the Poet Allen Ginsberg

during the time he was “arrested and kept incommunicado”

(his words). The film, perhaps controversially consists of two

characters Salusa and Joselio who were drug addicts

conspiring to kill a woman called Ursuala Candy when a

character very much reminiscent of Allen Ginsberg,

idiosyncratic drifter-type-poet, gets involved and the plot

diverts into a sort of homage to Fellini — in a critical scene the

screen became colourised black and white and Ursula Candy

starts screaming, but it is not totally known why at this point,

until she starts a memorable monologue when Salusa enters

the room:

Drifters, outsiders, outcasts all besotted! And you, without

speaking words are like a murderer, rapist, killer that haunts…

the candle burns, it reflects in your eyes whilst the only heat

emanates from my heart, the victim…

At this scene she paused it and rewound it to watch it again,

with a piercing gaze. At this moment the telephone rang. I got

up from watching her and picked it up. He introduced himself

as Oscar Durello and I then said that I knew of him from the

paintings in storage. He then explained in great detail that it

91

had been a point of objection that we failed to remember certain

aspects that he thought were important: like looking through all

the belongings to find the unreleased 1983 film Fascination with

Apricots, for example.

9. a compendium of memories — August 26th



an elderly Romanian woman with features akin to an oriental

woman (slender eyelids) walked up to us as you fished and

mentioned that an oracle lived in the area. to which you

responded that fantasy was sometimes better than reality.

after an advertisement for deodorant screened on the television

you threw a plum at the screen and then explained the concept

of Communism and only stopped once it became clear that the

world was a “capitalistic farce” dominated by greedy

manipulators.

before a screening for Candle Lit Sun you bought ice-cream and

pronounced the need for a healthy relationship with sex. I was

seven.

it seemed natural for you to investigate Paris in 1985 and you did

this via a series of astonishing analogue photographs you showed

us on return that depicted prostitutes, trans persons smoking

cigarettes against concrete grafittied walls, a scene (you later

described as one that descended into near rape) of a blonde

woman with gritted teeth violently hitting a white vested man

that was crouching with his arms around his head in seeming

anguish, children walking through a low income Banlieue.

on the balcony at the summer house in Spain, which you later

sold, you established the thought that the anarchic movements of

1930 Spain were the pinnacle of enlightenment and the only true

indication of the way in which politics should really work.

you touched my leg in Prague after speaking about the function

of whoring by the example of a woman we saw earlier stood

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intermittingly on a corner of the street in front of a caboose like

toilet, cyclically wiping her vagina with tissues, whilst she

watched two kids playing on swings opposite.

you broke down one Saturday after explaining how your mother

felt about the Hungarian revolution of 1956.

stood in the Angolan Sun drenched with sweat you looked

towards a young-looking Julio Ramose whilst he dressed a halfnaked

Rita Burns and made a strange gesticulation with your

right hand held out that made me think of silent movies.

you always were impregnated by exotic thoughts, and so much

so that if a conversation, usually about school, digressed it was

mostly because you were trying to elicit the charm of the exotic,

even with lies, like one Monday before school when I wanted to

take the day off sick you played along as I feigned illness and

took me to your film set, where you spent two hours talking to

the janitor about Olof Palme’s death.

you failed to communicate for a year once, when you met

Selacia Farrou, and started to drink more. though on your reemergence

you had written your one and only novel, Alteristos,

which you said was heavily influenced by Marcel Proust and

then one summer’s day after this you said that you hated Marcel

Proust and that you become the things you hate.

there was fresh semen on your trousers once after you said you

were drinking beer with Julio Ramose.

after she said she wanted to study anthropology you kept

insisting on her visiting your Romanian half-brother that you

kept mentioning as “full blooded”.

one Thursday in Summer when we were visiting you on set in

Ajuda perhaps in a psychotic state induced by Opiates you

alluded to time spent in Tangiers where you dabbled in things

you “never thought you would have done in the dusty sunshine”

93

and I always wondered what these things were exactly.

your favourite saying was: chaos is more than the sum of its parts.

the day after news broke that Bill Clinton had received fellatio

from White House Intern Monica Lewinsky you telephoned and

started to explain the necessity of keeping secrets: describing, in

detail, the lost fabric of mystery and its charms.

one day you came to collect me from school holding two apricots

whilst nursing a five o’clock shadow and wearing a multicoloured

shirt unbuttoned at your protruding chest hairs and brown

corduroy trousers. you also wore white trainers that the other

kids, the next day, mentioned as “gleaming white”.

after Selacia Farrou died from an overdose you abruptly stopped

using drugs and drink by distractedly purchasing the blue

throated Macaw that you named Jezebel because there seemed

something unjust about the reputation this name had gained

from a Bible that “was mostly just stories”.

whilst your cigar smoke curled towards the ceiling you spoke of

Cuba and a man you met called Candela Horacio, who apparently

sold his beach house in Mexico and moved to Cuba with his

beautiful girlfriend Leila and got caught in a racketeering ring

that put Cocaine in Watermelons and shipped them throughout

the country after a night where Leila had been voluntarily

gangbanged by members of the ring. you even noted the tattoo

Candela had on his right arm and the resplendent manners of his

girlfriend Leila whilst he stayed at Candela’s house. words etched

in red writing: anarchy is heaven.

using your long and thick fingers you swatted at a Gecko in

Varanasi and kept mentioning the chance encounter of finding a

guru and a mantra, further explaining that the word mantra was

Sanskrit and the subsequent meaning.

94



for one year you allowed us to attend Church, but one Sunday

after a service you drove us to get Milkshakes and detailed that

Religion was merely a system utilised to stop people from

“behaving savagely” towards each other and that ethics and

morality were attainable without the use of “frivolous stories”

that promote their own sagacity but really are devoid of any one

true meaning. though you mentioned that the parts about

Solomon in the Bible were “cool” and then you started to smile

again.

you, one Wednesday evening, whilst the winter Olympics played

on the television started to explain your disgust for Foucault:

stating how he was enemy of clear thinking and just a poseur.

an unusually fat bird (pigeon) nestled into a corner ceiling of

your living room through a window left open. you laughed and

laughed before capturing the bird in a shoe box after running

around following it for about thirty minutes.

10. Indian Plantation — Coda ‘86

It seemed as if days were moving more quickly and slowly at the

same time, as so much occurred, though not many days passed.

Each day eventful in its own way perhaps. Like the morning

came after spending the night talking about the lawyer and the

whole situation. The telephone rang just as I was waking up, still

in his bed, and I heard her running on the wooden floorboards

to pick it up. I walked to the corridor to see her naked form on

the telephone quietly listening to something being explained.

According to the Jewish Lawyer Joshua the inheritance also

included this Indian mango plantation in Varanasi that was

purchased in 1986. Joshua explained that a certain “rather

strange” Indian property law stipulated by the will meant that we

had to visit and stay at the plantation for a total of fourteen days

every two years in order to still be considered legal owners. It

pronounced itself as very much a journey to undertake, but one

that would best be taken as soon as possible due to the

95

discussions of visiting Roches Noires in order to take a break.

Hand placed against the gold and black porcelain vase that sat

next to the telephone in the corridor she gestured her other

hand in a writing gesture; pinching thumb and finger. I picked

up a pen from within his bedroom and gave it to her. Watching

over her naked shoulder as she scribbled the address of the

mango plantation along with a doodle of what looked like a dick;

two balls and a long phallus, though it contained a smiling face

on the long phallus, I thought.

This same afternoon news came from Lionsgate that the just

found 1983 film Fascination with Apricots would be released

posthumously, mostly due to a commissioned BBC documentary

on his life that would release in October, apparently made by the

same production company that had produced an award-winning

documentary on Werner Herzog. The representative that called

from Lionsgate, a woman called Ingrid Moore, came across as

enthusiastic. Excitedly explaining the decision in a high-pitched

tone that came across as friendly. Though when I asked specific

questions about the final edit of Fascination with Apricots she

passed the phone to an American man called Harry McSailer,

who started the conversation with the words: I know you want

full control. By this the project seemed destined to conflict,

though I tried to remember the exactitude of filming techniques

that he would most probably desire. McSailer quickly explained

that we would meet with them to go through certain elements of

the film and I said that it would have to be in a few weeks after

we arrived back from India. To which McSailer made a very

specific joke about Aghori and cannibalism, saying that he

hoped I wasn’t going to eat a human thigh like those Aghori. I

feigned laughter before we said goodbye and I hung up the

telephone.

I told her about the decision of Lionsgate and she, hands on

hips, said that it was like attending to a whole new life, this little

death.

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11. a walk through Indian streets with a temple guide called Ahmed

a row of yellow coloured shirts hung on a clothing line on this

random Indian street in Varanasi where kids ran around

purporting to be their favourite national cricketer, whilst a

wind blew a storied cream coloured polystyrene cup that was

apparently (according to Ahmed) drunk out of by a man called

Raj that held two jobs: one as a shopkeeper and another as a

monkey guard in a monkey temple that, along with bananas

fed the animals vegetable samosas, rice, mangoes of which

were purchased from a stall managed by a lady called Pooja,

who, according to local rumour often dreamed of eating

strawberries and selling them too, but had actually never

tasted the fruit or its various incarnations (strawberry

milkshake, for instance) for fear of unveiling its mystery, but

imagined it to taste “like sweeter grapes” she would often tell

customers at her stall, who that day included a woman called

Reema that was originally from the outskirts of Delhi but had

relocated to Varanasi to be with a man she had said she loved

mostly because he had webbed toes, which she would often

fixate on and feel as if the world was “so enchanting” just by

studying this man’s web toes, of which an elderly tarot reader

living close to the market said would eventually lead to him

being diagnosed with a form of gangrene one day to then lose

a foot because of the unveiling of the Shakti card illustrating

that his chakra or aura was awaiting a powerful change that he

then saw as a warning, which meant that he would often walk

around the streets wearing two pairs of socks, carefully

avoiding any contact with stray cats, of which freely roamed

one gold and brown one called Chancie, who was once owned

by a local communist that often moonlit as a clown at

children’s parties that were predominantly held by upper class

Indians living near the Manikarnika Ghat who all

serendipitously believed in the Holiness of the local Ganges

River and often bathed naked there with sadhu’s like Patel

Krishna who walked past the yellowed coloured shirts hanging

on the clothing line before stopping at a Sugar Cane Juice stall

97

that was in the middle of being moved by a man known as Siraj

and also Mohammed, to some, because he had, years before,

converted to Islam but would only arrive to the local Mosque

once a month where an Iman was in the process of transitioning

from Islam to Hinduism, due to the revelations of a local guru

that had recently come into an inheritance of an industrial

building that was purported to be worth “an astronomical

amount of Rupees” owing to its location next to a factory making

sneakers that was owned by an Indian property magnet that

according to the local newspaper, a month previous,

appreciated: macaws, stray cows and European artworks by

Oscar Durello that particularly were made in the American Art

boom of the nineteen eighties because of their use of bizarre

colour contrasts as chocolate brown and baby blue oils...



12. A Wholly Governed Etiquette

After being guided through Varanasi to the various temples,

whilst contemplating much of what occurred in the local

environs through the talkative guidance of well-informed

Ahmed, of which the Hotel had recommended, we then made

our way to the mango plantation in the outskirts of the City as I

thought about the possibility of adjusting views on the

interconnectedness of life, momentarily doused in the spectre of

death through our own experience and the cremated bodies

burning in a dusty sunshine furnished by random people

observing the bodies disintegrate in the Holy fire. We planned to

stay at the plantation for the remaining few weeks as per the law

stipulation, so we packed our belongings and took a taxi from

the Hotel.

13. The Typed Two Page Sorry Note of Which was a Point of

Note (in reference to the Police Investigation) To Mention That

it was Typed and Printed Before The Death In Question

it is a given that you will read this note and be, in turn,

suspended in a remarkable feeling that a person has when

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confronted by the thought of death. though death is really the

one true peace that conceptualizes that necessity to think about

the abyss of existence. and only think of it in turns of a

cinematic wonderment that elicits the idea that everything is

very much seen through the kaleidoscope perspective of, say,

observing an ant farm: each entity very much a universe of

molecules, particles, cells that illustrate the explosion of energy

as a kinetic, never ending force. that has billions and billions of

forces and therefore persuasions and inhibitions that never end.

a notion of gladness should be encouraged by the grandiose

opportunity to ascertain a state of no-pain. where the only field

of vision is atmosphere saturated in an abstracted beauty

detractors call “nothingness” or “black holes”. though it is the

potentiality of this that provides the illuminations or genus of

thought I can only see as personified by the contemplation of

the beauty of the mundane.

a “neon light” of philosophical considerations highlighted by

the transformative awakening of concentrating on the subject of

death until it conspires to obliterate the concept of finality and

accentuate the notion of a reconfiguration of the meaning of

time: everything is happening now, at once.

it is perhaps rather clear that the fragments of each individual

world, of which there billions, are tangible through an

absorption of the energy through meditation: a flux state exists

here that is illustrated in the biology of the human condition

and its ability to transcend your thoughts beyond the usual.

exiting a scene is the only true concept of death. where the

“other side” is full of episodes that will enlighten, castigate,

immerse as if finding a neurological pathway to another

existence where only the shell is questioned.

just as the chaos is more than the sum of its parts, as is

anticipation too, so saturate in the knowledge that the never-

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ending reoccurrence of existence can be framed, multiplied,

subtracted, divided, added to.

death is just like taking a detour into your imagination, so it can

be necessary to sow creative seeds that will likely grow after,

what is referred to as death, but really constitutes a

continuation.



the truth of the situation is that there is nothing new: everything

exists as it is. and an even more clear-headed extension of this is

to view death as a simple “energy realignment”.

so it can be rather important after reading this note to see

beyond your everyday activities, which often weigh a person

down by the sheer disillusionment of certain preoccupations,

though discovering your own deaths (worry, disappointment,

depressions) and enabling yourself to see through their

propensity to carry any power by concerning yourself with

taking decisions that will exhibit courage, intuition,

individuality, transformation and choice.

perhaps it is without knowledge of the abundance of reason that

certain people go on without any sort degree of lucid

observation that may seem foolish to many, but each thought

had penetrates with a construct that is limited to the views of

existence: the tangibility of things, if I am honest.

another scene awaits me.

14. Mr. Fantastic?

We both read the sorry letter in the taxi to the mango plantation

as it was a long journey and we had discussed on the plane that

it was about time that we confronted what we knew were the last

words, apparently communicated by him. We envisaged a sort of

relic to depressive notes made in a psychotic state, perhaps

impregnated with old memories that refused to transform into

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anything enlightening or refreshing. Though we both discovered

that the note left by him, was at once confusing, but at the same

token was also devastatingly refreshing and rather clear sighted

in its utterances. I don’t know if I want to cry or run a mile. She

moved in her seat whilst the Indian sunshine figured a shadow

against her hand positioned in front of her face against the

window. I know it’s so abstract though. I for some reason didn’t

find it abstract at all: it was like an epiphany in a sense, a

fantastic epiphany that although still makes me want to cry made

me feel quite powerful too. I shook my head slowly. Especially

by memories of him…

The moustached taxi driver kept looking through his rear-view

mirror at us, as if he was lost in thought by our journeyed

actions. Through the window, after coming to a stop next to a

green and yellow tuk tuk at a junction that also had Indian flags

stuck on its surface along with photographs of a blue Shiva, a

man stood behind a stall selling bananas with a miserable look

on his face and body expression: slow movements with frowned

lips and a sweaty forehead that he was wiping away with a blue

towel he intermittingly kept on his right shoulder. Mr. Fantastic

conceived the disdain for life is in the thought that a person can

transcend existence, I flippantly thought whilst watching the

man slowly unpacking a bunch of bananas onto the stall from a

then discarded brown box.

We soon arrived to the plantation after a long time without

seeing anything much but green and then dusty streets

containing a single food stall or another stall selling fruits. The

plantation had a driveway connecting the road with a large patch

of green that held remnants of muddy road marks. The house,

on the outside, was chiselled and apricot coloured with large

windows and a quite startling gold door that made me think of

the concept of a doorway: becoming lost in thought,

momentarily, a door became a sort of vestige between worlds,

and more answers to more questions unravelling at a pace I

started to find contemptable: the prevalence of the unknown

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manufactures an antsy feeling around death; and that which

puts sanctions on the elasticity of the heart’s memory, as if its

required to silence a heart for the sake of continuing stoically in

the face of more and more.

At this gold door’s entrance stood a man Joshua had informed

us was the plantation manager, Sanjeeva, we assumed. Sanjeeva

was stood hands crossed wearing a crumpled cream shirt

(mostly unbuttoned), red linen trousers and no shoes, with feet

stood next to a cream apron that is then picked up and held

whilst holding out another hand to shake ours.

Sanjeeva smelled like a mixture of: mangoes, hashish, sweat.

The edge hairs on his moustache greying black accentuating the

ends of a smile. He showed us in and around the house first, to

a living room sparsely decorated though containing a book shelf

with different versions of Alteristos: the Italian translation, the

French translation, the Spanish translation and so on. There

was also a framed photograph of Rita Burns stood next to an

Elephant smiling. And then to a kitchen smelling of dried

mango, coriander and chai. And then to the bedrooms, the

largest being full of vacant memories: the table left with half

written screenplays (one called: Indian Mezzanine), the bed left

unmade as if just slept in, the bedside table containing a gold

coffee mug displaying the words: director, the drawers full of

clean underwear, the large original photos on the bedrest wall

of:

a woman laying down on a red sheeted double bed that they’re

also chained to. The hand cuffs were pink and it appeared that

there was a squeamish look on the woman’s face that looked

more real than ever. On the bed a hand was able to be seen,

along with a voodoo doll: blonde hair dangling from an oak dark

body with notably fierce indentations as eyes, mouth and a large

nose. There was a large teddy bear on the bedding too. Above

the bed is a copy of Picasso’s ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’. The

photo has an apricot hue for reasons unknown.

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two Indian teenage girls kneeling over and beside a pan

cooking chickpeas by an extremely wrinkly elderly woman that

looked as if she were blind, with eyes in different directions,

though she could have had two lazy eyes (I thought). The girls

knickers were able to be seen as the girl on the right of the

photograph looks directly at the camera and the girl on the left

is looking at a man behind them all squatting and excreting in

the middle of the street right next to a large cow.

what looks like a kif den (dusty floor, chipped walls, a door sat

cattycorner on its hinges), where five Moroccan looking,

perhaps vagabond, men are sitting on short stalls where one of

these men, sat beneath a shelf with a solitary candle on it, is

holding a pack of cards in one hand and a hand full of money

in the other. Another of these men, wearing a black kufi, seems

to be in the middle of shouting something, as he holds an

aggressive scowl (the whole of his features nearly framed into

the middle of his face) as smoke emanates out of his mouth.

The culprit of his aggression seems to be a woman seemingly in

the middle of belly dancing with one hand raised and another

to her hip in a right-angled A shape whilst wearing just a bra

and a thong with a raised foot that has dirt on it. Smoke is

bellowing into the ceiling and the one bulb light has created a

haloed affect that doesn’t distribute the light particularly far.

We stood staring at the photographs for a while, Sanjeeva

stood in the doorway watching before he commented that he

always thought the photographs were weird, ending the issue

by saying that foreigners can be so different before adding that

he left things as they were after the last visit that year in March.

His English was slurred with an earthy tone that spoke of long

days spent smoking Hashish, I thought, as I looked at the

photographs and then at her staring at the photographs with a

slightly open mouth. I couldn’t sleep in here. They’re a bit

haunting, aren’t they? Exactly…the woman in that one looks as

if she is really not enjoying all that, it looks real menacing, do

you reckon it’s a scene from movie we haven’t seen? No,

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strangely they’re original photographs, I can tell he probably

took them years ago. She flinched. I know he worked at the

faculty at that University, years ago, so maybe it was one of his

students perhaps? There is really something about that photo,

maybe we should dig up what exactly happened…I suppose we

could… Like an investigation into the heart of the matter, and

the crux of admiration…



I moved, as in my head I thought:

there’s sex in here, I can smell it coming off the absurdly violent

photographs, I can smell it on the chest of drawers that will

sweat with kink, I can hear it in the bed sheets that I refuse to

change, I can sense it in the haphazard way a pack of condoms

sits on the bedside table, the smell of unhinged laughter in the

dust, plus there’s the taste of mangoes…

On this bedroom’s balcony overlooking the out-house (where

Sanjeev lived with his wife Chopra) there was a view of the

mango plantation in its enormous vastness: a sea of illuminous

green, yellowish orange, orangey red. And then a cow, that

according to Sanjeeva was bought by a man called Krisha that

lived with his wife Padma who would, after Krisha had (like

clockwork) left for the mango plantation, spend afternoons

fucking various men and drinking Indian wine until one

sweltering Friday afternoon when heavily blinking Krisha

fainted in the sun, though he soon came around, before going

home to find his wife having sex with a man that sold Poetry

books like Rimbaud and Krisha, in a rage, killed them both and

then himself. Leaving this orphan cow roaming, said Sanjeev as

we walked down the stairs and out towards the mango

plantation.

15. ripe mango — reflection on colonialism

hot sun on brown skin: a bastion for sweat drops — reflections

of his odd deeds: workers feverishly collecting wearing sarees:

gold and red, pink, green blue orange patterned. Bright scarves

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draped over heads. Sanjeev moved towards one man stood

beneath a tree and spoke in loud Hindi words that appeared

harsh when the man started digging more ferociously. I didn’t

understand how those short words could manufacture such a

reaction: words into dust particles bellowing feverishly into the

sky as a lady walked past with a pinkish azalea in her ear, which

seemed enchanted like the purity of snow.

16. Enchantment of A Chain of Memory

drizzling down chins, conjuring thoughts of empty lakes in

youth filled with adolescent flirtations, naked thighs, plus the

refreshing taste of juice and then stiff skin. The arrival of Balou,

the Monkey interrupted our mango tasting as she wiped her

chin. Didn’t he belong to the Communist Party, I remembered.

Well I think that was the sixties or early seventies…he always

seemed conflicted with having stuff, and things. It seems

strange just looking around at all this, that he would have

wanted this. Like because of the rupees that they must pay

them? Sanjeev stopped eating a mango, I know it can be

difficult but…

What’s the alternative? I said.

It’s one big conflict after another…

by this more memories wafted of him: a photograph next to Jean

Genet who is smiling with his arms around him taken in 1970

Jordan at a Palestinian refugee camp that he told us was the first

time a gun was pulled out on him.

an abstract painting, he later destroyed, depicting a woman, that

is cream, apricot orange, black of which he would often refer to

as Maria Maria, mostly because he said he had painted it about a

lady called Maria that had a tongue like feathers.

17. Like An Illusion Served Cold

The rotating ceiling fan, left on throughout the day and evening,

choked a stop once I was in his bed after Sanjeeva and his wife

had made us an expansive Thali dinner, with six different

105

curries and garlic naan breads. Washed down with a mango

Lassi made fresh that afternoon by talkative Chopra who seemed

a diseuse, in a sense that she flamboyantly spoke sometimes

extremely fast and sometimes empathically close to a slow

whisper of many things: how Sanjeeva, ten years her senior,

married her when she was merely fourteen (which was only

mentioned of, by Chopra, as when her husband was a little

animal), how a guru called Krishnamurti was so wise, how a

ventriloquist from Shimla lived in the area, how days sometimes

equated to a feeling of “sweet melancholy” (whispered), how her

Hindu Father sometimes snuck meat on Saturdays before

arriving back to the village house with “meat sweats” and a

smile.



I moved towards the balcony, next to the window, which I

thought I had closed before sleeping but was still slightly open,

explaining the slight gusts of winds pronouncing itself from the

moonlit darkness. Though stood, I could see through to

Sanjeeva and Chopra’s outhouse — where they were arguing,

her pointing at him whilst he smoked what I imagined was

Hashish and this went on for a short while, until he, clench fist,

punched her once and then another time to result in her starting

to cry on the floor, her deep blue close-fitting saree touching the

bright red floor mat that complimented the distinct ornaments

that were all positioned perfectly in two rows on the mantel

piece housed next to a shrine of Lakshmi: four gold arms, gold

and red saree, gold neck and face. Chopra then stood up and

walked towards the edge of sight, next to the brown balustrade,

and shouted something at Sanjeeva stood in the middle of the

room before walking up the stairs, turning on the bedroom light

and laying on the green sheeted bed with her legs spread wide

open.

I started to feel tight, so I stretched my arm against the curtains

and then looked, again, at the photographs on the bed rest wall.

I then heard floorboards creaking before the door opened. I

thought I heard you. You’re up? I walked to the bed now and sat

106



on the edge. I kept thinking about what all this could mean.

The gold door knob making a shifting sound. Ant farms,

mango plantations, photographs, the films, and that’s not even

the start of it! She walked to the dresser table and started to

touch the sweater hung on the back of the dresser table. I

really miss him…

18. The Wandering Sadhu

Highlighted in the newspaper, left since that March, there was

a story of a Mexican man that had fabricated another life that

consisted of time spent breeding flamingos, acquiring funds

for an NGO that dealt in disability sex, and even a stint as a

manager of a Nigerian Charity in Lagos — After conning a

community of people out of nearly ninety thousand Mexican

Peso by promising a myriad of schemes, perhaps too plentiful

for the article to have named, he was caught on a nudist beach

at the Riviera Maya in the state of Quintana Roo. While I was

reading this article in the kitchen, through the window I saw a

man—the wandering Sadhu. He said that he had been walking

all night, after I opened the door and approached him. At first,

we spoke about the notion of walking for time to think: the

ability of allowing time to pass, the thoughts generated by

random sights, the mode of being in flux like the “liquidity of

humanity”, said the Sadhu.

According to the Sadhu he had spent the summer working on

a Trawler in the Indian village of Odisha. Where he said that

the very fabric of time seemed to expand into a sort of

spiritualism with hands, feet and soul—noting that the usual

feeling of life receding into wasted days was replaced by a

sense of freedom. Which I deemed as terrific: asking him why

he had left. He then said that his Father had died and that he

would be cremated in Varanasi for an abundance of spiritual

reasons. Noting the fierce confrontation with death of the

open cremations and the flippant way that life should be

approached for the very reason that we, humans, were nothing

107

more than spirit and flesh.

I then told the Sadhu about the reason I had arrived to the

mango plantation and he, after the explanation, was at pains to

respond with a confused look on his face that we shared in

silence. I then added that the complexity of dealing with death

can, at times, be fascinating although immensely dark. We

parted ways in a silence…



19. Like Fatal Wounds

the thick crescendo of silence seemed to mount: ominous voices

only heard within a head full of thoughts on death escalating

then descending, escalating then descending: rich

abandonments of neglected thoughts conspiring within the

ambiance of mangoes.

20. The Optimal Amount of Death

Ravaged by the absurdity of existence, the afternoon light

caressed Sanjeeva’s forehead, as I stood at the window

contemplating how to go about the day: drifting through mental

spaces vacated by him: the facades of sexuality, the

overwhelming prevalence of violence in everyday situations, the

searing heaviness of life.

After little time attending to my ablutions: allowing the lather to

run against my body, I made my way to the living room, just as

she walked in through the front door waving some keys. She

explained that she thought it were a good idea to be mobile, and

that we could take a drive to Lucknow, if we felt adventurous

too. I was feeling particularly lethargic, and a bit destitute.

She drove quite fast, as she said it was the only way to drive in

India, like a bit of a maniac: drivers sometimes drove on the

opposite sides of the roads, tuk tuk drivers weaved in and out of

traffic in an expanse of yellows and greens, a glupy layer of

108



honks and horns saturated the sounds of the City. We arrived

close to Manikarnika Ghat and decided that we would get out

and go for a walk: although we had spent the time whilst driving

talking, mostly about Indian cultures (temples, music, food) at

the Ghat we started to feel death loom again. The atmosphere

seemed to be patrolling us, I thought, though I tried to speak

about other things: what we were to eat before we drove back to

the plantation, how Sanjeeva was hitting his wife and the Sadhu

I spoke to earlier that day. She saw things from the perspective

of India being a different world, which I found to be an

immature way of seeing things that reminded me that she was

younger than me, but I didn’t say this. The Ghat seemed full of

hustling, boatsman trying to lure tourists onto expensive tours.

Though the people bathing in the Ganges seemed to take the

edge off the tentativeness of acquiring money. The value of

holiness is perhaps in its ability to allow for digressive thoughts

that can amount to nothing, but at the same time, provide whole

new textures to things without the necessity of being true.

We ended up at a Resutaurant close to the Ghat that we saw

was busy — a good sign, we both said, at exactly the same time

as if the thought had entered our heads simultaneously. The

food was decent, though I became annoyed that she kept on

talking about the time he got a hard-on from her sitting on his

lap: restaging it, reiterating her offense and so on. I wanted to

say get over it, but the wound must have still been raw, I

thought, so I just allowed it to go on. I wanted to order a lassi,

but as I was too full from the Curry, I decided against this. She

was in her element, making conclusions about him that seemed

a bit inappropriate: how he was narcissistic, how he truly felt

about women, how his films reflected his perversity. All things I

had heard before so I was tempted to tell her to shut-up. I

resisted mostly because I was watching a couple sat behind us:

they were sitting next to each other eating and talking about

some issue related to both their parents. The lady kept

mentioning that her parents wouldn’t understand and the guy

kept saying that they would and that they were probably like his

109

parents. The guy had an accent that seemed Mexican, but he

was speaking to the girl in English, as I could tell she was

Australian. I wondered where they had met, and then day

dreamed about the thought of being a completely different

person, or living a completely different life. This day dream was

interrupted when she started to cry about how she hadn’t had

the opportunity to fully make it up to him. Teardrops fell onto

the paratha on her plate as I tried to stop myself from watching

the couple.



We drove back in what I remember as a muted and mostly silent

atmosphere. Which I was glad about at the time because it gave

me time to think about other things, such as the story of the

Sadhu from earlier that day. Although the roads out of the Ghat

close to Manikarnika were hectic, after this they were pretty

remote, and I was impressed that she was able to remember the

way, quite easily. As I sometimes I have a foggy relationship

with directions.

When we arrived back, Sanjeeva was stood in the driveway. He

said that someone had come to see us, a friend that knew our

dead. He said that she was waiting in the living room and I

didn’t really know what to expect, if anything. The sun had

already set, but there was still a warmness to the air. We walked

into the living room and there sat a girl and an older woman.

The girl looked very fair skinned, compared to the older woman,

though apparently they were mother and daughter. We both sat

down before they started to explain themselves. According to

the woman, who was called Fatou, she had had a relationship

with our dead years ago and that the young girl sat down quietly

fidgeting on the sofa was his spawn. I didn’t really know how to

react, as if a life opened from opening a simple door, the

heaviness of the situation seemed a little off-putting. What was I

to really say?

After we were told this, it seemed only right that we

accommodate the girl, who was sixteen and called Elau, and

110

allow her to stay in the house, especially so as we would not be

really needing it. Elau seemed elated and as if she couldn’t

contain her smile, one doused in death, I thought, but a smile

nonetheless.

21. Ramifications of Veins

Elau quickly moved in, and we started to get to grips with

having a new relative. Although initially she was very quiet, I

quickly noticed traits that reminded me of him: her eyes, her

hands, and strangely her flightly disposition. We spoke about

this as we watched her speaking with Sanjeeva in the mango

plantation from his bedroom. I don’t know what to make of all

this. She moved towards the head of the bed, whilst peering at

the photographs on the walls as if stuck between two worlds.

Well it’s not as if the situation is not explainable: he was not

that disciplined and prone to doing things without much

thought. I know, but it’s just… she picked up his mug that I left

on his bedside table and fingered the rim… I’m going for a

drive, that could maybe take my mind off things. I’m going to

relax here, I said as she went off.

So consumed, I hadn’t noticed that she didn’t arrive back, even

when I was thinking about getting some sleep. It was Elau that

mentioned it, and had me reminded. All at once I had a strange

feeling, like a ghost had touched me. The air became a little

tighter around the neck and I started to feel a little nauseous,

perhaps dizzy. I took a seat, and started to wonder what to do.

It was Sanjeeva that suggested we drive around and see where

she could have got to. Sanjeeva was not talkative at all, as if

unburdened by the usual need to fill time with words. We sat

in silence as we drove staring side to side and around at

anything that resembled anything. We drove for about an hour

and a half before arriving back to the plantation to see if she

had arrived back.

111

The news came that morning, as if stilted and a bit disjointed

already, it seemed anti-climactic: its rhythm seemed totally

opposed to that of our dead, and so banal. The casualness of it,

seemed to belittle the ramifications. Languishing in a seemingly

endless challenge, it was just as if the day was to continue at any

rate — the remorselessness of the day foreshadowed thoughts of:

dead leaves sitting on scattered lights, mangoes being eaten by

hungry monkeys, the hot day turning into a hazy night, hashish

bought by Sanjeeva to smoke whilst Chopra cooked, woodlands

full of blossoming, lingering cows at the foot of the hill around

the corner, mango plantation workers taking lunch whilst

complaining about the heat…

As if cotards, I started to think about the concept of walking the

earth as if I were also dead...

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...the spectacular eternity of Rosemund...

The Hungarian Revolution of 1956 was always on

Rosemund’s lips: the differing elements of the situation, the

colours of the City and their prevailing dogmas. Tempestuous, it

could be said that Rosemund enjoyed many aspects of the

situation, for when she spoke there was always an incredibly

excited look on her face. Elaborate gesticulations. Fascinating as

it seemed, Rosemund was also hiding a secret she only disclosed

late into her life.

The cold glisten of winter had succumbed the City to a

melancholic ache: people moving through the City without a

glance here nor there. Rosemund spoke of this in a resolute

fashion, harkening to days of the revolution when things seemed

so much more alive compared to the coldness of the day. I

listened that day having spent the morning struggling to write

the second novel Oceans of Mangoes. I always thought that old age

disregarded the thought of sensitivity or the notions of repute.

And this was the actual case for Rosemund as, after she made me

a coffee, she told me that after the Revolution she had seen a

lady pushed off a bridge near the 8th District.

As she spoke I could hear the regret in her voice by a

slight tremble. Although she didn’t cry I could feel the emotions

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tied up in her words. I then asked her who this lady was and

Rosemund then told me the whole story. According to her the

lady was only eighteen at this time, but had married a Nazi. This

lady apparently held similar beliefs and was apparently wanting

to move to Germany to join a Nazi campaign near Dusseldorf.

The man that pushed and killed the lady was a friend of

Rosemund’s called Gustav, he had apparently known of the

lady’s husband through another friend Misklav but had got into

an argument this one night.

Rosemund seemed to find it difficult to tell the story,

pausing quite often, but she continued nonetheless until she

mentioned that she had had a stint in a mental hospital due to

the whole episode and the guilt that she carried. She held that

the thought of Gustav, that same night of the murder, stoically

drinking a beer as if nothing happened still impinged on her

psyche: the thought that regardless of happenings life

continued at any rate.

114



...the structure of divinity...

The structure sat in the middle of the room: asphalt with a

marble base. Since it had sat there, according to Raj, there had

been a "bad aura" around the place: Traffic jams leading to closed

roads, food fallen on floors, and even illness. Constipated by

these thoughts Raj decided to go for a walk.

As he walked Raj documents the things he sees and this

amounts to a feeling he deemed of a higher power: thoughts

speeding and lucid. Perhaps hallucinogenic. He arrived back and

observed the structure sat in the middle of the room. Patel, his

girlfriend, walked in and asked him what he was staring at.

Unperturbed Raj said nothing, for he was taken, in a sense. It was

only after a short while that Raj came around and explained to

Patel that he thought that this structure was spiritual. As if a

"sign" administered by a higher being Raj awaited, usually in a

yoga position Shavasana. And it was one Thursday that

something strange occurred: meditating next to the structure Raj

noticed the structure move, according to him.

Raj implemented a system due to what he saw. Anytime he

needed guidance he would speak to the structure and await a

response.

Raj started to lose weight, plus the farming he would

usually do was unobserved and left undone. Patel started to

become upset by what she saw as absurd: observing movements

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of an object, awaiting guidance from a structure. She consults

her Father but her Father, who is a very masculine man (it

seemed to her) said that she should not lose sight of the love she

had for Raj.

Raj started to become sick: with symptoms amounting to

coughing, fever and vomiting. Though he continued to sit at the

structure until one day the smell of strawberry emanated into the

room, apparently. Raj asked Patel if it were her, and she replied

no. He then took this as another "sign" and this meant that he

went out looking for where this scent could have derived from.

He arrived to the fruit stall but the man behind the stall

mentioned that strawberry was not a fruit that he saw around the

area. You must have imagined it, said the man.

Raj was adamant about the smell and the divinity of the

structure. He went back to the structure which was rather tall, by

the by, and moved the structure closer towards the window but

perhaps just in front of the door, in order to gain a different

energy within the room. So focused was he that when Patel

entered the room he failed to realise. And then it occurred that

Patel tripped just as she entered the room and fell onto the

structure which then killed Raj.

116



...the paradoxical genius of insanity...

“THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only

people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”

Hunter S. Thompson

§ §§ §

Winning the prize resources she uses some of it to

procure materials she needs to produce her art installation: ten

fish, four worms and a few sticks. And she takes them back to

her wall-less studio, where she constrains herself to its confines

on the basis of achieving an “Artistic freedom”. A few days pass

and she has done very little apart from move the materials

around, sleep, eat and contemplate perception. But it was on the

third day when a Hunting Golden Eagle flew into her studio

and said in a husky voice:

follow simple streams

as if sheep,

wolves and blue winds

And this made her arrive to strange realisations: Things are too

complex, she thought, Who’s to say I’m not really a man in a

dream? Perception a conspiracy! After a month of sun rises and

sets pass, there is a press conference, otherwise known as a

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gathering. There, she is asked what she had achieved, before

she begins to roar like a lion to showcase her epiphany! And

this happened before the police accosted her and constrict her

from continuing, to seemingly create a blizzard of confusion,

havoc and subversive mind tricks, said one journalist in the

flock. So amazed by the absurdity of what had occurred the

prize givers force her into an institution: a cage. Though the

Doctors in the institution agree that there is a paradox of genius

to her insanity and especially Doctor Benway who deemed her

epiphany as "Art in the movement of thought," he said next to

her cage before he flew away to Brighton to have lunch with a

seagull.

Afterwords: “Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked

in what cage.” Ray Bradbury

118



...grandiose objectivity...

Little did I know how she would react, though a comedian

could probably have guessed what would occur or perhaps that

it would somehow get awfully confused as soon as I walked in.

“You’re Franz Bema, right?”

“Hopefully,” I said, “because that’s the problem.”

“Identity…”, she said as she started penciling notes from the

end of her horn-rimmed glasses. And the type that you don’t get

cheap, I thought to myself before taking a seat.

“Perhaps, but I’ve started to really feel that the intellectual life is

full of paradoxical idiosyncrasies,” I say because by now I’m

troubled with the job, the ex-girlfriend and so on. “And ones

that have made me desire ignorance Doctor June.”

“Come on!”

And I could tell that she was in total refusal to what I had

just said, and In a way I knew she would be: being a woman with

a masters in psychology and at least a PHD in psychiatrist care,

plus I could tell by the way that she was dressed that she valued

the stimuli of the brain. So in an ode to go along with her decree

to “Come on!” we then started talking about Dostoevsky and the

motif of psychology in gaining meaning, which I just went along

with, “You can’t tell me that knowing is not a healthier mode of

living than not knowing,” she quipped as I quietly nodded.

Though that was the first session that I had where I just went

along with what she would say, but did conclude to her that, “I

can’t believe in anything, but that life is probably best lived with

easy access to ignorance.”

And it was only as time went on that our relationship had

begun to change; at first I didn’t notice this change in increased

levels of attentions, as I had just assumed that I was such a bad

119

case that she decided to take special interest in, especially after

“Noodle Gate” (we called it). And I still insist that it is of very

much importance that a plate of noodle be semi-warm and not

cold or too hot as both can have disastrous affects on the

metabolism, regardless of how disinterested my date was that

night, I had to take a stand!

But it has been about six sessions or two months since

making my decision to live a life of ignorance that has me

working for secret company Crabco, located on the back streets

of Seventh Av. And it was through working at there that a most

weird happening occurred, and then continued to just occur

really. As my job description, from a certain perspective is

actually illegal and has been so since at least 2019. Though it

pays the bills and all I have to do is meet clients, in hotels,

sometimes houses, to have what is deemed “ignorant

conversations” about why I don’t like chocolate on my body or

how big cats scare me more than big dogs -- All talk of literature

is primarily banned in a world that perhaps has become over

saturated with “thoughts”: there has been an increase in riots

along with an increase in the mobility of information since the

influx of technology (internet). No, I feel my decision is total. So

boy was I surprised when on a Wednesday afternoon I was called

to an underground liaison with “someone that needed increased

discretion” said my Boss Ralphie, a fat Bostonian with a bum

ticker.

I needed the money at the time and went to the hotel

Plaza, room 207 with an array of chatter at my disposal,

consisting of; why some women love chocolate, how big heads

look so lovely with hats, the reason the sun feels like a juicy

strawberry as opposed to a banana; I went fully stocked with

armoury this time. Arriving, I then knocked at the door. To my

surprise whom did I see? Well it was the horn-rimmed glasses

and pencil skirt that I was paying in order to decrease my

ignorance, clearly stood in this hotel wanting a session to

increase her levels of unawareness, which were at an all-time

low, due to a husband that apparently only spoke of Virgina

Woolf, David Foster Wallace and the cosmopolitan sciences,

even during foreplay. How life works in wondrous ways.

120



“Can I help you?” she said, as if she hadn’t been rumbled.

“What brings you here Mister Bema?”

“I’m looking for a person with an influx of stimulus,

perhaps to the point where they have realised that the length of

a piece of string is debatable in fifty languages and now the value

of the price of soup.”

“Well…” she stuttered, as if a fiend for the chat,

regardless of where it came from. And I then realised that I had

started to realise that she was beginning to enjoy such

proclivities: as our sessions started off on Dostoevsky and slowly

moved towards the way I saw things, though with reluctant

nudges she felt professionally she had to make: telling me that I

had to read Heidegger’s theories on philosophy and a Milton

Poem. “Price of soup? What you talking about?” Looking around

the Hotel hallway with wet lips.

§§§§

Eventually –without much persuasion, mind you -- I

entered the room and gave her a good round and probably one

of my best sessions: My late thrust for how James Joyce clearly

was an omelette man based on Finnegans Wake was a great

move. And I could tell that she was satisfied: along with my story

of how one truly can’t pause toast, which had her practically

orgasmic. So we agreed that we would both be professional

about the situation, de facto as it may be, “Perhaps you want to

see someone else though?”

“No, no, no, it’s fine.”

“And what would your husband think?”

“This is my decision.”

So be it, I thought. Although, before she left I explained

that in that case I would miss the next session as I had to visit my

cousin in Maine.

“How will I get my fix?”

“You’re going to have to find a way,” I said which

perhaps conflicted our next Monday’s therapy session when she

rarely spoke of Milton, Philosophy or Science. She revelled in

the neurosis that emanated with ease, to the point where the

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room was filled with so much helium of ridiculous energy

(laughter maybe or even delirium?) it could probably be heard in

the corridor – ignoring this: she had to get her fix alright, which

in hindsight saddens me as now she was a two bit ignorant

moonlighting intellectual; I had lost respect for her, in a

way.“You’re not gonna rat on me,” she said before I left that

Monday.

“Yes, we’re cheating but what can we do?”

“I need another hour, can I call you?”

“I need to getting going girl, I need to shoot.”


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

So in a heartbeat the relationship had gotten murky, and

just as murky as the married Judge up in the Hamptons that I had

to see, so I just told her that I’d see her the next week.

Though it was Friday afternoon that I bumped into

Woodward, a fellow undercover Crabco worker, outside the

subway station, collar up looking all jittery with the grey flints in

his beard looking even greyer than the last time I saw him.

“What’s up Woodward?”

“Hey, you know I got busted yesterday.”

“Busted?”

“It was that client I filled in for you ---moonlighting she

was, god damn busted us both the cops, rambling about hot

cakes and now I’m out on bail.”

“Damn! And her? What the hell’s happened to her?”

“I think she may lose her job, I don’t know...”

So I went back to my apartment with this heavy on my

mind, I then decided to put a banana in my ear: keep up the

levels of ignorance. After I had done that for ten minutes, the

telephone rang, I thought it was my estranged girlfriend Sherry,

but the female voice sounded hoarse, desperate in fact, “Where

have you been?”

“Slow down.”

“I’ve been calling you.”

By this time I realised who it was and invited her round to

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the apartment. She sat on the couch and explained the

situation to me and how things were at an all time low with

Hugh, her Husband: “I’ve left him and I’m staying in the

apartment close to seventh avenue.” I didn’t know what to say

from this, but it seemed my faculty for decision making had

reduced due to the relationship we had built. We had



definitely entered into a thing, I said to myself, a week later

after she had left chocolate stains all over the floor from our

running bit of professing the necessity for chocolately feet,

“Why be so rational?” We both agreed. So in a sense our

conversations were fully steeped in this life that I had decided

to lead. We burnt our books together, had more orgasm

inducing conversations dipped in neurosis and spent a lot of

time together, being that she quit her job too. She had even

become a member of the underground group spearheaded by

Crabco, which even denounced psychiatry through

Theory’s and writers that denounced the use of such

activities as RD Laing.

I don’t know when I decided, or maybe it just

happened. I don’t feel like a cheater but what could I do? As I

met Amy outside a coffee shop: we bumped into each other

and ended up in the last place you would find a Crabco

devotee: a bookshop on Lexington Av, East Side Manhattan. I

quickly became a slut for all her conversation, I don’t know

why, but her quotes of Jean Genet’s ‘Our Lady of The Flowers’,

nearly floored me. I just had to meet her again, I said to

myself, and asked.

“Well, I’m free on Thursdays, I have my masters course

on Wednesdays though.”

“Thursday it is.”

And it became a sort of thing: we would meet and talk

about books, movies and philosophy. I didn’t mean for it to

happen, though I had no idea I was being watched one

Thursday. As I made my way to Harlem after having a one

hour conversation about the benefit of scratching the left ear

with the right hand with the lady that had decided that she was

no more a Doctor, but a follower of pataphysics, if it had to be

123

categorised, she mused.

But the heart wants what the heart wants. And getting to

Amy’s apartment she was already at her dining table reading

Rimbaud. After joining thirty minutes later the front door went:

boom! “Who the hell is this?” Screamed Amy. In came Doctor

June, Woodward and a dude called Simalack waving a gun. They

accosted, both Amy and myself and put us in a van: we were

kidnapped. How the tables turn in life, I thought, ignorance is

knowing? What the hell, just let me stick this banana in my ear

and see how this works out! As I was busted holding a book by

Hans Fallada!

"(insanity) as a perfectly rational response to an insane world." -- R.D.

Laing

124

...staccato monuments...

1.

Alfredo never loved music. He couldn’t have for him to

have trampled over so many footsteps as he did. The

movements were always as you would expect from Alfredo, just

a mile away from respect. It is only by chance that I took the

opportunity impede on the subject at large, because much of it

was granted by way of chance. His whimsical nature was not

conductive to any particular reaction. I thought a lot about

Alfredo especially when coming home that Friday evening. I

heard a cuffufle, light nonetheless but it be unbeknown to only

a small amount of people how attuned these ears actually are.

The sound stopped and I assumed it to be nothing, but I did

what I thought may be best, and started a rendition of Chopin,

before I thought the occasion would best be served by some

Rachmaninoff. Not before I thought I heard the kitchen door

close, which would be undesirable being that it can only open

from the outside. Alfredo would have played the

Rachmaninoff, I thought and so I played Symphony No. 3 for

about two minutes. But due to the wind against the window I

made an imperfection and was so embarrassed that I waltzed

straight through the living room and up the stairs.

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2.

In a way it was cowardly to stop in the middle of a

rendition and it is very Alfredo-esque, but an imperfection with

such a perfect song hurts; the soul, the soils, the air. I remember

the concert No.2 before his first at the Royal Albert Hall. His

hubris stunk to the highest heavens. To stop for a little

snickering, and I have perfect ears, sure the right ear has its

moments, but generally I have perfect ears and I would have

said it was at such a low decibel that he was merely playing

credence to an overconfidence to have refused to continue to

play for such a thing. It reminds me of the time when he told

that joke about the flowers sticking up the rain: The genius of

Alfredo just an ailment, a lucky affliction.

The wind corrupted its own spirit by stopping me mid

way through a Rachminonff Symphony No. 3. But I decided to

go to sleep in order to afford better playing moments, and I

wanted to call them playing moments because imperfection only

pronounces themselves by way of hubris. With the curtains

drawn the blackness only retrieved a distinct feeling: why did I

not start with Sakamoto’s Rain? This disturbed me that I hadn’t

thought of this, and so I went down the stairs to a start. The

midnight hours only know its own sounds, monuments,

happenings.



3.

The rhythm of the night produced a cowardly response I

immediately wanted to gouge my eyes out for. I decided to

forego another rendition and moved back up the stairs, behind

closed eyes I was determined to hear the sombre melody of deep

REM sleep, but instead thoughts on Alfredo had to fester during

the night. How he spent all those years in disregard to so much?

And how could I allow these thoughts to decipher? But,

to extent I know why the night light festers. Though in the

morning I awoke to a stir, I really was mimicking sleep and it

was only a matter of hunger that reduced me to getting out of

bed. After I took care of my ablutions I decided to see if there

was any noise, sure I could have opened the door but the

rendition that I had foregone was feigning me. I walked out of

126

the front door and closed it rather loudly, and only reopened it

a few minutes later, extremely quietly. Creeping into the living

room on tip toes I listened for any murmurs and did hear what I

surely thought were hallucinations. These faint murmurings of

disquiet mumblings were all that I thought I heard, though the

assumption remained that they were hallucinations you see?

4.

Superstitious yes that is much of the reason for all our

misgivings and happenings, a sly nod to the darkness. So I tip

toed out of the living room, walked around the block. Though

as I did this I was taken by the thought of Alfredo’s second

performance at The Royal Albert Hall. He proved what he was

by the very nature of the event, but for him to conclude that he

preferred life without the limelight when he played is just

calling water wet and then drying yourself off with a

chardonnay. How rude. This summoned the idea that

regardless of the reception I would reproduce exactly what

Alfredo suggested he practice. I would play a concerto, with at

least seven performance pieces. Pieces. The element of sheer

superstition was my only audience and I suggest that this was

the reason for much of what occurred, if anything can be placed

at fault with myself.

5.

It may seem inconsequential, but consequence, much of

the time, is born out of the absurd. I’m not saying that I am

being absurd for one minute but you need to understand the

pressure Alfredo placed onto this heart tells its own logic and

murmurs its own kind of tremors. After I arrived back and

walked into the apartment, my only thought was to play this

concerto. I didn’t think it would last, with intercessions and

breaks for a day.

The day passed and it was still bothering me, inspector.

Well no not the body, that I never knew was there, but

the concerto, inspector.

127



...oxymoronic code of Relax...

"Off we went, Vaughn, Sandford, Maurice, Cocteu and a man

we nicknamed Relax, because like all valued people in life

Relax had patience; he was a complete pacifist, a painter but

look where he stood, in the trenches with us, as bullets flew

and there was no Art. “What will you do if we make it out?” I

would ask Relax, always the same answer: “Just relax, paint,

watch the sea.” - His ability to be so serene never changed,

which was the reason for his nickname. That first trip the

Sergeant sent us on, was really my first foray into war, the

previous night I had just been helping around at the base and I

really saw nothing. I basically came from the soft lips of your

Grandma into hell fire. The first ten minutes were spent

marching in mostly silence as we were all young so nobody

wanted to admit that they were scared, we were men and we

were at war to protect our country. We past a Church and

heard no one, we just heard wars loud silence mixed with the

way we initially communicated; through grunts and shrugs

128

coming from either one of us. An enemy soldier then ran

towards us holding a Klashnikov, a real piece of artillery Yashua,

one round in vain and we would have all been finished and it

seemed that way as things stood at that moment, having been

marching to check a town for enemies on the whim of a shrug. A

shrug! The enemy soldier stopped in his tracks as he had turned

a corner opposite a field to see us marching towards Isreap to

help secure the area, and stopped to look at us, the silence was as

deafening as the loudest drum you can imagine and we all looked

at him aim his gun, just as he was about to shoot, a shot to the

head - Relax had shot him - he was still an Artist! But just an

Artist for a ridiculous fight we were all signed up for. I remember

Relax then turned to us and just said: “Klashnikov, goodness!”

Just that! He saved us all from the clutches of death and that is

all he said, in that instant I realised the futility of life - If I had

died that very moment, the horses would have still been

galloping, wives were still being fucked, the wind would have still

been blowing, unaffected. That is what war makes you realise,

that in this big world, you're like an ant...

129


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...love & war...

§§§

"No, not gun fire, but you die inside, even if you make it to the

paradise of survival and the end of the war, the nightmares, the

habits die hard. That is the real war that is had - the war within

your spirit, the one that hums long after the gunshots and

political turmoil. Every minute of a war is being had in your

mind, a battle to stay alive, a battle to not want to die, a battle to

care and the realisation that you cannot believe in your fellow

man Yashua. No, you can’t believe in other people once you go to

war, because you have seen how barbaric, how disgusting we are.

We are animals! I tell you filthy animals! Have you ever seen

someone bite someone’s ear off? I tell you the sights that you see

don’t allow you to even buy your bread from the baker in the

same way. Then there were the drugs and alcohol, the big escape

to the numbness and we all did it. I was just not a fan of drugs

but drink, how could I refuse? We didn’t have the will to live

particularly after that night. Yes, Maurice was lazy, he was the one

130

always lagging behind, the one if we came under fire would be

the slowest to draw his gun, but we all loved him. Cocteu would

constantly berate him, "You are a fat son of a bitch, you are!"

But, Maurice was able to help keep us sane; he would tell us

stories and even after a while Cocteu would sometimes drawback

from marching in the lead to listen at the corner of his eye, and

force himself to not laugh when a punchline came, that was like

a war for him, you could see it in his face when Maurice would

say something absurd Cocteu would sniff and scratch his head to

keep him from bursting out in laughter, whilst me, Vaughn and

Relax would walk in fits of laughter Cocteu would sometimes

berate us but we all knew he was decent. Vaughn told me that

before I arrived when Cocteu was around other generals he

would order people around and be as hard as could be, but I

only knew a part of that side of him, mostly I knew the

gentlemanly grace even amongst the ugliness of war. Cocteu

would also take small liberties to keep us from death, we

appreciated him for that; as he was different in that regards.

Bravery is a skill, if used by the unskilled worker it just becomes

stupidity, and let me tell you; there is a thin line between the

two, O how there is a thin line between the two!

131

...inspector Ulises...

It had been 72 hours since. He looked at his watch and

then at his mother and shock his head. The realities of the

situation seemed exhausted but nothing had been laid to rest, all

that they knew was that Alfred had been seen in conflicting parts

of the City at the same time, so either voluntarily disappeared or

was kidnapped. The whole notion of kidnapping only arose by

the sheer lucidity of a disappearance, for him and his mother.

Although, it could be said, the writing was on the wall for the

issue at hand : though nothing could be certified, yet... thought

Inspector Ulises.

A story to start at the very end, eventful. As the blood laid

smeared all over his blue suit as the night time elan strangled the

sensible fruition of the situation into a sort of weird aplomb

epitomised by the strangeness of the manic smile on the man’s

face. The psychotic appeal of the night time silence. Wolves

lurking around amongst the living dead’s cousins. The fatal

abstraction of the mood constituted intervention. As I saw the

blood, I saw where the man had come from and I saw where he

went. I even knew where and what he was doing 24 hours prior.

132

...agnostic priest...

"[The Man] This immense silhouette hides most of the bare

flesh..." Alain Robbe-Grillet, The Secret Room

A simmering of a realisation: a fatal wound in the vigour and

guile of any given day, perhaps brought on by the dead bird

that had fallen, to now sit amongst the soils, that sadly claim

so many, along with uplifting spirits too— vegetating flowers,

and also the wine that after a bottle of has bred questions

unanswered—provided in drunken slurs of ‘agnosticism’ that

enliven Nun Berry, the new recruit, who looked at the eyes

speak before leaving the wine-dark room excited, where, alone

now, the dog collar becomes too tight; claustrophobic as the

rain falls, the walls feel as if closing in on a psyche at odds

with this heavenly pursuit towards: You’ll find out later…as he

looks around for something…

133

...Morelli...

The unfortunate aspect of an onion, as I have mentioned, is the

lack of artificiality: there is no diagnosis for artificiality; there is

only some elements of solutions that enable a space to achieve a

sense of labyrinth and a simple confusion. Like Charles Mingus

the sound of a simple confusion is the very basis of beauty but

none more important than thinking and achieving thoughts on

the banana.

134

...distorted mouths...

The sound of torture is not always so loud, sometimes

you can hear only a simmering of a sound. And this may have

been the case with Miguel, as we would usually meet at the Pub,

myself, Miguel, Candice, and others, to talk. To talk about

existence, to talk about books, to talk about Art. And Miguel

would usually be in attendance giving his views in the way that

he usually would.

But as time went on Miguel grew more and more

estranged by the things that he would sometimes say: A

conversation about Art bred queries into the notion of pain, for

example. And this went on for a while, though I won’t say that I

was initially taken by these happenings, as life sometimes

consumes a person and has them living from hand to mouth,

mouth to hand. But I wouldn’t have known that all of this

would have led to his stay at an Indian Monastery.

Though it was one innocuous Thursday night that things

came to a head, apparently Miguel was in a foul mood,

sprouting words that can only be considered gibberish, when he

took a knife and cut half his finger off. His words when being

carried away by an ambulance were: Milk will save us all!

135

...untitled (black man)...

“The world is a possibility if only you'll discover it.”

― Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

The candles lit a sort of acoustic sorrow, the coffee sipped

slowly for the sounds of night lingered languidly—For one thing,

the folds in all their faces, now shrouded in darkness, as they sat

around in the dark, revealed an elegiac poise now—Insanity is a

very noted thing, a thing that distils a sort of burning giraffe or a

prostituted Madonna. The fatal signs of this very nature first

instigated a sense of calm, said Fatima; then came the maddening

aspects of distorted; mouths, bodies, faces, all going into a tight

nit prison of insanity.

I listened but came to no conclusion sat there in the

darkness, all that I could remember was the last time I met with

Fatou and the way in which he screamed into the abyss wearing

his suit and tie, I saw him scream a primal scream, in an off-cut

suit that looked new but a bit too big for him.

Though it was not Fatou’s mission to lose his mind, it just

happened. Fatima looked around before speaking the words: He

just keeps repeating things over and over. The rest in attendance

all attempted to quell Fatima’s sad words with a tone of

agreement: Ummhmmm.

Fatou had arrived back from Prison fully, a year, after

falling in with a new crowd from Hackney—the effects of Gun

crime constituted a dazed response that meant that Fatou was

functioning as a Gang member. He sold work around Peckham,

but mostly around Hackney and he became known around a few

estates as being quite nifty with his hands. Though he would only

use them infrequently, and this infused a sort of mystique around

the times that he did use them. Like the time Turkish Fatty said

he’d pay him and Fatou punched him so severely that Turkish

Fatty lost hearing in his right ear for a month.

Though, Fatima only saw the child in him, the big toothy

136

smile, the rather oddly shaped face, the rotund stomach. The

drama.

We had arrived an hour before the blackout, but the

blackout seemed to nestle all of us into a sort of reverie; and one

that distinguished itself above others by the impending need to

quell crime on their estate. It’s getting too much, said Fatima.

And it was, as this was just a spit in a river—although

Fatou was a mild example of trying. As he did try to go right after

spending that time in prison, Afterwards, said Fatima, even if he

did fall back in with the same crowd, and girlfriend Candice, that

was far too intelligent for him, said Fatima, as Candice prized

herself on getting what she wanted. Although this included

Fatou, after a time desire catches like a tail, it can be said—

Drugs and money can be quite an intoxicating elixir and one that

can suspend a metropolis into a madness.

They need something to live for, said white Betty from the

end of her Teacup. They’re just going on with their days without

any sort of anchor, they have nothing teaching them.

Unusually Betty was right, as her words called into

question the fathers or what they’re called on the estate baby

fathers. Fatou’s dad Akbar had been living in Peckham with his

third baby’s mother since Fatou was young, which meant that

Fatou only saw Akbar from time to time. Akbar, who was Muslim,

would often try and teach him a few things here and there, but

generally fatherhood doesn’t rest on a good light here and there.

Plus, Akbar had long been consumed with a sort of activism at a

mosque in Peckham, that saw him tentatively pronounced radical

by Fatima and many others too and just a little bit dodgy. Just

that Akbar, like Fatou, was practically a bastard too.

When we arrived at the hospital, Fatou was wearing a

ripped string vest and a vacant look that seemed instigated

medicine, apparently the morning of our arrival there had been a

stir on the ward which caused the nurses to inject Fatou with a

concoction of sedatives, to calm him down, said the nurse on our

arrival to Fatima’s question on the look on his face, he was quite

emotional this morning. About? quipped Fatima. Well, said this

African nurse, He wanted to read the Quran, but it was too early

to read the Quran and besides it makes him too energetic.

137

Fatima kissed her teeth—she didn’t know where to point

her anger at, it was clear to her that her son was changing, now

in a tangible way that was all too physical for her. Though she

held her tongue and sat down in the dining area. Fatou walked

slowly over, unlike a man of twenty-eight, but like a child, all

sombre and telling. And where’s Candice? asked Fatima from


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA the hip. And Fatou went a little quieter as he sat down and

clearly didn’t know what to do with his hands, She came to see

me last week, Fatou eventually said. Fatima didn’t look too

impressed by the pout on her face, slightly shaking her double

chin. In a way, she was glad Candice was not around but at the

same time she wanted her there, conflicted Fatima changed the

subject or tried to. Are you eating well? It’s like another prison in

here mum, I can’t do anything, I’m around sick people, how is

that going to make me better mum. And he was right, but I said

nothing.

In total Fatou spent two months in what he referred to as

another prison. On the day of him being released Fatima asked

Akbar to attend with her, although Akbar was reluctant it was

only right he try and amend a relationship with his blood son,

said Fatima. The three of them went to a local Café, one that

serves breakfast all day and sat down, face against face—Fatou

sat opposite of Fatima and Akbar.

Your mum tells me you’re doing better, said Akbar just as

a white man that sat adjacent pointed at Akbar; clearly taking

note of his red Taqiyah. What are you pointing at?

Nothing Osama.

Who you calling Osama?

You, replied the white man standing up now.

Who’d you think you’re talking to? interjected Fatou feeling

disrespected and as if the streets hadn’t taught him anything. By

now Fatima was frightened and had her hands in her head. She

was witness to a fight, Fatou needed three stitches and Akbar

had a black eye. The Police arrested both Fatou and Akbar and

sent Fatou back to the hospital and Akbar to the police station,

according to the owners of the Café the black guys were the

aggressors of a regular customer.

After the fight Akbar started spending more time making

138

visits to the hospital to see Fatou. Fatou had told Fatima that he

would, when released, spend more time in Peckham, which to

Fatima felt a double-edged sword, mostly because Peckham had

earned its nickname Pecknarm—she wondered if he was getting

out the frying pan into the fire. But what was she to do? she

queried. As in one way she was glad that Fatou was getting close


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA to his Father, but what came to pass was not the intention of

hers.

Akbar spent most of his days at the mosque, no one knew

how he got money, probably saved a lot mini cabbing a few years

back, before the injury to his right leg. Regardless, Fatou then

started to spend time at the Peckham mosque. At first, he

remained quiet, he didn’t quite know how to react to people

being so nice to him. Every time he would go to the mosque he

would need to acquire a sense of calm beforehand as to not

offend anyone in silence. Fatou had recognised the group

mentality from his hoodlum friends around Hackney, but never

this affectionate, this demonstrative. He never went home

hungry, for instance.

After a few months Fatou had started to grow a routine,

only marred (in his eyes) by the social worker that would arrive at

his house at any time of the day unannounced. Fatima would

often buy him food, see if he was taking his medication, which he

would do sparingly, and ask about Candice. Fatou told her that

Candice had found a new boyfriend from Paris and that she had

decided to become an Artist. Fatima knew as well that things

wouldn’t end well with Candice, but she did prefer Fatou to have

someone around so as not to be lonely. She herself suffered from

loneliness and so this affliction often affected her perceptions.

Anyway, Fatou for one had found new friends and a new focus

that didn’t involve crime. Fatima was glad about this.

Though what had he replaced crime activity with? It could

be asked as a man devoid of focus is an aimless man just waiting

to drown in a metropolis brimming with action. This question

was not asked until the trip.

Fatou met Mahmed at the mosque in Peckham, and for all

intent and purposes Mahmed was aggressive in his stance on

Islam—everyone is blaming us Muslims for what’s happening in

139

the world when in reality the world is just this shitty secular

place, Mahmed would tell Fatou. Perhaps it was because

Mahmed lived in Hackney too that they bonded, but bond they

did, usually on long drives from Peckham to Hackney Fatou

would listen to Mahmed talk about the world. Fatima, going

from Peckham to Hackney one day, was privy to one of their


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA discussions and didn’t see much wrong with it; Mahmed was a

young devout man, she said to us, and now they’re close. So be

it.

The trip to Palestine came as a surprise to Fatima, but

Fatou was adamant. Fatima had wondered whether Hospital

would be a better place for him then a trip to Palestine, but

resisted the temptation to hide his passport of do worse,

sectioning. She agreed with Akbar that it was only a week and

that it would be a good experience for Fatou. It is of note that

Akbar was also concerned, but he came around to the idea that

Mahmed and Yasin would look after Fatou.

He packed quite light; purchasing a wheelie luggage bag

from Dalston—Fatou didn’t want to lug around large bags. He

made sure to remember his music player as he knew that on a

long journey something to listen to was always important.

Mahmed would pick him up at 2pm for a 5.45pm flight. The

flight there was uneventful, Fatou ate his meal and said that he

enjoyed the dessert. Yasin and Mahmed slept most of the way,

he said.

When they arrived at the airport a corpulent man kept

asking Fatou in Arabic if he was a man named Fadique and

when Fatou said no, the corpulent man seemed angry, so

Mahmed had to interject to calm him down. Fatou said that this

gave him a funny feeling of being in a foreign country. Though

apart from this the rest of the trip would barely be spoken

about. All that Fatima knew was that they had missed a flight

back a week after arriving and so had to spend another three

days there, which they did.

Fatou arrived back and seemed as if nothing much had changed.

Wednesday arrived, and like most Wednesdays Mahmed would

drive them to the mosque in Peckham. In the evening Fatou

went to Mahmed’s house near Victoria Park and they initially sat

140

around talking. It wasn’t until 10.30pm that the Police stormed

the house and arrested Mahmed, Yasin, Fatou and an Imam

called Omar.

Fatima arrived at the police station in a hurry, and asked

to speak to her son. The Police officer at the front desk with spit

in his mouth said, Your son’s a terrorist! Shocked she couldn’t

understand what had happened. She had heard about these

things on the news but apparently her son was now the news. It

had been reported that a cell with links to terrorist groups in the

Middle East in Peckham and Manchester had been found to

contain explosives. But what does this have to do with her son?

she asked to no avail. Eventually she was escorted in to see

Fatou, who looked dishevelled, as dishevelled as he looked in

his mugshot. What happened? asked Fatima. What the hell is

going on? I don’t know mum, said Fatou as if to relinquish all

anger, with the look of his misshapen face. They’re saying

Mahmed and Yasin are linked with Terrorism but they’re just

Muslims, they’re loving people, as soon as someone says

Terrorist they say Muslim, and it’s not true mum. And then and

there Fatima seemed unequivocally speechless about the task of

bringing up a black man in this world, the troughs of societys

every angle not merely a spectacle but a stern reality. Fatima was

incensed, especially with Akbar who had, in her eyes, allowed

all this to happen. Though she felt like this, she was adamant

that her son was innocent, at that moment.

It was Akbar that was more reticent about all the issues of

the arrest, as according to rumour Fatou had not gone to

Palestine but had spent over a week in Afghanistan. This mere

happening spoke volumes and told Akbar that there was no

smoke without fire. Fatima only found out this a day after her

initial visit. Angered she went back to speak to Fatou, this black

man, so at odds with simply getting on in life. When she arrived

all she could see was his black skin, she wanted to ask whether

he had in fact been to Afghanistan, but could not take the fear

of knowing...

141

...the fidelities...

“The first thing a proprietor learns, and painfully at that, is: Trust is

fine, but control is better.” ― Elfriede Jelinek, The Piano Teacher

part one



The whip whipped as if the entity couldn’t move, though

this wasn’t an object, but Rochelle Arden’s butt cheeks. Rochelle

awakened a deep sense of sexual pride by being whipped in such

a manner, the scowl on her face was really masking a joyous

delight, a melody. Though this was only Wednesdays activities, it

would be naïve to disregard and not recognise the heightened

happenings of a Friday or a Saturday, but this is not the point

here.

Rochelle Arden was “cheating” on her husband, for one

instance, we will get to the whom with later, but this cheating

transpired into the salacious happenings as this, that is true and

not a falsity, but just the mere actions of a woman enjoying being

naked, as opposed to the rest of her waking life where she would

wear long sleeve tops, trousers and sometimes even gloves,

blaming this on another “happening”. And in the evening Michel

Arden arrived back from his City job and kissed his wife’s

deceitful lips, urging her to wear more lipstick around the house.

They both enjoyed this very duplicity, not to endow the situation

with calls of cuckolding, no but another ulterior otherness that can

only be expressed by discerning the complex relationship of the

Arden’s: Michel was a Modern Man; it occurred that he chaired a

community group actually called The Modern Man, dealing with

such issues as Modern-Day Marriage and The Betterment of

Relationships with Your Children, ironically. So, this permeated

into certain duplicitous happenings within the Arden household.

For one thing Mrs Arden had failed to have consensual sex with

our Modern Man for at least a year, and then there was the

concern, to add, that Leila Arden, their only daughter, was being

used as a pawn in the relationship of the Arden’s as a typical

composition of The Modern Man’s day to day life, this reflected in

142

the words characteristically dished out of: Females understand

each other―From these threatening words, he knew. He ought

to know.

They then sat down to eat their supper, a cooked vegan

meal, irrespective of Mr Arden’s known love for meat, they ate

whatever Mrs Arden decided to make, most prominently due to



the disposition of the family structure, which held an

abundance of Power secrets and Power nuances, which we will get

to, but even on the surface, you wonder, what kept this family

together? You may ask. And the answer would be a myriad of

things—a reciprocated joy for complex transgressions that

awoken deep neurosis, could be a way to depict this cycle of

relationship. As they had (three year’s prior) tried an alternative

form of living with Mr Arden leaving the household for another

woman, but altogether finding another relationship as this not

“complex” enough eventually.

They ate in a disproved reproach for one another, it

could be said though that they enjoyed this, probing Mr

Arden’s facial expressions whilst detailing the succulence of a

steak but its prohibited appeal, for example—Joy worked under

a surface; on the surface, they ate and they chatted and spoke

about their respective days: Leila at college, Michel at work

with his colleagues: a quip or two about a lazy worker Joel, and

our whipped: her morning Lecture on Comparative Literature.

But below the surface Mrs Arden’s pussy was still moist from

earlier on, Leila Arden was thinking of more ways to punish

her Grandma and Mr Arden was joyously to be confirmed; in

essence, their minds were churning feverishly. And they also

had to be attentive to their “guest” whom reminded them of

their very existence ―They were born again in that respect.

Anew.

The next day arrived, and Mrs Arden walked towards the

University to make her 9.00am Lecture in a hurry. A homeless

man slept on the street sprawled out on the ground at the

corner of the street, which Mrs Arden took notice of as

something out of place, strange. She enjoyed such happenings

that uttered as strange, and getting to the man, oblivious to

143

those around her she instinctively hiked up her long mauve skirt

(that went to her knees) only slightly; the men and women

scuttling on their commutes would have failed to notice this

unless they made a point of observing our lady in question. And

she squatted a little over the homeless man, pulled her silk

knickers to one side and then relinquished some piss from her

moist cunt onto the homeless man’s body. The warm piss

drizzled down and accomplished her goal, unawares. Adorned

with an exceptional feeling Mrs Arden quickly comported

herself and continued to her Lecture in a fervent mood, as

opposed to the day before. Which accounted for a better lecture,

and a better lecture produces better students and better students

produce a better society and that is the cycle we strive for, is it

not?

Anyway, some of the issues we should arrive to from

earlier: it must be noted here that their “guest” was their

murdered Grandma. Though it was not even of note to

remember how this Murder happened (time precedes reality

here) but it occurred and due to the substantial evidence of

plentiful knife wounds neither Leila, nor Rochelle or Michel

Arden were yet able to go to the Police, the rotting corpse laid

dormant in their Kitchen. Complicit —time had produced a

varied sequence of events, in relation to the past, they simply

tried to forget about it; there were so many other problems

occurring that their windowless kitchen formed a sort of holistic

refuge for this one happening. Though the smell was one thing,

so they used Faberisle spray, a product Michel Arden’s company

sold, by the by:

Have a dead body to deal with, for all the things you can’t deal with

use Faberisle…It could be said, though regardless that had been

something on the weighty matter of the Arden family life. They

continued to act as if their Grandma still existed—They included

her; they oftentimes spoke to her, spoke as if her, and sometimes

beat her amongst other things.

The Murder? Well things had come to head on the night

of and they, all in attendance, agreed that their lives as they

knew it had come to an END, they administered this thought



144



process into a plan of action that provokes much conceits of

nonsense, however the consensus was that nothing should

change, but up until that point their relationship with their

rather spiteful Grandma had masked Marital rape, an

extramarital affair and a wayward daughter―Spiteful to the

point of reproach.

At that same time, Leila awoke and had only one thing

on her mind: beating her Grandma, which she strolled to and

did with joy. Shouting in a German accent as if her Grandma:

You don’t understand people in our time, we had to struggle,

before the wall came down everything was different! Whilst

she back-hand slapped her Grandma, pulled her tongue and

punched her stomach, before gathering her stuff to make her

ablutions. After she had done this she gathered her belongings

and made her way to college, in a way she had been yearning

for an altogether different life, but held that her life was made

up of a plan of action that had been altered by the dead body

that lay in their kitchen. An accomplice to a murder? No, too

easy, too remote an existence to plan around, she thought.

part two

“In such circumstances, I sometimes think that only the residual

strength of the dead beings inside me gives me power to survive at

all.” ― Harry Matthews, Cigarettes

And she enjoyed watching her husband’s hunger

increase, with the only person to blame; The Modern Man in the

mirror, it was like stoking a fire; every denied touch later

reciprocated with his brother Lance Arden. The mere thought

was orgasmic to her, she thought, before her next Lecture was

due to begin.

This system of thought enough to keep the situation as it

stood.

The high-water mark for that morning came when

Sebastian, a student, offered her a whispered piece of advice

on his way out of her third Lecture: Perhaps hike your skirt up

145

higher next time. Mrs Arden looked at Sebastian and quipped:

What are you talking about? Don’t be so silly. A silence fell into

the now empty Lecture hall now before Sebastian said: I was just

saying. The rest of Morning was spent in a rather innocuous

manner of marking papers and thinking about Sebastian’s

words.

The Skull (still attached to the body) laid on the ground,

nestling between rug and laminate flooring, cold. Mr Arden

looked at the body now, arriving back from work early, and did

not know how to feel, it was rather an odd feeling that he could

not place, but he felt a sense of camaraderie towards the body,

that was becoming more and more just a body as opposed to

somebody’s body, like an ornament. He smiled and started talking

about his day to the body: the colleagues, the wife that wouldn’t

allow him to touch her and the want away daughter. It was not

his blood Grandma, and this perhaps explains what happened

next or doesn’t, either way it happened. Feeling a deep urge to

feel a body (not necessarily somebody) Mr Arden chooses to do

something quite foul; he slid off his trousers and underwear and

started to have sex with the naked body, full of bruises and

wrinkly skin. At completion; he finished inside the body (not

necessarily somebody to him) and felt a sense of something, an

impending feeling of achievement, though he failed to feel

completely sexually satisfied.

The agreed agenda disturbed Mr Arden: How could he be

threatened by his own wife? Well perhaps it was a rouse, and a

complex one at that, which accounted for hours of arguments

that of late had subsided, replaced by resistant words.



part three

What are we having for dinner?

A Steak, with blood to drink, replied Mrs Arden to her

husband with a laughter that accosted our Modern Man, and

perhaps it was the adrenaline rush from earlier (sex with

Grandma), and Mrs Arden’s afternoon quickie with Lance

Arden, but the instinctual atmosphere was like one of a zoo; a

caged beast, a flamingo and a dead Eagle― the beast now circled

146

around the kitchen, passing the skull (Eagle) laid on the floor,

and the flamingo walking around the kitchen appearing

undivided, cooking a vegan supper. This scene continued for

ten minutes in silence, the friction rising to the surface, the

Dissention capital D. Leila Arden then walked into the kitchen,

kicking the Eagle’s head, thwarting the room into an escalated

awkwardness of mood that manifested in Mrs Arden’s saying

Hey! …More silence, did she care?

At the table; they spoke of their respective days: Mrs

Arden’s lecture, Mr Arden arriving early from work, and Leila

Arden’s college time, their guest say’s nothing...

THE END

147



...the Guatemalan...

“People need foundation myths.”

― Tom McCarthy, Satin Island

For Domi

The Events of The Night

I would drive nights, mostly, during the day I would

sleep, this was due to traffic; you didn’t want to get caught up,

though some days like Thursdays and Tuesdays I drove the

truck day and night, taking breaks in between to write poems,

the drive would consist of mostly long motorway stretches

where the expanse accounted for time to pass, at night the black

expanse. Although I was alone, I kept sane by listening to the

sounds of the road, this was enough to suspend my spirit into a

calm, a regularity.

Though it was one night when it rained that things took a

turn, the rain cascaded down onto the road, as I drove to make a

late pickup and I was reminiscing of Alfredo Castella. The day

he arrived at our village in Guatemala was one to remember, it

produced innumerable affects. Including disparaging remarks,

sickness, reverie, hope and Lupeñ, of course. Alfredo Castella

was a Hypnotist that was prone to acting on a whim. But I

befriended him, somehow on a night when he was Hypnotising

148

a young boy called Rafal. Rafal had a fear of sleeping for

nightmares he complained of; telling his parents that a bunch

of Eagles were trying to kill him in his sleep, and then there

were the talking Dogs too, which put Rafal’s Father’s Dog

under keen dispute in their household. Nevertheless, Rafal’s

Mother and Father had had enough and wanted the


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAconsequence

of using the Hypnotist to be a success. I was there,

I watched Alfredo ask Rafal to close his eyes and then repeat

after him. It looked real enough, I thought. I was impressed by

Alfredo, as opposed to being disgusted as if he was some type of

Anti-Christ, I do admit this.

And initially I only witnessed Alfredo Castella’s

benevolence, I didn’t see what the rumours speculated. Of

taking out weird revenge on people via his hypnosis skills—it is

difficult to see more than one face of a persons, particularly if

they utilise more than a few at once—as I offered him a drink

and he accepted. We went to the bar in good spirits, he along

with his little girlfriend Lupeñ, where he confided, when she

went to the toilet, that he had her under a spell of hypnosis that

meant clicking his finger in a manner he showed me three

times, and walah, he said, abatido. Nonetheless, we spoke about

Football; how bad the national team were. And the hours

passed by and by the time we all knew it we were drunk in their

apartment listening to music. I remember the way Lupeñ

danced; as if she knew I was watching; head down, eyes peering

from the end of her nose, swaying side to side to Charles

Mingus’ Moanin’. But that night nothing else happened.

Though after this we would often meet and talk, especially as at

the time I had no job, and not much to do, I wasn’t driving

trucks at that time, like I eventually started to do.

But one Thursday Alfredo called around and asked for a

favour, as he was going away, he said. I said, what is it? I need

you to look after this egg, please you can’t allow this egg to fall

into anyone else’ hands. And I looked at him for a long time,

maybe a minute, in silence and for whatever reason I said yes, I

thought a friend wouldn’t need to ask so many questions so I

took the egg, before he explained that I would need to carry this

149

egg around, perhaps in a pocket or to hand until he arrived

back. I thought if I lose the egg or it breaks who would really

care? So, for a few days I did just as he said, I put it in a coat

pocket and was careful not the break the egg, and I did this in

the name of a budding friendship. It was only on the Saturday

after that I started to realise how stupid it was to ask me to hold



this egg, in force of some mumbo jumbo hypnotising nonsense,

I imagined—In annoyance I threw the egg out of the window

and stormed out to see Lupeñ in anger. I intended to fuck her,

but when I arrived at their place no one was in. Though, by no

fault of my own I couldn’t see anything anymore; I was stuck at

the door with no ability to see. So, I wandered into the street

and eventually an old man with a prune like head helped me

walk to my place. I could see nothing, all the light usually

pouring in through my retina was now black. Alone in my

apartment I screamed: an expression of the horror of existence;

random happenings amounting to what?

So, in a way I blamed Alfredo for the demise of my situation,

but at the same time I couldn’t account for this egg business (I

thought) accounting for my lost sight. I was contradicting

myself, I knew. But that first night I kept having strange dreams:

I was in a garden firstly all I could see were teeth and a brown

dog and then my body as if disembodied, separated as if meat. I

woke up in a flash of hysteria, still angry at Alfredo Castella.

Then when he came back and asked where the egg had

gone, I wanted to strangle him, but I was blind so I did not have

the means.

Your health is a symptom of your own thoughts, he then

said to condemn me to my own pitiful existence, and in a way, I

had to eat his words for another week as I was still blind, it was

only after Lupeñ came to visit me one day that my vision came

back quite blurry, just the thought of her breasts spurred me on.

As I drove through the rain drenched motorway I saw a

white flag in the distance, like a baboon on a beach, so I

stopped. I didn’t really know why I stopped but I did. The

Guatemalan got in. He was wearing a shirt like the shirts Alfredo

would wear, a striped blue and red shirt. When I noticed the

shirt, I shuddered at the memory of Alfredo and concluded that

150



Alfredo was the Devil. I remember the sweat glands on his

forehead protruding as he did his work. Work that amounted to

what? I did not know as most of the time he was trying to

ingratiate this strange and oblique sense of humour. Maybe I

was a bit naïve but in a way, he frightened me somewhat, just

the last thing he said to me: Remember that I am in your

dreams. I wanted to interrupt him and say nightmares, but I

didn’t and all that I remember was him being carried away by

the Police for allegations relating to fraud. This haunted me ever

since. Perhaps I wondered whether in another form I would see

him again.

But on the road, after I stopped, I asked the man why he

had in fact been standing in the middle of the motorway in the

torrential rain…Had he been dropped off for an argument, had

he walked? I did not know, but the Guatemalan started to talk

feverishly about someone chasing him, a woman,

Chichicastenango and before I knew it he had jumped back out

of the Truck onto the road, leaving his bag. A passing Ford

Fiesta crumpled him at 80 mph; knocked him into oblivion. I

stopped the Truck a few feet ahead of all these antics and looked

back but all I saw was another haunting episode like Alfredo’s

yearning to commence. Though I felt obligated to stick around,

which I did. The Police asked me what had happened and I told

them everything, forgetting the large bag that he took off and

left in the passenger seat of the Truck. I didn’t omit this on

purpose but looking back what I can I say?

As it was hours later that I opened The Guatemalan’s bag.

Cascading Towards Opulence

The Guatemalan’s bag contained what I soon counted to be a

little over a million American dollars. It was quite a large bag, a

backpackers Berghaus, red with blue in the middle. Though I

looked at it and instantly threw it back on the truck floor

because of the words of my Grandma: Curses sometimes come

wrapped in gifts. These words kept repeating in my head as I

drove along the black expanse. What was I to do with this, I

wondered? Wouldn’t the person that the Guatemalan clearly

151

stole it from be after me? I asked myself and came to no

conclusions. But after some pondering on the issue for the rest

of the night until dawn, when I stopped at a cheap hotel, I

somewhat knew what I would do.

Sat in this cheap hotel; oily stains on the carpet,

patchwork wallpaper, brown and yellow, I came to find the

situation totally absurd, looking at myself in the mirror, the

green chair, the sunken eyes, the oblong face, I felt as if life was

at an odd to sense―The bag of money laying on the floor.

I then took it upon myself to count the money, closing

the curtains and allowing the paper to sieve through human

hands felt absurd; is this all I have been worrying about all my

existence? This notion of the money being less than it’s worth

started to creep in slightly. But, I had already decided on the

long truck journey how I would spend the money in a multiple

of ways, irrespective of the Guatemalan’s ghost protruding into

my dreams. Though the same dream still recurred, particularly

that night, of being in a garden and all I could see were teeth

and a brown dog and then my body as if disembodied, separated

as if meat. I still blamed Alfredo for this.



Prelude to The Allocation of Money

So, I drove to do my last pick-up, the road felt warm, less

inhibited by the thoughts wafting in my head: I thought about

the multitude of ways I could escape the drudgery of life, as if

there was an alternative existence that pursues a man till his

destiny sounds. I came to a rest stop and started speaking with

Ralph, an Armenian guy I had gotten to know over the years.

We spoke about freedom and what it would be like to have

freedom, and he started talking about his wife and kids and his

family back home in Armenia. The detail in his words loose,

languid; he really loved his wife and kids, I thought. The

stubble on his chin roused the thought that work really amounts

to a man, particularly a Trucker; the road, the slowness of life.

Only when he started talking about money did I remember the

bag perched inside the passenger seat of my truck, the

152

semblance of hope distilled into a wary vestige of monument; a

bag, nothing else, just a bag. But what does it occur to feel

more, I said to him.

Feel more what? He replied.

Feel more in life. Something my only family, my Grandmother

would say. Feel more in life.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAO

Francis, he said as if stopping himself from making a joke

about my words; his facial expression moving from a smile to

muted pout, as if I disrupted his day. I can’t see how feeling

more means anything, you eat sleep, and the bit in between you

take care of your family.

There was a warm continuity to the words he was saying,

as if I had been inclined to feel as if freedom’s long tentacles

were arranging themselves around a neck with a head full of

wonders. So, at once I felt powerless to life changing but at the

same time I experienced a sense of power I had never

experienced before. Before he left I gave him a few hundred

dollars and told him that I found some money, not over a

million dollars, but some money and that he should change

that which I had given to him and spend it. And he was

grateful; he hugged me and told me that he would be at the

same rest stop the next week.

I continued driving, though I took as many mental

detours as I could fathom; thinking about the birds, the other

passengers on the road, small pieces of poetry that I was yet to

write, and what I would say to my boss that night.

I made the pick-up―boxes of bags of rice, and as we

loaded the truck a box fell and a bag of rice dropped on the

floor. The rice sprawled all over the floor and had me thinking

about the monument of rice, as if an arbitrary thought made

lucid I reckoned that at the same time as the rice spilt another

happening maybe equal and opposite was occurring at the same

time―as if this counterbalance of universality whispered. After

finishing loading the Truck I again struck up a conversation but

with Tony, a young lad, about eighteen or nineteen that would

help stow the Trucks. As usually I would be in a hurry to get

home, however that day I wasn’t; the usual realms of existence

153

seemed elongated, wondrous even whilst at work that moment.

So, we spoke about Cuba and how he would have liked to have

been to Cuba and that life would be so different there. I agreed

and wanted to know why exactly, as if the expression of his

words could discern whether a person’s dreams were nothing

more than that dreams, but were they real tangible beliefs that

belied a sense governance―what controlled our dreams? I

thought. He then said that he saw photographs of Cuba and

then spoke about how the political system engendered a world

unfamiliar. I came to find Tony quite charming. I found it

anxiety inducing to possess, in abundance, the very thing he

needed to satiate perfectly reasonable dreams.

Due to my anxiety; I was not sure what to about the

situation at hand: Should I give Tony some money to go to

Cuba or not, I thought. This question reigned and had me

thinking deep after he had gone into the factory to take his

lunch. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be his change. So, I

kept on driving, but soon made a stop to write some words

down. Entitled Santeria M the poem was about the mystical

element of life.

Arriving to the Headquarters, I noticed and then perceived all

the Trucks; their journeys, their mileages detailing worlds their

own. There were a huddle of workers smoking and chatting, I

noticed a few of the people, said hello and walked towards the

office of the Boss. The Boss was a Greek Cypriot man that spoke

how I imagined he thought; in quick succession, stuttering and

stumbling around words as quickly as possible. He was in his

office pacing up and down, down and up. I knocked and he

called me in.

Francis, he said. You picked up the Rice?

Yup, it’s packed up in the Truck, ready for delivery.

Good, as that contract is crucial.

Crucial?

Yes, crucial, everything is going to shit, he then explained;

further describing in detail how the Company had been

haemorrhaging money since the financial crisis. And that all the

current contracts were under review. Whereas Tony’s dream of



154

Cuba constituted a total immersion to a dream, I felt my Boss’

was closer to the tangible reality of the world around him, and

that the whims of existence had shown him more than enough

that the world was a tumultuous place. In all, I looked at the

rather large stomach of my Boss’ and reminded myself of all the

times he had reprimanded me and failed to feel anything about

his woes. It was only at the thought of the other workers that I

started to feel something; a tinge of guilt ― as if I were partly to

blame for their monotonous routines continuing. I, at that point,

told him that I was quitting, whilst holding the Berghaus bag—

and he simply said leave the keys on the table. I felt glad I hadn’t

offered him any of the Currency I was holding onto. He even,

lastly, in spite said: You’re just a Truck driver....

155

...a side order...

The Poet read and when he finished reading wrote and when he

finished writing smoked and when he finished smoking, drunk

and this continued for the rest of the day: reading, writing,

smoking, drinking. It was only the next day that he decided that

there was no point to it all, and called Alamony. Alamony came

around but struggled through the door; getting hind legs stuck,

though eventually made it into The Poet’s flat in Wanstead.

They eventually got into a heated discussion about the meaning

of life and The Poet attacked Alamony, savagely beating

Alamony to death. The Poet looked at Alamony dead on the

floor and decided that the only way to deal with Alamony was to

cook Alamony. The Poet did this and served it with asparagus...

156

...the living room...

scene one

Setting: x walks into living room holding a newspaper and takes

a seat on a sofa in an old looking room with appropriate wall

paper and ambiance. x is wearing mechanic's overall's. H is

wearing an apron and sitting knitting whilst sat down on the

sofa. A few noises from up above.

x Enters the living room after front door closes from Hall

entrance.

x: I feel all estranged (Sits down on sofa.)

H: Is that like off that T.V? I didn't half watch a good-un last

night, you know the

one?(Pause.) It was….What's the word?

x: What are you saying? Are you listening to me? (Frustrated.)

H: That thing on that channel? (Pause. Still knitting not paying

attention to x.) I hate it

when you can't remember your thought it's the worst aint it?

x: I'm telling you as my propa' family…and you're just not

hearing what I'm saying.

(Slams newspaper down onto lap - raises his voice, also.)

H: (Stops knitting and stands.) Of cause we're family love, I'm

always there for

you…You know our Sally got's that thing for little Rupert

here...?

x: I know the world keeps spinning and our kids are 'avin kids

but that's not the point

I'm tryna' make. (Frustrated.)

H: (Walks out of living room into Kitchen.) Sorry got the kettle

on (yelling.)

x: (Sighs.) I'm at my wits end with life and feel like I just……

(Yelling for H to hear in

Kitchen.) I'm not 'appy…(trails off…)

T enters the room.

T: (Enters the living room from the hallway doorway and stands

still and looks down

157

at x who is sat.)

T: Why's the T.V ouueeff? (Moving towards armchair in the

corner of the room, to sit

and pick up remote from coffee table.)

H: Is that you Pap? (Yelling) Sit down I'll bring you your tea, got

cucumber

sandwiches, Jack's favourite.

x: I always say I like cheese, maybe a little mayonnaise but I

never say cucumber,

my idea of myself is completely different to other peoples …

fuck sake ...

T: What you someone else now are ya? What bleedin' idea?…

(Walking to sit down.

Fiddling with the remote control, becoming annoyed) Help me

turn this on son, that'd

be a good idea… these bleedin' technologies got me all in a tizz,

don't half feel

useless…

x: (Reaches for remote.) Gives it 'ere…you're supposed to be my

family and it's as if

I'm, well, misunderstood. (Pressing remote.)

H: (Walks into living room with a tray of food and moves to

place it on the coffee

table) Oh, yeah the remote's run out of battery's, need to get

some more don't

ya…(walks out back into kitchen.)

x: (Slams remote on table in frustration.) Such is life aint it?

T: That's all we bleedin' need; no TV, gonna ave to bleedin'

stare at your bonce,

faack sack…

x: Well maybe it's a good thing, all we seem to do is stare at it,

this is the longest I

probably spoken to my own Dad in a few weeks…you know.

T: What you say? Jack you don' half mumble….(Sitting more

comfortably in his

seat.)

x: I said we can have a conversation instead, can't we?…(Slowly

pronouncing each

158

word.)

T: I used to have those with your mother before the War, luckily

she found other

hobbies didn't she?…But Jack see if you can bleedin' turn the

thing on

innit….instead of threatening us with bleedin'

conversation….fack about what?

x: (Stands up to move towards TV.) These day's things are

just….(mumbling.)

H: No use in trying to switch it on without the thingie (Walking

in with another tray.)

Where'd you want it Jack? got the cucumbers an all…

x: I dunno when I said I liked em (Standing still. - points at

coffee table.)

T: Stop bleedin' going on about alla that, Gayle, the TV…

(Reaches for tray and puts

it on his lap.)

x: Can you stop going on about the freakin' TV! (Shouting.) I'm

bleedin' tryna talk and

alls I'm gettin'….in my ear…is this feeling that it's all 'appin but

aint nothin' appin'.

H: (Sit's down next to the stood x, on the sofa with a tray at her

knees.) Oooh Jack

don't start 'avin another one of those moments, you know what

you said after the

Doctor…don't go all funny on us today, makin' a mess, we're

getting the Dog back in

a bit….you love that dog don't ya? Think of Ronnie.

x: (Tutting.) I'll breath alright, but what do you say about the TV

Gayle? (Frustrated.

Still stood.)

T: Yeah.

H: It don't work without the remote, one of those new improved

TV's innit, Flat HP…

T: How can it be improved if you can't even turn it on? (Eating.)

Probably a good

thing I'm down to my last stretch 'aint it? Everything's bleedin'

improved, they say,

159

but all we got…

x: You didn't always ave' TV in your early days, you ad to talk

and that…

T: Don't start with all that, I used to hear it from ya mum, look

just when you come

back from work try n and fix the TV. Wat's it need Gayle?

H: Probably batteries….

x: I just bought new batteries a few days ago (Sits down.) Don't

even feel that hungry

now…

T: Do sumthin' won't ya, facking be at my wit's end otherwise…

gonna have to take

another nap this afternoon…

H: Please Paps with the bleedin' swearin' Sally's gonna be round

in a bit with little

Rupert aint she. (Doting.)

x: That girl with her exotic friend ah? (Staring at Gayle beside

him.)

T: Yeah very exotic aint he? Brown baby…(eating soup.)… Last

stretch for me…I tell

ya...

H: As long as she's 'appy that's all that matters paps aint it, as

long as she knows

that her family's there for her and that…

x: (Takes first bite of sandwich.) This bleedin' tuna in this?

(Yelling.) (Spits it out.)

H: I thought you loved tuna and that? hold on on a minute

Jack…Eddy... your tea's in

the kitchen! (Yells out loud.) Forgot to tell 'em…always up there

on that computer…

x: I'm bloody allergic to fuckin' tuna Gayle, come up all in a

rash…(Angrily.)

T: That's another thing 'aint it…back in my day there was no

such thing as alerbic, if

you couldn't eat sumthin' you'd go ungry, don't know how your

mum allowed all

that…I tell ya…

160

x: (Slams tray onto coffee table.) I'm not even feeling hungry no

more…

H: Then why'd you come home for lunch? Why didn't ya have it

at work?

T: Can't 'ave that many cars to work on…

x: Thought I'd come back and have a chat with my wife and

you're asking me why?

[Loud noise emanates and it sounds like a computer and a slight

beat starts for a 8

seconds and stops (perhaps hip-hop beat).]

H: That's probably Eddy making all that noise up there. He's a

musician now aint he?

T: How can you be a musician with just a computer…..gaawd…..

(Shakes head. Eats soup) bleeding glad I'm on my last stretch I

tell you that son, for conversation, I tell you that…

x: I'm going back to work…(Stands up.)

H: Alright love, I'll make your fave for your dinner won't I?

x: Tuna?

H: Look -

T: Gayle, don't let him get all fussy on ya? Put tuna right all over

that supper, bleedin' alerbic…my ass...

H: Don't upset him, you know how he can get all manic…tear

the house apart…

x: Look I'm going back, and Paps you know anything about a

Renolds, P Renolds?

(Walking towards exit of living room, to hall, but stops and

turns.)

T: Son I'm retired, any problems I wash me hands with that

garage, I've bloody fixed

my last car…

x: I didn't ask for all that! (Frustrated.)

T: (Defensively.) I don't know no Renoolds, who's bleedin'

Renoolds?

x: Their bleedin' apparently owed by us aint they…

T: You're the man of the house aint ya? Man with the plan...

161

H: Come on paps we're a family…

T: Yeah we're a family but Jack I don't know no Renoolds, it's

probably all that

expansion thing you did aint it. (Places tray on coffee table. Picks

up glass of milk.) I

told you... something ventured nothing gained didn't I? That's

what my Dad taught

me…

x: It's nothing ventured nothing gained and I really don't think it

means what you're

saying. (Smacks newspaper on knee.)

[Loud noises emanates and it sounds like a computer and a

slight beat starts for a eight

seconds and stops (perhaps hip-hop beat)]

x: Bleedin' going to work…something ventured nothing gained

(mumbling to himself,

shaking his head.)…pssshh…(Walks out of living room…)

T: Do something' useful for once and get the battery's (Yelling.)

Door Slams. Exit x.

scene two

T is sat under a blanket asleep in the living room on an

Armchair. Enter x.

x: Someone's been busy (Mumbles sardonically.)

T: (Awakes in a stir.) Huh?

x: Got the batteries didn't I.

T: …Oh good (slurs.) What's… the... time?

x: It's six thirty, as usual aint it? I come home about six thirty

everyday and you go:

what time is it?

T: No need to get all shirty...

x: Let's try this remote (Puts batteries into remote.)

T: Got the news on aint it?

162

x: Let's see (mumbling.) (Trying to press the remote.)

T: Why's it not working? You aint gon an got the wrong

batteries aint ya? They the

too big ones?

x: I got the fackin' right ones! (Yelling.) I can't even buy a pair

of batteries now?

T: (Sighs) What's wrong with it?

x: (Moves and taps the TV - it bobbles). Gayle! Gayle!

H: (Walks in from the kitchen) this place has become like a B &

B….what's the

problem Jack?

x: The TV?

H: It needs the batteries.

x: Yes I've bought them, (Correcting.) it's still not working…

probably the remote…

H: You're gonna have to get another remote aint you on that

computer, I don't half

know how to use one…

T: He's probably alerbic, our Jack…

x: (Sits down.) Bleedin' I know how to buy a remote…

H: Well I haven't a clue, probably need to order a new one aint

it…they aint got those electronic shops round the high street no

more, it's all overline, or whatever they call

it (Walks out of living room.)

x: I'll see if I can get one, should be a few days though…

T: A few days! Gawd, can hardly nap anymore….

x: Where's Eddy! (Yelling.)

H: He's out with his mates aint he, got all that computer music

thing aint he (Yelling

from kitchen.)

Silence in living room.

T: (Starts reading newspaper.)

x: (Looks around the room, he looks lost.)

Loud knock at the front door.

T: …that the door...

H: …well...I don't know mister, Audat? (Walking into living

room, becoming more

audible.)

163

Q: No Audit.

H: I haven't a clue about all that… You're gonna have to speak to

Jack… he's right in

there aint he (Enters living room.)

Enter Q into living room.

H: Someone's here to see you Jack something about an Audat...

(Walks out of living

room.)

Q: (Stood at the doorway) Jack White is it not? Your wife says

so…

(Short pause)

x: (Looks confused at T, then at Q and then at T and then back

at Q) Audat? And

you are?

Q: The guy you've been speaking with on the phone (Takes off

fedora hat and holds

it against his body.) And it's Audit (Matter of factly.)

x: Look Mister, if it's about that money, I told you over the

phone didn't I! (Stands up

and raises voice angrily throwing newspaper down onto coffee

table.) You

government people are outta order!

Q: Hey calm down (Unflinchingly.) I can get security, they are

waiting outside

(Cooly.)

x: (Goes to the window and peers through.) It's a bleedin'

mutiny! Look at 'em!

T: Jack sit down…you're getting all shirty aint ya…

H: Is he getting shirty! (Yells from within kitchen.)

x: I aint shirty! They just storm in like Normandy! (Walks

towards Q and then stops.)

Q: I can get the guys to come in (cooly.)

x: (Calms down; breaths aloud three large breaths.) That's exactly

what you would

want wouldn't ya? Gayle! Gayle! (Yelling.) Where's my asthma

pump?

H: Where ya left it honey! (Yelling.)

x: And where's that? (Yelling. Irritated.)

164

H: I don't know Jack (Walking into living room, wearing apron,

still. Stands at doorway.) Look, you aint even given your friend

Audat a seat…

x: He's not my friend! (Yelling. Losing breath. Taking a seat on

the sofa.) And he's

leaving…

Q: Not before we sort out what I came for Jack.

x: It's Mister Smith to you…

T: It's more like Mister-you-can't-sort-ya-life-out really. Aint it?

Expaaansions…(Drags out syllables of Expansions.)

x: You're family!

H: Pap come on, and I really don't know what's going on

here….(Walking to a shelf

to pick up an asthma pump. Hands it to x, sat). Here, where you

left it. (Walks out of

living room.)

T: Just saying', don't look like he's come to bleedin' 'ave tea

and biscuits with us does it Mister Smith (Sarcastically quipped.

Peering at his newspaper on his lap.)

Q: Well I will take a seat. (Sits down on sofa on set's right hand

side.)

H: He want a drink? (Yelling.) Got that nice fizzy pop on the

ads!

x: No he don't wanna drink! (Yelling.) I tell you this: I aint

gonna be bullied!

Q: This is not a personal relationship is it? (Cooly.) And I'm not

from the government

am I...

T: something ventured nothing gained - I tell ya. Better be safe

then bleedin' sorry.

(Mumbling. Picks up newspaper as if lost interest.)

Q: Would you like to go somewhere else quiet and speak?

H: I got a couple glasses of that pop comin' (Yelling.)

T: We are family aint we. And what he here to 'ave a quiet word

about anyway?

x: Bleedin' that's what I've trying to say these days and this

afternoon. I'm gettin' all

estranged in this hold thing aint it…

165

T: Strange? Wot you mean? You been readin' that Times or

something? Talk normal

innit.

Q: Well to answer your question, we're the people that you owe

money to, It's all

written here…(Hands letter.)

x: (Looks at it the letter Q is handing to him and doesn't pull is

hand out.) What's

that?

Q: Look, we can do this hard way or -

x: The sot way?…no the harder way…there's no bleedin' easy way

in this world is

there?

Q: I see you have a nice TV (Looking around living room.) Some

nice things. We can

do it other ways.

T: Giv's a look at the letter

x: I'll handle it won't I, all the help you've been...

Q: Look I'll be back in a few days, give you time to read the letter

and get things

together (Stands up and looks to walk out of the living room.)

H: You going already? (Walks into living room) Got you your pop

(Hands out tray.)

x: He's leaving.

Q: Oh thank you (Takes glass and drinks half.) (Pause.)

x: Fancy that.

Exit Q.

H: I tell you just like that ad: A little pop and all your worries

stop (places tray on

coffee table.)

T: Whatchu bleedin' got yourself into (Shaking head.)

x: (Scratching his head.)

T: That expansion weren't it…I bloody well told you to just go to

work and come

home and you went and got all those ideas with those massslims.

x: You make it sound like I got into business with

fuckin'…..Osama biiin laaadeen for

christ sakes.

166

T: Jack I aint saying' that but it's obvious you're on your Jack

jones with all your

decisions mate, what you need to go and bleedin' get this

licence thing (Slams newspaper down.)

x: That.

T: A chain you said. We'll open a chain in a few years. Now you

got this fancy

licence and this new name. What's a bleedin' Integration

garage. Fackin' all those

masslims, I'm not being bad, I'm really not, 'cos when I'm down

the betting I'm alright

with Ahmed and he's a masslim, but apart from him they are

taking over the bleedin'

world.

H: Look (Walking into living room holding a bowl of crisps.)

Sally's gonna be here

any minute with the little un. I don't ave a clue who that was I

really I'm not

interesting, but I don't wanna hear about this name anymore.

I'ts been at least five

years, and five years all I hear about is this chain thing.

x: I was a business decision Dad, how can we just live on a

couple hundred quid ah?

Like I'm on a giro aint it.

H: Shame about the TV, gonna have nothin' to watch when

Sally and her lad come

in a minute. (Leaves living room.)

x: What's time's she coming? Barley had a second to myself.

H: Any minute now, (moving towards window) look I see here

coming, why's she got

that pram? And she always wears black shoes, I don't half like it

when she wears

black shoes, nothing can be worser than a bad pair of shoes on a

lady.

x: That lad with her? (Annoyed.)

T: The exotic.

x: Well look at that Dad how we gonna move into the times if

we don't try.

167

T: Try and get in bleedin' mess, now you got this bleedin man

on your case, don't

half look like a professional swindler…(Picks up letter.) Look at

this…what are you

gonna do?

x: We! (Yells.)

T: You and the masslims I say…

Doorbell rings.

Exit living room H.

Sound of chit chat:

v: Hello.

H: How are you guys?

v: Good, you see your grandmommy, bababay boo, look.

P: We're doing well, the pregnancy is over and this little one is

coming along.

H: Your type aint half strappin' aint ya?

Enter living room from hallway (In this order): H who is holding

the baby in swing

pram. v is in front of P who has his hands on her shoulder as

they walk in.

H: Sit down, got some of that pop from the TV and some crisps.

Jack's favourite.

(Pushes x and P to take a seat).

v: Hey Dad, how are ya? (Moves to kiss him on the cheek, bends

right over as x is

not standing up.)

x: (Glances over kisses v on cheek.) There you go (Moving aside

on the sofa.)

v: Hey grandad how's you? Got Rupert here to see you…you

know that's important

aint it Rodney.

P: Definitely (moving to sit next to x, seems awkward as if he

doesn't know how to

act.)

H: How was the pregnancy love -

[- Doorbell rings. x3]

168

x: It's like Notting Hill Carnival in here now!

H: Who's that? (Walking out of living room. Exits towards

door.)

v: (§) My cunt was full of fear in the whole thing...

F: Rodney!

P: Oh that my Auntie?

Enter H with F behind her. H exits.

F: You forgot this stuff for the baby (Has a rushed disposition.

Hands a bag to F.)

v: Thank's Auntie, I can take that (Takes bag and sits back

down.)

x: Auntie? Interesting…

T: Very exotic…(mumbles.)

v: You might swell sit down.

F: I can't stay too long ya know? I wanna get back and deal with

some tings ya

know?

P: Stay for a while...

H: Yeah, goes you a glass of pop (Walking into living room with

baby in one hand

and glass in the other. Hands glass to F.)

F: Okay Rodney, not for long though…

(Short pause) Many looks at others in the room - Acts out an

awkward silence.

H: (Stood at the doorway. hands baby to P.) Well, aint this nice

aint it?

x: Rosy (Quipped without a smile.)

F: You aint got the TV on? Eastenders should be coming on…

T: Don't look like the TV is gonna happen…(mumbles.)

v: Oooh no, what happened? you got the flat screen and all.

x: At the moment it's in disrepute.

T: Repute? Thats why you're in all this trollop… What's

repute?

x: Don't you start, don't you dare start in front of my daughter!

(Yells.)

H: Well calm down (Bends over to the baby on P's lap.) You

seen the baby Jack? Go

on give him the baby.

169

P: (Gives x the baby.)

x: (Tries to smile, it seems difficult it occurs that it's a scowl.)

He's hair's all different

aint it, gonna be…(Cradling baby.)

T: Very exotic...

x: You wanna hold em granddad?

T: What you say?

x: Do you wanna hold the little un?

T: You don't half mumble, don't ya?…(Tut) Yeah giv us here.

x: (Carries baby to cradle in T's arms.)

T: Look at that. Exotic…

P: Shame about the TV, you know I can help you order it off of

the internet can't I.

Amazon.

H: You see Jack, things are looking up after all, got your fave in

the on the grill; corn

beef…

x: Corn beef…(Absurdly, looking frozen into abyss.)

H: Is Eddy coming down! (Yelling.) Jack move the TV back a bit

so we can fit

another chair in for Eddy. It's not as if it's working.

x: (Standing up and moving towards TV.)

[Curtains - Break 1]



scene three

TV is still moved back in an awkward position.

(Sound of door closing)

T: Jack is that you? (Sat at Armchair)

x: Yeah it's me…

T: You get the remote from the post office?

Enter x into living room.

x: (Heavy sigh) I need to go back tomorrow don't I…

T: You said that yesterday, you said that note came cos no one

was in and that you would go today with the note thingie and get

it, didn't ya? And now you're telling me tomorrow. It's been

bleedin' ages, I had to watch a couple things on one of those like

opals, or whatever they're called, I aint like that, it's not right,

170

not havin' the TV…

x: Look I got there at seven and the woman was like we close at

six forty five today,

you're gonna ave to come back tomorrow don't ya.

T: Fack sack…the day before they said it was somewhere else…

(Standing to exit.)

Exits T.

x: Gayle! Gayle!

T: She's gone out aint she….

x: That's all we need.

Exit x. Lights dim to express another day.

Blackens - Clock changes time. It's the next day.

H: (Enters living room and starts knitting.)

Enters T.

T: Avin' anything good for tea?

H: Got some nice tuna chunks…

T: Sounds noice (sits down at armchair with newspaper)

(Front door closes)

T: That you Jack?

x: Yeah.

T: You got the remote?

Enter x

x: Yeah, got it right here.

T: That Audat came down again, just to let you know…

x: (Walking towards TV.) Need to move it don't I, what he say?

T: Look I'm too old for all these problems, what you think he

say? You're just not dealing with anything are ya? Just deal with

it, I'm going down to the betting shop in a minute anyway,

what's the time?

H: (Still knitting.) It's six thirty Granddad..

x: (Heavy sigh.) Deal with it! (Yelling.) I'm proper alienated at

the moment and I can't

get any typa empathy from my family!

T: Check if it works first Jack.

H: Calm down Jack. Check first Jack. We're a family…Audat

will get sorted out.

x: (Tries to TV and it comes on.)

T: Got really big black guys and all….all exotic...

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[Sound emanating from TV David Lynch's The Big Dream and a

show playing.]

x: Let me move it (Moving towards TV and bending over to start

moving it. Lifting it

into position.)

T: First you needed to go on some type computer shop, then you

can't get it arrive when any ones here and now you eventually get

the TV back on, and things are supposed to be easier. Glad it

works aint it?

x: Yeah (lifting into position.)

TV Falls and smashes. Sound stops.

(Silence falls into room.)

Curtains stage darkens. Totally black.

T & H exit. Exit x.

Reenter x - holding a rope.

x: (Is sat on Armchair.) Gayle! Gayle! Paps!

(Slience just sat looking at the rope - playing with the rope on

coffee table. Fixated

on the rope.)

(Loud knock at the door.)

x: (Stands up and starts peering through window.) Audat guy!

Fack sake! (Starts breathing heavily, at a loss of breath.) Where's

my asthma pump? Where is anybody? (Wheezing.) Gayle!

(Wheezing.) (Falls onto ground, clutching and wheezing. -

continues into curtain totally calls.)

(Loud Knock x 3)

[Curtain call.]

The End

172



...feminist exploits of V...

“Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a

protected occupation.” ―Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

Part 1 - An Altar, An Islington Night

He deserved it, thought V, as she removed the black tool

thrusted into the fundament used to extrapolate this intended

wisdom and forced goodwill. This is the situation. She noticed,

again, that the hair around this area of derriere was red, and

this reminded her of Krule, The Bully, from her secondary

school - acting as a somewhat aphrodisiac from these virgin

memories. It wasn't personal though, she quietly asserted;

whilst oppressing the urge to have another round of thrusting

― these thoughts occur at the same time, a norm that she long

accepted, since being branded neurotic by her psychiatrist a

few years earlier.

Standing up, whilst looking at the now squirming body;

leg and hand-cuffed, V wondered what Claire, his wife, could

see in such a man: pathetic, they all are. Looking around the

dark living room, only lit by the light from the adjacent dining

room, V noticed a picture frame with an image of an elderly

looking man next to Claire; reminding her of her own

Grandfather, next to the book, Old Man and The Sea by Ernest

Hemingway; one of her favourite books coincidently. This then

173

reminded V of a few different things, again predisposed and

occurring at the same time: the dedication to write the novel she

had long hoped would replace her current day job, and the

bruises on the victim's wife along with the post-traumatic stress,

all came to mind. She looked at a letter on the sofa to see the

name Claire Benway below the current address of where she

stood. How butchered was Claire's right leg and thigh? she asked

herself, disgusted that her day job, merely social working, led her

to meet what was considered as a multitude of such helpless

victims, all suffering at the hands of men. It had been one hour

since V had arrived to this apartment, where she had decided to

seek this revenge and merely deemed her actions as: the only

revenge that truly teaches these monsters, she mumbles. Why

Doctor why? V probed, knowing that he was not in a position to

answer. Instead she then starts thinking about how she had

stumbled on this form or structure of submission? and

accepted―as she often did ―that it was an accident: in a reverie,

the complicated origins of her actions sauntered…



The Reverie & Prelude To The Moment

Ten years prior to standing in Dr Benway's living room it

was Friday and she walked to school. As a form of avoidance, V

had been walking the long way to school for the previous two

weeks. She did not enjoy doing this, but took it as an opportunity

to day dream, usually of not having to go to school, but the day at

hand seemed like a silver lining, being that it was the day before

the weekend. She had arrived to school, met half way on her

journey by her friend Catherine. They would walk and talk about

the legend that was nicknamed Krule, The Bully. Catherine said

she hoped her lunch money would manage not to be taken, and

V shrugged, exasperated that she had to go through such a

complex array of lengths to avoid confronting the situation that

had reduced her comfort in sleep by the worries. Contemplating

how to get from her first period to Science without an

impromptu meeting, she decided that she would go through the

back as they arrived to their School, entering the gate to the

174

playground full of scuttling boys and girls; busy running, playing

basketball, football and numerous other childlike afflictions,

thought V as she hated being a teenager, especially since she

started to grow breasts and Larry-brown-Pants - nicknamed this,

as in one gym class he had worn a small pair of brown pants -

had started to take notice of this, she thought, along with the



feeling that his attention and constant questions of who she was

going to the school dance with begun to irritate. V hugged

Catherine as her class was across the playground, and would

always enjoy doing so because she liked the way her breasts felt

against her own.

V's first period had finished and she was glad that she

had successfully made it to her Science lesson without any

hiccups or confrontations. Her next lesson was French, her

favourite class, since Miss Leah had started to teach these

lessons when their class moved into Year 11 five months

previous. During the speaking or listening Miss Leah would

often tell stories about her life growing up, which V often found

funny and much more interesting than Mr Randall, the science

teacher or Duncan, the P.E. teacher. In a good mood she walked

out of Mr Randall's class to Miss Leah's, having made the

decision to use the back staircase that joined the science block

to the languages department - V was always very attentive to the

flows of pupil traffic from each lesson, and had discovered many

of the quiet places, paths and hallways. There were no lessons in

the classes on the top floor of the science block in the first two

periods, which meant that the usual intersection between the

language block would be empty, she mused. Upon reaching it,

the stair case was found to be empty.

V then reached the top of these stairs which led to the

hallway, but around the corner turned a face: ginger hair, and a

slim figure in white gym shorts framed by successive windows

that she felt enraptured his ugliness in an illuminated light,

especially his stupid ginger hair, she thought, stopping at the top

stair and now looking up to see that it was him: the long

nicknamed, Krule, the Bully. She sighed. What have we here, he

grinned. She had planned to do something if this situation

arose, but her mind went to mush; she could not remember

175

what it was she had decided to do, or how to speak as her heart

beat an irregular thud: thud, thud, thud, thud. Just wait, listen,

she stuttered moving back down the small flight of stairs to then

stand in the corner of its landing. Well I could use a couple quid

come to think of it, he said, they got some new chews at the tuck

shop. Amongst all the confusion in her mind V was glad she had



only taken two of the three pound's her mother had left to her

that day: at least she had one left, she thought, before Krule, The

Bully stepped down towards her, of course savouring the

moment with long stares and the boney grin - she sighed all

these thoughts.

After the second step and then the third, in an act

unprecedented, he slipped. On what? V thought, huddled in the

corner. Looking down with him now on his back in obvious

pain, from his cries of: Arrgghh! of which V could tell he was

making through gritted teeth in an effort to mask the

embarrassment of the tables so spectacularly turning, as if the

timing of this freak occurrence meant that he would be required

to accept the pain with only partial grimaced cries - Loud cries

would only increase the absurdity of what had just occurred.

Glad, she thought, all I have to do just go back down the

opposite way and I could be home free for at least the rest of the

day or even a few weeks by the looks of the pain on his face.

But goading V, he started to indignantly yell that it was

only a matter of time before he would be able to take her lunch

money again and that his ankle would be okay, still on his back,

though now holding his foot. A few steps away from the corner

towards the stairs leading down, V looked at him on the floor

and saw what he had tripped on (a small stick) and assumed one

of the other schoolboys may have been playing some sort game

with it, consequently to bring it to the science block and drop it

on the stair that would lead to this chance happening. Angered

by the yelling and promises of this continued victimisation, she

decided that this bullying had to stop, but how? she thought. Her

brain was still slightly mush and her heart was still beating

loudly as it was, but something came over her mind and body:

the want for revenge! she decided, as she heard more cries,

though now more gentler: sssssssshhhhh, he uttered motionless

176

with a stiff neck V noticed he was unable to move from the

pain.

Why me? she says, it's always me. Yeah, he starts,

because you let me… said as if off the cuff, Krule, The Bully's

eyes fixated on his ankle and not even on the two eyes staring at

him whilst he speaks so nonchalantly of her torture, without



even a glance. V's body felt a surge, she picked up the stick and

her rather small frame: 5:6 and apparently (according to

Catherine) her rather waif body lurched at him. She released

this wooden stick and it hit him on the face, adding to the

grimace already on his scowl. You're gonna pay for that, he said

with a strained squint and an open jaw that looked to V as if he

could not believe what was happening, you will pay! She

stepped back, still holding the stick, and knew that she had

only made the situation worse, now not only would he take her

money, but worse; what if he really hurts me? what if? what if?

what if? Questions marinating her universe.

In a fit of anger, and these questions, V did something

odd, and she knew this, although the moment of deciding to do

this seemed to have no real lineage: it just occurred that

perhaps she had been acting like a victim? It was not as if he

bullies everyone, she thought, he has been torturing me and

Catherine for years. To do something that would make him

treat her like Sally or David the big kid from Canada. As Sally

was neither big nor small, she noted, but he never picked on

her, she was even slightly weaker than me, she thought. V was a

smart girl: her English teacher had often spoken to her Mother

praising her essays in turn helping to increase her pocket

money; especially after a mock exam when Mrs Dee said to her

mother that V was: wise beyond her years, which in a way V

knew. But the words wise beyond her years then emanated

throughout her home life in V's regard and pricked her

conscience to act.

Clever, foolish or wise, V then decided to use her

considerable grey matter to do something rather brutish, she

recognised though she was not totally sure how to call it, her

actions. The decision in toe, pushing him onto his back in even

louder grimace's that were met with the silence of the empty

177

hallway and Science classes, she released the stick having pulled

down his white shorts. V penetrated, thrusting, more times than

she kept count, as she lost herself in the years of desiring

revenge, continuing over his pleas for her to stop. After a short

while she did stop and stepped away from the victimised

fundament. She wondered what he would say, slightly scared of

the possible consequence, but looking at him, for the first time

he did not seem so tall or threatening, though she was more

enthralled by a feeling she had never experienced, especially

being the virgin that she was. He then slowly turned around to

look at V and made no comment whilst he pulled his shorts up

carefully without bending his neck. She could not be so sure,

although the power she felt intensified. I'll teach you another

lesson, she said, if you dare try me again! Krule, The Bully

cowered back on the stairs in silence, as V walked passed him up

the stairs towards her French class. She turned her back at his

head just before she turned the corner and just saw him staring

at her with his mouth wide open and a tear running down his

eye.

On the Monday after this incident V and Catherine go to

see the librarian. They walk into the library and on a table next

to the non-fiction section they see Mr Randall and Krule, The

Bully about to stand up, with his body positioned towards the

entrance and exit of the library, which meant they would have to

meet: Catherine, V and him. Definitely so as Catherine,

consequently in a flighty fit (thought V), upon been confronted

with the ominous him - who was now walking towards them -

prompted Catherine to assume that she may have to relinquish

some pride or money that she held in the handbag she was

looking in, in order to find the library entrance card in a nervous

ditz full of heavy sighs and changing standing positions

numerous times. Catherine gave up, and looked at her with

rolling eyes about what could now occur. V stood next to the

barrier in silence however, watching as he walked through the

entrance and half looked at her and a concentrated spot in front

and behind both of herself and Catherine, without uttering a

word. It was as if the nervous cowered look she saw in his eyes,

after plunging his posterior, had been left there even on the



178



weekend, thought V. She felt she had overcome and now her

back was straighter, smiling to herself. Huh? asked Catherine;

what? why did he just look at you like that? V answered all these

questions with: no reason.

A few weeks later V had heard that his nickname had

rekindled the actions of it's genesis, after overhearing a student

in the year 9 French class before her own complain of having

no lunch money because of him. But Krule, The Bully did not

bully her or Catherine anymore. After leaving her hometown of

Bedfordshire, for London, she rarely thought of this, apart from

when V saw red hair.

Part 1. 5 - Back To The Islington Night

Scratching her head, V's balaclava was beginning to itch.

Who do you think you are? said a muffled voice, heard by her,

but barely emanating from the squirming naked body;

positioned spread eagle with the sex toy gagged at his mouth

and his face half turned towards the floor, the other half

arching to look at her stood up over him. Bully! they're all

blinded, speculated V, whilst picking up her handbag from the

coffee table atop a rug that she accepted was most probably

expensive: befitting the squirming man's occupation as a

Doctor, gauged from Claire's words. Claire Benway had most

probably been indoctrinated by this charismatic figure, she

thought, it's alway's the ones with the charisma, always. Just as

they usually do (thought V), Claire reluctantly came into their

care, deeming all the marks on her body the remnants of a fall

down the stairs and that she needed a place to stay (the usual

alibi, that masked the truth: abusive spouses). Fed up of this

constant flow of men abusing women and the deeds she now

saw as: a drop in an ocean of happenings of justice, she turned

her head to her handbag and was reminded that she would

usually use her red leather Louis Vuitton clutch to hold her

apparatus, but since it had been slightly scratched in a scuffle

she had a few weeks prior, she decided to use this cheaper blue

bag that she had purchased from a second hand shop, which

she found durable, and more sufficiently allocated for use on

179

such occasions.

Looking into her bag and around the room she started to

check the apparatus off in her mind and then placed some of

the items into her bag and was executed as so (mentioned in

order of importance): Strap on black dildo (fixed on body,

check) ― used to penetrate victims with swifter thrusts,

tranquiliser gun (on the coffee table, check) ― for shooting the

unaware victim's in order to leg; hand-cuff, moth-gag and strip

naked, spare balaclava (in the bag, check) ― just in case there

was any type of scuffle, spare metal hand-cuffs (in the bag,

check), spare keys to victims house (in the bag, check) ―

usually made after retrieving such item from the victim's wife

and the decision had been made; thus allowing easy access into

and out of abode, spare gloves (in bag, check) ― utilised just in

case of an emergency unbeknown to V, S&M whip (in the bag,

check - glad it's only been used once) ― utilised only in

extreme situations; such as having to act as a friend staying at

the house where by chance V acts as if she had heard about

how macho the victim was and that she broke in to begin a

sordid affair, Alton Gurdonov's Port de bras (in the bag, check)

― the book taken that night; enabled V to enjoy the one hour

wait, A fake plastic Gun (in the bag, check) - although never

mentioned when accosting such victims as Dr Benway this

would add a level of artificial fear, two plastic bags with hand

sanitizer ready-made inside (in the bag, check) ― used to keep

all working apparatus hygienic via safe sex, and lastly, her Sony

camera (in the bag, check). She had everything she came with,

she says to herself, check.

V then looked at Dr Benway, whilst simultaneously

taking out the Sony camera. She turned him over onto his back

by pulling at his arm, which she found rather difficult being

that she was still considered, amongst her friends and

throughout her life, as rather slight in build: she constantly

remembers the word waif seemingly bandied around a lot, even

by Marcel her current girlfriend. Though, she managed this and

he was now positioned on the floor facing her. And now lookie



180

here, she said, Mr good Doctor! as she positioned her camera in

front of her face at him. If you dare decide that you want to hit

your wife, she continued, I will make sure that this picture gets

shown to people you would not want to see this! Bitch! she

said, realising she had slowly become acclimatised to swearing

in this manner and was not sure what to make of this becoming



of her's, that she noted her girlfriend complain made her come

across as: too aggressive. You son of a bit-ch! she whispered, to

self-indulgently enjoy the opportunity to swear at a man,

choosing to linger on the last syllable. Ten snaps she took, as

planned on tube before her arrival to Dr Benway's Islington

house.

Threat was always the plum in the pie, and the

sweetening of the cake: as in V's eye's this afforded her a

history of no reprieve. No MAN shall get away with this, she

said, I'm sure all your patients and friends would not deem

your possible story as pathetic! Herein, this final concept that

just left her mouth was her pièce de résistance, as she held that

the fundamental acceptance that a heterosexual man had been

accosted via this forced will of a woman's was such an odd

taboo, that it in turn acted in a certain mechanism that had

stopped any police statements or cause for her concern up to

that point, due to what V saw as: a man's pride and

embarrassment. It did occur that it was not very nice - to force

this goodwill, she mused, but these men are deprived bullies

that make women suffer, she meditated, before taking a series

of pictures of Dr Benway, who was still squirming, but unable

to move from the ankle and hand-cuff's. Snapping in thought,

the picture had long become a necessity of the cyclical

improvements she found had found become integral to the

execution of what she often called, her night job (spoken of

only to herself). Just before exiting she would take a series of

pictures that enabled the threat's flame to continue to burn

long after the thrusting of dildo's and artificial fears of toy

guns, she gathered in a pensive state with her eyes still behind

the camera. Come on stop squirming, she said, strike a pose

tough guy. He reacted by continuing to wriggle and move,

181

however. Watching this occur through the lens, V accepted that

he was rather strong and that his body was extremely well built,

noting a six pack in one of the pictures plus perfectly formed

cheek bones.

Smile for the camera, she said (in the mock American

accent that she started to use prior to this current victim


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA squirming on the ground). For the sake of her mind's paranoia,

she had deemed this accent change as another characteristic she

would need to mask, along with being clothed in all black, her

appearance and voice would be impossible to distinguish, she

intricately scrutinised, even if the worst occurred and one of the

victims visited her workplace, she reflected. She then put her

camera in the bag and begun to execute the final stages of what

had become a routine, as if a religion, all its practices need not

much thinking, immediately picking up the rest of her apparatus.

Interrupting this usual routine, whilst she took the strap off the

dildo intending to place it into the plastic bag with the readymade

hand sanitizer, and not just an empty bag (an improvement

on the usual, she thought) she noticed a few hairs hung off V's

new black cotton sweater, seeing this, peering under her nose,

on her shoulder, she flicked the hair off. Having flicked off a few

strands from the tip of her right shoulder, she moved to the left

hair's and started to do the same, whilst the feeling occurred that

the gingerness of these hairs meant V had to oppress a grin, as

she had long decided that she needed to see these activities with

a clear head: there can be no poetry or self indulgence in

educating these bullies, she concluded, no, no, no chance. A

conclusion made as her track record deemed her night job as an

impressive alternative dispute mechanism, in a sense. Thus, the

thought occurred that such acts always provided the needed

change, V mused with a nod as she reminded herself of an

abused wife's husband purchasing that new annex. An annex and

Sandra never was hit again, she sighed to herself with the feeling

that all that had to happen was for these men to act correctly.

You're lucky I didn't kill you, Scum! she announced, just

before she left through the back door in the kitchen. This was

important, these threat's, because one man went to the police,

the husband of a woman called Eliza, and as V felt she did not

182

execute that job rather well the need for fear and danger

increased, which lead to an increase in swear words and what

was deemed as: a little violence - as apparently Eliza's husband's

case only capitulated under his realisation of having to give full

undisclosed evidence of what happened (according to Eliza)

which he did not want to do, rather than any fear, due to failing


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAto

engineer aspects that instilled continued fear or

embarrassment. Learning of this from Eliza at the shelter, V

decided to make adjustments and take more precautions to

increase the feeling of danger within her victims, such as Dr

Benway, and these concoctions of actions sanctioned a veil of

silence in the activity of V's ever since, she proudly asserted to

herself, while quietly closing the back door to not awaken the

neighbours. He won't go to the police, thought V, before she

started to hum the chorus to Poker Face by Lady Gaga,

reminded as she found the melody stuck in her head after the

slightly drunk Dr Benway staggered into the house singing it. I

sure did poke him, she says in her mind, but not his face.

She soon was on Islington High Street, walking towards

the tube station with all her apparatus nestled just like her

secret, in her handbag, V mused. She had only had two such

night jobs that month, but the night remained unquestionable

in her eyes: the bruises over Claire were just too many, she

muttered to herself, noting that there were old bruises, there

was an iron mark on the side of her breast, an assortment of

cuts on the legs and a black eye. Angered, V could not stand for

this. Though she wondered of her objectivity in her stance

taken on these men, soon she came to the conclusion that it was

not all men, just some, crossing the pelican crossing. Adding

the logic that some men needed to be taught a lesson. Reaching

to the other side of the road, she tried to mentally make a

dividing line between these night job activities and her opinions

on men, with the precept that: although I may have never really

taken fancy upon a man, (ruminated V) I don't hate all of them,

just the food for thought I dish out is one in which a man will

learn from; yes I always think a beat-down will not do the

correct sort of damage needed in order to get them to

understand where they had wronged, a dildo, hand cuffs and

183

some forceful thrusting would provide a real life lesson (she

concluded decisively, entering Angel tube station). She decided

to take the Northern line train one stop to Kings Cross and walk

to her girlfriend Marcel's house a few yards away from the

station for a short visit. Short, as she intended to sleep early in

her own flat and avoid feeling groggy on the long drive to

Heathrow the next morning.

Part 2 - An Introduction to This Case Studied Diary

As it can be noted, I am very descriptive in the retelling of this,

even using the third person for myself, inspired by the incessant

detail I had to sit through for so long. Though it is important to

note, at this point—of this real life story — the need to clarify a

few points, amongst other issues. Miss V Wasserton is clearly

somewhat of a nut case with a penchant for long descriptions of

sordid affairs, I am not able to hold in, which led me to write

this under the guise of Doctor X. Having been granted, "special

dispensation" in order to publish this story, which is edited by

Dalkey Archive I gladly take this opportunity. I write these

words to enable understanding (in and out of the industry),

particularly in lieu of the insurmountable amounts of

occurrences, of which I will continue to elucidate herein.

V arrived into my care, having been badgered by her mother to:

"help her sweet snowflake", said her mother to me. Snowflake, is

the last nickname I would have given to the lady in question, and

I quickly realised upon our first session, let me tell you. A case

study of a patient, that all psychologists should study, even all

humans should study: V had entered my life on February 23,

2010, with her notes arriving via the psychiatrist specialised in

teenager's, Dr P. Neurotic, was the word that initially came to

mind at that very first session even, tipping me over the edge and

forcing me to take my own advice and start this diary. Like a

pastor hearing a confession perhaps gone astray. Though names

and details have been changed. Plus, details are kept abstract but

assumed. The Hippocratic Oath is still upheld here.

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Part 2.5 –

Entry 1, February 23, 2010 Tuesday

I've started to hate my job, maybe two years ago, or maybe four

years. I started practicing four years ago and I have been

providing psychological help to the deranged, the incessant, the

coloured, of which I have told myself to write this―to, in a way,

take my own advice mostly, prompted mostly by today's

treacherous session with Miss V Wassterton, although in

hindsight they're all the same. Why do I feel the way I do?

**

V opened the door and was met with Marcel standing,

arms to either side, solemnly― The moaning nature of a

lossless love, more aggravated by a passionate motive towards

other activity. V moved further into the flat but was overtaken

by the sound of Marcel’s words. Where have you been? V

resisted any temptation she had of confessing her sins―We

had a work drink, said V coyly with the thought of Dr Benway’s

derriere. Marcel then explained that she had cooked an

asparagus supper and that it was no more hot, but cold as if this

implicit touching of the plate personified something else,

something more. V moved towards the bedroom, clutching at

her handbag. Marcel followed. You’ve been distant recently.

I’ve been busy. You’ve been forgetting me. I’ve been forgetting

myself.

The usual candour would continue for a short while; an

escalating tit for tat that breached no further enlightenment. V

asked where her mail was. Marcel flippantly mentioned

checking the mail box. V walked out of the flat, with her

handbag towards the mail box, full with a parcel. Her parcel. As

she locked the mail box a man walked on, their neighbour

arrived through the front door. They start a conversation. He

mentioned his boyfriend. V mentioned the weather. He

mentioned Marcel. V interrupted and made a joke. The man

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laughed before V asked his name. Keith, he said, Would you like

a drink, my boyfriend is not around tonight. V felt like escaping

the pangs of a relationship gone astray and accepted Keith’s

offer. They drunk white wine and discussed books. This

continued for a while before V mentioned that she should get

some sleep for her flight the next morning.



**

The drive to Heathrow consisted of conversations about

Marcel, initially. Dominque had just listened whilst consistently

bestowing the conversation with slight nods to Marcel’s “love”.

V felt a little sickened by the word, as if it truly meant anything,

she thought but didn’t say this. Instead they eventually moved

on to the topic of men. Dominque is having man problems; Her

man is constantly on the phone and seemingly in a contentious

“thing” with a workmate. V explained that she had never been

with a man before, misleading her information with seances of

virginity. Dominque can’t quite believe this, and probes around

the subject as any friend or work mate would do. But it breeds

no new revelations and V escaped any accusations of any kind.

They eventually start to talk of Claire Benway and all the bruises

on her body. Dominque considered the whole thing disgusting

that a man such as Dr Benway, a doctor she said, would find

himself in such a predicament. Beating his own wife before

going to work and saving lives. V fails to reveal anything about

the night before, though it is still fresh in a mind enlivened with

revenge.

They eventually reached the hotel in Berlin, and quickly

find out that the Hotel is very busy. There’s a conference going

on this weekend, said the receptionist. V finds the situation a

little irritating but they do check in. V finds the room quite big

and roomy. Dominque does too. They both gather their things

and set out to sight see. On the way to the Brandenburg Gate

they decide to stop off for lunch. They both eat pork and

continued to talk about their work. Dominque is finding work

difficult, V finds her nights balance out her days, she said wryly.

After they arrived back from sightseeing they both are in

the lobby discussing a corpulent man’s face from earlier in the

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day. Claire Benway walked out of the elevator and towards

them standing in the lobby. Dominque still enthused by all

that went on the previous week at work as if without thinking

walked towards Claire, before asking if she were okay. O, hello,

said Claire Benway, I’m fine. What are you doing here? Asked

V. I’m here with my husband, said Claire Benway, he’s the key

note speaker in the conference. V for a second wondered if

this was all okay: looking at Claire’s bruised arm, the tip of her

blouse showing her bruises but felt a sense of guilt. This guilt

sequences into the strange occurrence of having to join Dr and

Mrs Benway, along with Dominque for dinner. Claire lying and

mentioning that V and Dominque were schoolfriends.

It is strange to be sitting across the table from a victim,

thought V, but due to unforeseen circumstances this is the

happening, she accepted. V didn’t know whether to remain

cordial but decided to forego any decisions in place of being as

genial as possible. Besides, she accepted, Claire would have to

leave her husband on her own accord, regardless of all the

bruises and storied happenings of beat downs. They all eat at a

French restaurant.

Would you like the desert? asks the waiter. V nods, as

Dr Benway enthusiastically chimes in: The mousse would be

delicious. Had a hard day or night, asks V looking at Dr

Benway dead in the eyes, noticing a slight flinching. V

wondered what happened the rest of the night at the Benway’s

but again looked at Claire eating steak and noticed a new

bruise on the side of arm. Well, not really, said Dr Benway

assuredly. V sniggers inside. Dominque dizzily mentions that

Claire looks happier. V kicked her, sat beside her, under the

table, shutting her up. The deserts arrive. V finds the mousse a

little too bitter and only eats half. Claire doesn’t touch hers,

complaining of swollen touch.

V, altogether found the whole situation nauseating, but

strange at the same time. As it was the first time that she had

wondered how a victim had reacted to her deeds. They finish

up and square the check, or Dr Benway squares the check.

This neither impresses V nor Dominque, though it did soften

their perspective of the man.

187

They walked back to the hotel mostly talking about

Adorno, and Dr Benway made a monologue about the subject.

Mentioning Adorno’s importance to society, quite impressively

Dr Benway spoke well. As they arrived back to the hotel Dr

Benway mentioned that he had to go and see another conference

member about the next day. He tells Claire to join him and she



does. V and Dominque walk to their hotel rooms discussing Mr

and Mrs Benway. Dominque holds the opinion that perhaps Dr

Benway be given the benefit of the doubt. V feels as if she had

already decided upon his guilt and says nothing.

V takes a shower, the warmth expanse of water cascaded

onto her naked body but failed to rejuvenate a refreshed feeling.

Instead V feels a little bloated after the shower. V calls and asks

Dominque if she feels the same. Dominque doesn’t, instead

mentioning a German T.V show that was on at the time. V ends

the call by telling Dominque that she would get some rest.

Within an hour V is sick and throwing up in the toilet: she has

come down with something. V called Dominque to tell her the

news. Dominque is worried and arrived to V’s hotel room

minutes later. It’s probably the food we had before we went

sightseeing, said Dominque. V nods in agreement, but feels an

impending sense of sickness mounting over her by now. The

symptoms: vomiting, fever, headache, muscle aches, sweating.

Dominque doesn’t know what to do. In a tizzy, she mentions that

she would be back in ten, she said. And when she arrived back

she is followed by Dr Benway.

Dr Benway moved towards V, who is still rather disgusted

by him. Though she allows him to touch her forehead for she is

tired and weak. A weakness comes over V, that amounts to her

sprouting gibberish now. Dr Benway explains to Dominque what

V would need to improve her fever but that it was nothing to be

concerned about. Dominque leaves in a hurry to get the things

mentioned, leaving Dr Benway and V alone.

V looked at Dr Benway and says, Why do you hit your

wife? Dr Benway became startled, scratching the outside of his

left retina in a pensive motion. The room then fills with silence.

If I have to tell you the truth, because it seemed as if you were

acting strangely, it is known amongst family that she self-harms.

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O she self-harms, really, replied V indignant. Dr Benway then

explains that he needed to go and that V should see to it that

she doesn’t listen to any rumours. V fails to mention the

bruises on Claire’s body; arms, legs but decides as if an awning

over a dead carcass, stiffened by the winds of prodding.

For the rest of the night V could think of nothing else


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAbut

Dr Benway to the point that her anger had grown. Just

thinking of the words of Claire Benway: He works so hard to

put a meal on the table. A table he ruins, soils with incessant

beatings, thought V. On the Sunday V’s fever had tapered to

the point that she felt decent enough to go downstairs to the

restaurant in the lobby. Dominque talked about her boyfriend.

They would be working the next day, seldom was it that V

missed a day of work, for the feeling that she was in need.

Domestic violence is nothing to consider small, the nature of

things seemingly brutalised by desires, hopes, feelings. A man

then walks to their table and asks for both their names.

Dominque is intrigued, V less so. Dominque answers for both

of them. The Man says his name is Victor and that he is from

Brazil, but living in Berlin studying Architecture. Dominque

asks the man why he is at the hotel if he is living in the City.

Victor explains that he is seeing a friend, and that he would

also like to invite V and Dominque for a drink later in the

evening. Dominque agrees before Victor makes his way back to

his seat. V tells Dominque that she needs to go to sleep and get

some more rest. Dominque mentions more sightseeing before

they leave the next day.

As V enters the lobby Claire Benway walks in too. Mrs

Benway walks the way that she talks, sheepishly cowing her

words barely mustering any strength. She talks to V about the

boring nature of such a conference. V listens but finds the

situation absurd, kind of opaque. V fails to understand what to

say to Claire, baring her decision also. But nearly escapes with

just a feeling of morbid fascination, can you believe? It is only

by sheer lucidity for the situation that Claire’s words become

convoluted or more so. As V put her hand on Claire’s shoulder

to produce, in Claire, a wince. Did he do this? It happened a

while ago, I promise says Claire from the edge of her mouth,

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lips at end. The indignation had grown, into a more vehement

decision. V storms off. Just the thought of Dr Benway’s hands

on her made her feel ashamed. V barely falls asleep. V puts on

the television, and soon the daylight is filled with a black

expanse. V feels slightly feverish but bored. Dominque soon

knocks on her door, asking about Victor and drinks and so on.

V aggressively says no, before Dominque explains that she

wants to have sex with Victor on this night. V reluctantly

accepts, getting dressed and ready to go.

Victor spoke of Architecture like a wine connoisseur speaks

about clowns―turgid and full of mispronunciations V deems

childish. The topic changes onto the subject of sex. V coyly

mentions that “this conversation is not for her”, barely

administering ears to a conversation she may have needed to

hear. Regardless, V continues to sit and barely hears Victors

words until he stumbles onto the subject of whipping. At first

Dominque is enthralled, by the way that she is listening as if

two hands on the sides of her face clasped into fists wrapped

around a head bogle eyed. The Man has an audience now,

though he feels as if he probably losing V, he continued to tell

his story. Apparently according to our lady in question, Victor

arrived home one day to find his Father screwing someone

else, as if the word screwing could not ascertain a descriptive

impression, Victor added the word lashing and finishing and

doing. Like “hypnotic Man drool” Victor continued to speak. I

couldn’t believe my eyes, and so before I realised it I was being

punished by my Mother, said Victor. V wondered if it were the

drink as Victor explained that his mother whipping him and

whipping him began to turn him on. Just this vivid imagery,

along with the thought that he was told to stare at a skull

placed on the table in front of him and in his periphery, was

one to place. V’s interest was piqued. Dominque’s asunder.



***

V slept, on her own, that night thinking about whipping

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and men, and the fever relinquished. They caught their flight

early in the morning, and Dominque considered V strange by

the way that she acted the night before. V couldn’t understand

why, but nonetheless listened to Dominque’s words. V was

thinking about something else. V was outside of thought

awaiting her very own trial.

Interlaced with thoughts of revenge were feelings:

ardently ripe were notions of insensate beatings and the

repetitiousness of it all, sandwiched between a Doctors

vocation. Imagining the world consisting of such reckless

endangerment and then the duplicitous hand of the wellmannered

Doctor, touching foreheads with beautiful smiles,

thought V.

***

Part 3.0

Entry 2, February 24, 2010 Wednesday

I nicknamed him butterfly skull for the way in which he flexes

lyrical about dark room fantasies. Rondon spoke and spoke

today to no avail. I just listened feeling quite at odds, a bit

unwell. When this session finished I walked along Fulham

Road thinking about the detritus of my mind’s naked eye. His

schizoid tendencies, split between an initial complaint of

feeling like a bird, and the more difficult problem of feeling as

if he would take his own life. As van den Berg (1955) has said,

this jargon is a veritable 'vocabulary of denigration'.

Part 3.5 – A Radiance Oblique

V goes into work on Tuesday feeling slight remnants of

her sickness, a headache. Though she arrives there ready to

work: ready to collide with the very species that are odds to

most perspectives within her. The four P’s (Prevention,

Provision, Protection, Prosecution) are recalled in her first case

of the day, talking with a short Asian lady about a forced

marriage. Though V can only think of Dr Benway’s touch of her

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brow to the point that she manufactures an excuse to be absent

that morning. She takes a detour to Soho to buy a tool, bigger,

harder, more defiant. One that produces a prosecution in itself,

she tells herself. The man behind the store asks if she needs

help, V obliges and considers her needs, desires, amongst those

specialised figures. The prominence of a tool shrouds the

confluence of minds: being pitted against one another, drop for

drop, muscle to muscle. She soon gets what she wants and

leaves the Soho shop with a grandiose feeling. She purchases a

new whip also, and this governs a sense of occasion for her other

job.



Arriving back to work she gets back into contact with the

short Asian lady called Prenap and reschedules for the next day.

The night consumes a wonder and without it the thought

pervades that no actions could be had, that rather the stories

would be taken with a pinch of salt. The daily activities

repetitious, and not just in ways Karl Marx revealed but in a

spiritual sense too: the soul can be a denser thing than the body

but the soul reveals itself under duress and awakens behaviours

that can amount to what can be deemed madness. Whether sane

or crazy the actions continue to the point that in the evening V

makes her way back to Islington, to a scene of a crime, in fact.

Whilst Claire is at V’s workplace, Claire is feigning an interest in

prosecution. Our victim does bleed, but what’s more is that our

victim has premonitions of a female’s variety, consisting of

letting her husband fall into an empty pit. Ha! Mercy for Man. V

decides that new bruises equate to failing to get the job done.

When she enters the house, the house is empty, dusty

lampshades speculate. V takes a seat in the living room, balaclava

on. But thinks that she would get more results in the bedroom

where he will need to go once he arrived back, apparently at six

thirty, having taken a long shift for the wills of Man in charge.

Dr Benway arrived like clock-work at six thirty and

stumbles around the living room. He soon awakens steps,

creaking. V is listening to every creak, every nuance. V is stood

in their en-suite bathroom, conjuring images of a dutiful wife.

The Man is walking up the stairs as Tranquiliser gun is toyed

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with, and new extra-large pink dildo is positioned over a skirt,

her underwear as pristine as snow, hands reckoned, ready,

balaclava on. The deeds of today are a rarefied atmosphere of

progression; get out the latent old marriage deeds and throw

them on the fire-pit. What’s done will be done. Dr Benway steps

into the bedroom and moves towards the pillow, back towards V



now. V springs to action; tranquilising gun to Benway’s neck in

three point two seconds. Full swoop. Benway drops to the floor

with a thud. V undergoes this action of events: carrying him to

the bed, roping arms and legs, gagging mouth, though the

thought occurs that he may say something interesting. She

wonders.

The fabric of the happenings seems to have enlivened V

into a salacious consummation―So overwhelmed is she that

modus operandi becomes suspended in organic play, her

moistness causing her to forget, wetness causing a stupor. Let

me repeat for those that didn’t follow. Our V is about to lose

something dear to herself, without full knowledge of where this

may lead. As Spread eagle in this position on the bed Dr

Benway is being whipped a bit like Victor our Brazilian friend. V

is whipping with such dreadful enthusiasm that she soon forgets

the time, or that it is not an object but a human being as if

society was being accounted for in the way that it flogs the

worker, though in this case it’s the bourgeoisie. His naked body

now aroused. V could barely account for what happened but

twisted onto his stomach V rides and rides the roped Dr Benway

until thoughts pertain: who in fact is being punished? Who is

supposed to be out of sync? She accepts that Dr Benway half

grunting is a forceful monster with a beautiful smile tempered

by his rough handlings. What if he were to be let completely

loose? The beast shall be tamed. Caged, clipped, cut.

After V reaches a climax fuelled, fully loaded, V feels

absurd and gathers her things before storming out of their

house through the back door. Her knickers drenched. On the

road towards the tube station V breaks out into a what can only

be referred to as tearful laughter, emotion without the ability to

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grasp, clutch, anchor.

Part 4.0 – Higher Learnings, of The Saboteur

Sat on the tube V is an accumulation of the biomass of

disgruntlement, though our lady’s works in an intricate manner

that accounts for the thought that an escape is a failed dictum;

imaginings of a society that works is rather unsubstantiated; the

real alternative is to revolt against. Though the thought of the

petite bourgeois tied up but still coming to “prominence”

suffocates her—just exemplifies the situation at hand. I’ll repeat

V feels as if she needed to up the ante, she must have felt like

this, I assumed. Or she may have simply regarded her actions as

spare of the moment now, taking in the sights of spare seats

filling and emptying with persons in the know of her imposter

status. No, this can’t be. As if paranoid, all at once — V

personifies a person on an emotional edge. Looking at the

throngs of persons all with their own destinations dispersing at

every stop; accumulating and scattering as if Chaos Theory

working in action: all these disconnected and connected aspects

encompassing a whole. V feels overwhelmed and remembers a

bout of social anxiety. I read her notes and realised that I was an

accomplice, but the spectacle of it pronounced itself. V gets off

at her stop. At Marcel’s. She decides to walk slowly.



***

Part 4.5 – Understanding Psychosis, Governing a Manic Society

Entry 3, February 26, 2010 Friday

1. I considered the fabric of a psychological being. Feint nuances

of ‘everything’ without any sort of personification, yes as crucial

as one finds it to pigeon hole, the notion of sanity is always bent

towards an interpretation doused in ‘self’.

2. The realisation that ethics must be separated from that of

194



treating a patient, hence the sickness is the world and that one

is not sickness in itself, instead one is sick because of the

multiple ways society fails to function. I.e. Injustices.

3. Sanity forms and disbands as easily as liquid pours into a

glass; honesty purchases a sense of reasoning that one is not

alone here.

4. Sanity is impossible to define, as is insanity and that modes

of living and conflicts have to account for, without the

predilection of obtaining categorising in terms of class.

5. Class disillusions, as does the lack of recognition for mental

health in a variety of disparate forms. I.e. modes of living.

6. A patient’s actions should be weighed on the basis of justice

too, as well as a thorough process of meditation.

7. Categorisations of a mental variety could be an offset of

injustices as ‘normal’ is as imaginative and unrealistic as the

terms defining mental health.

8. ‘A flux state’ is a mode of living most sustainable as it

transcends and reflects upon the fluctuating basis of all

thoughts of being, even functioning in the occurrence of

equilibrium.

9. Society is mirror for the patients’ mindsets.

10. As crime reflects person, the Law should be more creative

in ascertaining a more intelligent form of justice, thus perhaps

impeding the current notions of sanity. A crazy world needs

supple Laws to consider the needless absurdities. I.e.

Allowance for ‘street justice’ given evidence for in

‘Undercover Police Operatives’.

11. A healthy state can be produced from as simple

195

mechanisms as freedom of expression.

12. It can be noted that the consequences of one’s actions

produce its own results and that only in extreme cases does one

need Policing as arbitrary as sectioning.

13. If we were to ‘section’ everyone for mental issues the state

would crumble. Therefore, fairness must be acted upon by way of

efficient utilisation of extreme forms of curtailing criminal

behaviour in only extreme cases. Though referencing: The

Currency of Paper (Alex Kovacs) “Our notions of justice should be

flexible enough to allow for certain immoral practices.”

14. Curing people, or societies, of their ills by treatment is

possible, though the onus is on transforming society’s ills first.

Part 5.0. – “I suggest, therefore, that sanity or psychosis is tested by the

degree of conjunction or disjunction between two persons where the one

is sane by common consent.” – R.D. Laing, The Divided Self

Is V psychotic or a reflection of a sick society?

Part 5.5. – The Shadow Woman

The evening moved into a black expanse. V negotiates

between Marcel’s naivete towards her deeds and her own

misgivings. Marcel wants to snuggle. V motions away from Marcel

with the words, I’m just a little consumed by work today. Marcel

wants to cater to V’s woes and then implores V to speak about

what seems to be bothering her. V doesn’t know how to articulate

the thoughts swelling in her mind, but looking at Marcel V

remembers the affectionate way Marcel does an array things, too

sentimental to really delve into all at once―Marcel cares and V

wants to touch her face but she is too spooked. Besides V is

researching male CEO’s, politicians to find those that hover too

close to the margins of ethics, perhaps pursuant of functioning

greed, V has a lesson to teach them.

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Though that night V dreams a shadow dream, apparently

V placed a cup on the table, or she thought she did, as she

wasn’t sure anymore of her conscious actions and her conscious

thoughts. Vivid interpolations of receiving ECT treatment elect

themselves. She then thinks she places the cup on the table, but

there is an alternative happening that could be occurring. Cup

in the dreams she was having reflected in thoughts pertaining to

knives, she would see a cup and ultimately be holding a knife.

So, let’s say that she in action could holding a knife or a cup, she

herself wasn’t sure. After placing this on the table she decided to

get some sleep, within her dream. So, in action she is sleeping

but she could also be watching herself sleep on Marcel’s bed, or

imagining that she is asleep on this bed. In whichever

dimension, there is a knock at the door, she picks up the cup

and moves to the door to open it. At the door no one is there,

which prompts her to walk out the door to see who it could be.

She goes down the stairs and reaches a lamp post, don’t be silly

lamp post is still a lamp post, or is it? As she leans on the lamp

post and thinks about who it could have been at the door.

Though she has her suspicions that she be asleep, though

unclear on the thought she imagines that at this point a black cat

would pass to inform her of being in a dream.

She then wakes up in the dream, though at this point it is

of note to mention that it feels as if she had been awake or has

been awake for a week. The subtle ingestion of “normalcy” can

be disrupted for anyone but for her it accounted to the thought,

now waking up, that she wasn’t sure if she was waking up in a

dream or still asleep in a dream. Though this thought doesn’t

really occur until later. Again, she walked out of her front door.

Soon this is her purview; a man is stood behind a man in the

woods with a silver car, the man behind is black wearing a white

shirt with his hands in his pockets looking around. There is

blood on her hands.

In this dream sequence, it is noted to mention Jung’s

theories on the Shadow. The permeating basis of ECT treatment

draws cinematic reminisces of Stanley Kubrick’s A Clock Work

Orange―popular culture often saturates our dreams. And the

constant ‘state of flux’ in this sequence of events―sleeping,

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awakening, moving―realises a fascinating resistance to

lifelessness.

The blood within this dream sequence along with the cup

/ knife can highlight our V’s aggressive tendencies. Extirpative

bouts of severe mental illness here.

Part 6.0 – CEO 1 of Factory based ‘Company X’

V studies our Man in question― CEO 1, aged 57, has a

mistress; two kids; a pet Macaw and rumours circulate that

threatening is his bag, in particular, of the fairer sex. He

wouldn’t want to be emasculated in a world He governs, would

he? No, he wouldn’t, perhaps that would go some way of

breaking up any sort of developing matriarchy. Am I a woman

you say? Themes of a grandiose tale of firing a lady we can refer

to as Preti Arnam for allegedly wearing long skirts (According to

The Guardian) as opposed to short ones, causes a distinct stir

within V; angers her.

The propensity towards abusing powers are mulled over:

assets depreciated here, prudence employed there. V looks at

photographs, scarce as they may be of CEO 1, and finds his

whole ambiance disgusting; a particular shirtless photograph on

a yacht teases our V into thoughts of shenanigans. The white

vest fails to touch the tip of his pubic hair, exposing them! CEO

1 has a hairy chest that he spills a little orange juice on in

another photograph.

CEO 1 likes:

Jazz

Foreign Cars

Cuban Cigars

Large breasted blonde women

“Far right” leanings (Strange donations)

Cartography

Eagerness

Rupert Murdoch

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Impulsiveness

ENTPs (according to an interview within The FT)

Macaws

Bourse

CEO 1 has assets totalling 897 million of “the pie”, V

speculates. “A pie” castrated by greed. V assigns the following

Saturday to observe her prey. The voyeur within her seems to

quickly govern her. Here V’s intellect seems wasted, as if these

exploits could be so much more, her investigation skills are as

sufficient as a private detective, plus she can pick a lock with

the best of them.

Part 6.5. – Sightings One

CEO 1 takes the money and moves out of the room to

the exit. Then into the street. He enters his car and begins

driving. The sun infiltrates and by this he pulls down the sun

visor, before making a right-turn.

A short drive: a mile and a half, he stops outside a large

block of apartments, he parks and walks quickly into the pink

building. Entering, he soon walks onto the balcony, heavily

sighs and looks down pensively. After a short while he takes a

seat on the living room sofa―mauve and green leather. He

makes a call, perhaps to his mistress, this is his “secret place”

for them.

With the television now on, he laughs and then gets

more comfortable in his seat, nestling his bottom further into.

There is an actual Francis Bacon painting on the wall behind

the television, Triptych 1983 perhaps purchased at Auction. He

unbuttons his right and left cuff link and places them on the

coffee table. His shoes are still on, belly protruding onto a black

belt! Our CEO 1 eats particularly well. V leaves that day with

thoughts of a new victim that accounts for a distracted V,

especially from the previous evening. Stakes raised. At the edge

of my seat I listened to these happenings.

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Part 7.0. –

Entry 4, March 11, 2010 Thursday

In the afternoon I felt the impending doom of hours trickling

by―the implications of the morning spent listening to Sophie

discuss the ‘unreal her’. Spending hours and hours on the topic,

we dealt with, as Jung would say, a shadow too but it was too

intrepid to truly call a shadow. Maybe just a slight silhouette.

The sky outside seemed overcast. At this time I started to think

about death. The skull perched at the end of my desk catapulting

me through endless conjectures of what death is. I.e. Death

could be energy that is wrapped loosely having been dispersed

entirely into the universe of matter. The energy had been stored

up for years and each atom breads a familiarity around a heart

that beats no more. Even as the ventricles dwindle, the action of

cells of blood push certain peculiar investments into the air

through brain cells that smelt a certain way, flowed a certain way

and purchased behaviours certain ways. Electricity. Under the

duress of death, the now latent energy takes the force of

penetration whilst the amount of the rest of it pursues activity in

magnetised atmospheres surrounding arbitrary desires as the

person liking Cats. I then thought about what else could be

going on in the world:

1. a rat in Sudan reached for a gun before turning into a tiger.

2. two scorpions living in Kuwait flew from Brazil to sip a pool of

wine left unattended for three weeks.

3. a man with a wooden leg accidentally set himself on fire when

cooking alligator meat in his house in Peckham.

4. an Indian in Pakistan called a woman, in broken English, a

fine ass bitch.

5. applause broke out on a bus in the capital of Morocco when a

boy, aged eleven, broke wind and apologised to Allah.

6. a soft mango in Argentina was eaten by the lover of an

infamous rapist.

7. a man in Spain, after he finished reading Roberto Bolaño’s By

Night in Chile, repeated the phrase "Sordello, Sordello, which

Sordello?" seven times for good luck.

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8. a bear opened a book left in a Canadian driveway.

9. two octopus befriended a shark that had secretly eaten both

their mothers.

10. a Gay man broke his penis when drunkenly placing it into a

wooden ornament brought back from a trip to Palestine.

11. a lost Turkish man walking the streets of Camden bought

two Kaki fruits for his two girlfriends and then boarded a bus

going in the wrong direction.

12. a man with an erection ran around naked screaming: "A

stick! A stick!" before being accosted by a female police officer

from Luton.

13. a centrifugal force was exerted in São Paulo, Brazil and at

the same time as a Nun in Texas receiving anal sex.

14. a man in Indianapolis gains control of his legs after

wobbling over and then falls over onto a dog that bites him.

15. a lady in Miami operates a gun with her foot and shoots a

watermelon.

16. a boy, in Brixton, opens a can of corn beef in record

amount of time.

17. a man in Macedonia lusts after a fifteen-year-old girl in the

street and subsequently dies on that same street five years to

the day.

18. an unnamed Hollywood actress decided that Church was

the way and decided to call in right after a threesome.

19. a goat in Mali learnt how to operate a gun.

20. a Kenyan official secretly wore women's underwear beneath

his suit the day before yesterday.

21. a Priest Killed himself.

22. a pig in Switzerland learnt how to play football.

23. a Somali man head butted an Italian in Naples with such

magnitude as to cause an epileptic fit.

24. a rather chubby young Author read a book and went blind.

Part 7.5. ― An Insignia of Chance

“Nature shares the good life with us so that we can eat of her produce

and be eaten in turn by the owners of factories and banks.” ― Lust,

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Elfriede Jelinek

Emasculation governs a series of outrageous swearing

remarks too rancid for V’s ears. CEO 1 is being bludgeoned with

a pink dildo due to V’s immersive techniques of investigation. V

smelt her prey out. Times of comings and goings; the separate

apartment; the mistress; the wife; the kids; the television

watching. She can pick a lock in seven hundred and twenty

seconds, depending. Intervals of only forty minutes allow for a

quick getaway, it seems. Though the adrenaline rush of perhaps

being caught account for the thought that lies and more lies

could mask a situation that could easily get out of hand. Secrets

accommodate V the luxury of forming new realisms. The Power

exalts her to the high heavens―V summons words about the

remorselessness of CEO 1’s greed, making consistent threats of

an incessant revenge: Taking enormous bonus’, maybe you’ll

think again! CEO 1 kneels on the floor grasping a pair of glasses

and prostrates as if praying. The CEO of ‘Company X’ is

belittled, sent to the corner to pronounce all his bad deeds.



Part 8.0

Entry 5, March 26 2010 Friday

Incessant days waiting for a pension. I noticed the lady next

door’s tick today; a twitch in her right eye as she spoke about

the loud neighbours at number 83. The formation of actions an

altogether blur, especially when off-duty. One doesn’t want to

contend with the absurdities of the human psyche, and besides

the couple at number 83 are probably aware of their noise levels,

it just occurs to me that I am odds with existence, ill at ease with

the thought that it is beguiling to inhabit a world where such

cruelties exist. Though I encourage the thought that distractions

act as treatment to a world filled with problems.

At the cocktail bar in Hackney, tonight with Doctor Y I ask if

there is ever a thought that it all amounts to nothing. Doctor Y

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behaves in a manner that aims to scold. Calling such thoughts

hypocrisy. I listen but mostly observe the flower arrangements

at the corner of the bar, the bar tenders filling glasses with cold

ales; tilted glasses, the cacophony of noise that saunters, abides

and rises to similar levels throughout the night, as an

agreement. I consider the trees outside the window as the only

true knowledge that a tree is still a tree regardless of the

thought that perception is a murky world along with the

concept that every and any acuity is individualised and that

everything’s an abstraction, representational and abstract at the

same time, a tree. Not that this is not true, no the truth is not

particularly bearable. People look towards absurdity as a desire

and necessity, I thought. And perhaps rightly so.

Still at the cocktail bar I ponder the motives of many of the

throngs of people, at a Spanish woman talking with a friend in

an excited high-pitched voice, a bald man imitates climbing

stairs, a man wearing a check red shirt sits alone nursing a still

ale, a brown Labrador wags its tail, a group of four; three

women; one man, talk intently about a subject. How authentic

are our motives, I wondered? I soon leave the cocktail bar.

Part 8.5. - CFO of Company O

The Man, the CFO of Company O, is a bit more

streetwise: ruff puff too, stiff and proper with an Eaton-like

education. The woman toils on―V is impassioned: the frenetic

energy of it all. V watches our CFO of Company O take puffs of

a cigarette whilst chattering assumedly about Persian rugs. V

realises that it had been a few weeks without hearing from

Claire Benway. Though distinguishes her current activities as

more poetic.

CFO of Company O arranges pool games on the

weekend after a week spent embezzling money out of Company

O. Company O is part Charity organisation so this corruption is

diffidently monitored as not all bad. Company O’s status can be

considered “above the law” and this personifies the exchange

between Capitalism and society for V.

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Part 9.0 – Things I had to do from my Treatment Room This

Week

[8, April 2010 Thursday]

I felt it was necessary to not condescend patients but radically

alter their states of mind. I had to:



· Talk in a child’s voice about buses 38, 180, 136 and 55. And

use a framing device to be the patients friend in childhood

incidents that still bothered them.

· Make a huge tepee hut out of blankets and furniture to then

get in and discuss agoraphobia with a patient.

· Act out a scene where I was the patient, and the patient the

Doctor.

· Diagnose walks in the Park.

· Listen to Ravi Shankar in the middle of a session to get the

depressive patient to dream of more exotic surroundings and

things they have yet to see.

· Act out a nightmare a patient was having as realistically as

possible to gauge the recondite truth that these ideas are

created by the mind.

· Talk about a bird as if a tree.

· Paint pictures of unicorns.

· Speak to a patient under a white sheet.

· Act out a dream involving a wizard woman covered in a brown

sheet.

· Sympathetically read a short story of a patient enthused with

“fears of laughter”.

· Imitated playing a piano naked.

· Took a banana, stuck it in my ear and said DADA.

Part 9.5. ― Mounting Debts

V grabs balls as a brave matador flounces a Muleta and

red cloth; hard flamboyance―Easy on the breaks―CFO of

Company O shouts: Stop, and this was just after V had entered

204

the apartment in Canary Wharf through a picked lock. V fails to

do as he says: continues pulling away, suffocating the air. V took

a week’s holiday from work to accomplish this very goal.

Watchful observations made. Insights gathered of times our

Man is alone. As if our man is dichromatic he frantically pulls at

his roped arms and nearly loosens it, before V can plunder CFO

of Company O with more lashings. The leather mounts

undesired marks on backside, waist, thighs. One for each

corruption! V has made no amendments to her tools since the

last time, she mused. And this causes a consistency that

pronounces itself as professional, steely even. Yet Dr Benway’s

member causes her mind a variance distorted hymns ― V tells

herself that this incident amounts to a lucid slip up, resisting

the thoughts of wanting to blow him off, to her at that moment

this is a fools job, she says to herself. To folly at the feet of The

Man. No, The Man knows only the boundaries set: he takes

cigarette breaks to talk about ways to demean the blonde

secretary’s dream of becoming a member of the team.

V proceeds to penetrate CFO of Company O whilst

shouting out words such as corrupt, crooked, bastard! After

about six minutes of thrusting V stops and gathers tools. A

rushed job perhaps, as V can see the felicity of passionate anger

on The Man’s face. She doesn’t see the usual exasperated look

that her victims can’t conceal.

V slips back into the metropolis of the City with ease.

Swathes of people walking the Canary Wharf streets: going in

all variety of directions. Large swathes of people I wonder of

now. How many like V does society house? The City is heaving

with a degree of ambitions I suppose. A frightenedly wondrous

assortment of psyches...

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...the poet...


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

His wife left him and left a note on the table: I’m leaving, there’s

nothing to be done, my heart is just not in the right place, but I’ve

left an address at the bottom. But in reality she was just hiding,

she explained to her best friend Misklav. Why? He asked her.

Because he has never written a poem for me, and we’ve been

together for long enough, this way I get one of his poems, plus I

can see him through your bathroom window, you see…

And so after he read the letter he put the note down back on the

table, and she watched him go into the fridge, pour himself a

glass of milk and more milk than he would drink when she was

around; a full glass full! He’ll get to the letter later, after he has

called around maybe.

Though the evening came with little happening as she peered

through the cramped bathroom window and saw that he had just

put the house phone down from a call, she assumed, was either

her Aunt or Sister, either way, neither knew her whereabouts and

the address was just a post office box of her Aunt’s nail shop. His

face took on a frown.

And he then hobbled towards the living room couch and sat

down, before long; maybe an hour or so, he had fallen asleep. No

note, she said to Misklav, nothing, he’s snoring on the couch.

What’s his problem? I expected at least a short paragraph, but

nothing…

The morning sunrise came and after waking up she quickly ran

206

towards the bathroom, as she suspected he would wake

around this time, in order to paint or read the newspapers,

but he was seemingly out of the house and she saw that the

shoes he would wear were not by the door but gone. She

sighed and went back to the living room.

A week has passed and he has not even bothered to write a

single letter, having just been eating, painting and doing his

usual everyday regime, she complained to Misklav.

And so another week then passed.The same, she said. So she

waltzed towards the house to confront him. But before she got

there, she died...

207

...an unovely novel...

“Everything is reducible to a cliché” — B.S. Johnson

"A life prelude and constitution to of all that will be written: the

beginning, middle and end may exist in any place throughout, plus

subtle things may occur in lieu of this Author's buoyant and strange

sarcasm. " — Editor's Note



The Beginning (Of which I disagree with)

I have never agreed with a simple beginning, middle and

end. Unrealistic, it seems that these life happening's rarely occur

as this. Instead, your middle can easily resemble your end, and

life just occur as if death is only around the corner. Beginnings

like many in the middle portions of life can exist in a codependent

fashion just like a baby. I have known many people in

the middle of their lives who act as if they were still in prams

wearing dummies and such; totally dependent on their parents,

for instance. I think that life is more cut-up in reality, with

happenings truly existing out of time. For the purpose of time

though, we can say Keith Boaman was nearer the middle of his

life. I say Keith (the novel I'm writing's protagonist), but I am not

so sure this name will do you see? Though I've always liked

Ketihs or at least the one's I've met. Perhaps you would root for

him? I don't know…but I think I will start with this name and

that he was born in London, or maybe Tajikistan? I've never met

anyone from there before but it may add some interesting angle I

could use to orchestrate the story at hand. We'll see… Come to

think of it, there was that one Keith that I completely hated...O I

dare say that that Keith deserved a severe beating.

Anyway, I digress from the point at hand: to this novel; so

maybe Keith Boaman is in a London Bar in the Afternoon and

through the window the sunlight is cascading a lemon yellow

and the moment is filled with numerous other lavish

descriptions slanted towards delightful paradoxes, as if Oscar

Wilde described them — You know? two opposing happenings

208

at once — Stuff like: he's in a bad mood, but it's an opulent

day, or let's say: sunny… go easy on the grey matter hey? I know

people rarely like to read these days, all they want is the

information in microwave form. I Know. Then we'll stick with

the word sunny, yes? Otherwise one could reach for the

dictionary and disturb the reading process…I must be a good


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhost

(note to self).

At the bar Keith is sat. The Barman tells a joke: 'You look

like you could use one,' or something funnier, I can't think of

right now. Oh don't you start making accusations of being nondescriptive

or too avant-garde. Why don't you think of

something the Barman could say, huh? Just remember Marcel

Duchamp did say, rather pointedly, that those interacting

(yourself, reading this) are "partaking in the act of art itself".

Just get a beverage and join in? No, yes? Well, after this joke,

that may or may not have been found funny — it's all absurd —

Keith says: 'I had a bad day, problems, many, many problems.'

'Like what?' the non descript Barman replies. 'Job and the wife.'

'What ya work as innit?' (Perhaps this Barman's cockney).

'Politics, but I really want to be a Poet.' 'Worlds apart, the two.'

At this point, I could insert a description of Keith? Though I

don't know… What do you think he looks like? Unsure, we'll

come back to this yes, as all I can think of is to the extent of a

long description—albeit written beautifully, with maybe the

affects of Lawrence Durrell; I do like Durrell's long sensual

descriptions. But the description of Keith Boaman would be

inclined to just result in him being portrayed somewhere in the

middle, just in case I need him to be handsome, ugly, passive or

aggressive…You need something to hold onto, you say? Okay,

maybe he wears a hat, that's memorable: a black hat with a story

behind it. That could do, for now.

He takes off this black hat and places it very carefully on

the Bar — Keith is very neurotic that way. With the hat at the

correct angle and a nut marinating his mouth's saliva, Keith

replies: 'It's all words, both poetry and politics.' 'You don't say?'

say's the Barman, rather jovially, which makes me wonder if we

should make him Irish instead? Maybe he could say things like:

'topa the morning to ya' or 'ya know ya wanna Guinness', and it

209

come across as warm and completely unstereotypical, as

opposed to the stereotypical reality of any description really.

You know? what's in a description… An acceptable bag

of tools, based on groupings of familiarity you could say?

though the dictionary next to me read's: 'A widely held but

fixed and oversimplified image or idea of a particular type of

person or thing.' Which is a fact, but where would we be

without these stereotypes? A novel couldn't survive under this

pressure you see. Let's take Keith, I tell you that he is a white

man in the middle of life (nondescript to allow leeway - I

myself imagine he's in his early 30's) with a job in politics. And

you will automatically think: 'Middle class muppet! a

stereotypical white man.' These words, spoken, could be met

with a disparaging remark — at least —so they go unsaid,

usually. Though we would be thinking it anyway wouldn't we?

Be honest…Regardless, it's affect would be beneficial, as I

want to create this image, or mood in the case of this un novely

novel (I like to call it). Unnovely as I repeat: I've never agreed

with a linear beginning, middle and end. It's too

claustrophobic and unlike reality, or at least the reality I've

experienced. As the stories I've heard mostly start with a friend

drinking in a bar, then he leaves to meet a girlfriend. The

girlfriend then breaks up with this friend because he's clingy

and watches way too much internet Porn; Ten Midgets - One

Girl pushes her over the edge. And that's it; the friend would

just go back to his empty flat and iron his shirt for work the

next day. Where's the middle in that? I even think that friend

works in a bakery now, which amounts to the type of story I'm

used to myself. Because it's nonsensical, just like the way I take

my Coffee in the morning, life comes with a dash of absurdity

— As I could most easily choke on my morning hot coffee and

that be my end — very un-novelistic and closer to the truth I

see it as. But this morning's Coffee was fine and I made it here,

though Sarah (my current girlfriend) would disagree with my

Coffee making abilities: "You like too much sugar," she says

often. Potato, potato in my eyes, and upon realisation I just

wrote potato twice in your eyes, but what I was trying to

communicate was the aphorism — usually with one of these



210



potatoes' said in an American accent to demonstrate two

meanings for one thing. I take sugar and those that don't will

end up the same way: dead, just less sugared up. I prefer death a

little sweeter than most, don't you? You probably agree; I can

imagine those reading this would see life closer to the way I see

things. However one chooses to say potato, the concept of

communication is another reason I don't like linear stories, you

see. As a human being it is difficult to be understood,

particularly by Sarah who is seeming to be a completely

different person to myself (note to self). This notion of

difference is possibly similar to the problems Keith Boaman is

having within his life (hint: a metaphor) and marriage. Let us call

his wife something exotic like Marietta or Mari, for short..? you

prefer Marietta as it is more descriptive in an un novely world as

this. Decisiveness, good, we are clicking. 'Well, it's the wife

(Marietta) that's giving me problems,' starts Keith at the Bar.

'Lot's of problems, along with the job.' 'Start with a drink?' said

the Cockney / Irish Barman. 'A Guinness?' 'I'll take a cocktail, a

Martini,' replies Keith, as he finds Guinness to be too harsh for

his more delicate taste buds. 'Oh la di dah, fancy that?' 'Cheer

myself up you see? maybe have a beer later,' he say's in slight

defence before ordering three Martini's in total; feeling in need.

The Martini's soon arrive and Keith drinks one down, a

bit like Charles Bukowski would: veraciously and as if it were

his religion. Though not as cool as Bukowski, Keith's drinking

technique has a slight edge of more panic, plus we don't know

whether Keith is a cool customer yet, do we? The Cockney /

Irish Barman then starts whistling and comes across as friendly

to Keith and more so as it seems all the attention is on him,

being that the Bar is mostly empty, apart from an old man sat in

a corner behind him to his right. Looking around, 'I'm not that

much of a loner, I hope,' he said, 'I'm meeting a friend.' 'A

friend?' smiles the Barman before telling another joke. This

one's a real-sidespliter, with me taking advantage of being able

to be non descriptive and say things as: such and such just told

a hilarious joke that you (the reader) only just hear of - a novelly

technique used from time to time. Jokes! it seems are all that

people want; Am I clown? Don't answer that, that's neither here

211

nor there. Let me just get off my high horse as jokes are very

much part of the fabric of life that I contend occur most from

the acceptance of absurdity, I may point out. Vis a vis: a man

walked into an alley and is met with another with an erection

and gun — A tricky situation that ends badly with an innuendo.

Absurd?..Well, that's it: a joke, here you are. Get the joke? To

somewhat explain - the anthesis of enjoying all jokes — is in

some ways revealing; the ability to understand humour can be

like gaining an understanding of life you see? It's just that

coming to terms with the fact that there is little that is under any

persons controls is rather poignant...You agree, well yes, I can

be rather apt.

After the funny joke (hilarious, please see own imagination

here) Keith begins wondering how he would break the news to

Marietta of the whole job fiasco that has led to slouching in a

London Bar on a Friday Afternoon. Picking up another nut and

tapering off the giggle that slowly had left his mouth's abode he

chews whilst feeling that his integrity as well job situation is

now in disrepute, it seems. 'The Red Rum is a place to be

intoxicated, not feel like this,' say's the Irish / Cockney Barman

in either or accent, as the thought occurs to Keith that it's as if a

solid drink can take away all worries—by the sounds of it.

'Probably why you're a barman,' thinks Keith, muted. 'It's just

that life really is at a loose end.' said Keith, instead. 'Yeah?' said

the Barman. '…You've got a little medicine in you, break it

down for me a bite more, I could use a little entertainment, a bit

dead in here today.' At this point, for dramatic affect, maybe the

symbolism should become more apparent? Let's — All literature

is governed by symbolism, you see? to make it clear, the points

made are alluding to something else, different, sometimes

political, sometimes esoteric etcetera etcetera. Which is the case

with good literature, I should point out. I suggest you get

yourself a biscuit or snack here; I prefer croissants, because the

upcoming explanation deserves it, if I may so myself (a humble

brag, if there is such a thing?). On the surface of a story (in most

stories, including this one, even) there sits on the top, somewhat

like icing on a cake, a layer and below lies the symbolism, the

main ingredients of the literature. The concept that I symbolise



212

herein is: NOTHING. Huh? what? you say, you have us reading

this for nothing? you nut case! Calm down, you're merely

misunderstanding me, so to reiterate: I do have a story guys, of

which I will continue to divulge and digress here, but ultimately

it's conclusion is not governed by any such thing. I DISAGREE

with stories perpetually governed by SOMETHING! No, I won't

lead you down a garden path of discovering the inner you, or

something of that nature. Instead, the aim is to provide this

NOTHING; neither take away or leave anything. Absurd? I

know, I know you hope that Keith will maybe go on a journey

of discovery — I can hear you — that leads to a tidy end. You

don't want to clench your butt-cheeks at the story's end, but

rather go away feeling edified. No, I refuse this; although I may

try and be a good host (at times) it is of optimum importance

that it all aligns with the philosophy I symbolise of: no

beginning, no middle, no end (genius life hint).

I warn you and will even tell you the last thing to happen

right now even, like a freedom fighter for the story you can

nickname me some sort of variation of Mother Theresa, though

a male un novely version. You don't want to do that, as it comes

across as absurd? well suit you... All you want me to do is get to

the juice of the story…well here is the dramatic (and

undramatic) end all this will lead to: Keith and his friend that

arrives later on in the story, go and get some Ice Cream to cheer

Keith up and remind them of their school days. In an act of

drama—conveyed aptly, I must add— Keith drops his Ice

Cream…I can hear you at the edge of your seat saying: and

then? did the Ice Cream lead to a magic Science Fiction type

tunnel or maybe he met a girl at this point you wonder? Perhaps

you're on a train or sat on your bed, anticipating my next

words…But that would be something would it not? Come on…I

warned you about these cliché somethings did I not…

Anticipation is more than the sum of it's parts, I tell you. The

wait is always more than the gain — try this notion out in your

own memory bank, go on; has something ever tasted as good as

the moments leading up to it? Rarely, as it's always either the

day dreaming or thoughts leading to, as opposed to the actual

happening that trump's occurrences.

213

Keith was knowledgeable of this from his own life

experiences that he especially noticed in his relationship with his

wife. 'I think I feel underwhelming..' said his wife to him that

morning with a sighed gumption as he listened to her hash up

another word. Marietta loves using big words but he rarely thinks

she knows their meanings, and he is pretty sure she meant to say


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 'underwhelmed' but regardless, he knows what she meant. A lot

of gumption, shall we make Marietta not-so-tall to coincide with

her character's fieriness? it always seems that shorter people are

sometimes a little more fiery? Napoleon complex, you say?

touché, a smart reader, how stimulating. Let's agree on a

description that ultimately culminates in her coming across as

sexy, but not overtly sexy. She is somewhat like the way that she

would dress: loud and with bright colours. After telling Keith

that she feels 'underwhelming' instead of 'underwhelmed'

Marietta then explains that he was a drop in her standards

according to her mother's advice on their marriage problems.

Pissed off by the the Mother that was always seemingly prying,

Keith called her loud and stormed out of the house to work, to

eventually be sat at the Red Rum.

Up to drift?… Well maybe you are right; I too think Keith

should elaborate more. It has been how many pages you say? I

know, and all that's seemed to have happened is a man has

drunk a Martini in a rather good looking London Bar served by

an Irish / cockney Barman you say? where's the?… Don't you

dare say beginning, middle or end! Funnily enough Keith then

opens up: 'Probably lost my job,' he explains at the Bar. 'Politics

is a dirty game you see?' 'You're neither wrong nor right,' are the

words that leave the Barman's mouth, strikingly Keith finds them

particularly memorable and as if his whole occupation could be

summed up as being: neither wrong nor right. So which is it?

You ask? Well albeit the conclusions of whom is right or wrong,

if either, you should probably think about this mantra that sits

comfortably on a day dream: you're neither wrong nor right. Yes,

taking a moment to think?…Good, as important secrets of life

amount to the understanding of this, and what we can call an

uncommon common sense — That illuminates much of what

occurs and amounts to many situations in life being wrong and

214

right, at exactly the same time. Keith would need to summon

such conclusions when dealing with his job as a Politician.

With one of these conclusions being that his job in Politics was

really one that relied on mastering the art of adhering to

peoples needs whilst maintaining one's own desire. Tired and

apathetic from such an art less art, that was in fact a world away


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA from the poetry that he truly loved, he took his mind off politics

and took another sip of his second Martini, deeming it fruitless

solace in a world consumed by anticipation (perhaps he's a

functional alcoholic? hint). Well, the wait was no more, in a sense,

as Keith was sat in the Bar because he had been fired earlier on

in the afternoon. Consumed enough to feel the need to share

his sorrow; he then explains all these happenings to our

Barman in the next eleven to thirteen minutes to be met with: 'I

dunno geezer,' replies the Irish / Cockney Barman that is

leanings towards being more cockney now for the benefit of the

story. You have to be entertained. Don't you? Well ladies and

gents Keith was in a crisis we can call existential(?) but like any

good story the situation was not that simple though. You feel

sorry for him? I thought perhaps some ladies may feel this way,

but should we really? Well, here is the thing: much of his

downfall was preceded by many antics we can only refer to as

dubious. Karma perhaps? Let me explain: Keith in his usual

capacity at his job was able to anonymously affect changes in

random people's lives, by way of administration errors or good

policy making, though he decided to indulge in the former

action of randomly sabotaging anonymous people's lives

through admin errors. The previous week he had decided,

sparingly, that one Mrs Jones Smith from Romford and Mr

Darrell Gordon from Lambeth's files should just be wiped out.

Why did (our beloved?) Keith do such a thing?…Again for the

consequence of nothing; for no reason, and just for the sake of

it, Keith did such things you see? Random acts of sabotage. But

why? He seemed so nice you say. Well let us relent from

judging as he is what we call a textured human being. But both

Mrs Jones Smith and Mr Darrell Gordon were than affected as

it ultimately led to the money they would expect to receive from

their Employment Support Allowance not being in their bank

215

account that week — They had suffered the affects of the reality

of our stories and most of our days interacting under the Sun

with one another. That which belies sense, and in such cases of

purposed filing errors as Keith's, be surely placed in an area of

spite? No, Keith's a in a bad spot you say? Well maybe you're a

bit sadomasochistic then? Come to think of it, it could be said



that most of life's happenings occur in the mind, so it would be

naive to think of these through rose tinted spectacles; untinged

by a little masochism. Let me indulge you in an example that

more clearly illustrates this, because what should be said is

rarely uttered is it? No, so as an example let's imagine your next

door neighbour's Murder, this is because he is one of the many

life irritants that in this instance plays heavy metal music every

night at 2 am. Perhaps this neighbour is now dying a

bludgeoned death, go on, you've done it before, don't lie as that

is what completely occurs in many of our minds, in all honesty.

But in this sad reality we stiffen our eyelids instead and say hello

to this neighbour the subsequent morning, on the way to work.

The night before you weren't so friendly, cursing with all the

names under the Sun. And that neighbour probably would have

similar thoughts of your own behaviour of disliked

characteristics. Though, these things go unsaid and there exists

a conflict between these thoughts and actions, you see. In no

way do I propose Murder, but a compromise — which does

remind me of a time in Italy with Sarah, the current girlfriend. I

say: current — because it is tentative and open to change. In a

happier, less tentative place I was in Italy Rome; I was walking

around town and Sarah had gone to a beach not far from our

hotel. Apart — maybe the truest diagnosis for all bad

relationships?—I had told her that I would meet her later that

evening. Arriving back to the hotel room, three hours later than

she had expected, I waltz in drunk as a skunk after an unholy

storied happening (I can't divulge, due to legal reasons) Sarah

was furious with me: "You're ways are discombobulating!" she

yells angrily, in a manner I found somewhat surprising, and

unexpected as I had always found her passive in her aggression

(a pet peeve, I do admit too). But yelling, she then wildly throws

a punch that nestles on my right nostril. Silenced, I had no idea

216



what to say. It was, and is, not a constant happening — being

smacked in the nostril by a woman — but I found this rare

occasion refreshing: She let me know her true feelings, you see?

in a world full of subterfuge it came like an oasis. I liked Sarah

more after this strange happening, which also did start spicing

up other areas of our relationship. Though now I feel the same

feelings I had felt prior to that smack to the nostril, of which

amounts to me thinking that I have grown apart from Sarah. All

good things they say?

Keith too wonders if all good things come to an end?

'Guinness is always around,' replies the Barman. Wishing that

such simple words could suppress any of the complex problems

that posses him, particularly of whether his marriage is over

from all the aforementioned: "underwhelming" Wife. He

doesn't reply to the Barman's rather cockney aphorism, but

drinks his third Martini in one gulp. 'Slow down maestro, life is

to be lived and all that,' say's the Irish / Cockney Barman who is

also wearing a hat; a yellow hat. Unusual, why yellow? You're

wondering? Well, why not? It will help you remember him.

Existential Dickhead (Could be the middle? don't press me)

Keith subsequently ignores the yellow hat wearing Irish /

Cockney Barman and orders two pints of Cider. Cider, because

it reminds him of University and he knew Akbar, his friend that

had arranged to meet him at the Red Rum, liked Cider. The

Cider's arrive just as Akbar, the yet to be described exotic man

(which can be induced from his foreign name? well, you know

you thought it? you big stereotypers! Don't be suckers). 'Sorry

I'm so late... How long you been here for?' Akbar asks, taking a

seat next to Keith. 'Not long,' replies Keith, instead of the lonely

thoughts that reside in his mind of the frustration of always

seeming alone, awaiting. 'Just had that thing down the Mosque,'

said Akbar, taking a sip of the Cider. Reminding Keith that

Akbar is Muslim, which should mean a lot, but mostly resulted

in his refusal to eat Pork, (religion in the 21st Century hey?) but

continuing in heavy drinking and countless dubious encounters

with all manner of women were kosher to Akbar, thinks Keith:

217

No, the buck stopped at Pork however. As he remembers the

dinner where Marietta had cooked a meal and in the middle of it

informed all in attendance, Akbar included, that some of the

ingredients in the stew were pork chops. Akbar — by all in

attendance — was then deemed to have acted like a lunatic;

yelling that he can't take pork chops as the Muslim man that he



is, and had to be physically calmed down by another friend.

Marietta apologised, though Keith and the rest of those in

attendance (secretly, after Akbar left, of course) nicknamed that

evening: the night of pork jihad.

Memories of: the night of pork jihad go unsaid as Akbar

say's: 'Luv a good Cider...' with a loud 'ahhhhh' sound at the

end of the last syllable after taking a sip. Keith finds Akbar

somewhat annoying by this. 'What you say the problem was? On

the phone I had no idea, my girl was like; Keith alway's got

problems... he's not a knob I tell her, he's not.' 'What she say

that for Akbar? I've only met her like five times,' start's Keith, 'at

the most, five times...' 'Dunno…probably just the way you are…

you're very spaced out sometimes, somewhat like Gordon's

Psychiatrist friend calling you that exeestantial dickhead thing

you went on about.' 'Existential,' corrects Keith, 'It's

existential… And I still don't know what that means, and neither

do you, you got a D in GCSE English if I remember correctly.'

The line of conversation prompts a sigh and Keith

denounces the use of people at large whilst reaching for the

glass to take another sip, quietly brooding over the memory of

what Akbar had just said. Thinking of Gordon's Psychiatrist

friend, Keith is put in a more sullen mood, that is petered by

wishing he could go back in time to violently punch this

Psychiatrist in the face for — according to his friend Gordon —

labelling him in such an absurd fashion. Keith starts vividly

remembering Gordon pulling him aside at work to begin

laughing in a constipated fashion whilst saying: 'After we all met

last night, my psychiatrist friend thinks you're an Existential

Dickhead.' For the next few weeks after Gordon had said this,

Keith then became more self conscious and more distracted,

particularly at work; enraptured from being deemed an

Existential Dickhead. Why does he come across in such a way?

218

Keith thinks at the Bar. 'Don't look so worried,' say's Akbar,

'You look devoid of sugar.' 'Yeah?' mutters Keith. 'Yeah you

do, no point acting as if the world is gonna end, how about we

have a few more drinks and we get an ice cream?' Why Ice

Cream? Keith is known to have very high blood sugar levels

and well it occurs that the symbolism behind this Ice Cream



eating can allude to the absurdity of one's desires and needs.

And the notion poised of; whether life is like sugar—an absurd

desire or a necessity? Or maybe it's just another notion in the

infinite vortex within the nothing that I promise? Promise

nothing, receive all (another great hint for life, perhaps you will

find enlightenment from?) I say.

Shall I mask that the next paragraph could be a side

story? or perhaps the main story? I don't know…we'll see…

…After Keith agrees on Akbar's plan for Ice Cream they

drink and share more jokes with the Irish / yellow hat wearing /

Cockney Barman. Leaving the Bar after an hour or so (a

nondescript amount of time) Keith and Akbar bump into that

friend; you know the one I had mentioned had the girlfriend

leave him citing Internet Midget Porn?…well yes his nickname

is Sidestory aka Possiblymainstory. Sidestory' ends up being

stabbed by Keith but importantly they did make it to get the Ice

Cream; both himself and Akbar get lolly Ice Creams called

Twister's. Then the dramatic (or undramatic) Ice-Cream-drop

occurs and it worsens the existential abyss Keith has found

himself in. 'What a day — Sidestory aka Possiblymainstory, the

job, and now this Ice Cream drops; the day's real tragedy...'

thinks Keith outside the Newsagent staring down at the Ice

Cream Lolly on the floor. 'Don't take it so personally,' said

Akbar, wiping a little blood off his neck.

And that's it really…Actually the poetry career Keith

dreamt about becomes a more prominent thought throughout

the rest of the day. Which I feel is a sad challenge, as poetry as

a career, even in great success, only leads to people like you!

saying: Oh yeah that poetry does makes sense after all,

everyone should read this, which is a shame that the Author's

three feel under now, aint it? Yes, a disgrace, I say, a tragedy

that our Keith Boaman has chosen to allow to nestle his

219

existential crisis away from an abyss. Choices. What's going on?

all gibberish you speak, you say? what happened with Sidestory'?

and is this a real story? Oh Sidestory', well for one, he said

something racist about Tajikstani people (insert cliche political

sentiment here, perhaps met with a solid life lesson). So yes this

is a story, it just occurs that there is no [ ] [

] [ ]

Well, there is a little more I may elaborate on, if I may?

You think it is absurd if I I didn't do this?…Well anyway, it came

to pass that, an hour later, two men, one named Steve and

another Kofi, were walking to the same Bar Keith was in earlier.

Kofi even knew Keith, but Keith didn't know Kofi, because it is a

made up story mostly, and because he lived in the same area.

Walking slowly Steve preferred a quicker pace and sped up.

'Come on Kofi,' calls out Steve. 'Such a rush, you walk like this

aint a story; all that happens in life,' replied Kofi, upping his

pace a little, but falling a little behind, still. Kofi then saw Steve

slip: in an instant his legs raised and back lift high into the air.

Steve ends up on his back, in pain — he had slipped on the same

Ice Cream that Keith had dropped you see? No, yes? Well, again

I disagree with a [ ] [ ]

[ ]...

Afterword:

“Your talk," I said, "is surely the handiwork of wisdom because not

one word of it do I understand." — Flann O'Brien, The Third

Policeman

220

...the mezzanine...

I stand between the curtained window overlooking the

mezzanine, drinking a glass of wine thinking about tomorrow.

Eyes like morphine induced stupor eye the setting sun and a

feeling overcomes the man I am. I once was a priest in throes of

the love of this God; the rituals that prohibited influences from

the outside world established a sense of who I was. Of days spent

in exergies, the form of Biblical passages completely governing,

wholeheartedly establishing a life that existed without so much

that I came to find important.

This principle mode of living had long been weighty; of

mornings made up of spiritual endeavours and disparate qualms

rather quaint and innocent. I remember Priest Julio’s voice like a

cadaver. It’s nasal tone and deep character would always consign

life into choices made in the dead of the night. This voice which I

have not heard for months consigns an existence rather estranged.

But I refuse to let my choices inhibit a sense of renewal or

resurrection so will make the trip to tomorrow with more feelings

than I am able to pronounce, but long will I saunter amongst the

debris.

It seems as if the whole is one, but at the same time each

fragment is disconnected—It was Priest Julio that day that

introduced us. He would usually enter my room in the early

morning to talk about the upcoming day and we would discuss the

Parish in a way only a blameless person could.

221

This morning, just as it is tonight, was still and serene, the

City lights just awakening with the Sun as the rain fell. I looked

out of that window the see the face in the pane, my forty-year old

face and I felt a sense of death. The words that had to occupy my

tongue and the thoughts in my grey matter at odds, but complicit.

Her face motionless in the rain I can see Yulia now. I responded

after Priest Julio had asked if I had felt the service the priest had

given in the morning was upright.

Those passages from Ezekiel confused a few people.

No, no, I wouldn’t say that was a bad thing, as a little confusion

can sometimes add to the stew.

Perhaps you’re right…but…

No, I think your conscientiousness is justified though.

I pulled away from the window and looked at his strong

face, at his black eyes and felt at home. Appropriate. He then

continued to explain how he felt about the service and I

continued to listen half distractedly pulling at the woven in a

tweed jacket a parish member had bought for me, though the

words did form in hindsight and they barely did justice. There

will be a woman with fierce eyes wanting relief from an

anguished soul, Yulia. London can be an alienating City that

opposes the strength of characters timid. Though it was home

and where I came to be enlightened with her.

To begin with even before I met Yulia I was in a state of

flux; the being inside had a contentious quality to it long before

her. But there she sat at the back of the Church wearing a long

multi-coloured cardigan, short hair like a pixie and a sullen look.

All that Priest Julio had told me was that she was an Artist and

that she was in some sort of pain. He failed to tell me what type

of pain, but looking at her I did wonder and came to the

conclusion that I would perhaps learn from this exchange. And

that is how it began, we started talking and initially spoke of the

writer Gerard Audine. The book in question was La Paradise,

trans. Arms of Manna. She said that she had been reading this

book and I told her that there existed a book written before this

and she was dumbfounded by the knowledge I had of Audine.

She then told me that there would be a meet-up in Peckham for

Gerard Audine. Though I at first was reluctant to accept, I found



222



it quite unobjectionable to accompany her there.

Audine’s situation in Paris seemed to mirror that of mine

in London, or so it seemed that way. As it was him that was at

odds to live the life that his father had pronounced for him too.

It was this dying wish that seemed to foster this career

migration. So, I always had an affinity for the Artist. As it

happened, his first novel was written in 1976 but not published

until 1981 when he had left his career in Law to sojourn to Paris

and become an Artist. And the theme of light hearted play very

much part of the constellation of topics Audine handled

expertly. I remember telling Yulia this and her agreeing.

Plus, it wasn’t until 1989 that Audine was translated into

English, so his reputation did not garner much traction until

much later. I would recite these lines to Yulia from the tip of my

tongue, just out of enthusiasm: The mornings have dew like the

confabulation of ideas in a child’s eyes that is blinded by the sight of

the sun. Yulia received the words well, even though she had a

forlorn expression, I think now in hindsight, but this

concoction of words stupefied us both to this very magnitude.

There was something altarable to Audine’s words, they acted

majestically and shivered and shook.

Though it may have seemed Holy or true this first

conversation with Yulia was like the death of me, as I had long

believed in reincarnation but now I had a feeling that seemed to

want to consume me whole, take me still, I thought as I

showered that first evening, the water caressing a body I had

long forgotten existed, the gentle reminders of what a man is. I

then sat up long into the night just thinking. I ended up walking

the metropolis deliberating whether it was all a lie, whether I

told a lie and whether there was any truth. Though I summoned

a strength from within and arrived back with one eye on God.

Little did I know that the other eye had been gauged and was

left bloodied and butchered elsewhere in the ether, as it was

difficult to find exactly where the pieces disintegrate and where

they came together. Disguises obliterate objective views.

As the lampshade twitched and the dusk started to

simmer I knew I had entered another passage though as I

223

shuffled about, Priest Julio came into the living room, after the

door swung open. He always woke just before dawn. Lips

parted, they started to curtail the emotions—briefly did I

recollect why I had in fact taken up priesthood. The hearty

innocence that consumed its right of play through falsehoods.

Though these falsehoods seemed to bear in mind the heavy load

of ignorance. A man needs forms of ignorance.

If I retain information correctly, it was her that called that

very morning, Priest Julio hung the receiver back on its hook

after repeating hello. Perhaps she needed something, as I knew

it was her, whilst the phosphorescence of the T.V. in the dark

living room produced a sort of reverie within me and he spoke

in his voice. I started to move towards the bookshelf but

stopped, he had gone by now, mumbling to himself and I stood

still momentarily and it was a case of being overwhelmed in the

literal sense. I clung to the receiver but dared not dial.

It’s funny how the world seems to revolve around one’s

small mindedness, the musings of the drunk can sometimes

grasp visions.



2.

I met Yulia twice the first month we met. Both times we

met as a group. On the morning of the first time we were to

meet for the sake of Gerard Audine I read his third book again,

or half of it, just to reintroduce the rhythm; Its smells, its

sagacity brought about a strange hue only purchasable from a

Surreal Existentialist. We met in Peckham at the venue.

Initially I thought Yulia had no visible sense of drive, she

appeared how she dressed: chaotic as if her socks failed to

match. And in a way, this disturbed the senses. Though it would

soon be revealed how driven she actually was. She introduced

three others Lucy Yaramov, Candela Denail and Monday Lewis

and then we sat down to listen to the talk. After the talk, we

congregated and spoke about how we all came across Gerard

Audine and how he had affected us.

Monday Lewis, who wore all black, spoke first and told

the least interesting story. He had said that he had come across

Audine in Paris in his second year of University where he was

224

studying French Literature by visiting a small book shop on the

outskirts of Paris. He then Mentioned that the words had a

“poetic savagery” to them. I found this pairing of words

indicative of the way people take Audine. Even though I was a

priest it was Holy sacrifice, Art.

Candela Denail then told us that she had come across


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAudine

whilst working at a Circus in Rome. A man that she was

seeing at the time, a Lithuanian, said that Audine was a kind of

spiritual advisor to him and as she was impressionable, being so

young, Candela read the book. She said that she read the book

(Audine’s second) in one day and that she then sought out the

rest of his books but could never find them. It was not until a

year later that she got her hands on the French version of ‘La

Paradise’ that she truly fell in love with Audine, she even recited

her favourite lines.

Lucy Yaramov was the quietest of the group, she came

across very passive, but capable of being assertive, when she did

speak it was swift and rather beautiful. She had come across

Audine on a wintry night in Moscow tens year prior. She had

been staying at a friend’s house and had nothing to read, she

stumbled about her bookshelf and settled on Audine’s second

novel.

We had spoken so long in the conference hall that it was

nearly empty. So, we decided to go and get a drink whilst Yulia

spoke about what she had told me the first time we met. I was

quick to ascertain a certain illumination or enlightenment in

consideration of the way she spoke of Audine, and her

disposition when she was listening; eyes lowered and

dispassionate. Though the next minute there’d be a sheer

brilliance in her eyes.

When we arrived at the bar, after walking the dark streets

and entering this narrow bar with a mahogany table in the

corner, we all decided that we would write a piece for a

literature Journal that Monday worked for, called ‘Apricot’. He

gave me one of the journals at the bar and I looked over it to see

its content. It had two essays on Andre Breton, one about

‘Nadja’ and another about his Artwork. It was well written,

gorgeously produced with simplistic Artworks. In a way, this act

225

coupled with the introduction of Yulia permeated another being

inside of me and stirred up emotions unbeknown, and acted

somewhat like an outlet.

Anticipation of the journal brought a new light and

excitement to life that hardly existed but it was Yulia that really

enveloped this affect.

3.

It was only three days ago, that I met Monday to speak to

him and it was him that kept mentioning Yulia. I told him that

she was gone, but I knew not where. I told him she was wrong,

but I knew not why. He sipped his mulled wine and I mentioned

that I was not angry with her, but merely in another place.

But you did know, he said, as I listened, you did know.

I said yes, just as a waiter asked what I would have to

drink, I answered Jack and coke and realised that I’d come a long

way from all those years ago when I was someone else, though

looking throw the pane now I can’t see this person either,

fragments.

4.

The bartender took the money that I had placed on the

tray and made mention of the fact that I was only one that hadn’t

drunk anything. I coyly shrugged and felt the bare neck between

my shirt. Monday sat directly opposite and so I noticed that he

had already pulled his bag around his neck and body. Lucy was

getting more comfortable as she kept insinuating that something

was going on between Yulia and I, who was sat next to me. I

hadn’t mentioned that I was a Priest. I kept refuting these claims,

but the fact of the matter was that something was brewing: it

wasn’t clear then but now it manifests that it was true that I was

using Audine as a way to escape and get closer to Yulia. Yulia

drank quite a lot however, pale ale I think, four pints. And she

was excitedly and passionately talking about the beauty of

Audine’s words. She kept repeating the word beauty and it

struck me how much beauty my life was lacking. Though I’d

never have got there alone. Thought persists that I was very

much taken by a wind.

226



The bartender arrived back and placed the tray down just

as Monday stood up. Where are you going? Let’s have another

one… said Lucy and Candela. Monday then explained that he

had go to work early the next day so we all agreed that we make

it a night.

I’ve thought about what happened next quite often since;

the banality of it, and can only assume it was just the alcohol

talking but it manufactured a start, it percolated the scene. But,

as she was drunk and going the same way Yulia said that it

would be best if we shared a taxi. I was reluctant at first, but I

didn’t make my words seem so. Eventually we did just as she

had said and made our way back. We spoke about the night and

especially about Apricot and the night seemed to be dwindling

down. But before I knew it, just as I peered out of the window

Yulia pulled me towards her and kissed my lips. Soft, gentle

lips. I pulled her away after a few seconds and looked at her in

silence. Her eyes the eyes of a woman rather crazed or maybe

just startled: raised eyebrow. I did not break this silence for the

rest of the journey and neither did she, but this silence spoke

more than words ever could.

What is conflict? I wondered sat in that car and can only

reframe the picture that was placed in a mind of one that was

constituted towards elsewhere. The picture still in my mind

watches like a bird and prey, but really this picture was

something altogether wrong. The trouble is that conflict lays on

the mind quite naturally to an existence that does very little to

not disturb. Perhaps it was entropy.

Perhaps Yulia felt the necessity for time, and I felt the

necessity for consistency though neither action was very

considered.

She then appeared to be cold, as if her interior world

refused to consign to its exterior world (the car was very hot),

the moments between each breath seeming long and languid, as

if unfilled, unmanned, distorted. I did not impede on these

moments, just to facilitate a sense of calm, or a spirit in itself. I

wanted to ask her how she felt, but all I fathom were the words,

Are you okay? Though they fell on deaf ears, the rhythm of

them cascaded into the car like a windfall and sauntered there

227

momentarily. I could barely function the thought of how she felt,

but only thought to display a sense of care, benevolence.

I rested against the side of the car and closed eyes for a

moment. Then opened them and looked to my right to see Yulia

laughing hysterically, a wild guffaw. I touched my chest, heart

and hands weighed a ton. I had never seen a laugh so free, so

rambunctious, so distinct. Perhaps her laugh reminded me of a

time in my younger years when my Father asked my Mother

whether he was the love of her life. I started to laugh too, to stop

from crying, a very raw emotional chortle. By the time I had

realised it the driver had started to laugh too. The visceral

emotions within the car was electric, and it was all instigated by

Yulia.

It continued to be extraordinary that Yulia had this

perspective on life that I had never firmly come into contact with;

the hitchhiking, the passion for Audine, the laughter! Brutal.

That night the last thing I remember was her face looking back as

she ran through the rain. Falling, the water fell and dropped on

her face, skin, particles overlapped along with sensations.



5.

Priest Julio understood the sentiment when I informed

him of certain aspects of that first night. Though I felt it

necessary to omit many aspects as the feelings I was having were

particularly uncharted. I asked him if he thought it were all

necessary? And he almost certainly understood the question. He

then paused with one hand on the Bible and said, Psalm thirtyseven

verse five.

I thought the conversation was destined to go a certain

way, but I felt the fabric of my meaning had slightly altered, so I

asked him how he felt without the use of Biblical words.

He took his time to reply, walking to the window and

opening it, before lighting a cigarette and smoking a short while.

Just this act alone told me that he was trying to refer to vices, but

didn’t want to say this out right. He conveyed his feelings in one

go, before he said, I only know what God has in store for me, no

other form of life truly exists for me.

He rested against the side of couch and scratched his

228

head.

6.

There was a knock at the door, startling me because it

was only seven O’ Clock in the morning. I had been in the

living room looking at scriptures. I had made up my mind the


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAnight

before to concentrate on the life I was leading, but stood

in the doorway like an Angel Headed Hipster was Yulia.

You wasn’t answering my calls.

Well, I replied, thinking of you, in my mind. I didn’t

want to ruffle any feathers so it seemed logical to take her home

or just away, I thought. She obliged, driving home with me in

the passenger. I then tried to get to the bottom of what she was

feeling but all I could think about was that kiss now, the soft

gentle lips. I started talking perhaps to gnaw away at any

awkwardness. I felt a sense of being put-out, as she led the way.

We were silent for a moment, Yulia concentrating on the

road ahead. We soon reached her home. We walked up one

flight of stairs and entered her place. I looked around at the

trinkets, paintings, books strewn all over the place and the

assortments of wood carvings. The chaos enraptured in a

feminine bohemia. A sense of reverie came over me as it had

been a long time since I had been to a living quarters quite so

unique. It startled me how much enthusiasm it manufactured

within me. I started to think of my Uncle Vincent, the Artist,

and the way he lived—to have taken his own life in such a

fashion as to leave all his belongings for us to sort through, a

memorable experience. I remember all the strewn wood,

canvas, paper, ornaments, photographs of Francis Bacon,

books, and especially the notes.

There was something on edge to Yulia and her place

resembled this sentiment, I dreaded thinking about what all

that chaos could have meant, but what does that mean now?

In the sense that here now overlooking this Mezzanine

things have unalterably changed. And now the only thing that

obligates me is duty. Though it would be a shame not to mull

of those moments that seemed to take the breath away.

It was until a few months had past of living a duplicitous

229

life that things started to align with each other. Priest Julio kept

asking what was the matter, as I seemed to move further and

further away. The idiosyncratic nature of Yulia and the Art life

seemed to grab me and by the time a few months had passed I

myself felt anew.

7.

I walked along the street towards a public house called

‘Arms and Chains’. I entered and walked towards the bar. I

wanted to think about existence and whether I really could quit

the Priesthood. I also intended to plan what it is I was going to do

with the rest of my life, if I did. It felt like an enormous burden to

carry. For inspiration I looked around, and saw an old man

wearing a green smock, and a navy baseball cap crinkled at the

brim and pulled over his eyes. I wondered if the old man was

enjoying his life, but could only see the disdainful frown. I then

looked at the mauve walls and the baroque furnishings, at the

paintings on the walls now and it all seemed to be speaking to me;

it had become an obsession to fawn over the minutia of existence;

the small details, the moments in between or what Yulia would

crudely call the taint aspects of existence. I asked the bartender

for a Pale Ale and she pulled the pint with a half-smile before

asking how my day was going.

In a strange way it was a relief that the only family I had

was my deceased Father as I would feel that any decision I made

would have been made with family in mind. Though my Father’s

will for me to become a Priest was still very strong within me. In

more than a few ways I decided on many aspects of the future sat

there in the public house.

Everything felt unordinary and shrouded in mystery, even

the mundane and by this I had to reconcile with it was in fact Art,

Yulia or the God that I was becoming less and less invested in.

I moved towards a moulded sculpture in the corner of the

room and felt something in my gut; a feeling of visceral contact. I

asked Yulia about it and she explained that it was something that

she had just been working on. I asked if it was finished, but she

said that she wasn’t sure. I had taken a few days leave and we

were planning, along with Monday and Lucy to go to Antibes for


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

230



a conference on Audine. I had by then started to notice more

colours, scents. Just walking along the streets would stir

enormous amounts of energy that rearranged usual thinking. As

people, all went their disparate ways; some wandering and some

walking with fierce direction it became a thing of beauty to try

and discern each and every perspective on life just by looking at

cues; at the way a man would display his beard, at the way a

woman would walk around a group of pigeons, at the way

another man would avoid the cracks in the pavements. The

mass of the populous produced a wondrous glow within me that

seemed to rejuvenate my existence; the world felt completely

alive.

Yulia liked to get things out in the open, she despised

inaccessibility, even though she would fall into being

inaccessible from time to time to varying degrees of being

unable to ascertain anything or emotion.

8.

(1997 – 1998)

Incandescent excitement blinded me, I remember, as the

evening went by and I knew that the next day I would quit the

Priesthood, and move into an un-guessable country of Art.

Priest Julio was, at this moment, moving about the living

room ignorant to the true extent and nature of events. Although

he asked if I was sure when he moved a box of my belongings to

the car. Are you sure? I told him that the decision was not taken

lightly but I was now flaming with passion for life I never had

before. He sighed a sigh I think in hindsight perceived so much,

but at the time I was so deep in thought that I didn’t consider

this. I said that I wasn’t leaving but I was merely taking another

path, though I would have never guessed that this path would

lead me here. We did have many conversations amounting to

the consideration that moving into the direction of Art and

Yulia were two distinct occurrences. I think he was trying to

make this point, but I saw life as a whole as opposed anything

else.

I could not manufacture a life in Art without Yulia, and it

was helpful that Priest Julio did not see my decisions as the sum

231

total of secularism versus spiritualism. As that may have put the

decisions I was making in a different light of day. It would also

spell my first foray into the working environment and that was

very much a predicament I had to contend with. Though we

(Yulia and I) had it in mind that we would work on projects

together. This was a huge thing for me, as it told me that she

believed in me and that I had an ally and reason.

I rented a flat in Hackney.

I soon started working in a meat packing factory off

Edgware Road, where every day I would pack tons of meat into

shipment containers after having gone through procedures. The

boss was a skinny man called Michelangelo. He was skinny and

small but had a powerful voice and vulgar vocabulary, he would

swear abrasively at us workers, which meant that after a month of

working this job I was hardened to the world, which wasn’t aided

by the fact that I only had the weekends to work on Art with

Yulia.

Life felt treacherous and grossly deluding, the nature of

existence was one hanging by a thread as most evenings would

come and go, as I was so tired I could barely do anything but eat

and sleep in preparation for the coming day. Sparse intervals of

energy would function by way of constant imaginings of what

else I could be doing. I then started to think about the hard

imaginings of Art.



9.

Pale faced Yulia lays as if by chance something is

happening to her. Her mouth wide open and black cocktail dress

hugging her slight form. Her neck bitten unashamedly. I then

looked at her legs, these long legs, and felt no feeling of being

satiated at all. The only feeling I retrieved was something

altogether else. Something I could not pin point.

Yulia had ran the bath past warm, the bubbles reached

about three quarters of the way to the top and she got in and

screamed that it was getting cold. We had gotten into the habit

of taking long baths, the foam nestling between crevices. She had

moved the television to the doorway so that she could watch, yet

again, ‘Blue Velvet’ Directed by David Lynch. She always

232



rewound the part where Jeffrey Beaumont found the dead ear.

Toes against thighs, I was led here.

The only thing that possesses is time, the way that it

inhibits, adds, subtracts, confers. And it is time that possessed,

more than anything, in a way that I could never truly fathom in

Yulia.

10.

I arrived at her place, having disdained the feeling

Hackney gave me; the distinct feeling of a joylessness would

occasion after I finished working. This time she knew I was

coming, she let me in and said that she was burying something

on her balcony in a potted plant. I imagined it as ashes, quickly

governed by a respect for the dead. She led me by the hand out

on the balcony. And it all seemed a grandiose joke; she was

burying a rubber duck. I asked her why she was doing this, and

she replied in all seriousness that she had had this rubber duck,

that had deflated, for years and that it held enormous

sentimental power. I refused to be drawn into such a fiasco and I

reacted angrily, which sent me packing. A woman burying a

rubber duck!

So, it caused conflict that I had no real idea what I was

getting myself into, I remember thinking, even when I asked

Yulia to marry me, I had no real idea who I was, even what Yulia

did when I wasn’t around.

11.

(1999—2001)

Walking up and down this house, overlooking the

mezzanine I think back— throughout these years It occurred that

I was misinformed. The flat in Hackney would often act as a

masquerade act serenading a windfall of idiosyncrasies. A twoway

act of life and confusions. I was still working at this point,

for a Butcher off Hackney Road. I had become endowed with

knowledge of meat and this career path seemed to haunt me

profusely.

Dealing in meat, bones, bodies, blood. The flippancy at

233

which these entities were dealt with can persuade a man of

lesser sensibilities of the sanctity of life. The Butcher’s name

was Ronald and operated with a hyper active cockney

disposition. He would throw meat here and there, perhaps it

syphoned into my being, this frivolous concern for life. I don’t

know. Perhaps that is neither here nor there.

12.

(2001—2004)

I think it was Lucy Yaraomov that mentioned something

about Sordello, the travelling circus, and Yulia that felt

enchanted by the thought of it. At this time, I was ready to leave

the Butcher’s and move into another multi-faceted working

environment, perhaps even one that can be clearly defined as

Art. So, it was Yulia that did the rest and by the time November

came we were all ready to leave. I put all my stuff into storage

and said goodbye to Hackney and we went off to Prague.

To begin with, I did odd jobs; helped; clean up, put

together tents, move electrical wires, put up fencing, display

magic mirrors. And Yulia played the Piano.

All the odd jobs enabled me to get to know a myriad of people,

nearly all dealing in eccentricities. I remember Slavia B, a

depressed clown I would become close to. An extraordinary

person that believed she was already dead.

13.

(2004—2011)

I started working for a private detective in New York City,

as I had become increasingly bored with the inner workings of

the London meat industry and the Circus was quite difficult to

continue working, with the limited amount of jobs. It was these

years that Yulia became a little estranged, but it was amazing

that all those years we had known each other Yulia was as much

a mystery to me as she was to people all over the world...

Part III

(2017—

234

I remember life in New York, in the room, how

claustrophobic it could have been, but how it actually wasn’t,

for me anyway. The time would fly by in reverence to the joy

our life would consist of. But lurking underneath this was

much else: fear, despondency, other women, other men, the

unknown, gaslighting. Yulia would soon, after we arrived at


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA New York, decide to play mind games. The glimmer in her eyes

would become mawkish, awkward and hardened, for reasons

unknown.

Due to the incessant nature of life’s drive towards

earning money, most days I was preoccupied with working; a

case here and a case there. Though as Winter would approach

I was able to spend more time around the room, perhaps days,

even. And Yulia was mostly exhausted from the week she had,

so it wasn’t until an argument about a bowl of rice in the winter

of 2009 that she moved out to a place of her own in Harlem.

This in fact sped up what occurred later on.

The sculpture dropped and shattered. I looked at Yulia’s

face, the usual soft face was hardened now with a frown and

quivering lip. I stood still without moving a limb. I had no clue

what to do. When the evening came I realised that everything

had changed, in an instance, so in a panic I would become

defensive. I despised the affect this had on our relationship.

Laying so still, motionless, the night lingers like a

broken chalice, though the drink that I sip from has the mark

of her lips, sipping like communion. We would often drink

wine too, as the Summer drew near, days were spent drinking

red wine and chatting about as disparate happenings as the

birds in the sky and a homeless man at the corner of the street.

Inconspicuous as death may seem, it is, above all else,

the very nature of life and it does hurt to think of it sometimes

but what can one really do about it, the reality of existence is

primal, scary, quite abrupt! I can only account for the thoughts

that swirl in my brain right now, but just here walking these

long corridors I am brought to a certain measure of thinking.

Aren’t you ever thinking of coming back, said Priest Julio, don’t you

think about the way that God has given you such an abundance? But,

235

it’s true I’d like to see you to talk with you and see how things are

going and discuss the ways that life can seem. And I want to use the

word seem. The extremity of the situation is very glaring to me and

exhibits the point that you have perhaps not factored in all the aspects

of your lifestyle choices. God is always waiting for you, along with all

those that love you and have you in their hearts. It can’t be a point of

no return, I don’t think.

I remember looking at the letter as if it would place me

into a state of purgatory; a distinct place full of limitless

bounds. It had an effect on me, in the sense that it made the

feelings that go hand in hand with leaving somewhere feel

enormous.

14.

She showed up unannounced, after disappearing so

long. The cosmopolitan existence a veil and commonplace

enabling getting lost. And it was just the sort of thing I would

come to expect, but only then I would pronounce her actions as

gentle reminders of the whims of an Artist. I did not expect,

however, her actions to gently remind me of death. A death

without a resurrection and one that is exhibits all the hallmarks

of a state of anguish or hell. So, I did wonder if there was

something perverse about this arrangement but stood here I

can say I am wholly at a loss to document this spectacle in such

simplistic terms.

At almost 9 O’clock I enter the lounge area whilst

thinking about the mezzanine. The grey stains on the

carpet of old wine spillages giving me the impression that this

house is very much one that is tortured too, especially now, in

hindsight. I can hear the walls speak, as if to say, you’ve swam

too deep young boy, you’ve swam too deep young boy. And it is

these voices which I am left with, the subtle ingestion of ghosts

awakened. I think about the different colours of this night sky,

its blackness and then look at the reflection of my eyes. The

person I appear to be seems a mile away.

I am at once on edge and also feeling quite sanguine.

The body laying as if a puffer fish.

236

The ghosts have been awakened to me since I started

working at the meat factory in Edgware. Like a reminder for

the life, it’s distinctness, it awakened a spirit within me just as

Yulia awakened a spirit within me. This very nature of

existence transformed but still very much the way things were,

I am to define it as being nothing.

237

238

...the gorgeousness...

Springing from the floorboards was the light, as if a

hamburger with the cheese dripping over its edges, the light

nestled into the room above it like it were meant to be there. It’s

strange as Falcat had never noticed this light before, or the gaps

in the floorboards, as the maisonette was so big. Well for him

anyway. And he marvels at the light, but it starts to produce a

feeling within him and one that has him screaming into the

light, words that were quite incomprehensible.

After doing this for an hour and coming to no new

deductions or no new happiness Falcat decides that he would

move the large sculptures of teeth chattering, into the light. It is

then quite the sight, of the light cascading onto the sculptures

of teeth chattering. This soothes him and has him feeling as if

he can get over his wife cheating on him eleven times.

239



...radio...

He had started to just listen to the Radio. He didn’t want

all those images, he said to her, all those images to corrupt my

thinking. Which she initially found strange, but after more

explaining (Palestine, Israel and Suicide Bombers) she

understood his thinking: The images do lurk on one’s

subconscious.

On the Radio was a documentary on David Bowie so

they both listened in silence being that they were both huge

fans. After the documentary he mentioned that he had seen

David Bowie in concert twenty years before, in Germany on a

special night. She wondered why, apart from David Bowie, the

night was so special, though she didn’t ask, just held the

thought in that David Bowie was special enough.

The Radio commentator then announces that there

would be a competition for two tickets to the Picasso museum

in Paris, including flights and hotel fees. Captivated by the

moment, she persuades him to enter the competition. He

thinks that they’ll never win. She just wants to spend time with

him, so she is ardent. He finally accepts, and she entered the

competition; calling to answer the question.

And it seemed strange for her to be spending time with

a neighbour as the previous neighbours were a nightmare: loud

music, children, random occurrences. No, Albert suited her

240

much better. He was old enough for his wife to die of natural

causes but young enough to never mention it; Albert was

young at heart, she thought.

A week went by, and from her kitchen she could hear

Albert listening to the Radio. She remembered the prize and

realises that they must not have won, as the winner had been

announced the day before and they had received no calls. For

some strange reason she thought, out of all those listeners that

entered the competition, that they would win.

She cooks and decided to take some of her leftovers

over to Albert. Albert seemed put-out, as if he couldn’t accept

such a charming thing. Reluctantly he accepts, and she leaves

the pot on his stove, whilst the Radio is playing a Jane Birkin

song. There is something magical about the moment, for her

and she finds it all quite lovely; Albert, the Radio, the song.

She takes a seat at the kitchen table and he mentioned that he

often scratches his left ear with his right hand. She laughs at

this, and then they enjoy a silence only punctuated by the

sound of the Radio.

Two months pass, and she is at the Market buying some

meat for a dish she had in mind. And the thought occurred

that Albert hadn’t been listening to the Radio of late. And she

panics—rushing home to check on her neighbour.

There is no answer at the door, so she panics even more

and contemplates calling the police or an ambulance, thinking

that he may have slipped and broken something or worse,

fallen down the stairs.

After a while fretting she decided that she would just

cook and hopefully he’d be fine, she thought. After eating she

fell asleep on the sofa, though after a few hours she is awoken

by the sound of the radio, a documentary about Kathakali.

241

...the joyous experience...

All sounds marched towards a crescendo: the crowd

egging each other on in a huh hum. Julio Baptisa is stood in the

crowd watching a man getting beat up for, apparently stealing an

apple, what if he slept with a wife, he thinks without moving—

joyousness of the crowd is not nearly as off putting as the

violence should be, and besides he had only been there for two

days. He continues watching whilst the sound of the call to

prayers sounds.

Radiant hues, contrast afflicted cries in Arabic and

French.

Walking back to his hotel room, a man dressed in blue

wants to know who he is. Julio Baptisa only answers that he is

there on a holiday and that he has some place to be. The room is

basic, the walls a plain white, the bed takes up much of the

room, there is a sink in the corner. Out the window is a narrow

street infested with antics very much deemed edgy: prostitution,

drug dealing, drug taking. There are also stray cats gliding along

in the heat.

Although he said he had some place to be, that place is

really somewhere in his mind: he wants to get to an

understanding of what to do next, inspiration perhaps. He sits

on the bed and reminisces over the last thing he did in London:

the set was perfect, the man in place along with the women, the

lighting, the cameras, the makeup and so on. On a perfect day,

just like life, things have to go wrong don’t they? And they did:

the star of the show’s breast is set a light, causing second degree

burns. She was special as she was Moroccan, and a Moroccan

star is good for a lucrative Middle Eastern market.

This influenced his decision to leave and come to where

his sitting: he wants to find the star of the show in order to

persuade her to go back with him to London. He only has an

address and he has yet to look for her, having been distracted by

the foreign aspect of where he was. Though it shouldn’t be that

foreign to him as his Father is Moroccan, but regardless it is. He

decides to take a nap, for the heat was sweltering.

242



After napping he gathers his things and moves to finding

the woman. He goes directly to the address and knocks on the

door, a woman answers it. He lies and tells the woman he is a

friend and that he needs to get of hold of the woman in

question. The woman mentions that she now lives in Rabat (she

thinks) and that he should go there, instead. Julio then asked

for an address, of which the woman seemed reluctant to give,

answering that she had no idea who he was. He then smiles a

smile he has smiled many times before. This calms the situation

down, though there is a silence now, he stood there, she stood

there. A child calls from behind her and in a rush she takes a

pen and a piece of paper from a coffee table and writes an

address.

On the train to Rabat now, he sits down next to an old

man with a handle bar moustache and they first exchange

pleasantries: the weather, the distance between the places. The

subject, somehow turns to religion, and the man becomes, what

Julio considers, pedantic. Pedantically talking about religion in

a harsh manner. Julio is put off by this and considers moving

seats. Eventually the man with the handle bar moustache

becomes quiet after a phone call, and a woman enters the train.

The train is now quite full and so he creates some space by

putting his bag under his seat.

The woman sits right next to him. They start to talk

about: the weather, again, the distance between the places,

Moroccan fashion. The woman is slender with hazel eyes. She

is quite notably not wearing a headscarf, which makes her face

clear to see. They then share a silence. She breaks this silence

by asking what he does for a living. He pauses and then says:

Film. Through the window oceans of space are taken up by a

remarkable amount of life.

Julio asks the woman to dinner that evening in Rabat,

and the woman says yes.

After getting off the train Julio feels a little tired, but not

too tired. He takes a taxi to straight to the address and arrives

soon after. He gets out and then knocks on the door. But no

one answers. He wonders whether he should wait. But he walks

back to a main road and takes another taxi, but this time to a

243

hotel.

At the hotel, he gathers himself and sleeps a little, as if he

doesn’t sleep he becomes afflicted by an eye tick.

At dinner, the woman orders a Tajine and as he is quite

inexperienced in the matter he orders a Tajine too, but one with

prunes. They eat and talk. They talk mostly about wine, as her



French Father works at a winery. He tries to move the subject

onto more racy subjects by inflicting words into the

conversation, such as naked, rubbing each other and friction.

But she is too consumed with talking about wine to notice much.

He finally asks if she wanted to go back to his hotel. She

answered that it wouldn’t be possible, being that it is Morocco

and for a man and woman to be together in his hotel room

would be problematic.

He laughs at how traditional this is, and she looks at him

serious and says: It is true. They decide to meet the next day, in

the afternoon.

That night Julio walks around Rabat and finds the City

quite disappointing, in comparison to the hysteria of Marrakesh

and the bustle of Tangier. He decides to get himself some ice

cream to cheer himself up. He eats the ice cream on his way back

to the hotel.

At the hotel he starts to read a Robert Coover book, but

soon falls asleep. When he wakes up it’s 9.50 am according to

the alarm clock on his bedside. He gets ready and takes another

taxi to the address. He arrives and knocks on the door, and the

woman he is looking for answers the door. She looks at him

angrily. He apologizes for just showing up out of the blue. Can I

come in? If I let you in you have to be quick.

They then talk about her going back to London, but she is

not having any of it, shaking her head and caressing her breast.

Besides, she said, my family are not happy about all of this, it

was one thing when I was young but now, it’s absurd, you know?

It’s the way you are. It’s not really the way I am it’s just I can’t be

this way, and you need to respect my decision. Julio then

thought about all the great scenes she had been in: The Arab &

The Gang, Mothers Taking Over 32, She Has Landed. And he asked

again. But this time she had stood up and walked towards the

244

door.

At lunch the woman wondered what he had done that

morning. He said nothing much and that he didn’t know how

long he would stay in Rabat. She becomes nervous, as if he had

given her an ultimatum. She touches his rather strong bicep.

They soon finish their lunch and he stands up. She asks

him if they can have one more glass of wine together and he said

no. She stands up and then says that they could go to her

apartment a few minutes away.

At the apartment there is a strong smell of perfume

everywhere, he thinks. He finds it quite nauseating. They

eventually have sex, twice in missionary position and once from

behind. She then leaves the room and arrives back wearing a

gold scarf. Julio finds this quite contradictory as if his whole day

had been one contradiction.

245

...a synthesis operandi...

1.

Coarse pieces of glass are strewn along a mahogany table, along

with photographs of Winona Ryder, a pair of horn rimmed

glasses, plastic figurines and at the edge of the table a human eye

that belonged to a cadaver long dead, and decomposing in a

coffin just off Mare Street, Hackney, funnily enough. The

remnants of blood long since dry. And there was something

joyous about it, the prevalence of dealing in the dead. As if to

make use of the commodity of the body.

2.

The heap of flesh responsible picks up the Radio, and toys with

it for a time, before placing it back on the table right next to the

eye. Through the window a breeze pushes an old man along as if

a baby in a push chair. Next to the big backed television are

scattered pieces of paper, a large amount of tangled wires and

other miscellaneous items too numerous to truly consider,

though there remains an air of calm to this chaos. As if the

room’s spirit is at peace with all the mess...

246

...the fascinations...

“Pain is the world. I don't have anywhere to run.”

― Kathy Acker, Blood and Guts in High School

...palpable



The rhythm of escape always seem to accentuate a playful

charm: one minute here, the next there. And it all encapsulates a

sort of stupor, when thinking of escape. In reality the hardboiled

stomach growling and the feeling of loss nearly

obliterated me: I was near Kiev and the night before I had fucked

a trucker; the pot belly sex of a man on the fringes is not

necessarily every woman's cup of tea but I saw things differently;

from the perspective of the exotic, and from there I experienced

a multitude of sensuality. Though the morning arrived and I had

decided to walk towards the City Centre; assuming it would take

a few hours. The pot belly wouldn't react when I nudged him. I

hoped I could hitchhike a ride, even.

On way to the road just outside the cabin I'd slept in, I

happened to meet a man walking in the same direction: shaggy

hair, scruffy blue shirt, sleep still in eyes. He greeted me and I

did likewise. While we fucked I thought about the rain, which

made me cry. Tomo asked if I was okay, and I said fine, don’t

stop.

After we finished we discussed Ukraine and mentioned

that Russia was quite insurgent in a lot of areas of the country.

Tomo didn’t know how to feel about the situation. I stood up

and asked him if he had any food? He said he only had bread,

and so I ate a few loafs and told him that I was leaving. He was

reluctant to let me go, but after I got dressed I think he

appreciated the experience.

I carried on walking along the street towards the City Centre.

Berlin

I was feeling out of my mind, perhaps the journey from

247

Kiev to Berlin was quite pressing on a psyche quite taken by the

poems of Anna Akhmatova. I had it mind to think about these

things later, regardless I continued dancing the night away. On

my way for a smoke, a guy with a Mohawk approached me. He

said that he had been watching me, I settled on the thought that

perhaps I had to accept such voyeurism from the way that I was

dressed. I sucked him off and then went for a smoke.

Outside whilst I was smoking I bumped into Micki, who

was HIV positive and perhaps the most positive person I had ever

met, simultaneously. We spoke about Art and life and eventually

we went to dance. Micki was very accommodating around other

men, as if to suggest an affinity for sex.

I met Mislkav at the end of the night and we went back to

his apartment. He bit me on the neck and slapped my bottom. I

punched him in the face and he laughed, which impressed me.

We soon arrived to his apartment, clothes strewn all over the

place, sculptures caked with wooden flakes. We went into his

near empty bedroom.



London

Misklav bought a ticket to London after arguing that he

wanted to suppress me. He couldn’t leave Germany as his

passport had to be renewed, so off I left for London alone. I

knew a few squats around Tottenham so I made my way there. I

knocked and made myself agreeable. I think, Sam, the girl that

answered the door thought I was impertinent perhaps, but she

continued to be nice. We spoke in German and I think that

familiarised her with me. Tony, the squat’s main stay was nice

too. At night I went for a walk and ended up at an Art Gallery in

Dalston. I met K. there along with Serena and a few others who

were friendly. I was going to steal K.’s book, but he eventually

gave it to me on the basis that we met the next day. I asked for his

address and he gave it to me.

At the squat Locky and Joe were in a feisty mood. I felt

feisty too and insinuated that I would be open to some fun.

Locky said he would invite his pilot friend, as if I would be

impressed by this. Though eventually we all decided to go into

248

Locky’s room, Joe and this pilot friend who happened to have a

big cock. We all had sex while I thought about the book that K.

had given me. Later that night I sent K. a message: a photograph

of my legs. Though they were quite bruised up from the night, I

think he appreciated it as he sent a message back quite quickly.

The next day arrived and I made my way to K’s place in

Hackney. He said meet him at 2pm at a coffee shop, in Dalston,

but he wasn’t there when I got there early so I rode the bike that

Tony had leant me to his flat. He was in his dressing gown when

I arrived. I waited in his living room, looking at his numerous

paintings slung all over the place. It was quite messy, but an

interesting mess, an Artistic mess. I found him quite awkward,

besides I was a little hungry.

Fortunately, after we rode to the Coffee shop he bought

me some cake. I ate it all in one go, and I couldn’t care what he

thought. Though I don’t think he thought anything. I was busy

still thinking about Anna and her beautiful poems.

Though we ended up back at his flat, just chatting about this

and that before we started to fuck on his sofa. Though we didn’t

fuck on the sofa, he showed me upstairs and we were about to

start before he realised he didn’t have any condoms. Off K.

went. I sat on the bed half naked thinking about ‘Now the

pillow’s’.

249

...the window girl...



Over the course of five years, the sullen girl was seen at

varying degrees from the window of the mental hospital

overlooking Hackney Park. Perhaps it was the fact that she was

attractive that had Bobby and myself quite enamoured with the

sullen girl in the window. She had a short pixie haircut, quite

olive skin to maybe confirm an exoticness too. London at the

time was not as in the throes of diversity, as if today, so colour

was more noticeable then.

I remember the first time I noticed the sullen girl. The

room was on the second floor of the hospital and she stood in

the window half naked, looking as if into a void. Where was she

looking into? I thought. What was she looking at? Although

impressionable I could yield to the idea of privacy with it being

a mental hospital and being aware of mental problems through

Liza. Our parents were just against sending her away to a mental

institution, in order to not get institutionalised. Though the

climate of that situation had long been descending for Liza.

Intensifying as time went on I told Bobby about the

sullen girl in the window. Though Bobby didn’t understand

initially the clamour of the situation as I watched him watch the

sullen girl in silence, shaking his head and then asking: …So?

Isn’t there something beautiful about the girl, I said, the way

that she is mopping about the room seemingly always sad as if

she were the pain of the world and she had experienced a

multitude of universes? I thought Bobby, who too had also just

finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird, would understand the

sophistication of the situation, but he failed to see the point of it

250

all. Deeming the sullen girl quite pointless and boring, initially.

It wasn’t until two weeks later that Bobby had caught the

bug. Apparently, he had watched the sullen girl in the window

for two hours one day and she held the same expressionless face

expression whilst mopping about her room. She would always

pull the curtains. This continued for a while until it was Bobby

that mentioned that he wanted to talk to her, I thought that

Bobby was quite infatuated with her too. I agreed, being that it

had been so many years of the watching who was only known as

the sullen girl in the window.

It was one Thursday that we decided that we would act as

if we were visitors. But first we would have to ask around and

find out her name, which was difficult, mostly because the sullen

girl at the window never left the hospital, she would take leave

only to the garden with the nurses and the unknown reasons why

this was, stupefied us: What could she have done? Or what was

she capable of doing?

Our plan, in our infant minds, was to get to know the girl

over a long period of time and perhaps for her to fall in love with

one of us and joyfully take our hand in marriage. How naïve, as

we couldn’t even get the girl’s name as the other patients, that

had leave, that we asked couldn’t tell us her name, and there was

no other way of finding out. So, we were stuck just watching the

sullen girl in the window, like a lost passage of time or an

episode unable to be duplicated.

251

...Perelli's note...



“I don’t know what to do with it, I’m terrified of that profound

disorganization.” — Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to

G.H.

I called but there was no return, I think some situations in

life are a bit like that: although they can change they rarely truly

alter. Claudia could forgive me, but it would still leave this

impenetrable feeling — Speeding at a rate of knots, feelings and

emotions but still cased within the parameters of stubbornness.

And it was this feeling that I felt governed by that made me go

out into the night.

Into the darkness I walked, passing random people on the

streets: a guy in a biker jacket smoking a cigarette, a lady pushing

a pram, an old man with a rotund stomach yelling at his wife

from his car. It was this night that I met Perelli, on a park bench.

We spoke about Robert Coover as he held a book by him in his

hands. I wanted to know why this was, hence the beginning of

our conversation...

Perelli, after a few minutes of innocuous chit chat, told

me that he was a painter. He painted a lot of screaming figures

and women, and sometimes screaming women figures. I

wondered why it was important that these figures were

screaming, and poetically he said that this was because “we are

all screaming in some sort of fashion in reality”. And I thought

about these words the rest of that night into the morning when I

tried to write.

It was the next week that I met up with Perelli again at his

studio in Dalston. We started to speak about Philosophy, in

particular Wittgenstein, and the limits of language. He said many

things, and I did too, but nothing much transpired in the way of

thoughts into actions, somewhat akin to philosophies effete

252

charms. I started to think about Claudia; her eyes, her mouth,

her body. Though the subject then changed, and we started to

talk of Rembrandt’s ‘Stoning of Saint Stephen’ and how the

colours were luminous. Though by this time I was totally

distracted, whilst Perelli passionately spoke about Rembrandt.

That evening as I was making my way home, through

Dalston, I thought about the trials and tribulations of flies, and

how their lives were quite disturbing and from a certain

perspective quite meaningless. Regardless of being quite

consumed with this I was still ‘Put out’, in a way.

I don’t know where to look, I thought. The feeling of

claustrophobia is one that only increases in certain situations, for

me. The lightness of being is, at that time, disturbed and

concerned with nothing but exiting the situation. And this was

the case that Friday on my way back from the Gallery when I

happened to bump into Perelli again.

Perelli seemed distant, as if something traumatic had just

happened. I asked if he were okay, but he kept saying “fine”.

“I’m fine,” he kept saying. It was only a week later that Perelli

decided to do this deed that can’t be undone. Though he did

leave a note...

253

...priest at psychiatric ward...

The woman sat on a seat in the middle of the room, she had

fought at least five members of staff, all disparate in size; fat,

thin, tall… The only person to have had any luck was K., the

thin one, remarkably... The woman was in no mood to move,

and they had no idea what to do… Eventually, they decided to

call The Priest… The Priest, with haste, arrives and is told

exactly what is happening… The Priest shakes his double chin...

254



...Kingsland Road...

“Gamblers and lovers really play to lose.”

— Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet

1.

He walked along the road towards The Fox thinking about

losing his mind, and, randomly, Pinochet. In particular, in

relation to Pinochet, he was thinking about his trip to London and

his subsequent arrest in 1998. Something about the dates and the

sequence of events was rather startling to him, but regardless, he

still defined such expressions as politics very much smoke and

mirrors—there was little that could not be classified as smoke and

mirrors in his eyes: magic itself, the capacity to work, love, Art,

relationships, macaws speaking, and even hairy bottoms…

Nevertheless, of his possible lucidity he was still of the

thought that he was losing his mind and this noise in his head

would purchase a sense of delirium within him and occasion

random activity manifested by these thoughts. A real chicken and

egg situation, if there ever was one.

He arrived at The Fox and walked in towards the bar.

Despite being a regular, the woman behind the bar doesn’t

acknowledge him much, and he sits down before ordering a Pale

Ale. At any rate the war between North Korea will kill them

before it kills us, said a man sitting next to him wearing a yellow

hat and floral shirt. I guess you’re right, said his interlocutor

whilst sipping a dark ale.

The atmosphere in the pub seemed rather subdued but for

him it was ideal, he enjoyed, along with subdued pubs, the rain, a

cloudy day, the voluptuousness of a breast, physical ticks (a

blinking eye, for example), and a cold beer. He took a sip of his

beer and started at the newspaper perched on the stool to the

right of him. He read the headlines and skipped most stories

without photographs.

2.

Earlier that day he stopped at off at a Charity shop in

255

Dalston and tried on a long mack jacket. The crisp blue jacket,

despite being second hand, looked rather new, the pink faux fur

collar was still intact. This impressed him and by the time he had

the jacket on he felt like he had made up his mind, which was

unlike him, as usually decisions would take very long due to

lengthy deliberations, perhaps influenced by a pressing desire to

impress Moloko.

He tended to see himself in ways that did not fully

transmute to other human beings. Perhaps animals? You may

ask. Not at all, as he was by all means allergic to most animals

and even ducks perturbed his existence. Even the fanciful

reaction to Moloko’s French bulldog was all smoke and mirrors,

pretence. He had to, for it was a classical attempt at seeming

something you are not—a temptation liquorice-esque. Moloko

didn’t buy it much anyway, so it purchased little in way of credit.



3.

Cast iron doors perhaps would do it, he thought before

taking another sip. And that’s the thing about trying to hide

something: it becomes harder and harder to hide something,

especially in lieu of the creation of the charade. And it would be

charade in order to escape the law in a way to even deceive

himself and continue on with life as if normal. It was a given that

Moloko was, for want of a better word, uninterested. The trick

would be to reverse this, of course and if not, a cast iron door?

He looks at the time and realises that Sachan was late.

About twenty five minutes late. He then hoped Sachan was not at

home as it could easily be found out if he was trying to escape

meeting him, by way of the key he cut for himself to Sachan’s

flat. Our man is quite the fanatic in terms of being a voyeur— he

liked to watch but did not much like the obstructiveness of being

watched.

By the time he is half way done with his pint of beer

Sachan walked into The Fox, as casually as you like. Where have

you been? You’re over thirty minutes late. Don’t you have anyone

else to bend their ear? Asked Sachan in a sarcastic bent that

swiftly probes our man’s life in a way he finds immediately

offensive. Perhaps the cast iron door should be used for Sachan?

256



Goes the thought. Well, he said, it’s not as if you’re so busy,

you work from home most days don’t you? I still work at the

University so I’m not sure where you’re getting this lazy

attitude from, replied Sachan as he took a stool and placed his

buttocks onto it.

They then spoke about their respective days, the boring

stuff: waking up times, food eaten and that sort of thing

without the impression that one can escape the mundane

aspects of life. Fast forward fifteen minutes and Sachan tells

him that he felt somebody’s presence in his house a week

before. He knew why, as it was him, he often spent days

carefully trawling through other people’s belongings in order

to engender a sense of charm in his life. He didn’t mean it in a

bad way, it was sort of like Winona Ryder and her kleptomania,

or at least he thought his obsession rivalled that. But how did

Sachan know? What was the giveaway? Well, it was nothing in

particular but just a feeling that things had been touched,

responded Sachan. I know it can seem neurotic but since

Becky left I have this thing about space and belongings.

Becky had been gone a month, but had been cheating at

least a year with a black guy from Peckham. Sachan had never

gotten the impression that Becky liked black guys though due

to her decision to leave, Sachan had become obsessed with

watching black men in porn. Just that day he had watched over

two hours of it, hence the lateness.

4.

Rummaging around Moloko’s flat, he felt an impending

sense of doom: the feeling that nothing is quite graspable,

nothing is quite yours. Even though Moloko was far from his,

he had grandiose dreams, especially when going through her

top bedroom drawer to find underwear, trinkets and a bright

pink dildo. He had no qualms about smelling the dildo or her

underwear, in fact he relished the handy work of a scumbag.

Though he eventually moved onto the living room’s Record

Player where he noticed that she was listening to Serge

Gainsbourg, Greatest Hits. There was something alluring about

thinking of Moloko, in said underwear, perhaps, dancing to

257

Requiem pour un twisteur or Villa Villa.

At The Fox he explains to Sachan, who had asked him

about Moloko, that she was performing in a play at the Arcola

and that she had been very busy, especially according to the

state of her flat he thinks, without saying this. His day’s

optimism relied on Moloko, Moloko relied on her Parents, but as

one had just passed away her usual confidence and rancour had

waned, according to him. Sachan moved his finger across the

bar as if searching for dust. I can’t believe much of what you say

can I?

And it’s not as if he had many options in the friend’s

department. No, that was a given, perhaps due to his overall

dispensation, very much honed by all those years living with his

rather miserable Hungarian Grandad, who would spend hours

and hours talking about the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, how

they burned books, along with the many women he cheated on

his wife with. No, apart from his Grandad there was not much

left in the way of true friendship or time spent.

Ordinarily he would be at work. But that day he decided

to take a day off. Work was just too boring and arduous for him

that day and so he just didn’t go. If he wasn’t sitting in The Fox

he would have been writing copy for film and news columns in

the Hackney Gazette. It was a small job, but it paid him enough

to pay the rent, at that time, so it was one in which he was

invested to keep, it could be said. Perhaps his only friends were

films, arthouse films in particular, with Wim Wenders being one

of his favoured Auteurs. He spent an awful amount of time

watching and studying film in his dark Hackney flat.

Anyway, he said. I’m not desperate am I. Like the time

you broke into your own flat to impress a homeless girl, that was

desperate! Responds Sachan in a guffaw. Well, that was

different. And to be honest it wasn’t different it was particularly

typical, the blunted reality of a character very much at odds with

humility, courage or resolution. This was the principle of his, a

mythology if it dares bears this type of response—he admired

the anti-hero’s in films, the drifters, the hopeless. It’s no wonder

his favourite film was Paris, Texas by Wim Wenders.

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Though this hopelessness was not genetic, his elder

sister was far from a drifter—she was an award-winning

Author that wrote fictional novels to quite an audience. And

she tried to intercede in the life he was leading but it would

produce barely any fruit—her phone calls ignored, letters left

unread.

5.

Sachan was no high flier himself, though he did have a

more solid job. Working as an English lecturer at East

London University. In fact their similarities here are quite

striking, as Sachan hated his job (just like him), mostly as he

failed at the very thing he intended to base his life around:

writing novels. It could be said that this friendship between

him and Sachan was holding on by a threadbare string of

perhaps getting a recommendation from his sister for the

novel he was writing, Atrophies Over Eggs (it was called).

Whereas he deemed hope a bankrupt emotion, Sachan was

full of hopes thirty-two years did little to denounce.

The bankrupt emotion would sometimes creep up on

him, but he would soon relinquish its powers as if a priest to

pornography. The orgy of imbroglio being that the very thing

he needed was hope, as just around the corner was change.

And change has audacity, quip and even wonder. It’s a wonder

how he managed to go a full week without the knowledge that

his Granddad had died of pneumonia and left him with what

constitutes a hefty fortune of over a few million pounds.

Whether hope was a bankrupt emotion or not, he was due a

change, just as soon as the news would reach him.

6.

The money was a secret and had been for so long, the

printing company his Grandfather co-owned had ties to

Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany years before the company was

sold in 1971. The company, then had litigation issues, which

tied the money up in the courts for the years that his

Granddad immigrated to London with his then wife.

259

By now he was rather drunk—or at least getting there—as

six pints of Ale can do that to him. Sachan had been rather

slower in drinking so had only drunk two and a half by now and

was sober as a nun.

I would watch him drinking his ale like a sailor and the

thought occurred that he hated to be watched and I was

watching him, like a hawk, I must say, and that this would

haphazardly occur through such an arbitrary process of wading

through litigations. It had become a thing of pride to know the

ins and outs of Hungarian millionaires and their wills —The

necessity to be fastidious. Though like an anthropologist I would

observe behaviours, even those made on a whim, with relish.



7.

At this point, he shimmied out of his seat and moved

towards the back of The Fox to try his hand at speaking to a few

women. It wasn’t long before he found his way back to his seat

and implored to Sachan that things would change! Convinced by

this he continued to drink, ale after ale, to become one of the last

people at The Fox. He had to leave and did so, stumbling along

Kingsland Road for a Kebab in the dead of the night.

8.

He had received the news for all of thirty minutes, and

already Moloko had found out, along with Sachan. What

distinguishes this news from the rest of the noise? Well it is

surely the rapidity of it that strikes into hearts—one minute no

hoper, the next minute millionaire. One minute Bruce Banner

and the next… well you get the drift.

Figurines illuminating the darkness, with each

predisposed to be employed as statues but here used as toys. At a

few inches each, these figurines constituted a childhood desire

often disqualified by a deep impending social status as working

class. His Granddad wanted him to be working class, a man of

the people, as opposed to something altogether different. Such

purchases as figurines would do very little for the character, the

soul. He placed them in a line on top of his book shelf in the

corner of the room, and this marked the first thing he had

260



purchased with the use of the money. To classify this as a waste

would surely not suffice. It singularly put a smile on his face,

but at the price they were it could be said other methods could

have been used. Catching the 38 into the City in order to

purchase this.

On the 38 it occurred to him that he could make a film.

He had spent his life watching films, why not make one, now

that he had the means to do so. This film could be antidote for

a society he was very much at odds to and could be a siren call

to all those that think like him, he thought as the 38 whirled

through Islington. He decided that he would think more about

after his Granddad’s funeral, as a sign of respect.

9.

The next morning after not much sleep, it occurred to

him that he should, before moving into the world of money,

just observe and see how he felt about the world. In actual fact

this very happening could be seen as rather epiphany inducing.

This simple beat movement unlike the usual him, but quite

elegant and responsible. He walked along to Victoria Park and

noticed: Dead leaves with water marks from the nights rain —

A babies smile whilst holding a chocolate bar — the remains of

a dogs excrement coloured light brown — the passivity of

something so awe inspiring as a strong wind — a man’s veiny

head pushed to its limit on a run — a car speeding by with a

baby in the backseat — the nocturnal feeling of walking whilst

tired — the mundane tropisms of absolutely no wonder — the

feeling of being hungry causing it to stop and its relief — the

feckless agenda of the media by the discarding of a series of

Newspapers — the actual aimlessness of the human kind veiled

in a series of habitual actions — the ducks elegance on the

water — the candour of a child’s behaviour — the searing

opaqueness of existence!

10.

Laying like a dream, reveries began to entangle with

reality — Our man thinks: Moloko is grappling at his ball sack.

She had arrived mid-afternoon bearing wine and questions of

261

forgiveness. He had to oblige didn’t he, due to the struggle to

guide this infatuation. But as they were deep in the act, he

noticed a scar on Moloko’s bottom, as if the money had already

predisposed his feelings to entitlement, outraged he asked

Moloko how she received this scar. It can only be said that he

knew where, but Moloko would of course lie, and so they

struggled and toyed and then struggled and toyed with one

another until they were both in the kitchen and by some means

he managed to lock Moloko in the kitchen cupboard. A cast iron

door?



11.

The funeral the next day would be small, as his Granddad

held only a small circle, and one orchestrated, clearly, by

monumental amounts of secrets—his sister was dumbfounded

now, standing in his Granddad’s flat in Hackney. Why did he

keep so much of his life secret? And he couldn’t think of an

answer, so he just slumped into the couch with one hand on a

cushion in silence. It’s not as if we didn’t live with him all these

years is it? Well, he did admit to many mistress’ so there’s that.

Trust you to point out his mistress’ at a time like this, replied his

sister whilst she sieved through a pile of old records left on a

living room table next to a bottle of Gin.

What do you think we should do with all this stuff?

I’m just overwhelmed by the amounts he left us, let alone all the

stuff here in his flat. Like these records, I have kids and no space

for all this stuff.

It can always stay here.

And go to waste? There’s still homeless people you know.

This was Granddad’s place, it would be a little bit ill gotten to

give it away to someone else that wasn’t either me or you.

She walked towards the television and just turned to look

at him with a sigh.

And the room was full of nostalgia: old records, old books

with dusty sleeves, an old television with bricked back, old

photographs of Hungary, the smell of an old cat, old paintings by

Cezanne on the walls. And the kitchen was no different: old

262

kitchen appliances, old cooker, old kettle and so on. Everything

about the flat spelt age, or another Age. The stark material for

their lives (him and his sister) would perhaps be the fact that it

opposed ostentatiousness, the down to earth spirit was

particularly seizing and wholesome.

11.

At the funeral, of which Moloko attended, he soundly

but in his own mind investigated who was attending. In one

corner of the room were three women he had never laid eyes

on in his entire life, all in black garments holding tissue papers

as if ready to shed tears for memories that escaped him and

would continue to, regardless of the amounts of stories his

Granddad told he failed to place them. In the other corner of

the room was his sister and her family, in particularly dull

looking moods, perhaps engendered by the difficulty of

bringing up children. And there were the people spread out

through the procession, of Candela a known acquaintance and

Hamsel who was his Granddad’s co-worker before retirement.

He’s attention turned to an old looking man wearing a mango

green fedora hat and similarly coloured suit. The man stood

out, particularly in the sullen atmosphere.

Some unexplored memory then exudes from his brain. It

accounts for the thought that he had seen this man before. But

without being able to pin point exactly where, he allows the day

to continue. Until the early evening when he remembers the

man to be an Anarchist Poet, and person he saw on an old VHS

video trying and failing to set Big Ben a light. You never forget

faces, don’t you? There’s something distinguishable to every

face; eyes, nose, mouth. Standing perpendicular to him he

moved and started a conversation with the words, I’ve seen you

before. Squinted eyes the man looked a little put-out. Well the

man knew the deceased for years actually, said the man before

explaining that they had known each other since 1952, and that

they had spent time in Hungary together. He wanted to

mention the VHS tape but stopped at the thought. Luckily the

man then starts to rant about society in quite a thrilling way.

263

According to the man, society was very much divided and even

more spineless than ever.

He notes the man’s passion and he starts to feel rather

invigorated, as he had often times seen himself as an Anarchist,

surely now would not be the opportunity to express such

feelings? As now he was part of the problem perhaps, a rich old

boy with thoughts on Anarchism.

The dull looking Priest summoned a smile before walking

away.

That evening he wanted to spend time with Moloko but she made

mention of having to be somewhere else and abruptly left. He

found this awfully confusing; her attendance and then her

leaving caused him to feel emotionless.



12.

It occurred to him, very swiftly that his life was option full,

that the very basis of his existence had changed, altered in a

fashion unprecedented, he thought in his apartment anxiously

pulling at the bed sheets to cover himself, as if he were suffering

from some type of ailment. He wasn’t, physically, but mentally he

was in some sort of battle. Just the day ahead seem absurd, being

that he could easily lay where he was with no repercussions, just

the searing feeling that something was not right. And he had

challenged his thinking the days before, going into work where

he was roundly mistreated, in his eyes, but more succinctly he

was ignored. If someone said his name, it would barely draw a

response, the only person that he was close to at work was The

Editor for reasons he never quite knew.

He just felt powerless, but at the same time wholly taken

by the fact that he now had all the opportunity in the world.

Making a film came to mind, again, but this was quietly dismissed

for time being, as rather something. And something seemed

absurd. Ridiculous by the fact that he had simply the need to get

a grasp on some sort of reality and escape the pains of anxiety.

But no, this something had truly taken him this day, and there

seemed no escape, just a void, an empty feeling that seemed to

consume him whole. The abstraction of this could be the way a

clown see’s the world and then the way the world see’s the clown

264



—this works like a mirror, in a sense, but at the same time, the

mirror doesn’t truly exist by the fact that a person’s tropisms

still exist; the swing of emotion can be just as relentless for one

person to the next. He pulls the sheet over his head.

The Political Ailment of Money

All money is politics and driven by class, it could be said.

Money obstructs creative thinking and growth.

13.

Thinking, Moloko is asking him about the Macaws in the

living room, and why he had decided to purchase them. He

begins to become annoyed by her questioning and moves into

the kitchen, where he grabs a knife and bludgeons Moloko’s

chest for being so unattainable.

14.

The Merciless Gift of Time

The very nature of his existence was very much altered,

and this perplexed him no end. The day after the funeral, he

called Moloko in order to spend time with her, but the phone

just rang and rang. Angrily he knew that he was within a crisis,

but knew not how to alter the feelings he was having, as if

another person playing him like a puppet on a string. It

occurred too absurd, life, and therefore worthless, this

manifested in many ways, which will be further disclosed, but

in more ways than one he was suffering what can only be

referred to as psychosis. He deemed it appropriate to call for

drugs, anything to take his mind off the lucidity of existence,

and it took him hours, shuffling along in his flat, to decide

which drugs he wanted to take. He eventually decided that

Cocaine would provide some sort of energy and verve needed to

sway him away from this ‘sullen mood’.

This is how Sophia is introduced to his life; Sophia, the

drug dealer, was fairly acquainted with all the delinquents

265

around the Kingsland Road, Shoreditch, Broadway Market and

Dalston area via the burner phone passed down from Wacko

Steve. She was only eighteen, but was rather wiser beyond her

years. It could be said that she fulfilled the prerequisite of being

a drug dealer in the sense that she was more than street wise. It

was her that was in possession of the phone usually maned by

Wacko Steve, as he was called on the Streets for this point

exactly. After a series of text messages, and containing his

address. She came to his door and knocked.

He went to the door and let Sophia in. Sophia, walking

into the flat, looked around and could plainly see what had

become quite obvious. Just the living room alone contained: a

series of macaws in cages, the expensive figurines, a large fish

tank, a stuffed Lion’s head amongst other furnishings. The room

was filled and looked out of place in the drug exchange of the

usual delinquent. She started to ask him questions, which he

answered rather unequivocally, for reasons more related to

psychosis than anything. As in his mind he had thought Sophia

was now Mary Mother of Jesus, but this is perhaps something

that could be going on beneath the surface, on the surface

things were very much working too. The money he pulled out to

pay Sophia was in wads of ruffled up £50’s and he paid her too

much initially. There’s too much here, said Sophia quite

surprisingly before handing him some of the money back.

Sophia sensed something was wrong, and her interest was

piqued at the same time. She had no deals to be done until a

few hours and so decided that she would spend the time at his

place.

She watched him do a line of Cocaine and then waltz

around the living room protesting against being Joseph. No, no,

no, I’m not him.

She was enjoying herself, as if vaguely drawing

comparisons to Charlie Sheen’s breakdown years later.



15.

In his defence existence was very much a game he was

just not willing to play — He had, in total, spent thirteen days in

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his flat without leaving. This made him bemused and sensitive

to the throes of existing amongst others. His workplace called

but he ignored their calls on the basis that he needn’t grovel at

the feet of capitalism. He started to read more Karl Marx, in

particular THE ECONOMIC AND PHILOSOPHIC

MANUSCRIPTS OF 1844.



He then decided to make his own philosophic treatise,

perhaps enlivened by the amounts of free time he had the

privilege of utilising. He wrote it in the whole of three days; a

total of about 15,000 words along with sketches. When he

finished he sat down staring at the noisy macaws and then at

the stuffed Lion’s head in a silence that continued until the

evening, when he had it in mind to actually leave his flat. He

disregarded any thoughts on cleanliness and walked towards

Tottenham past Dalston for a squat he knew of but had only

seen it in passing. For some strange reason he wanted to leave

the philosophic treatise with people that would appreciate it, as

outsiders of society. And for someone in the throes of cloudy

thought and absurd thinking, this was particularly lucid

thinking.

As the document was, for all its ridiculousness, quite

intriguing, especially for people that thought differently.

Arriving to the door of the squat he posted it through the letter

box, after looking at the front page and the words:

ANARCHIST REGIME OF A MILLIONAIRE. It would seem

strange that he would place the word millionaire into the title

of the treatise, but this was to add a power to the words and an

opulence to the vehicle of change money can utilise. He knew

that he was now a millionaire, a small one, but a millionaire in

all senses of the word.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on perspective,

he was seen leaving the squat by a few housemates. This

enabled the squat to put a face to the words, of which they

lapped up. By the end of that week the ANARCHIST REGIME

OF A MILLIONAIRE had an audience and one buoyed by the

chance to see what the treatise referred to as “true anarchy”.

It was the connection of Sophia that placed him into the

267

limelight of Author, Auteur or Creator. As Sophia knew a dealer

from Tottenham called Misklav, and Misklav had a girlfriend by

the name of Renoir who had a bicycle borrowed from a prostitute

called Yulia who happened to be living in the squat in

Tottenham. With Sophia’s added knowledge it became a known

point that a revolution could be brewing.

16.

LONDON RIOTS....

268

...koolaid square...

Lace joints, said Sly. The lace joints... with red stitching, like

fire truck red... And I just listened to Sly stutter about before

we kicked the door down.

It's all about the monotony of existence, started Sly whilst

punching Mark in the eye, the exuberance of the unbearable

nothingness that is life. Mark scuppered towards a chestcupboards

hurt by the punch. The silence grew rampant,

rather quickly. Something intoxicating.

Suffuse to say we were all thinking the same thing; why was

life so fundamentally cold? Okay besides the violence which

was one thing, was the pale horse in a sense, the elephant of

all rooms.

I tried to immerse myself in the situation; in being and trying

to be, a zen-like experience I read a little about on the internet.

Though it did nothing for me at the time, just relinquished a

sense of thoughtfulness. I moved towards the kitchen and

turned my head.

At this moment I started to think about Melissa, the Dalí on

the wall, The Persistence of Memory, triggered the thought that I

never understood her. I'm more a Picasso man, I thought. I

like erratic to a degree but there is something I don't agree

with in Dalí. I looked at the photograph, the reproduction and

shook my head as if it would relinquish the thought, but it

didn't it made my mind exacerbate all the feelings I had for

Dalí. I didn't even think of why I was there in the first place, to

seize the goods that summon the idea that all should be equal.

I had to repeat the mantra to myself.

269

As I did this I took a blow to the face, a right hook from within

the kitchen, a burly looking man with hairy fingers. I saw the

oily fingers first caressing my cheek bones like a seasoned piece

of chicken. I arrested the thought that I could go down by

looking at myself in the mirror in the corridor, at the built

physique. Summoning some strength I threw myself towards the

punch and soon was grappling with an unknown man I came to

know as Arnie.

Mark was spluttering: Who the hell are you? Which made sense.

Neither I or Sly said anything however. It was better that way.

Regardless of all the grappling and antics it was all quite

organised: Arnie would soon take a few blows to the face, Mark

too and we would soon take what we were there for, I thought...

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...suicide hotline...



Francis was always talking about certain issues relating to

poetry, but I had no real hold on his perspective. I didn’t know

whether he liked Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg or Ted

Hughes and Sylvia Plath. I had no idea whether he preferred the

iambic pentameter or free verse. All this was so because he would

mostly speak in riddles, because he found the world a total farce.

And farce I mean the word in its totality.

Though initially I thought Francis would be a great mentor

to Jano, but Jano was always so headstrong, I think, but at the

same time I regret this now. As I introduced Jano to him and they

were able to get along, talking about this and that. It wasn’t until

he introduced Jano to Alteristos and their movement that things

began to change. I knew that, at nineteen, that Jano was

impressionable but I didn’t know how much.

The Alteristos movement was all about irreverence; they

had no real hold on reality and they lived in a fantasy world

acquainted with Poets, Painters, Sculptors, Writers. I had no idea

how they managed their lives, in hindsight. I just wanted Jano

and his decision to be a poet to go well. I had no idea it was like

signing a death-wish and that the two things, ambition and a

career, were parts and parcel of partaking in the happenings of

the Alteristos.

The first thing I heard was one Thursday when Jano came

home stumbling about the place, talking gibberish. He was high,

but on what? I thought. So I went to Francis’ place and

confronted him, What did you do to Jano? And he eventually told

me that Jano had participated in a poetry night where all in

attendance took LSD, in order to open their minds.

I was fuming and I nearly wrung Francis’ neck. Though I

thought that would be it. A sure shot warning from the heart of

the matter. These guys were actually a bunch of flunkies

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masquerading as intellectuals.

Jano said he wouldn’t see them again, he promised until a

week later when he admitted that he saw Francis one afternoon. I

calmed myself and told him that if this continued that he would

have to either move out or stop fraternising with those guys. He

refused and by Friday he had moved out of the apartment.

One thought was that it wouldn’t last long, like a crush. But it

took a turn for the worst when he started to perform his small

poems. He performed: Ice as Sex, Walk me like a dog and even

Chocolate hot dogs. And soon had a muse, one Crissy Bella another

writer and poet. Apparently, she had written a novel called The

Impotence of Chance.

It wasn’t until a month had passed that I started to worry.

The worry came full beam and from all sides. I was worried about

everything, so much so that I ended up in the hospital with

anxiety problems.

It was in the hospital that I heard that Jano had published

a chap book called Suicide Hotline and that certain members of

Alteristos were teasing him with the joke that he wouldn’t be alive

if he was telling the truth. Horrific, childish gilding. That led to

him, one Thursday, taking his life with the note reading:

Fantastic elements of truth, and fatal wounds.

Wounded by the existence of life

I am a poet with a thorn in my rose without any flowers!

A thorn in my rose without any flowers? How does that make any

sense? His last words were pure gibberish and a spit in the gob of

a life I tried to nurture. I am sickened by life and I want Francis

dead! Tonight!

272



...hot head...

To take my mind off things, the next day Miguel asked if I

wanted to take a trip with him and I said yes. He came to pick

me up and I thought it best not to ask too many questions of

where we were going. Miguel, a Philology student had lived in

Barcelona for a few more years than I had at the time plus, he

was quite gregarious, I thought. He would always tell jokes

about his girlfriend Miriam and we had become quite

accustomed to taking a drive here and there from time to time.

He offered me half a blueberry cupcake, which I took and ate as

we drove.

We drove north of Barceloneta, I took in the sights whilst

Miguel told a story about his cousin Manuel. Something about a

dildo and a French manicure. I had pushed my seat further

back in order to grab some more leg room and get some much

needed rest as the weeks previous had been more hectic than

usual. We came to an intersection just after a junction and

Miguel turned off the radio, as if he needed all the silence in the

world. He then told me that he had fucked my sister at the

beach a few weeks before and that he didn’t know how to tell

me. I was pissed off and I told him this, shouting and getting

carried away with my gesticulations.

To calm the situation down Miguel stopped off at a Taco

restaurant. He got out before me, leaving me in the passenger

seat to stew for a moment. I gathered my thoughts and then

joined him. He had taken a seat opposite two men, and next to a

large window overlooking the car park. “Did you do it on

purpose?” “Juan I’m sorry man, you know I have a thing for

redheads.” He said sizing up his glasses to view the menu. Oh

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good tacos, chips and deceit, I thought.

Attitude was the key principle for me, as it wasn’t the

first time my sister had fucked someone I knew, but it was that

Miguel and I were beginning to become actual friends, albeit

the time in the Gothic Quarter when we nearly got into a

sparring match about the concept of Marxism and Anarchism.



Miguel ordered. The waitress, a corpulent woman with large

round glasses, approached us with a pen and a notepad. She

wrote down Miguel’s order, a vegetarian taco and a vegetarian

empanada and waited for me to speak. I took a moment. And

then ordered.

“So you’re a vegetarian now?”

“I want to be really lean this summer.”

“Not to fuck my sister…”

“No that was a one off thing, and besides…”

Miguel paused as if there wasn’t a thing wrong with what

he was saying. I wanted to strangle him. I thought about how to

do it momentarily but only came around to the idea that it just

could never work, murder. The logistics of it. And besides, I

then thought ever since my sister had grown breasts I’ve gotten

into fights about her giving blow jobs here and getting finger

banged there. “Besides what,” I said. “Your sister likes sex.”

We both started to laugh.

The rain had started to fall now, and there was a feeling

that everyone in the restaurant was escaping the wetness, a

cloistered soothing atmosphere. Until one of the two men sat

opposite us approached the table. He had a skin head and he

was half smiling, sort of smirking. “What you smirking at?” said

Miguel without thought. The skin head man stopped smirking

and looked at me right in the eyes, “I hope you guys are not

laughing at us?”

The room’s atmosphere took a turn, at once I noticed

that the large man at the counter seemed to nod along to the

words of the skin head man now and there was a lady behind

us holding something quite firm in her top pocket. Miguel was

acting as if he were in his own living room, as causal as can be,

like a octopus in the ocean. He cleared his throat after taking a

274

bite of his taco, “Who do you think you are?”

The room was spinning now and I was beginning to see

double. The men, the woman, the rain, the smells. I think I

was about to vomit. Don’t vomit, I thought. Whilst this was

going on Miguel was looking at me to if to say, don’t worry. But

there was a lot to worry about, I was afraid. I was in no place to

back up his absurdities, and so when the skin head man threw

a punch and it resulted in a scuffle Miguel came out of it quite

badly. All bruised and a near broken nose.

We managed to scuttle into the car and drive off, whilst

the waitress with large round glasses shook her fist at us in the

driveway. We were not welcome there. Though Miguel was

angry, calling me all sorts of names. I said that I felt out of it

for some reason. And he then mentioned that the muffin that I

had eaten had weed in it, which explained the strange turn. As

a consequence I was angry at him. He then said that weed only

exacerbates personality and does not make you completely

anew.

After that incident we didn’t speak for a while. Until

Miriam had a house party and invited my girlfriend Lucia. At

the house party I arrived late as to foil any chance of awkward

conversation—a crowd is a lovely place to get lost in, I thought.

Plus I had heard from a few people that Miguel was still

seething, but little did I know.

At the party, which was full of left wing activists,

anarchists and socialists, I left Lucia and went into the kitchen.

I thought even if I bump into Miguel it’s best if we maintain a

cordiality, I thought, mostly as I missed those drives, I realised

in hindsight.

But not to the extent that I would forgive him for what he

eventually would do, no that’s over the line. As let me explain,

the night had gotten quite tall in that I was drunk and getting

into meaningless arguments about politics—semantics— before

I headed up the stairs to look for Lucia. I could not find her on

the hallway, which was busy so I headed to the bedroom to be

confronted with Miguel fucking my sister shouting the words,

“Fuck Juan!”

275

...cop killer...

It was a moan you couldn’t place, all distorted and shrill. It

was emanating from the mouth of a whore, though not one

that is that way through judgement, just one that is in the

business of selling pussy. At this time a pistol had been

summoned and it was lodged between her mouth—the pistol

was not empty, perhaps why the moan was so particular. The

unnamed man placed the pistol on top of her top lip and said:

scream for me. And she started screaming almost immediately

as if she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

The Cop car pulls up to the driveway. “Bitches eating donuts

and not croissants.” “You wouldn’t want to be a walking

cliché?”

The unnamed man now moved to gun to her bare nipple,

momentarily, before placing the gun on his own bottom lip.

276

...dust, drift...

1999



To tear through existence is to tear through the very core

of absurdity, the relative aspects of life at its most ridiculous, said

Fernando who was getting worked up; sweaty brow. He was a

bum, so the people listening (tram riders) assumed he was talking

shit. He pulled back his cup, used for panhandling, and sat down

right next to me.

He introduced himself (as Fernando) and we started to talk

for a while about his Sister. Apparently, his Sister, Corsa, was

prostituting herself and living in an abandoned building in

Tenderloin. Then we started to talk about the concept of aliens

and Fernando went into great detail about a time he said he had

been abducted. He said that they dropped him off in the Vegas

dessert and he had no idea how else he could have gotten there. I

picked up my arm, which was hurting from the fight earlier on,

and wiped the sweat off my head. It was a scorching day in San

Francisco.

In the seat behind a black man was listening, You wouldn’t

know near nothing about persecution, he then said. Fernando,

who had kind green eyes, looked at the black man and started to

cry, before standing up and declaring to the rest of the tram

riders that he was in fact there for anyone that needed it. I need

sex, an obese woman shouted out from the back of the tram,

achieving a distinct amount of laughter. The black man had either

had enough or genuinely reached his stop as he gathered his

things and got off the tram.

I had nothing much to do that day, so I decided to follow

Fernando around and see where life took me. So after a few more

stops, where we eventually reached Union Square we got off and

started walking to a corner Fernando said he usually panhandles

in.

See here this the thing about life is that the best things

about life was like this one time, Fernando started whilst shifting

his cup as if to place it in exactitude, this one time I was in LA

277

and a few dustheads were with us down by an underpass. They

were acting crazier than usual, he starts twirling his fingers

beside his curly set head, as they were talking crazy though I

found out later that it was part of some voodoo. God only knows,

but one of the girls was real pretty, sweet looking. Though she

was real skinny but she starts sucking at my joint, it goes on for a

little while, before a priest walks in on us, wearing the full outfit,

which I thought had to be a fake, but he was a real priest I came

to find out. He pulls out a pistol and goes to pistol whip me. I

step aside and tell him that the skank aint nothing but a skank

and then that’s when this priest points his gun at me, before

telling me to do something for him. I say: What? He grabs a

bottle throws it to me and says if you wanna live pull down your

pants and put this up your butthole. I start raving now, but this

guy had a steely eye hombre, whilst all the while this hot skank

is just watching us and smoking a cigarette as if it’s all regular.

So I get the bottle and put it up my arsehole and our priest looks

at me as if he had orgasmed right there and then. He grabbed

the girl and walked away. But that’s when I learnt the realms of

self pleasure man.

I sat down next to Fernando who was catching eye

contact with random people on the street.

Flophouse

After about an hour, Fernando had made about three

dollars to add to whatever amount of money he had before. I

asked him if we could go and see his sister, and he thinks for a

moment before asking if I was a cop. I tell him fuck no, and he

gathered his stuff together. A guy called Bobo had joined us, he

wore a red mac jacket and quite notably long red socks over a

pair of ocean blue jogging bottoms.

The walk there was hot and bothering. Sweltering even.

We eventually reached Tenderloin. She was stooped over

on a chair with olive green eyes as if partially gauged out.

Though she was as I imagined her to be. Beautiful. As if a

calendar girl. I felt quite light headed, so I pulled up next to a

278

fan where a metal chair had been placed and sat down. Just a

little high, she said with rye laugh that spoke volumes. Corsa,

you’re a mess, said Fernando as he stooped over to wipe snot

from her face. The room was dark with only the two chairs and

a fan inside it, though there were an assortment of needles

sprinkled around.

The shadows were forming and disbanding about the

gutted out derelict windows as Fernando gathered Corsa and

tried to set her right. After a short while, where I sat next to the

fan contemplating suicide, I watched Corsa gather herself. She

had just taken a hit. Though she was scratching her left ear with

right hand, which I found quite strung out behaviour. There

was quite a silence, perhaps Fernando was fed up with life, I

thought. Bobo was in and out the room, pacing.

I sat in silence until about an hour or so more had passed

when as if she had taken a hit Corsa fully awakened. Who’s

that? That’s Gordo, said Fernando to Corsa, legs spread open

piercing eyes on me. I’m just hanging out, I said. He a cop?

asked Corsa flippantly flicking her right veiny wrist. Fernando

ignored her and got up off the floor, Come on I’ll buy you

something to eat. Take me there lightly.

We walked down the street to hear a few shouts from

across the street: You look better on your knees! Corsa didn’t

look the way Fernando had illustrated her, but I could tell,

mostly from her eyes, the teeming insides of a soul enraptured.

Just her words take me there lightly were so rock and roll.

So who are you? she said staring at me from across the

table of the fast food chain. I told her I was just into hanging

out around the City and that I had seen Fernando a few times

around and felt a certain camaraderie towards him. She listened

whilst slurping a chocolate milkshake. I know you want to fuck

me. I said nothing just as Fernando came back to sit down now.

Bobo was up and down, speaking a certain gibberish I had

quickly become accustomed to.

Fernando than started repeatedly shouting belligerently:

For the water gets too hot! Sir you’re gonna have to make your

out the joint.

279

I hope you never get pussy! shouts a hobo on our way out.

Corsa is eating a burger slowly as if savouring every bite. It’s was

just too damn hot, I thought. We then started to walk along the

hot scorching street whilst Bobo was in and out talking

gibberish and being quiet. Corsa walking with her piercing eyes

and Fernando intermittingly shouting: For the water gets too

hot! I joined him: For the water gets too hot!

I couldn’t tell them I was only seventeen, I remember

thinking, they’d shun me in an instant.

Bobo’s Place

Bobo was living in another flophouse though this one

wasn’t empty, it had a few people scurrying around into the hot

sun. *I am searching for a reason, I thought, I am in the chaos

dimension. Corsa was giving me all the eyes now, and even more

so when Fernando said that he was going and coming back in a

moment. I walked up to Corsa and thought of what to say before

she said, oooo I could do with a young fuck. And she took me by

the hand to a bedroom where a man was clearly high from

smoking dust, the smell emanated from his crackling lips.

There was a bed, which Corsa led me to. She took off her

knickers and spread her legs. Can you lick it? I went down on

her and had her moaning and moaning. Then she said put it in,

which I did as I was hard by then. I started to stroke, and I felt

like a king, as it was only the second time I ever had fucked

someone. Faster, faster! I used all my might, I thought. Through

the open window the hot sun beamed down on my sweaty face.

Before looking to my left to see three man stood watching

wanking themselves off. I felt a voyeur’s remorse and stopped.

Corsa upset starts shouting: Why did you stop? they’re not going

to do anything. By now Fernando was at the doorway watching.

He flew into the room and threw a punch that hit me right on

the nose. I tried to throw one back but he had already gotten me

into a headlock. I scuppered out the headlock and left the

flophouse in a hurry.

It wasn’t until a week passed that I saw Fernando again,

280

panhandling near the Aquarium. I walked up to him and said

hey. He was less angry then the last time I saw him. Why was

you so angry? I’m just tired of the world bossing me around. I

told him that I would buy him lunch and off we went...

281

...haemorrhoid licking...

The reality of the situation precipitated, at this moment, from a

simmer towards a boiling point. Veins sprung from ventricles

now awakened. The blinded curtains blew in and out from wind’s

abyss. And the television flickered: on and off, clear screen, fuzzy

screen.

You aint gonna get no pussy now, said Jean from the hip. I was

watching from the window, the sound of her voice all shrill and

hostile. I could tell she was about get beatdown by the way that

she stood, like a giraffe. I couldn’t be bothered to watch so I

walked down the stairs and smoked a cigarette, I had my own

worries. Besides, I thought, the ocean has enough water, the

world doesn’t need my tears.

282



...the symphony of abstraction...

The sun came in veiled through the black curtains,

though simmering into the darkness still. Moloko sat drenched

in sweat, as the doors and windows were closed in order for the

sound not to reach the street and the street to become aware of

the sex occurring in its vicinity. The scorching heat was blown

around the room by a fan, to no real consequence. She was

quite a prude in some senses.

I sat up against the bed writing and thinking. Sometimes

the thoughts came after the words, strangely enough. Though

what does sometimes happen is that no words come at all.

Especially of late, I thought. Moloko was just too consuming for

this to be any other way.

Moloko touched the tip of my feet and then started

yawning. The yawn perhaps artificial to announce a feeling or

emotion. I think of Marrakesh often, she added. And it wasn’t

the first time, so I asked her if she wanted to go to Marrakesh

for a few weeks. She said yes.

We booked into a hotel at Jamla El Fna, the trip to the

hotel quite unspectacular. The taxi driver did try and charge us

what we knew was double the amount however, but we

managed to haggle him down. He wore a handle bar moustache

and had a terse looking face: all rough skin around the chin and

neck, black eyes.

The sun had just gone down as we drove from the airport

to the hotel whilst the radio played a Moroccan song I had

never heard before. Moloko wanted to know the name of the

song, but the taxi driver could barely understand the question.

When we reached the hotel the clerk asked us if we had

a pleasant journey and before I could say something polite and

cordial, Moloko said no. Adding that the food on the plane

wasn’t very good and that the taxi driver tried to overcharge us.

Small things. I tried to change the subject to the matter at

hand, and eventually Moloko and the hotel clerk started to chat

about the hotel room before another man entered the lobby.

The man wore a cream shirt that was crumpled and a little dirty

on the collar where greasy black hair hung off his head on to

283

the collar’s tip. His face was young, soft looking skin, gentle

eyes, though he had a large nose that made his face take on a

whole other look perhaps vagrant. You’re looking lovely today,

he said to Moloko, looking at her face and ignoring the fact that

I stood there. I, stood, clench fist now, getting quite upset.

The hotel clerk laughed at the man, before telling him, in

French, that he would attend to him after us. The hotel clerk

then told us his name, Ahmed Ahmed, and that if there were

any problems with the room we could simply have to ask him

and he would fix it. Then he gave us the keys and told the

vagrant looking man to help us with our bags. Though we didn’t

bring much; a bag each. I was glad Moloko was shrift in this way.

On the way up the stairs the vagrant looking man only

made eye contact with Moloko, speaking about Ramadan and its

effects on the populace. I out of spite stopped listening and

instead was instigating words to belittle the man. Here’s your

little tip, I said after we entered the room. Though he was so

consumed by Moloko he didn’t notice my put down, though it

didn’t make me totally upset, perhaps his face would ring in my

mind the next time I had sex with Moloko, I then thought.

Through the window comes the sound the of the back

streets of the city, what may have been: cats careening onto a

loaf of stale bread, old rotund women walking to clean the local

mosque, occasional drug dealers walking to and fro, the sound

of the call to prayers.

After dinner, where we had tajine with beef and prunes,

we walked through the market. The evening had taken hold by

now and the darkness accumulated into a dusty moonshine very

much awakened by an array of happenings: monkeys, juice,

trinkets, people etc.

Moloko slept early, citing jet lag and a small feeling of

indigestion. I stayed up reading Hervé Guibert’s Paradise. I was

enjoying the descriptions of foreign lands along with the

morbidity of all the deaths within the book, which offset the

beautiful descriptions.

Though it was mid-way through the night that there was a

loud sound, an altercation, Ahmed Ahmed’s voice sprung from

down below. Moloko awakened. What was that? It’s nothing



284

dear, just go to sleep. And she tried to sleep but the altercation

only grew louder, to the point that Moloko made me go outside

to check if things were okay.

I walked down the stairs to see two gun men, and

Ahmed Ahmed with his hands up. The two men were holding

machine guns I had only seen in movies or the news. They

started shouting at me in Arabic, words I didn’t understand.

Ahmed Ahmed shouted that they wanted me to walk down the

rest of the stairs to a room just off the lobby. I followed,

entering the room, to see five other people in the room already.

Three men and two women. The women were half naked with

ripped dressing gowns, bare breasts careening naked in the

hysteria.

There was also another man with the same type of

machine gun as those in the lobby holding it towards the five of

them, and then me in the bedroom. I wondered what to do:

How can I leave Moloko? I started to panic, pacing in

concentric circles. If I was about to be shot, I had better be shot

with Moloko, I thought. But then again I wouldn’t want to

bring on a murder just by the flippant chance that I had

annoyed a gunman. Perhaps I was simply losing my mind. Am

I?

The wounds of the night were further excavated when

fifteen minutes later I saw Moloko walk past the bedroom. She

was still in her white nightgown, but the gown was still all

together, I remember thinking.

We quickly realised we were hostages...

285

...fragments...

I don’t remember much; fragments, bits and pieces I will

elucidate. Lights, a partial accident perhaps, strange characters.

I am in between London and Reading, seemingly on the way to

Reading whilst manufacturing ideas. All I can think of is the

movie Memento when Leonard Shelby wakes up. I have

memories of the sort that illicit a deep understanding of cinema,

but I can’t place things; feelings are tantamount to death; never

quite grabbing hold of you till it’s too late. I must get to

Reading, that is as much as I remember.

Sunlight folds into shards of green only offset by the sound of

the railway lines, the shuddering. There seems a deep voice

following, but I can’t place that voice either. Pity a voice is very

much a person and a person another clue, I say. In my pockets

is £500, and a hotel key plus a card of Mercure George Hotel

Reading. So I know that I will retrieve information there,

perhaps everything. London seemed absurdly busy: women

walking with urgency to their appointments, an assortment of

men loitering and waiting for what? I couldn’t say, but I feel

much better now that I am on this train and on the way to the

hotel. Retrace my steps, furnish a sort of vestige. I feel awfully

functionless without the old grey matter ticking over correctly.

You look a little dishevelled, said a lady I came to know as

Monica, I think. Just a little preoccupied, I replied. Sometimes

moments arise when thoughts subside into actions and the next

thing you know you are on a train. I remembered the movie

Strangers on a Train and chuckled at the thought; the

randomness of it all. How can I remember these movies but not

a face, a name, a place? Perhaps it’s to do with feelings, I tell

myself on the train, how things make a person feel ultimately

relates to how a person remembers something. Scattered leaves

on the pathway. A movie after a lacklustre round of tennis. Sex!

I remember its form, its composition, but I don’t recall its

experience, first hand, perhaps I left this in Reading too?

286

I think about the speckles of light, growth underneath, surfaces.

No, wrong move, such that I then think about Leonard Shelby,

the final reveal. The goose-bumps that were enlivened. I move

in my seat, these alien thighs that Monica seems to be finding it

difficult to not concentrate on. I then asked Monica how she felt

about long journeys. I usually bring a book, something to read,

but this time I have nothing and I’m feeling a little lost by it.

The train went under a bridge, the darkness illuminating

another memory of a name, Fred. I heard the name Fred

somewhere swirling in my mind, like a phone call, ring ring,

who’s there? It’s your nearest amnesiac.

I stand to stretch. Whilst doing so, I consult my pockets again,

the money, the key, the card. I seem in order otherwise, albeit

the look of an apparently dishevelled being, though I can’t fully

comprehend my own face, even. The features, the nose, the

body, the thighs. Monica asked if I was Okay. I sit back down

and mention my trip to the hotel. I’m going to Reading too,

near there. O really, now I am not sure what to make of her,

perhaps a person that is out to get me, nail me to a bed,

examine my thighs as her own. Though I don’t move. Why

don’t I move? Perhaps it’s the familiarity that has bred

contempt? I try to think of more memories and ultimately arrive

to another film, a rainy day watching a Buñuel film, That

Obscure Object of Desire.

287

...Rella...



“And in that atmosphere, Herschel ventured the opinion that history

was the self-knowledge of the mind.” William H. Gass, The Tunnel

It seemed strange to see you after all this time, she said

whilst playing with her nipple as if she weren’t naked and in

company. I stood in the doorway acting as if I had seen it all

before, trying to maintain eye contact. And in a way I had, as we

had quite a thing a few years before, but since then it had been a

complete desert storm of antics, a hyperbole of nothingness, for

me. I asked her if I could come in, and she said that she was

about to head out. I need to go and see a friend. I felt a little

stupid stood there, and probably looked stupid as I thought, so I

was surprised when she asked if I wanted to go with her. I

assumed a girl friend, perhaps a blonde one with a nice body. I

waited in her living room and looked around: at the book

shelves, at her view overlooking another block of flats and the art

on the walls: paintings by Rodrigo, mostly, Van Gogh’s

Sunflower too.

She then dressed and arrived back into the living room. I

couldn’t help but ask her about her boyfriend again. O he’s a

curator, she said as she picked up her car keys. I wanted to know

why she hadn’t returned my calls, or why she decided to just

leave all those years ago. I got into her car and we soon were

driving through the streets. She always had a penchant for road

rage and it slightly enthused me that nothing had changed in this

regard, as on the corner of one street a car dithered between

lanes and she was quick to sound the horn. Fuck, these Chinese

drivers! I was so consumed by how I would orchestrate thoughts

into words I forgot how much I hated to be driven by her.

Though we soon arrived to a house. She parked and we

got out. I then realised I had no idea where we were or why—

288

remembering that time in India when we got lost in Udapuir

and she ended up fucking an Indian guy above a shop. She



had always been quite absurd in her ways, I started think.

Though fortunately after a knock a girl opened the door. A

brunette with large breasts, who she introduced as Rella. Rella

also had a Spanish accent though she kept trying to use

cockney slang: mentioning that a guy called Simone owed her

an edge note whilst we walked into her kitchen. I didn’t know

why she was using the term edge note, but I had more patience

than I would have had as I had started to feel empty long

before. Emptiness can erode self-worth and enable ridiculous

situations, I came to find out. But not before Rella came across

as quite ordinary. We all sat down and spoke about the

weather, Picasso and then a writer that they both knew called

Candela over cups of herbal tea. Apparently, Candela had

started an Anarchist party that was intended to torment the

ordinary folk, said Rella whilst playing with her tea bag;

dunking it in the water and stirring it.

Rella then mentioned that there was also a group of

artists, mostly from Zaragoza, that were undertaking a séance

later that evening and that after the tea we should all go.

Again, I felt as if time had consumed me by then: emptiness

drifted into every orifice of life I had since turning thirty.

Feeling the grey edge hairs on a head of hair I was too proud

to still have.

We arrived to séance about eight thirty. It was about five

women and three guys. Only one of the guys even made an

effort to speak to me. Introducing himself as Benair.

Correcting me when I said Bena. No Benair, he said, it’s from

my Dad’s side and so we take pride in names. I didn’t know

what else to say, mostly because I had been up writing the

night before and so I had felt subdued in interacting with

another person. Though Rella introduced me as a writer and

mentioned the last book I published. Benair seemed interested

289

momentarily: mentioning that his father was a poet, but he

soon walked out of the living room, perhaps to the kitchen, I

didn’t know. I took a seat on the sofa, opposite where the



séance had been set up on the floor. And failed to even think

about the meaning of a séance. Strangely it was Rella that

started to take an interest and she was soon asking about my

next reading. I think I can make it, she said.

The séance seemed long and arduous, mostly because

these things are silly in my eyes: they don’t make any sense

and even if something happened, which Rellla seemed to

think it did, nothing happens. When Rella got out the car we

drove along in silence I then asked where her boyfriend was

that night and she then said Plymouth. I wondered if I should

try my luck, but I thought it best not to, mostly because in a

way she had let me back into her life. And I didn’t want to

ruin this, I thought. As I drove back to my flat I thought about

when I would call Rella, but I had no idea she would call.

It must have been after one as I had stopped writing

about that time when the phone rang. It was Rella. She was

riffing about how since the séance she had been feeling as if

something was speaking through her. In my mind I thought

Actors can be so dramatic at times, but I didn’t say this.

Instead we spoke about her dead Grandfather and then

strangely she said that she were in the bed naked. It seemed

strange because I thought somewhere that night I heard her

speaking about a boyfriend, so I ignored her. But soon enough

the topic was breached again. I asked her outright if she

wanted me to drive to her place and she hung up the phone. I

waited a few minutes, wondering if I should call back and

then called. The phone just rung and rung and I thought that

it would quickly become a car crash situation. So I went to

bed.

An hour later Rella was knocking on the door. The flat

below always complained of noise, so I crept to the door,

looked through the peep hole to see her playing with her hair

290

and then let her in. I had so many questions, but due to this

feeling of emptiness I overlooked a mammoth amount of

things. She was dressed in gym clothes and she was speaking



even more quickly about the séance, her Grandfather and that

Benair had cursed her apparently. I was still in a slight late

night stupor so this was all coming thick and fast, I thought.

And I think she noticed that I started to yawn. O are you tired,

she said as she sat on my lap. We fucked on the sofa for about

an hour, her shouting out random words, and then I fell

asleep.

Over the next few months Rella hardly left the flat. We

would fuck and otherwise she was quiet, standing over my

shoulder watching me write. I came to find her presence like

an old pair of socks. Always with a cup of tea over my shoulder

watching me write. Though from time to time she would

mention such things as Benair’s curse, though usually I would

maintain a sense of calm by thinking about how boring life

was alone. It was the third month that Rella started to act

strangely. She, some nights, would act as if a different person.

Like a disturbed poet her words would spring out without

much sense at all. Words that were mostly about a guy from

Valencia called Valdair. I came to find out Valdair related to

an experience she had when she was fifteen. Though I

couldn’t piece together much sense as it didn’t make much.

Especially one night when she told me that she was having

nightmares about Benair. I told her that Benair wouldn’t hurt

her, and she refused to believe this. So much so that the next

day I called and had lunch with Benair.

Benair arrived late and spoke about how busy he was. And I

told him about the situation with Rella and how things had

capsized because of some strange nightmares. Benair, as if a

matter of fact said: O the curse, what about it? I then asked

him what it was about, and he explained that he had cursed

Rella because of something she had done in a past life. I didn’t

know whether to be angry or not, but I gave him a piece of my

291

mind, and before long he had thrown a punch. I think I

missed his chin and was pushed off him by the corpulent

waiter. I drove back to my flat. Though that night I didn’t tell

Rella what had happened, because I was quite sure I had

made it worse, but I ultimately I didn’t believe in anything to

do with a curse, I thought as Rella and I fucked. She had

started to cry and only her tears were interrupted by her

orgasm. I couldn’t do two things at once, I thought, console

her and fuck her, so I decided to just fuck her.

It was that Friday that Rella started to act even more

strangely, as if someone was speaking through her. She was

over my shoulder shouting obnoxiously about witches and

African juju in a way I found frightening. Perhaps it was all

the head swinging. I don’t know. But that night she stormed

out and was arrested. I got the call late Friday and I arrived to

the police station. The officer behind the counter was languid

in his ways, as if every situation was boring him: slowly

moving from printer to counter to another room and back in a

slow fashion. Eventually the officer explained that Rella had

got into a dispute that resulted in a fight, and that the victim

was a seventy year old man, that Rella, apparently was calling

her dead Grandfather. It seemed completely stupid to hear

these words repeated in a manner as this, but there I was, I

thought.

Rella was released the next day, and we drove to my flat

in silence. I didn’t know how to break things off, even though

I was enjoying the sex, even through the tears. So I just told

her that I was going to Spain on a writing residency and that I

was leaving that week. I thought she hadn’t heard me as she

said nothing. But the next day I booked a ticket to Hamburg,

just in case she followed me, and I packed a bag. I told her

that I was leaving again and she seemed perplexed. Even more

perplexing was that we had sex one more time. Though the

next day I was simply gone.

I stayed in Hamburg for three months. I rarely left the

apartment that I rented and when I did it was to see Himler,



292

the German translator of the last novel I had written. We

would meet to speak about the new book, and Himler would

lavish more and more praise on me. Though I was bored from

the start. After the third month I decided to go back to

London. I expected madness. Though nothing. The flat was as

it was when I left, and the car was where I left it. No slashed

tires. It was a few days later that I bumped into Benair on the

street outside La Bouche and we apprehensively spoke to one

another. He asking if I was going to hit him. I said no and we

soon started to talk about Rella. It seemed strange as he was

mentioning her in the past tense. I finally asked him what

happened outright, just like that. And he simply said: She’s

gone...

293



...the exuberances...

In a province of Oman, Al Wusta, villagers were apparently sent

two dozen macaws from an anonymous Russian Oligarch, that

signed the card 'Russian Oligarch with love'. Most of the

villagers were mystified at the sight of these talkative macaws, of

which some were red with yellow throats, a few others had

purple throats and red bodies, another two were burgundy with

blue throats. One in particular, (a purple throated macaw) was

most intriguing, by the way in which the macaw would sprout

poems.

the flagrant flamingo

fires through with

the beauty of the moment

and breads sensuously

Said the macaw on his first day of arrival to Al Wusta, surprising

villagers to such an extent that a villager called Ahmed Ahmed

came over in hives, by the shock of seeing these talkative birds.

The macaw would just repeat his name and continue on the day.

But, by this Ahmed Ahmed had to go to the closest hospital,

294

which he did. And there it became apparent to him that he

had in fact contracted an illness, with the symptoms being

vomiting, sweating, and the aforementioned hives. The

Doctor, one Al Saed, failed to ascertain the route cause of

this rather "exotic illness" he said of it. But diagnosed it as

"near fatal". Though due to the excited spectacle of the

macaws no connection was made between Ahmed

Ahmed's sickness and the birds, initially, let alone the

Russian Oligarch.

In the same week as this happening a villager called

Miriam Mousa caused even more hysteria when she

apparently, due to years of being wife beaten, killed her

husband in front of one of the macaws.

***

295

...yellow, Laura...

Yellow was his colour, he wore it especially when in a

good mood and this was so on a random Saturday in July. The

sun was causing shadows and there was no wind. I usually

walked towards the market on a Saturday through the park but


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I changed my mind this day—I walked straight through the

city landscape and bumped into him. He spoke about his book,

and I said that I was glad that the publisher had finally

released it (though I wasn’t). Which he then replied to by

saying: I would have thought you were too busy with Laura to

even read. And what does that mean, I said whilst the sun’s

shimmer cascaded onto his yellow shirt obnoxiously. Just that,

he responded abruptly as if matter of factly. Why don’t you

come for dinner? I asked as if I didn’t want to seem like a lame

duck to an established part of the literati, but without the

realisation that I was inviting a man I disliked vehemently. On

his toes he agreed before we set up a time (6 O'Clock the next

day) and we parted ways.

When I got back home I told Laura about the dinner

and she said that I was stupid to invite someone I disliked. He

even wears yellow hats, I added. She reaffirmed the feeling I

already had but obliged to make something nice for us to eat.

When he arrived the next day he knocked on the door.

And I let him in. As I did this I nearly knocked over the

asphalt sculpture sitting in my hallway and thought that this

was in fact an omen, as my Father had given me this Asphalt

sculpture, which Laura hated by the by, and it had been sitting

in my corridor for years however.

The food smells like sex, he said whilst taking a seat in

the living room, which reminded me of how perversive his

work was compared to mine. I made a mental note of this and

started to chit chat before Laura came into the living room

from the kitchen. I introduced them or if I can remember he

introduced himself and told her that he had seen her but they

had never spoken. By now I was constipated with feelings

offset by the yellow jumper he was wearing and his book. I had

feverishly read half the night before and conceded that he was

296

in fact good, but obnoxious at the same time. I thought it would

give us something to laugh about, myself and Laura, some

common bond and disgust for a fellow human being. But

instead, whispering to me in the kitchen, she said that he

seemed charming. Taken aback I threw the salad on the floor.

What are you doing? She asked. What do you mean charming?

Are bees charming? Was Hitler a bit of alright? Calm down, she

said and entertain your guest.

I stormed out of the kitchen and began to probe him: of

the protagonist in his book, of his time in Lithuania for

research, of his bachelor status. So much so that it caused a

little sweat on my brow, I wiped the sweat which he pointed

out was dripping and let the conversation come to a standstill.

It was Laura that walked in with the wine talking about her

reading of Simone De Beauvoir and Sartre’s relationship. He

lapped it up: taking off his yellow jumper and adding his two

cents.

After dinner we drank another glass of wine and for me

that was it. I told him that he was interesting and that the night

was over. Discouraged he looked at me as if I had kicked his

poodle, rising eyebrows and a pout. Okay he said before

standing.

It was the next few weeks that I started to suspect

something. Laura had bumped into him on numerous

occasions and even had a coffee with him. I knew something

was going on immediately, but I found the possibility of an

affair crazy: what would she find in him that I didn’t possess? I

questioned myself on a Saturday wherein I expected a cooked

lunch.

I confronted Laura about this and she quickly admitted

that he was in fact her intellectual equal she said, I remember

her use of the word intellectual equal. Even with all those

stupid yellow clothes, I said whilst noticing that her socks were

now dark yellow. I think I want to move out, she replied.

I think she was calling my bluff but I let her go and do as

she pleased in the knowledge that I would be right. I moved the

asphalt sculpture into my living room and reminisced over my

Father when she left.

297

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...the painter...

“Our notions of justice should be flexible enough to allow for

certain immoral practices.” —Alex Kovacs, The Currency of

Paper

The Expected Sounds of Life and Death, 2003

“What are the names of these?” said a Major.

“Masama Youlou, Sassou,” said a thin-lipped guard coarsely

pointing. “And Franz Bema here.”

“Of course I know Franz, particularly well, we all do and it

would be a pleasure...”

The men stood, two fidgeted in the dusty evening light; it was

about eight o’clock and the day had been spent: the passage

of play seemed that this would be the final call for these men.

And it is this anti-climatic view of death that surrounds the

atmosphere now: the collateral damage of war, corruption

and power all befell a disquieted silence in this moment

instead. Franz Bema was the one that failed to flinch, speak

or act, even under extreme pressure: he had been routinely

tortured two days before, but remained apathetic,

monotonous in approach towards these actions—“…trading

on our misfortune!”

Watching, this Major began walking to then stop as he stood

back closer to a group of guards, that were secretly hedging

298



peculiar bets of the possible events sequence of occurrence,

and were very much headed by one known as Songo, who

would, according to many in and around the prison, hedge

monetary bets on a prisoners last words, or whether they

would flinch or, once, if a man would urinate in the thick of

these deathly antics, that were often failed to even be filed for

and swept under a hugely occupied dirty rug as just accidents.

Youlou stood shivering at the view of the Major’s revolver,

held as if a nuisance by a man that seemed only to speak of

Football and women; crime and punishment seemed a long

way away from his vantage point in life, it seemed, though

there they stood. “Bang!” the gun sounding and Youlou

dropping to the ground in a screeching cry: “Oh Mungu, oh

Mungu kwa nini!”

Perhaps rational thought would session these deaths in some

sort of order at least, but life in this prison took no varied

order whatsoever and it is in this chaos that sometimes God’s

face is unmasked, as Franz or Masama were flanked on either

end of the now jaggedly fallen dead body crushing into the

dusty soil, unaware of its roots from the womb. — And it all

could easily have been different “…Major it is Malonga, he is

arriving here any minute,” spoken in a deep voiced Swahili

accent by a guard rushing from within the prison to then stop

and start yelling just as the gun went off, “it's apparently been

called for this... Mister Franz Bema to be handled another

way!”

Even Songo slightly flinched, but not this man that had been

spared by a Major’s seeming disdain for order, as the blood

that trickled warm on the prison floor said everything and

more, especially to Masama who looked on with glazed eyes,

clearly in realisation to the finality of the life he had led,

seemingly reaching a banal end, in slight quivers, stood

alongside the man the message concerned remaining

unburdened on the right hand wing of the three. Other

inmates started making noises from the sound of the gun, as

the severity of death should have been serene, serious but

299

rather, in contrast, it was Songo’s reaction and actions that

happened to speak of certain ethics that replay a monotonous

sanction on nothing but power and advantage, whether moral

or immoral: a man that fails to take power is partial to another

taking it from them, through benefits possibly all of their own,

such as, in this case, money gained from a tear, urination,

flinch or worse, in the eyes of the guards, “a sudden penitent

thief of a man” which always seemed “despicable” but what

was the alternative here? A masochist?



The Major stood eye balling the man and looking clearly

annoyed at the lack of expected sounds of life and death,

again: Franz Bema still failed to react, and this garnered a

strange intrigue and an unnerving life tone.

Constrains to Time and Wonder

The rather disparate man stood in front of lieutenant Malonga

with a dispassionate look on his sweaty face, partially due to

the hot Congolese summer and thirty minute wait for the

arrival. He stood like he walked, as if exuding knowledge of

something more, something else perhaps seen or unseen. And

it was this emanation that seemed to disagree with Malonga

mostly. As it had been a month since this regiment,

spearheaded by the lieutenant, had captured the man now

infamous and famous, alike—that regardless of his knowledge

of, or intent, remained merciless as if he was overpowering the

powers that formed to oppress the man, now very much at the

edge of life, it could easily be said, but showing no true signs

of panic, and it was this foreign reaction that most beguiled

those imprisoning him. As he acted malcontent or perhaps

even just coolly-exasperated, as he stood being berated: “You

say nothing! So Mister Franz Bema...You think… you can

come here and live to tell the tale because of the British, all

these papers... You can come to Congo and survive this!”

So the berated stood coldly looking around at the derelict

300

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

buildings, with visible bullet holes and fractured concrete of

calcium fractured sculptures decaying without a conceptual

artist's appropriation, event or true value of life. Skulls

perched on dusty floors drenched by sun particles radiating

the cold reality of the world, and perhaps an acceptance that

accounts for the perception that life continued at any rate,

and with no remorse, the sun would still continue to shine

and nobody would truly hear the sounds of a man’s cries in

the area of land where the prison stood.

Because the prison grounds were remote within this

dilapidated area and those within it were just as routinely

mistreated—another group of them stood listlessly watching

Malonga’s veins protruding from a head sweat-darkened and

containing a succession of tribal marks on each cheek, a

piercing gaze full of yellowed eyes, as if crying of fierce war

stories; of hard realities and storied embattled journeys to

becoming this ‘African lieutenant’ and one that has a

multiplicity of sheer fire and witness.

“I’m going to send you to the hole, the darkness... and what

do you have to say about this Monsieur Painter or Arms

man?”

‘Venetian blinds allowed a bright morning light to cascade

into this luxurious Chelsea apartment’s living room, where

prior to walking in, the hallway housed an original Picasso

canvas painting, ‘Head of a Woman’ and, tellingly, another by

the man hosting, entitled: ‘Untitled (She was a Little Upset)’.

Both paintings seemed to juxtapose the man that stood in the

middle of the room wearing a silk predominantly yellow

patterned Chinese dressing gown with casual blue shorts and

bright yellow slippers. Brutal, simple, complex all at the same

time—Handsome and, perhaps even, boyish features govern

a look unlike a Rembrandt portrait or even a bog eyed

Picasso, regardless of his possible reappropriation of the

latter’s final portrait, but rather an elegant black man with a

sloped prominent forehead, oval face, symmetrical features

301

and a slim silhouette.

His wife, Belgium born Artist Conseulo Bema, had led me in

and smiled at the occasion of actual introduction and

mentioned that she would make some tea. Her delicate

disposition an essential detail in her husband’s eventful life

and one providing evidence for its very journey—she, herself,

has undertaken photographic projects in the Gambia, Congo,

Ghana and has been renowned for an attraction to dangerous

situations: her photographs are littered with juxtaposition of

guns, skulls, war, beauty and time itself as her Father, the

diplomat Didian Felliani’s, work meant that her childhood had

been spent across the diaspora of Western Africa, Europe and

India, rendering these places all influential in the work, woman

and perhaps in the relationship with her husband. I then

wondered how they met, “Me and my wife? That’s a long

journey of a story, perhaps I’ll get to it later, maybe.”



Of journeys, it had been a long path to meet Mr Franz Bema,

one that started seven years before, for me—Lost and

languishing in the outer regions of the UK a friend had

mentioned to me a newly formed Arts collective or group

calling themselves ‘Lucid Documentarists’ in what was then, to

me, the big smoke of London— the Artists included were Alice

Daniels, Yashu, Leila Dois—With the founder being the man I

am meeting today and one that long seemed to disdain media

intrusions; he had only given two full-featured interviews

before this.

Since coming across his work those years ago, Bema then went

on to become a renowned Artist, primarily through numerous

exhibitions throughout Europe and even one in New Mexico

along with the factor that he is a huge force in Africa too. And

it was at one of these events that I first came into contact with

him, when at a gallery in Holborn. I approached him stood in

the corner and before I could open a mouth poised to gushing

over a brilliant show, he said, “I’m sorry but you look like a

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journalist and I’m so sorry but I can’t.” and then walked

towards another corner of the galleria. And well he was right,

but my pursuit was more earnest than he could have figured,

as his autobiography, A Painters Life, is a book that helped me

through multiple trying times. So I mentioned our first

encounter stood with the light refracted into the living room

and he said, “Look at this fish tank, does that not take you

away from the worries of perception and this ridiculous first

time we met that I can’t even remember.”

Well, in his defence he was right, as the four foot fish tank did

eschew a real tropical enchantment and it stood in front of a

huge mounted painting of his, so I swiftly took it as modus

operandi and moved on to ask him about this painting (Study

for a theatre of the mind), “It’s about exhibiting the mind’s

ambiance, that is what I’m most interested in, the light that

appreciates the need for darkness in order to see it clearly.”

Interesting, and esoteric and that is one thing that always

seems to arise in the topic of his work: Is there a

preoccupation with Art more than life. “I don’t agree, as I’m

making my way back to Ghana of course and that is for the

preoccupation of life rather than being an Artist’s Artist. As it

has been at least ten months since I last exhibited, mostly

because I’ve been back and forth between there and here.”

And this is the reason why The Times newspaper takes an

interest in this most eclectic, and perhaps even eccentric

Artist. As stood in front of me was not just a dauber but also

an associate minister of Ghana. And so I am here to also ask

questions relating not just to Art, but power too, as he has a

lot of it now.’

“Who do you think you are?” and Malonga was angry, because

the torturing seemed only a figment in a mind seemingly

elsewhere. The man did not answer but was led away to a

darkened cell...

The cell contained a concrete slab, raised to knee levels of the

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man, a broken window with barbed wired bars and a hole,

deemed a toilet. Appropriate a new life language is all Franz

could do, it seemed, and coordinate a way to function, as life

and death was neither the plight or goal, in that they both

seemed uninteresting goals to pursue with vigour, “Either

would come” he said as the cell door closed, and the only light

that flanked through the frosted window’s broken gap was a

humid thick air. The window was too thick to allow all the

natural light of the Congolese summer to shine through.

Though a gap would, of course, open when a guard appeared

through the then unlocked hatchet to the cell’s mauve brown

door. The concrete on the floor was partially green. He took a

seat on the concrete slab and heard a female’s voice coarsely,

in a thick African accent disjointedly say: “A man like you…

how?”



Seemingly, quickly, infamous within the Prison his reason for

being there was surrounded in wonders that would not cease

to shock and amounted to the intrigue of how he man came to

arrive? But before the female voice could receive an answer or

even fully show her self to Franz another voice formed behind

her called to then be led away. The hatchet closed and he was

left alone in the dark cell with just his thoughts as friends. So,

many of the guards quickly took a vested interest in the cell of

Franz and it was keenly observed by those that guarded the

area, due in part to Malonga’s watchful frequents, where,

usually he would stare passionately at those relaying the man’s

actions. Franz was observed to spend time doing sit-ups (a

hundred every three hours) and sometimes press-ups, instead

(either or), and also humming. He would hum songs and ones

that he could clearly remember and perhaps wanted to keep in

memory, regardless of fortitude or destiny.

Interestingly, two other female guards had also taken a distinct

interest in the man’s showers, food and rights—though

Malonga’s attendance and searing gaze hindered many

interactions, apart mainly from the few guards that patrolled

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Franz’s cell area. Though apparently a day after being put into

the hole there was a quarrel between female guard’s Patricia

Okor and Malia Samagenda, over whom would take him to

shower that morning, but this story remained allegedly

unconfirmed.

Gossip spread via a large amount of aspects of the case, of

which were these documented transcripts, that many of the

guards would read newspapers of featuring Franz. So they

would spend hours consumed with discussing the very essence

of the case and the exotic nature of the situation in between

observing his arraignment and the man’s peculiar actions in

person; it was accepted by nearly all concerned that it was a

special arrangement that hid him under a Congolese bushel, it

could be said.

Akwaba—Minister Bema, Tema (Accra, Ghana)

Rumours of a politician’s impeachment had been mounting in

the local area and Bema had become aware through

acquaintance of one, Kwase Donkor. As it had been three

weeks of his move to Ghana that knowledge of his stay in the

area took the interest of more than just the local area

incumbents. And this meant taking a partial interest in the

political scene in Ghana.

He had purchased a medium to large apartment in Tema, Accra

that sat upon fifty acres of land and contained a pool in the

garden. At the sight he would “often remember his life growing

up in Hackney and feel ever more sweeter perched where he

resided.” Though something was possibly disquiet within him

and this lubricated friendships or enlivened new ones as he,

one Saturday evening, made his way to a Night Club, he had

visited once before with one of the cleaners of his house, Rose.

She wanted to go again and coerced Franz to do so, as the last

time he had spent the time, apparently “Dancing, drinking and

having a good time with a large crowd.” This was so, as he had

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long been known, throughout the London Art scene that he

had been trail blazing, of that time, as a character with “je ne

sais quoi”. Where, he would routinely sell paintings through

Sotheby’s and Christie’s auction houses at £150,000 and above,

even. This je ne sais quoi impressed and in a chance encounter

at this dance—that Rose had coerced him to—Franz became

friendly and accepted drinks sent from the middle of an

assortment of women on the dance floor—they were purchased

by Kwase Donkor, and this perhaps started Fanuia Muamba’s

investigation of the man. As, attracting attention Donkor stood

accused, and soon became another minister in the midst of

alleged “decadent corruption”, so little did Donkor know that

all his associations were under close scrutiny, and this soon

included Franz Bema.



Fanuia Muamba

He stood a little less than five foot and arrived to the prison via

UN and international aid. He had explained Franz’s story’s

beginning and this meeting of Kwase Donkor and then

mentioned to Malonga that: “...I will have to meet the man and

speak with him...” This was a request met with a cold blank

stare that spoke of the fortune of how this imprisonment had

taken a life of its own—onus was therefore on the balancing act

of guiding a range of principle divisions: revenge, justice, truth

and advantage being the most prominent influences. Ignorance

to these concerns seemed Molanga's major gripe in regards to

Franz.

“Revenge is a dish best un-served, a person like this should

choose their own suffering,” Malonga had then said in Swahili

of the situation. Of which looked very much like a descent,

seeping of an extreme, rather poetic justice, “He sold both of us

all these ammunitions and looks at us with no reaction after

everything. We have a right to torture him.”

‘”I think life is very much about opulence and think that this

nature of a Painter, I think, as it may seem decadent, this

lifestyle, but all these aspects of my life are very much under

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pinned by a fascination of life, not just art,” he said whilst his

wife slowly brought in two cups of organic green tea as I

measured a reflection on the concept of decay in the

conceptualisation of his oeuvre he says, “I think life comprises

of an expression of the decadence of life’s natural beauty and a

viewpoint of a serial adventurer. Because I grew up in a varied

existence of a life oscillating between wealth and abject poverty

of Hackney, Victoria Park and London’s Bow area.” “Passionate.

The boy done good.” I say, for good reason, but it is this

primordial passion or exchange that impinges on a rumoured

“megalomaniacal” nature—three art assistants have deemed him

evidently talented, humorous but with a penchant for power.

Therefore, it would bare no true fruit, as a true journalist, to fail

to breach these difficult subjects with the man.’

Three more guards stood around looking on at the conversation

had between Malonga and the man that, in a certain manner,

brought a cavalry, but due to secluded singularity of the area

the prison stood in, and the highly armed vernacular: the

impoverished surroundings aided in precipitation of its own

justice, as opposed to the, now frequent, calls for International

involvement—and though the lieutenant had not made this

clear, he used subtle indications to illustrate the ease at which

death could just happen, “By accident,” he said, “Things can

happen.” So his anger had to be contained due, apparently, to

calls from “Powers higher” calling for a new resolution to the

situation. “I don’t care if this man is Da Vinci, he has stolen

lives from us by selling us arms and now he must pay!”

Infamy of The Dwelling of The Hole

It had, by this time, been only four days of Franz’s

imprisonment in the hole, and as time passed the cell, number

33, kept growing in infamy. This cold room silent, isolated and

stained in a ghostly vestige of dereliction; brown walls, paint

splattered green floors and therefore an ambiance of a deathly

decree, with sudden ailment-inducing combinations of natural

and, somewhat, artificial light through this small—twenty by

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twenty centimeter window that contained a stained glass: grey

and thickly glazed, but just about thin enough to reduce the

afternoons highest summer temperature’s sunlight into a

dimmed light that perpetrated a cross-like shadow onto the

adjacent wall. Thus, forming a mystical like environment of

sheer church like resemblance, aided by a wine-dark

bloodstain on the wall next to the mauve door that communed

to form a sort of mutual reverent feeling. The hole in the floor

sat below this, up against the wall on the left, which, when sat

on, meant its view in the evenings would see a dampened

lamp-like light within, otherwise, a room rather dark.



Rumours amongst those knowledgeable of the history of the

prison spoke of anecdotes of the cell, and namely the memory

of a prisoner called Santon Makomba, that one guard, a rotund

man, Elton Mubai, had long held much veneration and

emotional attachment for and even suggested that Makomba’s

spirit haunted the hole’s confined area, which had been

especially assigned for usage of those deemed particularly

delinquent, troubled and problematic; thus placing Franz in

venerated company.

Abject Wealth & Indolence

“…You tell me! Because the man has not spoken!” starts

Malonga yelling down towards a seated Muamba, "...because

whoever helped him sell to all the conflicted sides in Ituri,

Kivo! And more, even! The audacity to deal these arms…Tell

me! Because he should be here with him, scoundrel!”

Muamba’s small frame partially hunches and straightens as he

holds two hands out in front of his chest, raises them and

lowers them in motion, in an aid to calm down a lieutenant

clearly enraged by the lack of information, as until now the

connections were all rather abstract and undefined,

“Allegedly…” declared Muamba in a lowering voice that trailed

off into a pensive nod. “We can’t sit here and accuse people,

there are laws even here lieutenant.” “O we are more than

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civilised, is it that pesky Egyptian Salah? Ibraham Salah?”

asked Malonga, still stood up at the edge of the table, leaning,

“Because…somebody needs to pay...”

The room remained tense; full of exactly four UN specialist

consultants, and a collection of four guards all stood behind

Malonga in a windowless room containing just a strangely

large mahogany desk.

“If we have no rights to detain our own enemies as a

lieutenant then tell me what we are doing here? As this man

has made his way, this supremely wealthy man, from Ghana

or Britain or wherever he has come from, and all the

evidence leads to this man.”

Offended in the silence, Malonga starts pacing: from one side

of the room to the other side of the room shaking his head

with arms to either side of his chest.

“What is the answer?”

“Grandiose tales…besides, countries are calling for his

extradition Malonga.”

“Nonsense! Not this man, then you bring me Salah...”

According to “Grandiose” Tales That Have not Completely

Added Up

For Malonga, the story that only tentatively remains “alleged”

goes as so, in relation to Franz Bema: ten months before

standing in front of the UN, information had been gathered

from sources based in Rwanda, Mali and as far off as

Palestine to a few majors and Colonels including Malonga

that large amounts of ammunitions were being sold to their

enemies, with a shipment said to be making its way from

Saudi Arabia via a tip off from a tortured enemy that lay in a

sanitarium in the Ituri region.

A Soul’s Endeavour

The South African Priest walked into the cell just as the

morning light was appearing through the window. Franz only

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awoke after the guard, Malia Samagenda, prodded his leg,

“He’ll wake up.”

“Well that’s good.”

And in a stir Franz awoke, looking around the room at the

guard and then at The Priest. The guard explained that The

Priest would see him and that he should get himself together

quickly. He listening, barely acknowledged any of these

happenings, only sitting up against the wall of the bed on top

the pillow.

“Sit up properly!”

“...No that’s fine, I can sit on the end here,” replied The Priest

to the guard who then sighed before walking out and closing

the door. “I know it can seem strange that I came to see you,

but I’ve heard a lot about you…”

“Okay... ...”

“...Well yes,” said The Priest with an excited touch of the Bible

that sat on his lap wickedly positioned somewhat in the light.

“...I have heard that you’re on some sort of, how would you call

it…you’ve taken some sort of pledge of silence.”

Franz looked at him: at the dog collar, his face and then at the

Bible in his lap. And just nodded his head from side to side.

“Look, don’t be alarmed, I am here to talk with you, if I am

honest you have been an intense topic of conversation and it is

only in respect that I wanted to come and speak with you... as I

understand things, it’s as if Rimbaud breaths, the situation in

itself, as if Rimbaud walks through here amongst us. This

whole dealing arms saga. Here you will fail to detect the least

trace of any monument of superstition, he said those words

Rimbaud. And I thought about those words before I came to

talk with you, even though you refused the right,” as The Priest

spoke this Franz failed to move his head which was positioned

squarely around the Bible on the lap of The Priest... “I will say

because it is a rather lawless place here, regardless of your

repute I can’t deny the danger of being here and only can hope

God’s will is seen over this whole situation... It is somewhat

like the Chaplain in The Stranger by Camus, which I know you

know…”

310

There was a silence now, only broken by the sound of the

guard looking into the cell, but The Priest was starring at

Franz ardently as if to gain a response by way of an

appreciated commonality of language: just looking at him

and then continuing to talk: “Art is very much something

that is from the hand of God, it really is and can only

subside any fear with the hope that this situation resolves

itself...”

The Priest then sat in silence for about five more minutes

before standing up, and knocking on the cell’s door.

Malonga opened it, standing in front of Malia Samagenda.

“Was he silent?” said Malonga.

“Well…it’s…” The Priest appeared tongue tied, stuttering,

and could only offer these words before walking away

through the corridor.

“Let’s go,” said Malonga, “Why should you just enjoy this

solitude, it's not suffering to you... No, you deserve to be

amongst the wolves, you know the people that nobody wants

to meet in the dark...”

Franz, now handcuffed by Malia Samagenda was then

walked down the corridor with Malonga just watching, stood

still. As they walked Malia spoke: “Your wife is trying to see

you, but you know I have some good pussy for you... Black

pussy.” Franz looked at her in the eye and this was only

broken when Malonga shouted: “Put him in the cell there,

right there.”

No Exit

According to multiple stories the situation went somewhat

as this: upon entering the cell, which was populated by eight

other prisoners, Franz was escorted to a bed without bed

sheets and was told that he would be attended to later in the

day, after another meeting with Muamba, and it was after the

guard left that he was apparently stabbed to death by an

Egyptian prisoner called Mahmed. What was most striking

were his apparent last words: No exit...

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...schisms...

1953 - 1975

The same Grosz illustration was posted up on their

living room wall (End of the Line, 1913), and had been sat

there for years. A grotesque scene Belladonna would often

comment on, with a smirk when a person would visit. He

loves it, I don't know why... It would seem strange to write on

Belladonna here, whilst Simone did what he did throughout

these years, but Belladonna is where the primal scream sits

most jaggedly. Most outrageously. Like blood on the necks of

choir singers at an altar.

Simone would do what he would do, but Belladonna's

time spent was unusual in lieu of this. Simone one thing,

Belladonna another. She would, most Tuesdays and

Wednesdays, light a prayered altar, through the window her

neighbours could watch. Burning incense, speaking a prayer

her mother had taught her, though to which God? Though

this procession of occurrences prevailed there were too many

other particulars to deem Belladonna ignorant: claret on

shirts, late night entrances, and that's not to mention a thing

312

as their own sex life. Asphyxiation, scatology, water sports.

Even in her ageing this continued throughout the years with

constant bruises on thighs, swollen eye sockets... burning the

candle at both ends, along with the matches, the entire

house...

In the regard of cleanliness Belladonna would speak

of how Simone liked things clean over the years, perhaps a

significant aspect of his character. Remnants of cubism,

functioning like clean blocks of systems, surmounted to

govern their lives, though the paint very much orchestrated

in tandem on the canvas of all this. The deaths were too

plentiful to mention spilt wine on washed off collars. A total

of thirteen women all holed up at the edges of the village in

disparate places.

The guile of it all...

313

...burgundy...

...as if allegories wrapped up in cigarette smoke, Fedor

spoke whilst taking long drags—words oscillating between

funked and motivated with subsequent hunch back and straight

back. He was talking about Arca in ways I had imagined Prisa

would: dramatic and all ridiculous. Though he kept using the

word absurd: nearly every other sentence was the word absurd.

Candela interrupted him and said: The romance of the situation

has got you by the balls…

By the time twenty minutes had passed there were too

many voices to decipher any clear sense: just voices emanating

into the abyss. Candela walked to the edge of the balcony

overlooking the City and started mumbling something.

Something, some words, some happenings. And before we knew it

she had thrown herself off the balcony, and was soon

intermeshed with the street’s pavement: concrete, blood,

abrupt endings…

At the thought of death, thoughts circling around:

Something, some words, some happenings. Sensuous memories of

bones, blood, lips against curb. The fatalities were mounting in

the sense that slow death was occurring through the passivity

of happenings: the neglect for the antics of pursuance.

The corpulent and sweaty bar manager ran out on to the

balcony screaming: Why she do this? Why she do this here? Black

and greying moustache wet, butt-cheeks too by the look of the

patch on his tight-fitting trousers. It was a hot summer’s day.

And death was the least of worries. We’ve all got to go...

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...opéra of tombs...

“The emptiness of our boredom met with the emptiness of these

supposed signs.”

― Witold Gombrowicz, Cosmos

Romenach Alderov nursed a pint in a public house in

Stoke Newington—whilst Pinochet was being arrested: these

rather frantic happenings occurring on the flashing screen a

few metres away from him. Though he hardly noticed,

instead he thought about the capriciousness of a woman he

only knew as “Lulu”. Feint disclosures amounting to abstract

memories. It was hardly as if the world was a distant place to

him, no rather on the contrary Romenach had simply had

enough: he had decided earlier on that day that this would be

his last day on earth—and it was like a deep laughter that

consumed him: a feeling amounting to leaving a cinema half

way through a film that you can’t sit through, or a

disappointing meal, he wrote that morning in his boxers at

the kitchen table as if he wasn’t contemplating death at all,

but something altogether different. The cold beer poured

down his gullet whilst the news anchor continued to excitedly

explain Pinochet’s arrest, the barman, Keith, on the edge

leaning against the bar, two eyes transfixed.

The night before he had explained to Reinaldo how he

came from another time—Postwar Yuguslovia and that it was

a time that he felt consisted of this obsolete feeling of living

in cramped conditions, with inordinate rationings that all

lived under the auspice of Communism. He perhaps

understood “the banalities” in ways that other people had

never envisaged: the deep fabric of multiple experiences

woven into a philosophy that at one point saw things from a

315

completely different perspective: though for years he had been

chairman of CVA, the infamous group known for rioting and

political upheavals mostly in the UK and in Spain too.

Though with a brief look at the screen, and then at

Keith, Romenach felt it was all meaningless: and he also wrote

this in the morning, that regardless of what occurred… though



again he didn’t finish the thought, he just poured the rest of

the beer down his gullet and stood up. If today was to be his

last day, it would only be right that he take it in: breathe it in

and out and then in again as if the wind blowing a plastic bag

across an empty street…

On the street he noticed a Jewish man talking with an

Asian looking man about something that seemed dramatic (all

gesticulations) next to a few birds flocking around a few

discarded pieces of bread. The fog causing a distance that

distorts the figures as he walked past and away down the street

towards Dalston, looking back, thinking about “Lulu”.

Interwoven into the fog was a wind that blew heavy wind

across his face as street cleaners stood on the corner of the

street chit-chatting in loud guffaws.

Exiting the off-licence, he decided that he would watch

a film at the Cinema at Dalston. The ticket seller told him that

the film ‘The Big Lebowski’ would play in half an hour and he

looked at his watch, by habit, as if he hadn’t made “this

decision”. This made him laugh momentarily; the absurdness

of it. The ticket seller looks up at him with a confused squint

that perhaps would invite an explanation, but today was not

that type of day, he thought.

After he bought the ticket he loitered around, walking

slowly and whistling—a trait he owed to his mother, who was a

rather famous Yugoslavian pop star in the 20’s. He stood close

to the window now, and looked onto the foggy street at all the

people going to and thro, perhaps to Dalston market to

purchase old new meat, or to the shopping centre or perhaps

to their mistress’ flat, he thought in wonder. A woman stood

close by staring as if into the same abyss, so perhaps it’s his

flippant mood that has him start a conversation: These preludes

to destiny. Like orgasms withheld… O, okay, are you some type of

316

poet doing some research at the Cinema? she took a step back

and played with her stiff black collar like she was not expecting a

response. Though contemplation of death consigns a person to a

peculiar disposition. In a way Romenach was a sigh in physical

form: distillations of hopelessness summoned to a Cinema to

watch a film he expected to just help him kill the little time he



thought he had left. Perhaps this produces an honesty, this

feeling. It’s not always a good way to classify a person, what they do,

perhaps food could be a better way of categorising someone, as it

happens at least two or three times a day… They then started

talking about the film that they are both watching and she

explains that she was a performance artist and that she was

taking a break, though he wondered of the type of break because

when she spoke she stuttered, leading him to think that perhaps

she meant break in the holistic sense of the word as opposed to

a two hour break to just watch a film. Regardless I’ll be taking that

big break soon, he thought as he watched her buy a Coke. Staring

at the back of her head, hair wrapped tightly in a bun, neck

exposed.

They walked in silence towards the theatre, before

Romenach started yelling: The precipice of chaos is actually closer

than we can imagine!

She started walking faster now ahead of Romenach, but

before entering turned to look at Romenach, still yelling. Why

are you shouting? he ignored her, opened the door and walked

in to sit down in the dark. She sat at the front, mostly because it

reminded her of being a child and this was a feeling that she

wanted to savour, for her breakdown was quite severe: or is

severe, depending on perspective.

During the film she can’t stop thinking about the words

Romenach had been yelling, and starts to look towards the back

of the Cinema to find him. After a few minutes of gazing she

finds him sat next a blonde haired woman with rather large

breasts. She got up and walked to where he was sat and sat next

to him, the blonde haired woman the other side of her now.

What was you shouting before? she whispered. He failed to answer

her, instead staring at the film.

After the film ends and the credits are rolling Romenach

317

walked to the exit next to her. They walked down Dalston

towards the Market side by side with her making slight

glances at him. Perhaps her vocation has deemed her

intrinsically curious? and it’s perhaps not known who was

following who or whether they both were simply at an odds

with the world around them, as they had reached Kingsland

Road and neither were talking, until she said: This precipice is

closer you said?

After a few hours they had discussed a multitude of

things: reality as mere perspectives, a Mexican Con man living

in Quintana Rue, the insanity of performance art, the

increasingly heavy fog… There seemed an unhinged energy

to their conversation that displayed no real formalities:

speaking over each other on numerous occasions, nonsequiturs

that belied Romenach’s decision of which he didn’t

tell her of. She found him to be intoxicating and on an edge

she wanted to observe like a mountain’s ledge, and he felt

consumed by distraction.

They would have departed from one another on any

other day, but as things stood, hours after they had met at the

Cinema they were both consumed and over some noodles

they continued their conversations. She shared her past

happenings in the performance art world and he riffed on

what she felt were poetic refrains she would have to reply

again in her mind later in order to truly understood all of his

words. After they had finished their noodles, walking behind

Shoreditch Church, they sat on a bench and soon they were

fucking in a franticness.

On the high street she coaxed Romenach back to her

flat as it seemed to her that after having sex it was perhaps

stupid to wonder of her own safety, plus she also believed in

animism and that there was a spiritual aspect of sex.

They then had sex a few more times interspersed with

hours of random conversations, and she was at the foot of the

bed watching him sleep, before an alarm goes off on his

watch. Romenach woke up by this and she asked him what

the alarm was for: confusedly he came around, sitting upright



318

against the leather head rest and shaking off sleep as the news

on Pinochet played in the background into the brown and

gold papered bedroom, to realise his vow. He looked at her

naked breasts, closed his eyes and continued sleeping...

319



...BOUZERANT...

“Anything can happen in life, especially nothing.”

― Michel Houellebecq, Platform

Like watching a candlelit dinner between two cheating

spouses, drama can sometimes erupt into languid amounts of

happenings where nothing in particular seems to be

occurring but beneath the surface is an entire world, a

universe even. This was one of Renoir’s philosophies—he

held that he gathered this after a night patrolling East

London streets in the Spring of ‘99, where he noticed a man

holding a caged macaw outside a shop on Broadway Market

waiting for somebody — let’s call him Bob. The wait

continues for about fifteen minutes but in this time, Renoir

apparently heard the vibration of everything in the

ordinariness of what appears in nothingness. As Bob was

then approached by a woman — let’s call her Alejandra. They

spoke for a few minutes (Renoir lip reads something to the

extent of Bob purchasing the macaw for his girlfriend).

Alejandra, then turned the corner out of time or perhaps

space? And then Bob started to pace up and down the street

— Renoir’s colleague, Lucia, decided that she would patrol

the area that Alejandra had walked towards and he himself

moved towards Bob, with the thought that something was

occurring but without the specific idea of what? In this time

Renoir noticed a Turkish woman walking and talking about

what he assumed were drugs (use of slang term: B (Heroin),

for example), and then a swarm of people exiting a bar due to

the end of an Arsenal football match: throngs of people,

animated faces all detailing other stories, dimensions: one

young girl, eating a kiwi fruit, produced a Tottenham scarf

from her mauve rucksack, an old man with a walking stick

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called his wife, a black man started at a cigarette after telling

another man that he had to rush home…

Bob had moved now away from the crowd, and seemed

stressed: scratching his head, checking his watch before he

then moved off around the same corner that Alejandra had

exited from. Though now it’s apparent to then negotiate

between another officer in Dagenham called Riley and Lucia at

Shoreditch and an officer called Patrice in Dalston. According

to Riley, Lucia and Patrice a few hours after Renoir had

noticed the throngs of people, along with Bob and Alejandra,

three separate happenings occurred which all had seeds in the

scene that occasioned on Broadway Market that night —

Alejandra committed suicide due to apparent feelings of being

unwanted (perhaps she had approached Bob in this manner?

speculated Renoir), Bob’s macaw was actually stolen from a

Moroccan man that once lived in Agadir but had moved to

Islington, and that black man that had started at a cigarette

returned home to find that his Jamaican wife had been having

an affair with a man that came from the a town in Papa New

Guinea called Bougainville and only spoke the obscure

language of Rotokas and bits of broken English.

That evening Renoir snuggled up to his cat, Candie, and

thought about the universes mysteries whilst sipping a glass of

red wine bought from a sommelier that had apparently once

been a famous clown on the Hungarian circuit called

Bouzerant, named after a line from the Allen Ginsberg poem

Král Majáles.

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...fried soup...

“Justice? -- You get justice in the next world. In this one you have the

law.”

— William Gaddis, A Frolic of His Own

We met in 1974 in Chile whilst the military coup was

going on. There was something strange about this chance

happening, although it seems less so now, as if fate. We sat in a

coffee shop near Calle Versalles and it came to occur that we

were perhaps sharing a silence: she sat cattycorner sipping

coffee and reading Julio Cortazar’s ‘The Winners’. We looked

up at each other and then simultaneously at the rain hitting the

window and then she said: It’s better than death, life is

sometimes, don’t you think? And as she spoke, with a wry

smile, I started to think about her words, as if they were

written, like words on a page. It could have been the way that

she spoke or the things I was thinking about at the time—

memories distort. I don’t know.

That night we went to a gathering for Poets in an

apartment around the corner from that coffee shop. A few good

Poets were there, mostly bad ones, that had had the privilege of

being published. I remember taking a seat and being extremely

bored by many of the readings that in another realm or

alternate universe I would have sabotaged — over sensitive

poems, love poems. It was late that evening that I decided to go

snoop around, in the guise of looking for another toilet. Whilst

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I did this, walking past ornaments, baroque paintings, I

thought about the fragrance of melons, mostly due to the

novel I was writing, Melons as Days. Abruptly I came to a door

ajar, when I heard the sound of moaning, though the sound

was quite awkward as if muffled through an old speaker.

Perturbed, I walked closer to the door and then heard her

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA voice: You’re as beautiful as the rain. And then more moaning.


I found it all strange as I knew that I was the only other person

in the party out of the room apart from her. I hadn’t noticed

anyone else leave the room, I thought, whilst I walked back to

the party to hear more Slyvia Plaith wannabes and political

jargon.

It was about twenty minutes later that I realised what

had occurred: according to Alejandro Muniz, actually a very

good poet, the apartment that we were in was owned by two

journalists that had a disabled fifteen-year-old son that was

apparently asleep. I didn’t think much of this until later.

And it was perhaps a few weeks later that I saw her

again at the same coffee shop. She walked in as I was reading

a few verses of Walt Whitman. She looked a little dishevelled:

her hair was a frizzy mess and her white shirt was only half

tucked into her jeans. I asked her what she had been doing

that day, and she went into a strange diatribe about sex and

politics. I think she even quoted Deleuze. It felt like a two-way

mirror: sat there staring at her with all the thoughts I was

having about the journalist’s son and her. I decided to just ask

her about what I had heard that night.

At first she went stone-wall quiet, like a muted doll and

then she started another diatribe about the politics of sex. By

now I was feeling a little put-out and as if things were

becoming strange. She then got up and left before mentioning

that all human beings deserve to have what they want. As if

shadows forming in my mind, I started to feel an element of

disturbance. Though I didn’t know whether to cheer or feel I

was harbouring what can perhaps be seen as indecent. It was a

feeling of personally being duped as opposed to one that

wanted ethics: a very specific feeling.

Though it was four months later that we met again on a

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dark alley in Mexico City, where cats crawled, and ladies of

the night patrolled the area for money—immorality is

perhaps veiled by justice only by subjectivity, I thought. She

was stood at the edge of the alley across from Bar Rita. She

saw me and we quickly started talking: she congratulated me

about the publication of Melons as Days and I told her that

she looked healthy and well, which she did. I asked her

about her writing and she said she was writing a book of

poems, that would later be, Articles of Violence. I didn’t want

to know exactly what she was doing in Mexico City, just as

much as I didn’t want her to ask me what I was doing that

night, and it seemed mutual as the conversation stilted in the

enrapture of the darkness. After a silence, we exchanged

numbers and told each other that we would meet that week.

It was two weeks later that I decided to ring the

number she gave me. A man answered and after a few

miscommunications, he told me what had happened,

monotone, as if reporting the rain. I put the phone down and

deciphered the words that came from out the phone and

then I started to think about all the occasions that I had seen

her. I wanted to know how exactly she had died, so I called

around and pieced together a few stories over the next few

weeks. There were a few rumours but the story that fit, rung

true as soon as they were uttered by Isabel Renald (a good

poet), was that she had heard of a woman that was having sex

with disabled people, including children, and that this was

her thing, and that a woman called Caterina Isnaid, a

mother, had heard about what was going on with her son

and a “foreign woman” and had shot and killed her with one

shot.

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...the fiend...

“One is punished most for one’s virtues.” — Beyond Good and Evil,

Friedrich Nietzsche

Feeling alleviated by some sort of weird schema, K.

moved towards the temple. He had in fact wanted to quickly

forget what had just happened, as it amounted to the thought

that getting caught in India breaking the law would be quite

spectacular. Though throughout his journey through the temple

he kept thinking about what he had done: feeling the gains in

his left pocket. After he finished at the temple he walked

towards his hotel.

In the evening he decided to smoke what he had taken

earlier that day. It was a little stronger than he imagined but sat

on the balcony of the hotel overlooking the lake in Udapuir it all

seemed so beautiful. He was glad that he didn’t have to interact

with any dealers, he thought, whilst smoking. A distinct

laughter consumed him at this point, to the point that he nearly

choked.

He then started to think about the fiend, the bare breasts

careening onto the dusty floor, the yellowish teeth, the

drooping saree. He felt it all quite absurd. A few days pass: K.

had mostly spent them speaking to his girlfriend Lucia, mostly

about the dominatrix sex they would enjoy. By that Friday Lucia

had told him that she wanted to be in India as soon as she could

get away from work. That evening he went for a walk.

Something in him persuades him to walk towards the temple he

325

had been in the day he stole from the fiend. Perhaps it was

curiosity.

On the way through the streets, as the night time

glistened, and tuk tuk drivers careened through slender streets,

K. thought about the concept of a mantra. Though he had


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA always been quite the atheist, he had been quite taken by the

traditionality of India’s ways. As he reached a side street, off

the main street he was walking on, he distinguished a

silhouette. Though this time she was walking. He had an

impressive memory for random things: silhouettes, dogs faces,

elevator music. He wondered what to do, so he stood on the

corner of the street for a moment watching, observing. By this

time, he felt his actions had already made his mind up, and by

this time the silhouette was now standing in front of him. He

said hello.

She spoke slowly, for she was not educated but had,

according to her learnt English from people here and there.

She wore a red and orange saree, similar to the one he saw her

wear a few days previous. Her knees were showing and dusty.

She said her name was Farrah. Why had she been strung out

that day to leave her drugs like that? What was her story?

Where had she come from? He had so many questions, all of

which amounted to him offering to buy Farrah something to

eat. It took a while for him to explain this, but eventually she

understood.

They ate at a roof top restaurant. She had a Vegetable

Curry and he had Vegetable Biriyani. The conversation seeped

with pauses, as it seemed to K. that Farrah was in an

improbable situation. He looked at her right arm and saw a

tattoo but didn’t want to ask about it. He instead asked her

where she lived. She then gave a convoluted answer that

amounted to the thought that she must have been homeless.

There seems something strange about a good looking homeless

woman. As if men are so inclined to animalistic tendencies,

something as innocent as being homeless is rendered

unfeasible. He started to picture her dusty breasts the first time

he saw her, though didn’t try and understand the logic of it all.

326

As he knew she was a fiend. On her feet were syringe holes.

Eyes bloodshot red. Perhaps it’s the dynamics of the situation?

K. asked Farrah if she wanted to go back to his hotel,

after he paid the bill. She said: How much? He started to laugh

as if belittling her. She became upset and tried to explain that


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA she could easily just leave. K. plays along, and by the time they

had left the restaurant they had agreed on two thousand

Rupees. Along the way to his hotel K. tried to explain that he

was interested in her: asking her whether she was married. She

explained that her family in Jaipur had disowned her, for

reasons she didn’t want to explain, or have the English

vernacular to explain. He assumed rape. Her words were too

coy: subtle hand movements over her chest.

They share a silence.

Eventually they reach his hotel room. He offers her

something to drink. She says yes. He acknowledges that she

probably wants to get back to her drugs and gang perhaps. So

he asked her if she could take off her clothes. She finishes her

drink in one gulp. He wondered whether to ask her to shower,

but he thought it would sully any mood that he had

manufactured.

She obliges, taking off her saree, to show the breasts he

had seen before. And then her in her complete nakedness. Her

started to feel guilty, but he supressed these emotions, for he

had, self admittedly spent years addicted to sex. They then had

sex: he found her quite sub servient and docile, which he

didn’t actually mind. Particularly so when he started to spank

her.

After they were done, she took the money and

mentioned that she needed to leave. He said he would give her

another thousand if she came back that evening. She agreed.

They saw each other quite often after this night. Until

one night when he was on his way to look for her, Lucia turned

up. Lucia told him that she missed him and that she got time

off work in order to see him. K. could only think of Farrah

however, he started to call her his Malaria. As if taken by a

death wish, he could only think of her. One night whilst Lucia

327

slept he went to look for Farrah. He stood on a few corners,

walked towards the temple he initially met her at but could not

find her.

The end of the story is quite gruesome, as it seemed

Farrah had been in a gang, according to a dealer that knew

Udapuir’s underworld and she had wronged someone. This led

to her being murdered: gutted out as if a fish somewhere in

Delhi.

328



...fabric of Morton...

'It is dreadful to die of thirst in the sea...' — Freidrich Nietzsche,

Beyond Good and Evil

Thoughts As Moving Parts

The grinding aspect of Morton prevailed. He worked Tuesdays

and Thursdays, hardly ever Wednesdays or Fridays, at the Car

Wash. Hand washing cars and having to, reluctantly, accept

Pier's whistling. Pier's would whistle in an opulent manner

songs such as Boris Vian's Le Deserteur. Morton would think

about the birds and a lady he had met that was calling herself

Emma. Emma was an Oxford type, sturdy diction, concrete

upbringing. She was also Asian and very much an

enchantment, for Morton enjoyed the thought of difference,

disparate as they were. She parked her car one Thursday and

spoke to Pier's about needing her red Corvette cleaned before

going back to work. Morton was of a quieter disposition.

Rarely able to achieve a sense of clear confidence. The realms

of appearing in a way that would attract a woman as Emma

were slim, in all honesty. Though slim simmers up against

purpose, something his Father would cryptically say. Emma

had travelled the globe, had lesbian affairs, been in

relationships with writers, spent time articulating thoughts on

the purpose of a wet pussy. Which strangely was the name of

her one and only philosophy book. Why The Wet Pussy?

Morton arrived back from his reverie with a desire to capture

some sort of realism to these wild dreams. He had a girlfriend

329

a few years before, Yulia. A Russian girl that was perhaps

indifferent to him and his abode. Morton pulled himself from

the brink of alcoholism, according to Pier's, by masturbating

profusely over an actress that classified herself in her written

biography as 'BBW', Fatim Radweliá.

You wouldn't want to break it... Pier moved around the

calendar, which in large writing said Tuesday. It'd grow flowers

and mourn for the dead... Stop talking nonsense, I'm merely

being practical about things... You're a misanthrope, that's what

you are...



That said, Morton established a sense of togetherness by

wonderings of meeting someone that he didn't secretly despise

or despise him. A high roller, he thought moving back to his

spot on the car lot. He seldom moved from his spot. Hands in

rag, liquid running down his arms, splash hitting his face. Pier

was different. He would watch as Pier would splay arms, dance

to the radio and shout loudly at him all day. This went on day

after day usually, up until Emma arrived.

Next Tuesday As The Last?

Morton saw the red appear out of the rainy sky like a lucid

dream. Fatim Radweliá had reached the peak of his constitution.

Hands as bored as those utilising them. He seized on the

thought that contriving to appear one way can sometimes

nurture a whole disposition, he thought. He had particularly

understood this by an old newspaper cutting of a Con Man from

Bucharest he found lying around the Car Wash office.

You'd get a special today you know? O really I need a special as I

need it to look gorgeous for a meeting I am about to have, you

know the old look how you feel adage? And by now Morton felt

he already needed to up his game and it had only been a

sentence or two of which they shared, Well I can wax it and...

sounds good... and Emma handed over the keys now, fingernails

lipstick red. I'd get it done right now but you'd have to assure

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one thing? And Emma furrowed her brow... Well I saw one

Tuesday that you were listening to the Band Tropiques

Tropical.... Ok, sure, I love that band, I'm always blasting their

albums... Well how about I introduce you to them? Emma

moved from beside the Corvette and looked about, Well...

sounds interesting... How about next Thursday? And you know

them how? A friend of a friend shrugged Morton... Well sure,

ok.

The Yellow Paged Book

He had to go out on a whim, he thought. He researched so

heavily that evening that he had sweat drip from his forehead.

By 4 am the next day he had made a breakthrough. He found a

number of contacts and was very much ready to execute a plan

of action. The nighttime sprung into the four cornered room,

whilst a man walked by wearing a mango yellow Jacket and

Cream trousers. A ginger cat crawled against the drainage

pipes and moved up against the walls.

The Prevalence of People To Obtain Change

Thursday arrived and Emma drove into the Car Wash with an

inquisitive smile. Blue shirt unbuttoned to her breasts and

sleeves flaying in the slight wind. She had moved towards Pier

stood in front of a purple car and was looking over towards

Morton. Your guy has been a bit excited all day, like a huge

baby. O really, she played with her long brown hair with her

left hand. Tropiques Tropical are quite the band...

They entered her car, and he told her that he had something to

tell her. I'd assume it was that you couldn't get in contact with

them? putting the key in the ignition. Because I'd be upset if

that was the case, if I'm honest and it may even mean I kill

you... well I'd love to die at your hands... perhaps I'd do this

tonight?

And there was something beautiful about her acceptance of

331

him disappointing her as it mostly went unspoken, as they ate

Pork in two different sauces. I prefer this sauce, fork tickling

the top of Pork. I'd assumed you were into something less

spicy. Emma looked at him and raised her right eyebrow with a

grin.

Bodies Against Bodies

It seemed strange that he weren't in the travails of Fatim

Radweliá but inside Emma on their first date. It was fortunate

that he didn't have to work the next day as Emma seemed to

have a lot she could use him for. First she wanted him to pick

her up, and then play a Priest to her coy Nun, and by the time it

was 5 am he had accepted that he had outdid himself. They sat

against he headboard now. I'd assume being an Artist is very

glamorous, hands against thighs. Well it can be, but mostly I

don't think that everything like that matters, fingers stroking

long brown hair... then what matters? Freedom, liberty,

chocolate...

Over The Purple

The Winter came and he had realised that he loved Emma. And

loved her more than he thought that he had loved Yulia, when

he thought he loved Yulia more than he thought he had loved

anyone else. Though he had started to detect certain

peculiarities in the things Emma would do. On Thursdays when

he worked, Emma would mention that she was going to a

Studio up West to paint and dance. And he never quite knew

what that meant. He wasn't sure what any of it meant as it

seemed awfully annoying that he had sensed that Emma would

sometimes spend a few weeks away from him, without as much

as a call. Him hanging onto each and every one of her

manicured sentences like a fish swallowing water. Candles

burning at the ends of her bed with incense next to books he

had never read. Wittgenstein, Rumi, Nietzsche.

332

One Thursday he had his suspicions heightened the night

before when she kept mentioning how Pier calls her bon bons

every time she visits the Car Wash, and that it was

serendipitous that he did this seemingly out of the blue as her

Grand ma ma would call her this too. It slightly blew her

mind, he thought. Besides the notion of being free had

induced a sex life that was very much difficult for him to keep

up with, he admits to himself whilst on the way to her place.

He did something strange a week previous too. He had cut a

key as he couldn't take not knowing whether she was at home

or not. Though it meant some Wednesdays, Fridays and

Sundays when she was at Pilates that he would lurk, alone,

around her place. Touching lampshades, books, paintings,

sculpture, records.

Quietly putting the key into the door, he moved through the

living room like any other time that he would do this. He

moved into the dining area and saw nothing unusual. And

then the Bathroom, where he smelt the hot rinse of a just

used shower. Floor wet. And then he moved into the

bedroom to see her stood naked with a book opened, and Pier

naked hung off what he could only call a contraption...

Boredom is the enemy of existence, stood still with this book

in hand and eyes against his... cold stares at the the black

contraption and then at Pier's bogle eyed expression, as

chocolate drizzled down his torso.

'Where neither love nor hate is in the game a woman is a mediocre

player.' — Freidrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

333

...xxx...

“The Queen is Dead”

— Hubert Selby Jr., Last Exit to Brookyln

...And it just happened that they were on Stonebridge

Gardens sex wrestling naked. Lucia was always down for shit

like this: knocking a man’s masculinity and all that poetic

stuff that gets some women off. I’m not sure how the naked

part came about, though Benzedrine was involved so perhaps

that. The lamppost shone light against them shit-talking,

whilst the overground train went by into the night’s abyss, I

won’t pull on your tits, said Bambi with a smirk that irked

Lucia even more, who was G’ing herself up whilst taking off

her blue knickers, jumping on the spot. Bald head glistening

in the darkness. Aint as if you can handle your stuff.

I stood next to the bench holding my Bible in one hand, and a

bottle of Teacher’s in the other. An overeducated bum, I

thought looking at myself stood where I was as if another

person, a film. Script written by?

Lucia got him into a headlock first, her pussy lips gripping

against his dirty left hand, finger nails black from a few days

without showering, just loitering around Kingsland Road,

mainly.

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Lucia’s Left Tit

I felt around in the dark, and came across Lucia’s left tit. We

had spent that evening watching Betty Perkins videos and

having this deep feminine voice alternate between

consciousness interchanging: anxious to deeply relaxed,

anxious to deeply relaxed, back and forth. The LSD felt all

warm and fuzzy too, and it had Lucia at the Balcony talking

about some experience where she was apparently in a squat

somewhere in West London and a guy, Herve, kept singing

Tom Jones’ I’ll Never Fall in Love again, as if he knew the

world were about to end, like the stars would fall that night,

she said whilst Bambi was stood near the living room door

swaying side to side, and then he fell to the floor up against a

painting that seemed to be speaking to me: Go into the night,

go into the night! I’m not too certain how, but we ended up

in the park, not sure why. And then we made our way to

Lucia’s, stumbling about all the way there, where we fell

asleep, with Lilly in the other room working on her new

novel, Apricot Hue. But soon I woke up and felt around and

on Lucia’s let tit, it felt all velvety and I kept imagining that it

was speaking all religiously: Drink this juice for you have

sinned! Drink this juice for you have sinned! So I began to

squeeze this left tit, after a few seconds it began to lactate and

soon into my mouth, running down my bearded chin, before

335



...a violent serenity...

A Balustrade Leading To Snow

Maybe I should start off with something about the rain.

The wetness in the sky produced a melancholy... The blue

water falls like Magritte’s raining men... The cold glisten of

water parades the mysteries of the world... Though now that I

am looking at these sentences, I find that I have not been true,

as I am mostly just concerned with the thought of Lucia: I find

it quite disturbing for a beautiful woman to be suicidal and to

commit the act.

In the late summer of last year Lucia decided to venture

out of the City Centre to an Exhibition of a Brazilian Artist,

Lydia Fernanda. I had heard of Fernanda a few years previous

from Vameer, but had not been tempted to visit this exhibition

initially. It consisted of photographs documenting Fernanda

cutting half her right index finger off, and a film too depicting

a scene that has Fernanda crying and dancing, and then

dancing and then crying again. It’s all shot in what she

described as a “lo-fi style” interspersed with poetry that she

336



had said she had written. Penetrating like sex, shapeless though

as if the wind. The Gallery owner didn’t once declare the

happenings as anything but groundbreaking, and I could

perhaps see why, but the effect on Lucia highlighted a myriad

of issues that sound over that of where I am sat, ironically,

given the position I sit in, but perhaps I could say something

else? Regardless of telling lies or “fictions” a translucent

sheath covers all words and actions if they’re looked at

enough—a child telling lies only merely covers the obvious

alternative reasons: that they want attention, that they’re

bored and so on and so forth.

Though it seemed tragic that Fernanda would happen

to be there, that moment, that day that Lucia exited the

station walked slowly as she would have, and entered the

Gallery very much like a walking Sophie Podolski, or actually

perhaps I shouldn’t include literary figures… no the past

haunts just like the future and the present, though the past

interchanges as each moments pass, if looked at carefully and

sanctions the present. As if an open reverie Lucia walked

around the Gallery in awe of all the works: the photographs,

the poetry, the film. And then the walking embodiment of all

these things: the artist. And Fernanda, I thought, is what

could be explained as one of those emotionally gloopy

persons: heavy textured though baring a beautiful smile, a

Brazilian smile with all the trimmings: shapely figure, perfect

teeth, white Brazilian skin, over-education. Volatile beneath a

veneer, Lucia was perhaps ready to pray at an altar that was

more than ready to be prayed upon: an emerging fine artist is

very much an owl: looking around for a congregation. Heavy

gusts of wind… Sounded her poetry perhaps, or at this point I

should reintroduce the rain? A metaphor for the rain or an

allegory, even though both are rather vulgar ways of

introducing an idea to someone: this confusion is very

perceptible, especially in Vameer’s writing, though he didn’t

see it this way. He saw things from a different and enchanted

perspective, and one that consumed Lucia from that day. Of

notions relating to Art.

Going back home to tell Vameer of Fernanda and all

337

her ways as if Anaïs Nin’s words of living twice were put into

practice, I imagined her diary full of adjectives to describe

Fernanda, and seems to me to be downright nonsensical, I

thought, but to her would come across as romantic, I thought

when Vameer told me of what had occurred. I think I heard

myself say something to the effect of: Shadows have bodies that

sometimes don’t resemble their shadows. Or maybe I said

something else as poetic: A Balustrade leading to snow. I don’t

remember. Though the smell of mango wafted into my nostrils

and governed me momentarily...

338



...the woods...

After the Second Congo War many writers were found to have been

in exile, some to foreign countries, though in the tragic case of

Fernan Bembala, renowned writer of fictions, he was last situated in

a wood secluded house in the Kivu region, with only this handwritten

letter as resignation for his last days. Words amounting to

sketches, absences of conclusions, perhaps imaginings. Bembala’s

disappearance very much still a mystery.

— Kurt Kabo, Writer & Translator

1999

Through the airwaves, a distinct sound of a female Japanese

voice. Perhaps imperceptible but very much apparent from the

radio that sits on the ledge of the windowsill, antenna

touching the glass. Lucid encounters with vibrations altering

alertness, castigating silences. The rich fabric of

comprehension like a perspective or a hand grasping at a

thousand grains of sand—the wounded parade of the everyday

spectacle. And it had been a while, the Congo enraptured

now, distilled by violence infesting a collective memory, a

collective body. The violence of only truly knowing words,

misrepresentations of happenings. Choirs sing, songs

articulating faith, the children's faces a liberty though a naive

spiral of time—a week later war raged: blood on the same

streets, human limbs treated like cattle: though this thought

339

now soothes however: bones, calcium, skin...

Only remnants of a person exist, the dire straits of words

enfolding around ears draped around matter in space. I know

I heard this voice and it is this voice that obliterates a sense of

time: a faraway passage, like a light shining in complete

darkness whilst in the midst of a wet dream: images of

satisfaction behind closed eyes inflicted with a foreign voice,

an intangible thing turned material and then back to the

immaterial—in this voice I could hear Enchala’s, her wounded

cries, as I escaped on foot. A few feet away from months later,

millions of seconds lived in just a few—laughter arresting the

neck, along with purchasing respite too. The voice recoils in

my mind: tingling after months here. Simmering between

shadows and then back on the path very much set: blood

sitting on steps, memories even more bloody. Children a

hundred years from now rope skipping on top of washed off

blood—that also runs through their veins...

340



..the ounces on Hackney Road...

Cardell Rose laid on the bed shirtless and started talking:

Spanish music, or some shit, they were playing, he said she

said, I heard. God damn lost ounces. Four loud knocks at the

door; dropped the cookies, Malia’s naked titties start

bouncing and we all just look at the door now. I’m holding a

bowl of late night corn flakes. Franz’ now stood up: always

quick to react: he always acts like crime is beneath him, The

knocks kind of loud, he goes, and I start thinking about the

ounces in the back. Though in his eyes I can see the fear of

prison. Malia is licking her lips and acting like she’s not hot:

danger is her wet spot, which has her bagging up, washing

guns and even coming up with plans to find the missing

paper from some pricks that apparently like to listen to

Spanish music: Hector Lavoe. The music is still playing loud:

she loves to listen to: Etta James, My Funny Valentine. She

starts yelling, her underwear probably soaking: I knew I

shouldn’t of started fucking with you! All I hear is this and:

My funny valentine, you make me smile in my heart--and

then four more loud knocks and I’m over on the phone, and

I’m still in my dressing gown for god’s sake: there’s

something sacrilegious about bothering a man in his dressing

gown. And Franz’s had just taken a sniff of that cold white

and had that: If-you-give-a-guy-a-couple-grand -and-scratchyour-nose-and-he-comes-back-with-double,

-is-that-a-crime?

look on his face: You know the look, as if he’s Teflon and

University makes him too smart to get caught, as he turns

and starts moving towards the door. By now I’m wondering if

341

it’s Fat Tony or those dudes we stole from down in

Walthamstow who I heard stole from some dudes in

Leytonstone. By now I’m sure I hear a kick at the door, Ralph

starts barking and I’m still on the phone looking through the

blinds: Paranoid! Yo what the fuck is going? Spilt Jack: bottle

shattering —Two shots, and the heat is going off, so I’m

trying to run to the back now. But like a Goddamn hero

holding flowers in the rain I grab Malia, before she trips,

heavily fallen now, as if she lost control of her legs, taking my

dressing gown down with her, so now I’m in my red

underwear. But I don’t have time to think: a shot from a sawn

off cooker hits me on the tip of the left shoulder. I dipped

into the kitchen on my right and my mouth is dry, because

the ounces are all the way under the mattress. I’m panicking:

heart pounding like a retard at an ice cream truck: jittery—He

stood up and picked up a Hawaiian shirt haphazardly placed

at the other side of the bed he lay on. Buttoning up this shirt

and walking out the room without saying more than: …I need

to go...

342



...underworld...

argy bargy

This story was told from Daviid to Speak and then so on. And it

goes as so: Sophie (or that's the name we're going to use for the

story) manoeuvred through the, near empty, bar collecting

pound coins in a plastic cup. She stumbled, or we can say

stumbled, but momentarily transfixed is perhaps the word that

best described this—moving to the end of the bar with these

thoughts as she continued to peer...

22:18

...part from how much I want that, I don’t want that. What

thingiemagidge? And before she could answer Paulai she had

moved towards the pole to gyrate, swathe—Producing a holistic

debauchery that organised itself as congenial amounts of lust—

all in attendance parading around her antics; many in reverence

to her and for one thing her… stringy red number, (said a

corpulent man on the right hand corner of the bar of her attire.)

And she aint half got an ass on her.

The mirrors reflected the mystique of the night time hysteria:

the hosting of the variant degrees of miscreant. As Sophie had

been distracted by Cardell Rose, a minor poet and vagabond

from around the area, sitting in the left hand corner of the bar

at the back, she had moved from the right hand side of the bar

due to his presence... Though he called himself a poet this was

to be considered a slight force of conciliatory factors—aiding

343

and abetting in small movements fixated around a local squat.

would perhaps have sequenced such grandiose thoughts in

him... Though we won’t partake in those issues right now but

the consequence of socialism, anarchism and downright

nihilism clearly betrothed the situation and an attitude that

conspired against much and stood for even less. Sophie swung

her hips, — Round round baby round round spend a night on

me (her song) — before the DJ asked the audience for a round

of applause for her. Gathering her red spandex piece and her

thoughts (her expression had taken on a frozen morgue

infliction— tight cheeks and a prim lipped finish—not that

many of her observers were looking at her face however

though if they did they would have noticed this) she mumbled

to herself as if a mantra, Diavoli vin ca ghicitorilor, which had in

fact been passed down from her Grandmother (Ibel Ransky)

who had died in her teenage years to leave her rather

defenceless against a life she did not really want to lead...



family

Ibel Ransky married young. At eighteen she was mature

enough to fathom the consequence of marriage as not just one

for love but of a sort of social trajectory. And she made it so

she chose well, Adamiir Ransky’s family owned land in three

separate places and they even owned a farm in Prague. From a

social perspective she ascended the ranks of class, said

members of her rather subordinate (to a different class) family.

After they married they moved to Bucharest where Ibel

became pregnant, not out of nowhere of course (Jesus wasn’t

born), but she then bore Coco Ransky. And from the

beginning of Coco’s upbringing she wore clothes from stores

bought in the best neighbourhoods in Bucharest. And was told

stories based on Romanian proverbs made up by her mother,

such as a burnt child being fearful of fir and one centring on

Sophie’s mantra, of course. Coco’s childhood was spared very

little in terms of material things but her emotional state

resided in a place reflected through a different light—by the

344

time she was nineteen she had been institutionalised on four

different occasions at Bucharest’s mental sanatorium. Adamiir

had no idea what to do, along with Ibel’s alcohol problems

that amounted to Adamiir being restricted from certain parts

of his own inheritance by way of stubbornness (the view of his

family) to ascertain the reason to why he would fall in love

with a person as Ibel. His Mother Palova Ransky sought

reasons on plenty of occasions, but as if speaking through a

veil both were plagued by their own perspectives of what they

saw. Palova saw an alcoholic mystic and even used the word

witch once to describe her daughter in law, but Adamiir saw,

in Ibel, a subtle heart predisposed to life’s excitement and

mystique. Both could have been right, but in the truer sense

of the word Alcoholic was a word that could have been used,

though there could be plenty more too—even a simpleton is

multifaceted it should be said. But the sense of her

irresponsibility should be gauged here. Examples are so

plentiful that Ibel Ransky and Adamiir Ransky soon became a

sovereign state in the affairs of the Ransky’s, Palova instead

selling their land and distributing it to Casmina Ransky,

Romina Ransky and Fydor Ransky. Adamiir’s brother, sister

and cousin respectively.

By the time years had passed the only thing remained was the

name, but nothing of family value behaved itself in a fashion

that illuminated strong ties. Though, it was at one of these

institutions that Coco Ransky met Dimitri. Dimitri was a poet

of no known credit that had been suicidal for years before he

met Coco. And their affair was rather short lived. He

apparently was hurting (mentally in the form of

depersonalisation manifesting in episodes of the sensibility

that he was another person, namely a Scientist called

Ramonov, and physically by way of an impaired finger) and he

held that he was being usurped as a spy in Russia and was

battered and bruised by the time he was forced back to

Bucharest due to this, apparently (like most stories are).

345

Dimitri wrote one novelistic manuscript (called Sayova (a made

up word)) which he carried around in a satchel as if the main

character in Knut Hamsun’s Hunger. Coco Ransky, a gentle

appreciative soul when not in the troughs of a manic incident,

read this and felled or decided (which either way this can be

conveyed impartially) that she loved Dimitri. Regardless of

Dimitri’s stutter and badly dressed attire, Coco, one night,

flirtatiously approached him when he was on one of his rounds

pacing up and down the hospital. The deed of conception was

done in a laundry room.

But what was most telling was that the day after this happened,

as if post coital remorse Dimitri committed suicide by escaping

and throwing himself off a seven storey building. That was

him. The only thing of value maintained was this manuscript

that Coco had stolen the night before. And due to the sensitive

nature of the situation not even Dimitri’s surname was known

by the services at which he was in the care of or to Coco too,

the night before they had been much too busy of course. It

could even be said that Dimitri’s legal name was really

Ramonov as he often professed. But anyway this relationship (a

word only used sparingly) caused the birth of Sophie-noorthodox-last

name. More so, Sophie, perhaps with an emphasis

on the use of no-orthodox-last-name, was by the time she was

birthed withdrawn from the wider relatians of family... Ibel

Ransky had disdained the whole notion of the Ransky’s so

much so that she disabled and controlled any thoughts or ideas

of calling the young baby a Ransky via sheer mindfulness of

violent tirades at the subject at large. It so concurred that at

this time Ibel had also become bored with marriage—a

confluence of alcohol and a mystic’s reading had mitigated its

factors. Yes, Ibel had ventured to Moldova to ascertain a

reading from an infamous mystic. The mystic, deprived of

knowledge, told her that her husband would die and that she

would encounter hardships. That year Adamiir in fact died in a

car crash that also took Coco too. With no leverage with the

Ransky’s, albeit no child or husband, our widow’s life was led

by the stringent task of Sophie’s upbringing.

346

After Ibel Ransky died abruptly of pneumonia Sophie moved

around Europe. First to Italy, then to Spain, Germany and

then finally London. In all these locations she had been in

the deep recesses of a volume of influences...

She sequenced herself behind Paulai, touching the bare blue

buttocks with both hands whilst giggling, before asking

Antonia behind the bar for a Gin and Tonic, mentioning that

it was on Eddie from earlier on. She then touched her face,

mindful to not mess up her make-up. With bags under her

eyes Sophie was clearly suffering from insomnia mostly due

to the recurring nightmare that she had been having. Which

she had explained to Paulai the day before as so: There are

three goats running in the world where my view looks blue

tinted, and then next to these goats are five figures. One

figure is of a man, a body builder type, who is just stood

completely still, naked. And the other four figures have been

all female figures holding either babies or blue large melons...

Maybe it means you want to sleep with your Father, said

Paulai of her retelling the day before. She laughed but felt a

gentle shiver offset by the money she had made that night: six

private dances at £20 each...

Look, melons.

On his shirt?

...I need Jack...

...Are you still having those dreams?

Today she giggled at the thought of such a coincidence as

seeing melons on a Hawaiian shirt, which added to the

necessity of having to avoid Cardell, but the memories then

quickly orchestrated into a certain happening that amounted

to her shivering and frightfully shaking convulsively, until she

had reached the edge of the bar on the floor...

347

...figures in Tangiers...



They had never heard so much silence in all their lives.

The call to action befitted the day ahead, the leaves as they

were yesterday, the day as it were for the tragic ambiance of

death looming like Voltaire’s breath amongst rituals,

happenings. Twisted foliage. In that the motion of action was

one in which the triviality of adventure bore this reckoning as

if Voltaire had arrived back like a thief in the night to derive

concepts from gardens and so on. The day was very much

catastrophic to the event of the very moments that just passed,

as ambiguous as that could be it seemed as if the two were not

coinciding with each other but rather senselessly wrestling: the

moment was one thing, the day another.

Lee loomed around the head of the bed consumed by a feeling

of defeat. Pacing along the head of the bed shaking a head full

of thoughts constipated about the day and the moment. Each

cosignatory thought offset by the call to prayer—the loud

rapturous sounds of the exotic call to prayer. Festering around

the rivalled altar of those moments for then, it seemed, the sun

started to stream through the window into what appeared like

that very same spot, as if cold exactitude sequenced in motion.

The rain could fall. The drip of the water now louder and less

befitting of its entitlement in life. A river now. The stairs

creaked like memories. It was not as if the very memory of the

moment consigned Lee to a dormant thought of abyss, it was

that the moment had to be considered amongst the day, which

was now torn, and blighted. The rigorous sounds of life all now

348

fastening around a noose that harboured only one sensibility:

the romance of death. Lee took two steps towards the edge of

the bed, the voices seeping through the open window. The

front door swung closed. The fruitless, but necessary, task of

arranging thoughts conspired against the chaos of memories.

The night time is the only time is it not?

The richness of the sounds of the texture of life sprung into a

sort of—

Only a poet can upstage your own thoughts.

No, no, I’m saying I agree with you.

But did you have to say it with such panache?

I guess not, but habits are exactly that are they not?

The ornament of the African figure loomed a sense of feeling,

just perched on the table. The beauty of abrupt witchery, she

thought before pouring a glass of wine down the sink...

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a fiesta of charms

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