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The Peter Hammill Book - Radiokot · Annotation This is a collection of short stories, lyrics, poems and drawings by Peter Hammill. Most of the stories, poems and drawings were taken

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Page 1: The Peter Hammill Book - Radiokot · Annotation This is a collection of short stories, lyrics, poems and drawings by Peter Hammill. Most of the stories, poems and drawings were taken
Page 2: The Peter Hammill Book - Radiokot · Annotation This is a collection of short stories, lyrics, poems and drawings by Peter Hammill. Most of the stories, poems and drawings were taken

Annotation

This is a collectionof short stories, lyrics,poemsanddrawingsbyPeterHammill.Mostofthestories,poemsanddrawingsweretakenfrom«Killers,Angels,Refugees»and«Mirrors,Dreams,andMiracles».

Please do not distribute this book commercially, since there was no permissiongrantedtoreproducethelyrics.Thankyou.

GuidoHogen

Fromfb2author:Thankyoufordownloadingthisbook.Muchworkhasbeendonetoorganizeitintothefb2format,Ihopeyouenjoytheresult.Ifyoufindamistakeinthetext

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orifyouknowmoreHammill’[email protected].

OlegKoretsky

TheLyricIFablesandFigments

AudiBill,BenandMedeKingTutCatechismOptionsAdam’sconvictionTheBlackHoleWaitingTheMadonnaTheSpider’sWebBalance:TheMineTheMessageBrasilia

IIPoemsKillers,Angels,Refugees

IIILyricsTheAerosolGreyMachine(VdGG,1969)TheLeastWeCanDoIsWaveToEachOther(VdGG,1970)HtoHe,WhoAmtheOnlyOne(VdGG,1970)PawnHearts(VdGG,1971)Fool’sMate(1971)ChameleonintheShadowoftheNight(1973)TheSilentCornerandtheEmptyStage(1974)InCamera(1974)Nadir’sBigChance(1975)Godbluff(VdGG,1975)StillLife(VdGG,1976)WorldRecord(VdGG,1976)Over(1977)TheQuietZone,thePleasureDome(VdGG,1977)Vital(VdGG,1978)TheFutureNow(1978)pH7(1979)ABlackBox(1980)SittingTargets(1981)EnterK(1982)Patience(1983)LoopsandReels(1983)Skin(1986)AndCloseasThis(1986)

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InaForeignTownOutofWater(1989)Fireships(1991)TheNoise(1992)OffensichtlichGoldfisch(1995)RoaringForties(1994)NoneoftheAbove(2000)Present(VdGG,2005)SingularityTrisector(VdGG,2008)AGroundinginNumbers(VdGG,2011)Miscellaneous

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TheLyricThe following is the prologue to a recent book of lyrics that

cameoutinSpain.

Idon’tknow…thesongisthesong.Itsaystoolittle,itshowstoomuch.Enough.

Difficult,what are the values of the lyricwhich distinguish it frompoetry per se?Whatareitsparticularvirtues,andwhatshouldonelookforinit?

Inacertainsense,alyricismuchmoredisposablethanapoem,sinceitpassestotheears and across the consciousness alongwith themusic. It’s obvious that the symbiosisbetweenmusic andword is crucial in this regard.While one naturallywants a lyric tostandupinitsownrightaswritten/spokenwords(inexactlythesamewayonelookstomusictobediscretelysuccessful),itonlyreallyliveswhenitissung.Thus,theessentialsoundofthewordsisascrucialasthecontent.Sometimesthemeaningofthetwocanbeidentical; at other times, a tension can be set up by using dissonant phonetics againsttranquilsentiment.Asimilar«confrontation»canalsobecreatedbetweenwordsandthemusicwithwhich theyare inextricablyentwined.Thesecontradictionscolor theoverall«meaning»of thepiece.Asong lyric thereforehas«help» inachieving itsemotionalorintellectual aims which a poem does not; conversely, of course, there are certainqualificationswhichmustbemetwhencomposingalyricwhichdonotexistinthewritingofpoetry…theabsolutedefinitionoftuneasword-matrixforone.AlthoughImyselfhaveanabhorrencefor therepetitionofchoruses,andofteninsertchangesbothinwordsandmusic to them, nonetheless fundamental distinctions remain between the functions ofverses,«middles»,andchoruses.Theuseofrepetitioninapoemisadevice;inalyricitisoften an essential part of the form. Some lyrics are successful while consisting almostentirelyofchoruses…aslongastheyarefullyunifiedwithorcalledforbythemusicamantraeffectcanbeachieved; thismaybebanalonpaper,buthavegreat,powerwhensung.Inshort,it’smybeliefthatalyric’sexistenceisonlyfullwhentakeninconjunctionwithitstune…butnaturallythelyricshouldalsobeabletomake«sense»whentakenonitsown.

Ultimately, though,what is this«sense,»or is there, indeed,anyone«sense» tobehad?As a form, the song has extremely open-ended potential, perhaps evenmore thanpoetryassuch,albeitindifferentareas.Becausemusichasanemotionalsignificanceofitsown—and,asI’vesaid,thissignificancecaneitherbeenhancedorcontradictedbythewords— a framework is set the moment the introductory notes are played. (To someextenttheintroductorynotesareplayedeveninthemindofthereader,ifheorsheknowsthesongwell…)Asong—atleastinmyview—shouldnotbedidactic…thereshouldbe«holes»init,intowhichthelistenercaninserthisowncomprehensionandexperience.Ofcourse,thisalsoappliestopoetry,astoallotherartforms,butsincethesongoperateson(atleast)twodistinctlevels,theintersticesarewider.Thus,forme,thereisnoonetrue«meaning»foranysong,butasmanyastherearelisteners;toputitanotherway,asongproperly written should speak truths which can be in diametrically opposed ways bydifferentpeople.Thesetruthsshouldalsobesuchthattheycannotbeeasilystatedinmoredirectforms;alyricmustneedtobewritten,ortherecanbenosong.

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Surpriseshouldalwaysbeanelement ina song,as shouldadegreeofuncertainty,doubt, or question.On the other hand, although onewants to find something new in asong,theremustalsobeacorrespondencewithwhatisalreadyknown,evenifitisonlyintuitively.Inmyview,oneshouldnotbeleftattheendofasongthinking«it’sjustlikethat,»butrather«sometimesit’s like that.»Naturally, thesecriteriaalsoapplytopoetry;songs, though, are subject to greater strains of repetition than verse. This «that» maychange on different listenings for the audience or, indeed, performances for the singer,whomust be able to continue finding freshness in a lyric throughmany renditions. Aregularly taken journey is never the same— season, weather, and state of life alwaysthrowadifferentcastonwhatonesees—andmyfeelingis thatsongsshouldbesmalljourneys.Perhapsonevisitspoems,commuteswithsongs.

As a form, and excluding for amoment the (essential) interactionwithmusic, thelyric is probably closer to the short story (proposition / scene-setting; explanation /enhancement;conclusion/twist)thanthepoem…thetonewhichthelattermustcreatetobesuccessfulisprovidedbythemusicinthecaseofasong.Ormaybethereissomethingof the screenplay about a lyric— the actualmedium inwhich character and event areultimatelydelineatedisnotsimplythewrittenword.

Ifindotherargumentsstrainingwithinme.Isthisnotalltoomuch?Thelyricis,afterall,tobehummedrathermorethananalyzed.Formostpeople,onlytherepetitionofthechoruswillimpartthesenseofthesong.Thusallpartsofthesongmustbepresentineachindividualpartsoadegreeofhomogeneity iscalledfor,however«clever»onewants tobe. For myself, a large part, of that homogeneity exists in the conflicting currents ofphonetics(sometimesevenacrosslanguages),meanings,andsimpleword-play,whichcanrevealacentralidentitynotnecessarilyapparentonthesurfaceofmeaning.Lyricscanbegames asmuch as creeds, snapshots asmuch as portraits… and sometimes the cartoonspeaksmorestronglythanthepainting.Thisspeaksforatleastapoeticsensibilityinmyownapproachtolyricwriting.

Myself, I know I have a tendency to over-analyze what is at heart a near-conversationalform…althoughnaturallyit’simportantthatIshouldapplyallmyfacultiesasbest Ican towriting lyrics,since this iswhatIdo. I remaindeeplyenamoredofTheSong for its potential to speak about all areas of experience, with a directly human(emotional/cerebral)voice.On theotherhand,eachsong isonlyavoiceon thewind…sung,andechoingoffthehills,perhapsitreachestheheart,morethanthemind.

Inevitably, I suppose, I feel I have rambled somewhat. I hope that I’ve impartedsomethingofmysensethatsongsaretransitorythings,forthemoment;thattheycangivesomething of the universal, but should not be «read as gospel,» however serious theirintent.Eachlyric,aseachsong,willhaveaparticularresonanceataparticulartimeandplace… depending on the empathy between its journey and one’s own. This it has incommonwithpoetry(andother forms);but, inmyviewat least, theyareverydifferentdisciplines.

Idon’tknow…thesongisthesong.Itsaystoolittle,itshowstoomuch.Enough.

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IFablesandFigments

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Audi

Mannheim,Saturday

DearAudi,

Iknow:it’sbeenalongtime.IcouldsayI’msorryfornotgettingintouchwithyou—yourlastlettercheeredmeinatimeoftrial—butitwouldn’treallybehonest.Icouldpleadpressureonmytimewhich is,asalways,crowded,but thatwouldonlymakeyoufeelcrowdedoutandunimportanttomeandthatisuntrue.Forallthetimeanddistancebetweenusyouarestillclosetome,butIfinditlessandlesspossibletogetthroughtoanyoneinthesedarkdaysandI’mafraidI’msomewhatoutofpracticeincommunication.Somehowit’seasierhere:hereweareinourlittletime-bubbleofthebandandtheroadiesandtheequipmentandthevan…witheverythingoutsidethatbubbleseeminglyunreal,itmakesitlesspainfultoreachyououtthere;and,ofcourse,ifIgooverthetopatanypointinthisletter,Icanalwayspleadtemporaryinsanity.

I wish that someone would give an accurate written representation of our life inbands. I’vebeen reading a ridiculouspaperback I pickedup at the airportwhichblaresfrom its (extremely lurid) cover «TheGroupies! TheDrugs! TheOrgies!» and, inside,rambles on for page after page of appalling English about the fantastic (literally)adventuresofagroupcalledtheHotCrossBunswho‘hitthehighspotsofthepopscene’!Ya know, I’m a sucker for these books, although I never finishmore than about threechapters.Istillkeeponhopingthatoneofthemwillbecoloredwiththefaintestveneeroftruth.

Whoeverreadsthemmusthaveaverystrangeimpressionofourlives:rushingfromtowntotowninflashylimousines,performingtowildlyenthusiasticcrowdsandpickingupafewbeautifulandnubileyounggirlsforravagingbackatthehotel,aided,ofcourse,bybountifulsuppliesofallthedrugsknowntoman.No,perhapsI’mmixingthingsupabit: the above has a slight ring of truth in that the activities are cyclical and ultimatelymeaningless: in these cruddy books there is always the semblance of a story line, andalways a certain element of change in characters’ actions and reactions… in reality,nothingmuch ever changes here. Am I getting too confused for you? It’s because thereality is so hard to pinpoint… yes, we arrive in our car, but it’s a Cortina, and not aMercedes; there are drugs sometimes, but they’re the only buffer against harshnessavailable to us… they let us live and simultaneously kill us. (Mentally, Imean: I don’twant tostart,youworryingaboutmephysically, Ihaveno intentionofstringingmyselfout on themodern crucifix.) There are groupies, too, but never the nymph-fantasies offiction. In that ordered picture, the groupie (bearing close resemblance to those plasticinflatablelife-sizedollsyouseeadvertisedinMarvelcomics)makesapresentofherbodyto theband; in reality, the rolesare reversed,andonecanalmost feelone’s scalpbeinglifted.

We’rereallynotthekindofbandofwhichsuchfictionsaremade,althoughIhavenodoubtthattherearebandswhichmightbe.Allbandsaredifferent,asallindividuals,butthere is something running through the all but the tiniestpercentageof themwhichcannever be traced to earth amid the gory details of the novels: it is the music that is

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important.Andifyoucouldtalkaboutthemusicinabookthenwhatwouldbethepointof playing it? Perhaps music is the gravity which holds clown the written word andpreventsitfromflyingupintotheregionsoftruth.

You’llbeprobablywonderingwhy I’mwriting this toyou;well, it’s aquestionofpressurevalves,asiteverwas.(RememberthattalkwehadinManchester,lasttimeIsawyou?Isitreallytwoyears?)Youknowthat,foralongtime,thesongsaremysafetyvalve;but,also,youknowthatsometimesnothingwillcomeout,andIcansitandstareforhoursat thefretsandkeys,or thepen inmyshakinghand;but theywon’tdeliver tome theiruntappedsecrets.Anyway,now,lockedintheheartofGermanyandthetour(twoweekstogo)Icanhardlygathertheenergytoallmyselfopentoallthat.

Ihadadreamaboutyoulastnight;itdoesn’tmatterwhatitwasabout.Believing(asImustifIamtosurvive)thatallthingshaveareason,ifonlyanegativeone,reasonsprangtomethatthecomfortofyourimaginedeyeandunderstanding,listeningtomeacrossthemiles,mighthelpme throughmyburdens. Icould just tellyouwhat I intend todo, fordocumentary evidence, as it were, but I really want somebody… just one person… tounderstand,even if (andIknowit isso)Iamincapableofspelling itout,andcanonlythrowaglimpseoflightthroughthedoor-jar.

Letmetellyouaboutthegigwedidtonight,asthatseemstoepitomizealltheterrorsthatbesetmeandthreatentodragmedownintoIdon’tknowwhat.Tostartwith,wewereprettyoutof it:we’dspent todayentirely inourhotel (Mannheim isn’tavery inspiringtowntotourevenifwe’dbeenabletoorganizeourselvesandourenergiestothatextent)andthelastofourpooledmoneywentonabottleofTequila.(There’sbeensomecrazymix-upoverourwages,andtheyhaven’tcomethroughfromLondonyet;theyweremeanttoarriveyesterday,butwecanonlyhope…)So,havingsprawledaroundonthestarchedwhitesheetsallday,andconsumedthewholebottleofТ.,wewereaboutasreadytofacethe gig and set as we ever are. It looked promising: a low, modern building, withfountains,a tea-roomwithumbrellas,modernsculpturedottedabout, thegrounds,whitechesspiecesarrayedagainstblacktrees.Inside,itwasequallymodernandluxurious,butwithonemajorproblem:thedressing-roomheatingappearedtobejammedfullon.Itwasabasementroom,withwindowsatceilinglevel,andlikeanoven.However,weweresoexhaustedbyourclayofinactivitythatweslumpedonthelowleathersofaswhichwentaroundtwoof thewalls,andgazedatourhollowedfaces in themirrorwhichstretched,wall-width,belowthewindows.

The«FreeMusic»puntersarrivedand,kneelingandcrouchingonthegroundoutsidethewindows,begantheirusualharanguingtobelet.inthroughthedressing-room.Theybecame more and more irate as we refused them entry and, after a phase of alternatebeggingand insults, actually attempted to force theirway in.We stoodon themake-updeskandpushedupagainst thewindowstokeepthemout,finallymanagingtolockthecatches. We grimaced threateningly at each other through the glass before theydisappeared, doubtless in search of some other possible entry point to force. I wonderabout, the ethics of it all sometimes, for I would dearly love to play for free. But it’simpossible with our weekly bills to pay, the roadies, the van, the equipment, our ownwages.Ethically,ifsomehavepaid,it’snotfairtoletinanyothersforfree;butthelogicalextensionof that is that if oneperson is prepared topayk50 to seeus, everybody else

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should.Haha.It’sjustanotherimponderable;Ican’tseemtopenetratethismorass.Ienterinto this, as in somanyother areas, at onepointwhich I feel to be true, and comeoutsomewherecompletelyalientomeandantipathetictomyfeelings.It’saloteasiertochantslogansthantothinkabouttheirimplications.FREEMUSICFREEMUSICFREEMUSIC!

One of the guys fromNimrod, withwhomwe’remaking this tour, came into thedressing-roomandtoldusthathe’donceblankedoutforthreedaysonTequila,withnomemoryofwhathappenedorwhathe’ddone.Davidgotabitfreakedandwentoutoftheroom.

ThenDorothyappeared:she’shalf-English,half-German,andhasbeenfollowingusaroundforthepastweek,encampingherselfindressing-rooms,occupyingthelobbiesofhotels, lurkingonthesideof thestageduringsets.Dorothyhasbrownhair,beadyeyes,andpilesofblubberbulgingaroundher thighs,midriff,andarms.Shehaspuffycheeksand smells. She comes into our dressing-room and, most of the time, just sits there,ignoredbyusand,doubtless,inwardlyseethingatbeingso.We’vetalkedaboutheralotbecauseshehangsusupsomuch.Sheistheoriginalimmovableobject.,andnoneofusseemtohavethecapacitytobeirresistableforce.Talkingtoherdoesnobodyanygood;nordoesignoringher,andnoneofuscanquitebringourselvestogoall-outnastyonher,evenifthatwoulddoanythingtowardsobliteratingherfromourlives,whichIdoubt:shewould probably curl up in a masochistic orgasm. We can’t do it. to her because shegenuinely seems tobe completely into themusic, and is prepared to travel hundredsofmiles just to see us perform.The boost to our egos is simultaneously a damper on ouroutrageandourinstinctsforself-preservation.Consciously,weareawareofallthis,but,itseems,thereisnothingwecando.Usuallyshejustsitsthereand,infact,untiltonight,bycarefulavoidance,Ihadnotexchangedmorethanahalf-heartedhello’withher;butwhenthedooropened IhadbeenexpectingDavid’s return, and sohadalready flashedhalf areassuringsmile in thatdirectionasshecame in the room.Shecaught, it likeawicket-keeperandflounderedovertowhereIwassitting,undergoingsomeverystrangethingsinmyheadasaresultoftheTequila:Iwaspowerlesstostopherastheinevitableonslaughtsmashedagainstme.

«Hello!»shesaid,andcrackedher lopsidedgrinatme. Igruntedand tried to lookelsewhere.

«Where do you live in London?» she asked. I pretended not to notice, but sherepeatedherquestionmoreinsistently.«Well,I liveinSussex,actually,notLondon…I,um,preferthecountry…the…peace…»

Shewaspullingabookoutofhervoluminousshoulderbag.Itwasheraddressbook.ShewantedmyaddressinEngland.Iaskedherwhy.Shewantedit,shesaid,towritetome.Itoldhertowritetotherecordcompany,andthatthey’dgettheirlettertome.

«Idonotliketherecordcompany,»shesaid.Therewasapause.

Shewanted tocomeandseemewhenshecame toEngland. (Everybodycomes toEngland.)Shewascominginamonth’stime.Shewantedtocomeandseeme.Itoldherthat,becauseofwork,Iwasrarelyathome.Shestillwantedmyaddress,andstillwantedtocomeandseeme,andshewasnowgettingangry.Iblinkedatherstupidlyandtriedtoworkoutwhatwasgoingon.Guygavemeacigaretteandbriefrespite.

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Shechangedhertack:wouldIwritetoher,herewasheraddress,wouldIcomeandseeherwhenwewereinDusseldorf?Itriedtoholdoutwithfurtherevasivegrunts,butshewouldn’t have it, and finally Iwas forced into a tentative ‘Maybe’. She gaveme aneatlyfoldedpieceofpaperwithheraddressonit.Nowcouldshehavemyaddress?Guylet out awhistled sigh as both he andHughwent out towatch someofNinirocl’s set..Deserted!

Dorothy edged towards me along the sofa. I can handle any physical assault, Ithoughttomyself:Icanalwaysrunoutoftheroom…

«Doyouwantsomeheroin?»sheasked.Ideclined.«There’ssomethingIwanttoaskyou.»

«Uh… what’s that?» I was hoping for a manageable, analytical question about asong,aperformance,ortheband’sfuture.Shesurprisedme.

Audi,thischick…thisrevolting,obsessionalchick…justsatthereandaskedmetogive her a baby.Canyoubelieve it?She said she knew itwould be themost beautifulbaby,itwouldbeanamazingchild,wouldIdoit?WouldIdothissmallthingforher?

You can imagine: I freaked.Muttering something about the room being too hot, Imade a dive for the door. Shewas onme in a second, clinging tomy knees, begging,pleading,beseeching…

«What’swrongwithme?What’swrongwithme?»sheblubbered.

Guy came through the door and stoppeddead in his tracks: Iwas saved!Her griprelented for a second, and Iwas awayoutof thedoor, tohide in a toilet until the timecamefortheset.

You see thekindof pressure that comesonus.Did I ever ask to letmyself in foranythinglikethat?Isitallworthitifoneputsanotherhumanbeingthroughthat,howeverunintentionally?WhatcouldIhavedoneorsaid?

The set was adequate, and I spent a lot ofmy by now bursting aggression in theperformance.Steamseemedtogooutof,andtirednesscreepintoit,though,inthemiddleand by the endwemight aswell have been playing in different rooms for the lack ofempathy and mutual lift-off. I clung on for the last chord of the encore, exhaustedmentallyandphysically. It isn’t easy, sometimes, toget through thathourandaquarterwhichis—supposedly—allofourworkingclay.Itisstill—thankGod—adifferentworld, parenthesized between so-called realities; but coming away from it,with all thechangeswroughtinone’smindduringthestay,isashardasgoingin.

We almost had a very heavy argument over time-keeping in the dressing-roomafterwards,but thiswasavertedby thearrivalof threeor fouryoungGermanscome toquestionus.Weseemtoarguealotthesedays…perhapsalltopicsofconversationhavefinally dried up, and the only communication left to us is shouting.Maybe it is only aphase,andwehavehadsuchinthepast;butsoonerorlateroneofuswillinevitablygoovertheedgeinslightorpersonalinsult,andthenwe’llalltumbleoffthetightropethatwewalk inour self-imposed familygroup.We squabble like any family, and soonerorlatermustallleavehome…

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The battery of quest ions was arrayed against us, but I could manage only theoccasional grunt byway of non-committed and dark answer; in regaining reality Iwasoncemore shaking in thewakeofmyencounterswithDorothy.«What isyour favoritesong?»«Whatphilosophershave influencedyourwork?»«Whatareyougoing todo inthefuture?»

What arewe going to do in the future,Audi?What am I going to do?The futureseems to be the endless road and the endless gigs and sets, which are sometimesinterminable,too,althoughatothertimestheyarepurejoy.Howmuchjoydoyouhavetoexperiencetocompensateforthevariousassaultsonyourbeing,inflictedinachievingit?Howmanymore times will I sit in the car and think «Maybe this is the last journey;maybethistimewe’llmeetthatcoachovertakingaten-tonlorry.»Howmanyargumentswilltherebe?Howlongbeforetheybecomehateratherthandifferenceofopinion?Howlong beforewe need six bottles of Tequila to insulate us from the outside?HowmanymoreDorothysarethere?

I’msittinghereinthisshabbyhotelroomandit’saquartertofour.Tomorrowwe’regoingtoNuremberg.IfIhadmywagesIthinkImightleaveeverythingbehindandjustdisappearinMoroccoorPakistan.WhenIstartedoutonthisroadIthoughtIwasgoingtobuymaximumfreedom,butnowourresponsibilitiestootherpeoplegrowandgrow,andfreedomismurderedweeklybyourdate-sheets.

ButIdon’thavemywagesand,evenifIdid,I’mnotsurethatI’dmakeit;toofarin,now…too far in. Iprobablywon’twrite toyouagain forawhile, andalmostcertainlywon’tseeyouupthereinyourDundeeretreat.Butthankyouforlistening…writingallthisdownhasanesthetizedme—Ionlyneedonepersonoutsidetounderstandhalfalongtheway.

Takegoodcareofyourself…

I’msorryforlayingallthisonyou,butatleastitshowstrust…

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Bill,BenandMede

Readthequestionscarefully.Youareadvisednottoansweranyorallofthem.Markswillbeawardedonlyforempathywiththeprotagonists.

Three resolute merchant seamen arranged to run a race from Southampton toWinchester.Theyagreedonnorulesbarthefact,thattheyshoulduseonlythemainroad,andnotthepavements.

Bill, a stoker, choose to run in thegutter on the left hand sideof the road.Ben, asecondlieutenant,electedtoraceontherighthandside,alsointhegutter.Mede,whoserank,statusandmentalattitudearetothisdayunknown,ranclownthecenteroftheroad,alongthedottedwhitelineandatthebrowofbothcambers.Incommonbetweenthemallwere three things: anunshakablebelief in their ownvictory, and in the justiceof such;acknowledgmentof thefact thatarunofseventeenmileswouldexhaust them;hopeforthesightofthespireofWinchestercathedral.

Eachhadadifferentstyleofrunning.Benwasafastsprinter,andhopedtoburnuptheothers’willbyhisinitialspeed.Billwasnotparticularlyfast,butthepowerinhislegsandchestandhisoverallstaminawould,hebelieved,seehimthrough.Medewasneitherharenor tortoise,buta tactician,andhoped tocarryaway thevictorybyconservinghisenergy for the final burst into the cathedral precincts. There were advantages anddisadvantages for each of them in their chosen positions. Bill had a clear view aroundright-hand bends, none around left-hand ones, but was in no clanger from oncomingtraffic.Hewasthreatened,however,bycarscomingfrombehindhim.Benhadreversedadvantage as regards his view of the road, and had no need to concern himself abouttraffic coming frombehind,butwas indireperil fromeveryvehicleoutofWinchester.Medehadarelativelyunobstructedviewoftheroadaheadatalltimesand,furthermore,wasinnodangerofbeingdisqualifiedbyaccidentallyrunningintothepavement,asweretheothertwo.However,everycarandlorrystoodagoodchanceofrunninghimdownandhethereforehadtozigzagalongtheroadinordertoavoidthesethreats.

Itshouldbementionedatthisstagethattheentirecomplementoftheirshiphadbetheavilyontheoutcomeoftherace,fromthecaptaintothelowestcabinboy,andthislentfurtherimportancetoacontestwhichwasalreadyofvitalinteresttothethreeparticipants.

Theraceproceededmuchashadbeenexpected:Bentookoffatanincrediblepaceandwassoonahundredyardsaheadoftheothers.Theywere,however,unconcernedatthisapparentsetback,Billsureofeventualtriumphduetohismassivestrength,andMedeusinghimaspacemakerandhaving,ashewouldhavewished,aclearviewoftheraceasawhole.NeitherattemptedtomatchBen’sinitialburstofspeed.

OnemileoutofCompton,ontheSouthamptonside,Ben’senergywasalmostspentandheglanced rounddespairingly asBill andMedepoundedup to levelwithhim.BynowBillwasconfidentlyintorhythmandMede,too,hadhissecondwindandcouldseethattheracewasrunningaccordingtohisprojectedplan.

They ran precisely even for about two hundred yards before Ben, sensing hisimminent and abject defeat and rolling from side to side in the agony of his onwardm

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stitch-tornrush,steppedontotheeasiertreadofthepavementinhisdesperation,brazenlybreaking the rulesof theirgame in theprocess.Ben [note:prob. shouldbe«Bill».HJ],seeing him,wasmomentarily furious but then, notwishing to run at any disadvantage,howeverillegallywrought.,ranontothepavementonhissideoftheroadand,indopingso, changed the rules by a two-to-one majority. In essence, this little drama merelyexemplifiedthearbitrarinessofrulesandtheperversityofhumannaturebutitleftMedeatadecideddisadvantage,fortherewasnopavementtowhichhecouldtransferhiscourse,andhehadtocontinuezigzagginghiswaydownthecenteroftheroad:suchwasaninnatefailingofhisoriginalchoice.

Sotheycontinued,threeabreastacrosstheroad,Billkeepingasureandsteadypace,Ben clinging desperately to that speed, Mede inwardly seething but all the moredeterminedtowin.Perhapstherewouldhavebeendisputesinthecloseofthecathedral;perhaps(itwasnotunlikelyfromthestart)theywouldhavecometoblows;perhapsthevictorywouldhavebeenwithheld.Theresolutionofthesevariousoptionsisunknown,foranothertripartitedramawasalreadyunfolding.

AGlobeTourscoachtriedtoovertakeaCarterPatersonpantechnicon,whileabrightredSpritedrivenbyaSouthamptonveterinarianonhiswaytocureasickboaconstrictorwasapproachingontheoppositesideoftheroad.Thestretchwasnarrow,andtherewasnoroomforthethreetopassinsafety:lorryandsportscar,inascreamingduetoftorturedtiresandbrakes,swervedofftheroadandtookoutBillandBen.Medewascrushedunderthefrontnearsidewheelofthecoach.Therewasnovictory.

Somequestionsarisingfromthematter…

DidWinchester exist and, if so, whowould have got there first?What differencewouldithavemadeiftheywererunning

i)fromTubingentoUlm?

ii)fromBethunetoCanterbury?(assumeallcrossedtheChannelontheHovercraft)

Whathappenedtothecrew’sbets?

Whowasguilty?

Isthereanypoint?

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KingTut

Forsanethaecolimmeminisseiuvabit.

Virgil:Aeneid

«If there isanythingyouwouldwish tospring tomind—and, remember, tomindonly—thennowisthemomenttoopenyourselftoit.»

‘Ican’tgetanyfurtherthansixorseven.Everythingbeforeisblurredorstolen.I’vestolenmypictureof babyhood from thephotograph album.There is nothing real there,onlydark,terriblygloomypictures.

«WhereamI?Whowas I?Do Inotexist? Is there reallynopast?And if so, thenwhat isnow,forIcanonlyhavebeenmadebywhathasbeenandIcanonlybewhatIhavebeenmade? Is therenomoment forme todefineasachangingone?Howalone Ifeel…»

There are nodes in all our lives, high peaks of activity, excitement, relationship,confrontation.Memorycatches them through themistsof theyears. In the far past, theonlypast thatwecanbrieflycall such,only thenodesarevisible,and in their temporalmomentswearebothmadeanddefined.Insubliminalchasmsofantinode,reactionisfelt,registered,translatedintoascratchonthewall,anotewhichwilljoinwithotherstomakeour individualchords.Fardown,a junctionswitches from«yes» to«no»and theworldchanges.Howimportantistherootnote;howcriticaltheplacementofthefirstswitch!

I,too,havepseudo-memoriesof/fromphotographalbumswithfunerealblackcorner-pieces,angryfists,surrenderstohunger,creativeswearing,andIcanattributetheblanksinmymemoryaboutthemtomorethanextremedistanceandtotallackofdata.Theyarenot celebrated inme. They are not the Saints’ clay ofmy calendar. They are ofwhite,cream,pastel; neither the rose-and-goldof joyous triumph,nor abstemious, sinfulblackand purple are theirs. They receive no extra benedictions, processions, consecrations,HallelujahChorusesorDiesIraes.Theyaretheblankpagesinmymissal;noentriesintheliturgicaldiary.

‘Oh butwait…yes, yes!! It returns…good young proto-Catholics all, first prayerbooks,whiteandgoldleaf,milkatbreak,feudingwithrivals,kissingtheonegirlintheclass… and running away. I was shy and clinging; laughed at words like ‘wee-wee’;frightenedof thedark;alreadyawareofmyownvulnerability (fromwhere?fromhow?fromwhat?);putty.

Ashiningsummerafternoon,breaktime—butfourofusarefoldingupandpilingawaychairsfromthekindergartenroom,attendedbyTeacher.Sheis,somehow,difficultto visualize; only the aura of power, of discipline is present of her. That, and the deepattractions,thedespairingurgesthatareherinme.

We finished piling up the chairs, and are impatient to be outside, playing Frenchcricket.Ah,Inoticeit:ablackseamonastockingrisingoutofablackshoe!Ah,teacher!

I’m feeling the rootofmymousewithmy tongue,exploring the seamygeography

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with the tip, pressing upwardswith the flatwhole and sucking out the saliva from thejunction.SomethingtellsmeIshouldnotbedoingthis.IfIsuckenoughsalivaoutIcanmakemytonguetricktothecaveofmymouth.Teacher’swordsdriftin:somethingaboutonefinallittlejob,movingtable…

Ican’tslidemytongueloose!Ah,butifIpullhardIcanjerkitawayfromtheroof.Thesealcomesapartwitha«cluck»whichspillsoutintothesuddensilenceoftheroom.To me it sounds like a «cluck’; to teacher, a ‘tut» of disapproval and rebellion. She’sspittingwordsatme/faceofthunder/physicality/nerve-endsmulti-pulsating,screaming/myguiltytongueunabletomanagemorethanasingle‘But…’:stunnedintoimmobility/mindtearstodenyherassumptions.

It’s going, going, blurring into gray again.What then?We have to stay in for thebreakperiod.Myfriendsareveryangry.Teacherisveryangry.Grey.AndIam..?Iwas..?’

Wildman Logo, nasty child-molester, failed attempted murderer and crypto-tortologist, stumbles into the continuance of his gloomy silence. Theman in the blackhoodhaspulledtheswitch,witha‘tut’.

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Catechism

I am twenty-three years old and a plagiarist. I stealmy friends’ and enemies’ andacquaintances’ livesandput theminmymind.SomeclayIwill take themalloutagainanduse them.Some Ihaveusedalready. Ihavenoneedofcomfort; Ihavenoneedofcompany.Everythingexists insidemymind.Outsideexists inside;reality isonlywhatIchooseittobe,andifIchoosetomakerealityalie,thenitisso.IknowIamrealbecauseIhavedecidedIam.Ithink,thereforeyouexist.

Whoareyou?

Youaresevenyearsoldandatypewriter.Youarecrystalandosmoticbarrierandironcurtainanddrug.Youareeverythingthatneverexisted;youare thesumtotalofhumanknowledgefrominfinitytoinfinity.Youholdthefinalcluetotheultimatemystery.Youarethegluethatholdsmetogether.

WhoamI?

I am several fragments of my several accumulated lives; I am the total of myfragments. Iamheld togetherbybloodandboneandglueandmystery. If therewasnomysteryIwouldfallapartandifIfallaparttherewouldbeamysteryandsoIwouldfalltogetheragain.Ikeepfallingapart,andputtingmyselftogetheragainbecausewheneverIfallapartIfalltogetherandsoIamamysteryandmysteryiseternal.Ithappenstousall.

Whoarewe?

We are the fragments when I have fallen apart. We are the spaces between themystery,themysteryofthespacesandeverycellandmoleculewhichthreatensitself.Weareselfdestructionandgenocideandretribution.WearetheLawandthehangmanandthehanged man. We are the dead and the riot and entropy. We are the trace lines on anoscilloscope,nothingmore.Thereisnothingmore.

Whatisnothing?

Nothingisthemomentwhenweknowwhatweare.Nothingisthemomentwhenwehavejustfallenapartandhavenotyetfallentogether.Nothingisthesongthathasneverbeen heard, but is compiled through infinity. The song is the puppet master’s, and isirrepeatable.Nothing is thebridgebetween the futureand the further future.Nothing iscertainty.Nothingisanydefinitionofanything.

Whatisadefinition?

Adefinitionisthemomentwheneverythingends.Adefinitionisdeath.Adefinitionistheanswertowhichyoumustlookupthequestioninthebackofyourbook.Therearemissing pages. Pages are prisons, and missing pages are inescapable prisons. All isconfusion.

Whatisconfusion?

Confusion isananswer.Confusion isacertainty.Confusion isanendwithoutend.Confusion is all the fragments and the coming together and the falling apart and themomentwhenitisneithertogethernorapartandthemomentwhenitisboth.Confusionis

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thefrontispieceandthefirstchapterandtheappendix.

Whatisbetween?

Fragments.Glue.Answers.Definitions.Me.You.

Whoareyou?

Me.

WhoamI?

Iamtwenty-threeyearsoldandaplagiarist.

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Options

Whatoptionsareopentous!Whatchallengesweallfacedaily!HownoblearaceisMankind!Howincomparable!

Weareallbornequal,withnothing,withthesame,withzero,withonehundredpercentpossibility.Wecanallmakeofourselveswhateverwewant,whateverwebelievein;andwhatwebelieveisultimatelywhatweare.Wecanalldrawfromthefathomlesswellsof human knowledge and experience. Every day, we do so, and every individual met,probedandfeltisanotherequationsolvedinourself-examinations.Wecanalltranscend.We can all achieve peace, or turmoil, or boredom, or a Good Life; whatever we self-destinateisours.Wecanallbecomewhole.Hopeisnotdead.Mansurvives.

Panander examines his chin in the cracked mirror. The mirror has streaks of dirtacrossitlikethetracksofproudandununrepentanttears.TherearenotearsinPanander’seyes: they are hard and cold gray. The pupils are small. The whites are blurred andcapillaried with blood. There is a day’s stubble on his chin. The stubble is dark, butpatchedanddappledingray.Thechinistautandfirm.

Pananderdecidesnottoshave;ithardlyseemsworthit.Hefeelstherootofabacktoothwith the tipofhis tongue.Hischeekrumplesanddistorts in themirror.The toothfeelsloose,butheiscarefulnottodislodgeit;histongueisfunghiedandfurred.

Thereisapacketofuntippedcigaretteslyingonthebedsidetable,withfiveleftinit.An empty, crushed packet lies in thewastepaper basket. On top of the suitcase on thebedside chair is a pack of two hundred duty-free cigarettes. Two packets are missing.Thereisabottleofduty-freeScotchonthebedsidetable,andahalf-fulltumblerbesideit..Panander picks up the tumbler and gulps from it. He does not shudder. He picks up acigarette from the packet and lights it. He blows the smoke out very slowly, with awhistlingsigh.Heiswaitingforsomebodyorsomething,andhehasalotoftime.

It istwohourslater.TheleveloftheScotchhasdropped.Thereisanewpacketofcigarettes by the bedside, and the old packet, crushed, has joined its sibling in thewastepaperbasket.Pananderislyingonthebedwithoutshoesorjacket.Hissocksneeddarningandthematerialattheelbowsofhisshirtisthreadbare.Heiswatchingamothdocircuitsaroundthelightbulb.Theshadesisplasticanditiscracked.

Pananderissittinginthisdirtylittlehotelroomwithcrackedlightshade,withdustymirror,withwallswhich seem tohavebeenpainted thecolorof thedirt,withaceilingscarredbymanyplaster repairs,with shaking, decrepit bed andmusty sheets, and it allfits. Panander fits in the room. He is comfortable here; he is blending with hisenvironment like a chameleon, like a sand crab, and the only parts of himwhich trulyremainvisible against the sombrebackgroundof the roomarehis eyes,whicharehardand cold and gray. Behind those hard, cold, gray eyes he is thinking about what he isgoing to do when he leaves this place. He is thinking about the colors his skin mustchangetoinordertoblendwithnewandgaudiersurroundings.

He is trying to decide which of two daydreams he will inhabit. Both are crystal-bright,sunny,andwashedoverinsheetsofwhite.Onehasdarkconifersandscabsofout-

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cropping rock through snow. Ithas speedand steamingbreath, exhilarationandendlessparallellinesbitingacrossthewhitesurfaceofthegroundinpalegray.Theotherdreamishorizontal,inactive,thegentlehissofwateronburningwhitesand,sparklinglightontheendless deep blue of the sea, cooling palm fronds and long alcoholic drinks. In neitherdreamisthereanywaiting.

Anotherhourhaspassed.Themothisnolongerflyingaroundthecrackedlightshade.It has died under themerciless onslaught of a rolled-up newspaper, and is nowmerelycrushed tissue and moist juices spread over the crossword. The crossword has beencompleted,andsohasthemoth.

Pananderislyingonthebedandthinkingabouthislife.Heisnotsurethathelikesit:therearecertainmomentsandactionsthathefindalmostunbearableeventothinkabout.Otherpartshe lingersoverwithadullsenseofpleasure.Hehasbeenbotha thoughtfulmanandacruelone.Sometimeshehasbeengentle;sometimeshehasbeenstupid.Heiswonderingwhatbeinghappymeans.HeiswonderingwhatGoodis.Heis thinkingthatmaybehisdreamshavebeenbetterthanhislife.Hisonlycomfort,istheabsolutecertaintyofthepronouns.

The door bursts open, and four men come through it. Three of them are wearingsombre, anonymous uniform. The colour and denomination does not matter in theslightest. They have black belts and sub-machine guns.The otherman has on a badly-fitting,beltedraincoatofsandygray.Undertheraincoatisabadly-fittingblacksuit.Thecutandfitofhisclothesdonotmatterintheslightest..Hehasblack,greasyhairandanautomaticpistolinhishand.

ThisisnotwhatPananderhasbeenwaitingfor.

Thesearenothisfriends.

Thesepeoplewerenotincludedinhisdreams.

Pananderlickstherootofoneofhisbackteeth.Itisloose.Hepusheshardonit,anditcomesawayfromthegum.Asmallcapsule falls fromitshollowontohis tongue.Hepuncturesthecapsulebetweenhisteeth.Suddendreamscometohim,suddenacridityandacidity.Hecrumplesoverontohisside,andhishandstearathisstomach.

Themanintheraincoatwalksovertotheshabbyfigureonthefloorandkicksitinthekidneys.Pananderdoesnotworry,wonder,think,dream,orfeelanymore.

OfcourseIdonotknowanyspies.OfcourseIhaveneverseenamanstandinginadoorwaywearingasandgrayraincoatandblacksuitwithanautomaticpistolinhishand.But I validatemy life bywriting about death and I fillmy lifewith interest bywritingaboutinterestingdeath.

Of course, physically, it is no different from the last asthmatic gurgling cough.Ofcourseitisnodifferentfromthescreaming,distortedunionwithmetalandupholsteryonafoggymotorwaynight.Theonlyinterestliesinthelastframeofthemind’smovie.Theonly conclusions to be drawn are derived from the photofinish, the deadheat that ebbsawayintotheairandisgonealmostbeforeitcanbeanalyzed.Ultimately,noconclusions,analyzes,answers—onlymorequestions.

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Why did Panander, Rothschild, Kutz, whoever he may really have been or beenimagined tobe, explodehis beingwith a capsuleof hydrocyanic acid?Options alreadyformtheir ranks; thenetworkofmotiveandreasonstretchesout inaspider’swebfromthem.Ononeofthethreadsliesthecorpse,first,trapped,nowhusked.Howmanyoptionshavebredthisresult?

Whatifhethoughttheintruderswereabouttoshoothimoutofhand?Didhewishtodenythemsuchfinalcontroloverhim?Wasthislastassertionofindividuality,hislast,hisonlyhis?Didhesidewiththeoptionofdecisionandself-determinismtotheend?Suicidetodenymurder?SuicideforFreeWill?Suicidefora‘goodname’?Wastherereallyanychoice?

Perhapshesawitdifferently.Perhapshesawalreadythegrimlinesofprisonbars;dry bread, stale water, board bed, interrogation, lights, questions, questions, questions.Perhaps he saw humiliation, public and private; pain; destruction, within and without;endlessnon-life,endlessanonymity,endlessdespair.

Washealreadydeadinthemomenthesawallofthis?Washedeadagainstcapture,failure, ultimate repentance? Was he dead in the destruction of self-respect? The fastagainsttheslowandtortured?

Doyouthinkhethoughtatall?Doyouthinkitcouldhavebeenacharade,ajoke,agame,anotherdream?Areyoudeadyet?

Itisinevitablethat,oneclay,eachofuswilllie,crushedandinwardlyseepingblood,inourtruecolorsatlast,pinnedagainsttheblankspaceswefillwithcleverbutisolatingwords and the black spaces that are our might-have-beens, our broken dreams, ourfailings.Perhapsweareallengagedmerelyinmouldingourcoffins.

Whatoptionsareopentous!

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Adam’sconviction

«There is something more,» she said, «something of which you really should beaware.It’sinamuchbroaderdirection,nothingtodowiththeindividualspheres…yourattitudetolifeintotal.»

Herhandsresteduponthegreenbaizeofthetable,enclosingbetweenthemthelay-outofthosecardsinwhich,somesay,fortuneisconcealedandrevealed,ratherthanwonorlost.

«Inwhatway?»heasked.«Imean,Iknowthereisthisconflict»…hishandsmakinggeneralmotionsoverthecards,wherehershaddarteddecisivelyfromonetothenextintighttrianglesofintuition, logic,causality…«betweenthehigherandlowernatures,butwhatelse?»

«It’s something outside, not specifically from an individual card, or the position. Idon’tknowwhetherorhowtotellyoureally,but-well,thefeelingissostrongfromthishand, I don’t think I’ve ever known it quite like this before. I can’t tell you in straightwords…Ican’texplainitintheordinarywayofareading.»

«Well,whateveritis,ifyou’veseenit…Tellme,andI’llsayifitstrikesachordwithme.»

«Oh,Idoubtthatitwill.Still,IsupposeImusttellyou.»Shepaused,gatheringherthoughts tofindastartingpoint.«Well,as I’vesaid,according to thecardsat their facevalue,youhaveandwillhaveagoodlife-afteradmittingtheconflictbetweenyourhigherand lower natures. On the material and mental planes there should be nothing butsatisfaction; on the spiritual, too, to the extent you want or need it. But there’s someshadowhere,somechange…It’sfarmorethan,say,whattheTowerwouldhavemeantifithad fallen in the hand instead of»—gesturingwith her fingertips—«Temperance, alltheseCups. Idon’t, reallyhave thewords, just the feeling, and I can’t showyou in thecards,exactly. It’s there though.Youare livinga lifeof fruitionandplenty,yetwithoutconviction.»

ShelookedatAdamacrossthetable.Itwasastrangemoment,astrangeenvironmentforhim,andhefoundithardtoholdhergazewithanythingliketheseriousnessitseemedto demand. The woman was far from any image of fortune-teller he had previouslyfostered. He had neither expected nor found a shawl, crystal ball, or anything soessentiallytheatricalinnature.Still,hehadanticipatedsomesenseofbeyond,somealienquality;perhapsevensomedarksexuality…thewomanwhoknows,whosees,whomakesonesee.Butshewasnothinglikethat,nothingifnotaverage;herconformistclothes,herimitation pearls, her bouffant hairstyle, her suburban living-room, cheap ornaments andfiber-opticlamps.She,andthesetting,couldhardlyappearlessmystical.

Not, of course, that hewas particularlymystically inclined himself; he would nothave called himself a believer in matters spiritual and psychic. In general, he neitherbelievednordisbelievedinanythingforwhichhehadnodirectproof.Hismentalitywasthatofahermit, rather thanaseeker: feeling thewind, rather than thesky.Thewindofwordshadblowntohim,inthecourseofafairlyfrivolousconversationwithafriend,the

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recommendationthathecometoseethisparticularwomantohavehiscardsread.Hehadbeenbored,inactive,at.thetime,sohadtakenupthesuggestion.Thushefoundhimselfhere,facingthisordinarywomanandherextraordinarywords.

Atthismoment,hewasconfused,anddidnotreallyunderstandwhatthewomanhadsaidatall.Underherseriousgaze,hedecidedthatheshouldtrytodoso.

«ButIgivemyselfwholeheartedlytomywork,myleisure,allmypursuits,»hesaid.«Idobelieveinmylife…Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.»

«Yes,youbelieve inyour life,»shereplied,«andyou live it fully. Ididn’tsayyoudidn’t.Forgiveme,wordsarenot…butitistherightword:youdonothaveconvictioninyour life. No, don’t say anything. I’m not attacking you. You don’t have to justify ordefendyourselftome;onlytoyourself.I’msimplytellingyouwhatIseeinandfeelfromthecards…it’sforyoutofindunderstandinginthat.»

«I’m sorry,»Adamsaid.Hedid feel sorry: he felt as thoughhewere failing sometest, as though-ridiculously enough-he were failing the woman. «I understood all thepreviouspartsofthereading,butthisseemstobebeyondme.I’mnotsure…»

«No,you’renot sure; I thought itwouldbe like this.Still, it’s theresomehow, thisestrangement.»Therewasaclumsypause,andheshiftedinhisseat.

«Look,Iknowit’sdifficultforyou,»shesighed,claspingherhandsinherlap.«Ontheonehand,youwanttodenyeverythingthatI’vesaid,outright;ontheother,youwanttoprotectmyfeelings,andtopretendyouacceptitall.

Believeme,Imeetalotoffools,andI’mtreatedasafoolbyalotofpeople.Idon’tthink you’re a fool.Neither of those options you’ve been thinking about are any good.Youcamhere tohaveyourcardsread; that isnota light thing, there isdutyinvolved.Ihaveadutytoreadthemproperly.You,unlessyouareafool,haveadutytodomorethanjustlisten…totrytohearwhatthereisforyou.»

Yes,hehadbeenweighingupthosetwochoices,andhadbeenabouttotaketheeasycourse,leavingamidmutteredexpressionsofgratitudewhichhewouldrecantthemomenthewasoutsidethedoor.Hehadbeguntofeeluncomfortable,andwantedtowithdrawhisfoot from the threshold on which he found himself, the tread of which he recognized,dimly,andwas frightenedby,dully.Hehadcomehereoutof idlecuriosity;now,ashewas about, toprobe for further clarification, if only tohastenhis departure, thewomanblockedhiswords,too.

«IseeIhavetotellyouinanotherway,»shesaid.«Itistoodeep,toomuchapartofyou,tobeuncoveredinanynormalwords.Imustbemoreoblique.Look,I’lltellyouastory;Iknowthatsoundsastrangewaytogoaboutthis,butbelieveme,trustme,it’stheonlyway Iknow.At theend,maybeyou’llhave thequestion, thevision inyourgrasp.Youhavetime?»

«Well,I…»

Allpotentialmoveshadbeenseenandpotentlydiscounted.Therewasnooption,andlimitlesstime.ShemotionedAdamawayfromthetabletoasofa;whenhewasinstalledthere, she herself sat on the edge of an armchair. He laid his head back against the

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cushionsandfixedhiseyesontheceiling;alreadyhecouldsenseherslockedontohim.Foramomenthe thought«Is this somesexual…?»but then, fromacross the room,shebegan to speak, andhervoice,withquiet assurance, lulledhim into complete attention.Shespokeatapitchlowerthannormal,andherwords,thoughmeasured,uniform,seemedtocome toherat theverymomentshespoke them.Heglancedather: thoughhereyeswereonhim,theyseemedlost,faraway,drugged.Andnowhehimselfwasdruggedbyhervoice,bythestory.

«Thereispeace,butinitisstagnation.Thereispeace,afteryearsofstormandwar;unity,afterdivision;hope,afterdespair;love,afteruniversalhatred.Changecomes;deathcomes,and leaveschange in itswake.Theworldhasbeenoverthrown; it steadies itselfand becomeswhole again.The people of the land are joined together; they look to thefuturebravely.Thisinitselfisnotenough.

Nowthatthepeoplecansee,theymustlookuponeachother,andupontheirdivision.The hands on the same plough,with the same intent,movewith differingmotive. Thepeople can see, but look only on themselves: they are defiant against the need forwholeness of identity. The fractions and fractioning of war are still splinters under theskinsofthepeople.Theworldisrazed,tobebuiltagain;buttheplansforitarecarriedfromtheoldworld.Allpointstocycle,repetitiousend,failure.Hopeisundimmed,butthepeoplecanseethatexultationisvanished.

Somewerecontent;thosewhoweredominant,inthenewworld.Othersdidnotcare:thosewho had traded their hope for apathy, the easy trade.Others do not forbear fromaction.Theyhaveseen,participatedinthedestructionoftheoldworld,helpedtofashionthe new, desired its success. They know that already it carries the seeds of its owndestruction. Dissent and stratification have already begun. Those who see this choosedrasticaction.ConvincedoftheirTightness,theychoosetodestroyratherthantoacceptdecay.

They select, by ballot, from among their number, aman and awoman.These twoepitomize the values and virtues for which the newworld had striven. Their lives andinterestsarethefullest,theirattitudesthepurest.Theyarethoseleastlikelytopassonthegermsofdivisionanddiscordtoothers.Thesetwotheysendtoasafeplace,tobegintheworld anew.Themselves, and all the others of the land, theydestroy; andonly the twotheyhavechosensurvive,topopulatetheworldoncemore.»

Shestopped.Adam,insemi-trance, lookedather,andwasalmostsurprisedtofindthathervoicestillinhabitedthesame,homely,middle-aged,middle-classbody.Thatbodywasstilltense;thevoicestillhadafewmorewordstosay.

«Thereisaquestionallofusshouldask,butneverdo.Itistimeforyoutoaskitofyourself.You,Adam,couldyoubesucha last and firstman?Areyousatisfiedenoughwithyourlife,thelivingofit,forthat?Wouldthefurthergenerationsfromyou,bearingyour imprint, your life, be a good, a better humanity?Do you have the conviction thatyourlifeislivedtoitsfullestextentandtoitsfullestmeaning?Doyouhavetheconvictionofinheritance?»

He knew it. He knew that ultimately he regarded as life as a diverting game,somethingwithwhichhechosetobeinvolved,ratherthanwithwhichheranginharmony.

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Heknewthatbeneaththesurfacesparkleandurbanitylayshallowself-destructiveness.Heknewthathewasfarfromgrace.

And she was now far from that power-of voice, of presence-with which, but amomentago,shehadbeeninvested.Sheslumpedbackintothearmchair,seemingtolosestrength and substancewith each second.Adam, now,was strong and grim, at least inclenchofjaw.Sheattemptedtosaysomething:«I…»buthervoicefellshortagainsthisgraniteexpression.Tense,angularminutes; theneachgatheredtheirnormalselvesaboutthem,anditwastime,hightime,forhimtogo.

«Isit…important?»

Therewasnoaffirmation, therewasnoritualgratitude; therewasnothinghecouldsay.Heleft,quicklyandthunder-headed.

Thethunderdidnotlastforlong.Adamhadseen,orbeenshown,somethingdeeplywrongwithhimself,andhadresolvedtochangeit.Buthedidnotbrood-thatwasneitherin thenaturehehad,nor that towhichhenowfelthemustaspire.Afewdays later,hefoundhimselfvisitingthatfriendwhohadrecommendedthefortune-tellertohim.

Hewasasked,ofcourse,abouthiscards,butgaveonlythemostcursoryofreplies.Hewouldnothavebeenabletoexplainwhathadpassed,andhisfriendwouldhavebeenincapableofunderstandingit.Before,thesetwohadbeenclose,evenifAdamhadalwayshad a touch of envy towards the other man. He had seemed so interested, soknowledgeable, so experienced in all things:music,magic, science, drama, psychology,films,society.ButAdam’srangeofvisionhadbeenwidenedbyhisinsightintohisstrangecentral disinterest, in life and living: now he saw that at the kernel of his friend’sexistence-whereinhimselfwasthisforceful indifference-layvacuousboredom.Thus, inorder not to diminish it, he stilled his excitement, andmerely said that his visit to thewomanhadbeenworthwhile.

Inanycase,hisfriendwasnotmuchinterestedinhisexperience.Hehad,ofcourse,been to see her himself; but he knew many clairvoyants, of different orders anddisciplines.Theonlyuniquenesshesawinherwas,perhaps,theveryincongruitybetweenhersuburban lifestyleandherhousesofcards.Possibly itwas for thatverystrangenessthathehadsentAdam,theavowednon-believer,toher.Nowitallseemedtobeoflittleimportancetohim.

As always, the videocast was on in the apartment; Adam knew that it was leftrunning so that even when nothing else was happening in the room, an impression ofvibrantactivitywouldbecast into it fromthescreen. Itwasoneof thenewchannels:aconstantfluxofevent,observation,report,eachoneleadingimplacablyforwardintothenext. Round and round it went, the circle of perpetual fear and destruction (such thepolitical,socialandpopulationalclimate),ofnigglingaggressionandfire-flashwar.Thepassingoftheyear2000hadbroughtManlittlesavemoreofhimself:moreofhisgreed,his rapacity, his lust for power and individual isolation… above all, more of him innumbers.Theworldwasnowapressure-cooker; therewasstillnosafetyvalve, stillnoend to the feeding flame, and none in sight.. For there to be one each struggledmoreferociously than ever for self-preservation and enlargement there was no chancewhatsoeverofthathappening.Sincethedissolution-intotalchaos-oftheUnitedNationsin

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1993therehadnotbeenevenapretenceataccordorunity.Itwasnoweachcountryforitself;and, sinceall savemilitaryspaceprogramshad longsincebeenabandoned, land,thepossessionofearth,wastheprimegoal.Thusthenewschannelswereconstantlyfullof conflict., aggression and disaster… precisely the kind of panorama Adam’s friendneededtosweeptheghostsofinactivityandboredomfromhisroom.

Normally,heonlyshoweddesultoryinterestinthescreen,butonthisoccasionAdamhadbeentherebarelytenminuteswhensomethingcaughthisfriend’seye,andheleapttothevolumecontrol.Thepropaeaster’sdelivery changed fromawhisper to a shout.Thestorywasofanewdefensesystem,thegovernment’slatestdevelopment.Onthatclay,itseemed, a gigantic force field had been put into operation, skirting the rim ofBritain’scoastline. From Beccles to Bude, Southampton to Cape Wrath, the island was sealedbehindanimpenetrable,invisiblebarrier,impervioustoallmatter,curvingroundfromallsides tomeetat aground-lockedpointmilesabove thecountry.NothingwouldnowgointooroutofBritain,even to itssatellites, the IslesofMan, theHebrides, theChannel,Eirland. The news was celebrated on the screen, although none of the working of thesystem,oneofitsimplications,werementioned-leastofallthatthecitizens’freedomhad,onceagain,beencurtailedinthenameoftheirownsecurity.

Itwassimplythefurtherprogress-ordecline-oftheworld:Adamcouldnotseewhyhisfriendwassoexcited.Assoonastheitemwasover,hehadleapt,tohislibraryshelvesand,after a short search, takenclownabook.Muttering,«Amazing!Extraordinary!» tohimself, he switched off the videocast and inserted the cassette in his viewing panel,holdingdownthefastwinduntilhehadskippedthroughnearlyallthepagesofthebook.Whenthescreenstilled,itshowedapageofprint,evidentlyancientandequallyevidentlymostexcitingtohim.

«Ithoughtso,»hesaid.«Isn’tthatfantastic?»

«Whatisit.?»askedAdam.

«It’s old stuff…a prediction, you could say; very extraordinary…It’s from theapocryphaof theMatterofBritain,althoughno-onecanbeabsolutelysureitbelongstothat.There is onlyone copy, andvery fewcassettes. Itwas found in the remainsof anAbbey at the end of the last century.No-one knows its date of origin, it can’t even bepinned clown by carbon dating. This fragment is all that we have of the Apocalypsed’Arthur.»

Adam, something indefinable drawing him towardswhatwaswritten on the page,begantoread.Itwas inEnglish,althoughacertaincrampednature,analiendissonancebetweenconceptandexpressionledhimtobelievethatithadbeentranslatedfromanothertongue. At first, he thought that the unknown translator had probably embellished andromanticized the story. Quickly though, it came to him that this was not the case: theembellishmentwas,infact,itsopposite,aparingdowntoessentials,givinganimpressionofsuperfluity,butinrealitybeingvitaltothemessage.Norwasthisafragment,heknew-thepagewascomplete,evenifitwasacipher,agrain,apieceofapuzzle.Therehadbeentranslation,yes,butfromnotonguehe,oranyotherhuman,hadeveruttered.Thiswasofsupremeimportance;anditwasforhim.Hereadnowashehadneverreadbefore.

«Andthentheybuiltthewallaroundtheland,sothatno-onecouldpassthroughit,

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thoughthewallcouldnotbeseen.Andtheycouldnotpassoutoftheland,norcouldthoseenterwhowould invade them.And thewallwas fromcoast tocoast:wherever seametlandwasthewall.Therewaspeaceintheland.Thepeopleforgotallthatwasbeforeandallthatwasoutside,andmetandspokeonlyamongthemselves.

But thekingsof theworldoutside the land then took towar, and the fightwas soterriblethatall theearthshook.Feelingthis, intheland, too, theyfought.Andtheearthmoved with the fight, and the ground and the air themselves joined in the battle. Themountainscrasheddown,and theskyclouded.Andthen the icefromtheNorthand theSouthmelted,andthewaterpouredoverontotheworldanddrownedit.Thenallthoseintheworldweredrowned,savethoseinthelandbehindthewall, for thewatercouldnotpenetrateit.AndsothepeopleofBritainwerethelastonearth.

ThenfromtheNorth,fromthemeltedice,cameArthur,who,itwasknown,wouldreturn.Hewasfreeoftheice,freetocometohiscountry.Sohecame,inhisblackbier,withhisattendants.Buthe found thepeople indisarray.Still they fought,butnow theylivedinagreatfear,becauseofwhathadbefallentheotherlandsofearth.Theyknewthatnoneoutsidethelandcouldsurvive,for theysawthewater toweringagaintheshieldofthewall.

ButArthurtookthepeopletohim,andtheyhadhimasking.Andhecausedthemtoceasefighting,andsetthemtowardamoregloriouslife.Therewaspeace,anditseemedthatthelandwouldbeforeverserene.Yearspassed.

But thenArthurfell ill,his thumbpiercedbypoisonedthorn,andhedied.Andthepeopleweredismayed,andtheywalkedandspokeinfear.Andsoontheytooksides,andfoughtagain,andthecountryfacedtheravagesofwaroncemore.ItbecameamongthemasithadbeenbeforeArthurandtheFlood.

And itwas then that they saw thewater at thewall falling; and in thesedays theyknewtheicewasformingfaraway;andthatsoontherewouldbelandsontheearthotherthantheirown.

Andthenmanyof thesewhohadbeenclose to theKinglookedat the landaroundthemandsawthatthiswasnotthewayitshouldbe.Thiswasthesameastheold.ItwasnotthelifetheyhadsearchedforunderArthur.AndthentheythoughtthattheFloodandArthur’scomingandthehopesforpeacetheyhadhadwerefornothing.Theninangeranddespairtheywenttothecoastsoftheland,andtheretheydestroyedthewall,sothatthewater rushed in anddrowned all in its path.So all the last people of the earth, the lastpeopleofBritain,werekilled.

Butfirstthosewhohadplannedthisthinghadsenttwooftheirnumberaway,amanandawoman.Andtheysentthemtothehighestplaceintheland,wheretheyweresafefromtheFlood.Andthesetwosurvivedtopopulatetheearth.»

Adam’sinhisroomnow,ashehasbeenforclays.It’stimetotaptheverychatterofhisbrain…Well,yes,itisonme.

Strangeandjustthatthefortune-tellerfeltandknewhermessagetobesoimportant;strange and just that the pieces fell into place throughmy friend’s ephemeral interests.Theywaythattheknowledgecamewasbalanced.I’mbalanced.

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Oh,now Imust prepare.Whoknowswhen the cataclysmwill come,what form itwilltake?WhoknowswhatmanwillcomeforwardasArthur?HowsoontheFlood?

ButIknow…mywillwaxes,mypowersincrease,mycertaintycangrownomore…all these thingswillbe.So Imustmakeofmyself andmy lifeall I can. I amamirror.WhenIshatter,splinterswillfallallovertheearth,eachwithanimprintofme.

Icannotbeaperfectman,butImusttrytobeaperfectme.It’sthesameforallofus,thelot,thetrial.ButI’vegotresponsibility.Notjusttomyself,likeeveryone;toallpast,present,future,toallEarthandhumanity.TothatBeyondthathassentmethisknowledgeinadvance.Ican’tbesuperhuman;Imustbehumantothelimit.

Oh still nagging doubt.That tone of question in the fortune-teller’s voice.Not theordinarywoman?Nothervoice,afardeeperone.TheVoice,askingifIrealizetheweightof my responsibility? The deepest concern… is «Is it important?’, really ‘Do youunderstandhowimportantitis?»DoI?

Stillthatpreyingfear.Shespokeofalackofconviction,adistancebetweenspiritandintellect,abasiclackofcaring.Isitineradicable?Withinmecancerously?Inmygenes?

Imustfighttomakemyselfready.EvenasItearateachknotofthegrowthIknowthatthereisyetmorebelow,wheremyhandandeyehavenotyetreached.Howdeepismy indifference? I will pass on my seed to a new world…will it still be one ofdestruction? Not of discord, division and dogma-but of vacuousness, lethargy, lack ofconvictioninself,inworld,intime,inreality,eveninlife?Whatworldistocomewhenmytimecomes?HaveItimetomakeabetter,moreof,me?

HowlongdoIhavetoprepare,howsoonbeforeIamtrulyAdam…?

Perhapshe’scracked,perhapshe’sgonemad.Perhapshe’sright.Anyway,heandhisproblemsare ina futurenoneofuswill everknow.Evenso, it’shard toknowwhat tothink;whetherwe feel sorry for him, laugh at him, cry for him,hope for him, tell him«goodluck»or‘getstuffed’,orevenfailtobelieveinhimatall…he’llstillbeoneuponus.

ForAdamnowlivesintheconvictionthathislifehaspurpose.

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TheBlackHole

OhallyouwhoareframedinthehologramofTime,thatitshouldcometothis!That,finally,mystorycanreachyouonlyonthispage!Youhavehearditalways,embeddedinthefabricofthegalaxies,inthespider’swebofallexistence;butnonehaveeverlistened.Vibratingdangeranddesiretoyoufromthefuture,youhavehearditalways,allofyou,butnonehaveeverunderstood,toopreoccupiedwereyouwiththedullmechanicsofyourboundaries,thatpreoccupationwhichsealsyouinaringofdimensionwherethereisnone,avoiceofreasonwherethereisonlychaos.«Turnback!»Ihavealwayscried;«Toolate!»theechoofmyvoicehasreturned.Andfromyou,nothingbutsilenceandignorance.

Ohallyou…I,strungacrosstheyawningintersticesofexistence,cannowattempttoinformyouonlythroughthismost,primitiveofmeans,inthismostearthboundofpasts.Thoughitistheecho,notmyvoice,whichringswithconvictionandveracity,stillImusttry. Though I know already that you will not be informed, still I must stretch yourincomprehensiontoitslimits:Imustshowyoutheendofallthings.Ifyoucower,soshallI; asyoucringe, sodo I, foryour inadequacy is alsomine.Now, too,mydespairmustclutchyourheart,forthisisoursharedheritage.Here,fromthefuture,Iam.

Theymaroonedme.Senses incapable of bearing the self-confrontationwithwhichthey would have had to cope had my destruction been immediate, unable to face thetelepathic torture my death-throes would have brought them had we been in anyproximity,theyconsignedmetotheshuttleandellipsedawayunderplasmadriveinthemothership. As they drove across the vacuum, I directed my loathing after them as abeam,feelingthetwingesoftheirmindsasitmadecontact,butknowingthatthesewereasnothingcomparedtothosetheywouldhaveexperiencedhadtheyexecutedmeonthespot.Anexecutionmorepersonal,morehuman,more just, thatwouldhavebeen-fornomatterwhatmy crime, nomatterwhatmymutiny, it could surely not deserve this, theabnegationofmyrighttoinflicttoinflicttheanguishofmydeathonthem!Yettheyhaddeniedmethatright;theyhadgone,andtheinfernoofmyexecrationcoulddonomorethanfaintlyreachthem;butitsustainedme.

Indeed,hatredalonesustainedme,fortherewasnohope,nochanceofsanctuary:myphysical lifewasasgoodas finishedat themoment their shippulled silently,pulsinglyawayfrommeinendlessacceleration.Onlytheenergyofthatvesselwouldbeenoughtoreach the nearest base, human life, salvation, all that I could hope to grasp, from mypositioninthevoid,wasfurthervoid.Themeagrepropulsivesystemofmycraft,evenhadI infinityof timeatmydisposal,couldnotbringme tosafety.Here,condemned to thisfarthestflungsectorofexploration,Iwasalready

Theshuttlecraft,havingasecondaryfunctionasalife-raft,waswellprovisioned:Icouldsurviveformonths,yearsbeforethestocksoffood,drinkandairdiminished.Butmyemergencysignalswouldgounheeded.BymerelysurvivingIwouldultimatelyfindthe worst possible way of dying: gradual decline and certain madness, sustenanceexhausted,lungssuckingatnon-existentoxygen,life-supportsystemsfailingonebyone.Of the choice of deaths towhich had consignedme thismost living onewas themosthorrendousinprospect.Isupposetheyhadexpectedmetocommitsuicide,andifmyonlyalternative had been that protracted torment itwould have been inevitable that Iwould

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havedoneso.However,I immediatelyresolvedthatmydeathshouldnotcomewiththeease of a hypodermic in the private, discreet quiet of my craft, not with a deliriouslyinsensate,hand-jetpropulseddriftawayfromitintospace:suchrelativelypainlessoptionscouldnevergiveventtotheviolenceofmyemotions.Mythoughtsturnedtorevenge,andtothesearchforsomeendwhichmightmatchtheminintensity.Scaldingmyselfwiththepitchofmyfeelings,Iscannedthestarcharts,lookingforanythingwhichmightaidmeinthis,myfinalpurpose.Ifoundit,andinstantlysetmycourse.Ifoundtheblackhole.

AsIbeganthecrawlacross infinitenight towards thatnegationofourcosmos,myplanwasformed.Atthepointofentryintotheblackhole-swirlingvortexofanti-matterfromwhichtherecouldbenoreturn-Iwouldfusemypowersourceanddisintegratemyvessel; then, surely, some germ of catastrophewould spread out from the shadow-zonewherematter andenergyofdiametricallyopposednaturemet.Thevessel fromwhich Ihadbeencastadrift,Iconjectured,wouldstillbewithinrangeofsomecataclysmiceffect,nomatter how fast it. travelled, nomatter how long it tookme to reach this,my finaldestination. Perhaps, at the most, shards of anti-matter would splinter out through thevastnessofspace,ensuringthedestructionofthosewhohaddoneformeinparallelwithmy own; at the least., surely, the energies involved would be enough to amplify myanguishandsenditscreamingout.telepathicallytowardsthemacrossthevoid,sothattheveryphenomenontheyhadhopedtoescapebymarooningme-thesympatheticvibrationoftheirmindstotheobliterationofmyown-wouldcomeabout.Perhapstheeffectswouldbeevengreaterthanthese:therewasandisnowayofgatheringdataabout,blackholeswithout being gathered oneself in the process.Light years away though the nearest lifewas,it,too,mightbetouched:butbynowmyhatred,asmyexistence,knewnobounds,and I did not somuch as doff the cap of conscience in the direction of any accidentalvictims.Wasnotmypunishmentacrimeagainstthehumanityinme?Therefore,werenotallhumansculpable?

Myjourneytookweeks.Icontinuedtosustainmyselfonhatred,growinginintensityasmyendapproached.Iwouldneverknowtheactualtasteofvengeance,andcontentedmyselfwithitsburgeoning,burninganticipation.Iwascarefulnottostretchmyreservesofpower-for,attheend,Iwouldhaveneedofthemtocreatetheenvisionedcataclysm-andcut out my engines as soon as I knew that I was likely to die, physically, before theoptimumpoint for self-destruction, compressedbygravitybeyond the imagination; so Iprogrammed my craft’s computer accordingly. Should it sense my imminent demise itcouldthencarryoutthefinalactofmyplanforme,rippingtheshuttleapartinfusion.Mydistilledhatred,mypurelustforrevenge,Iknew,wouldstillbewithme,theveryessenceofmyself,evenasmybodyfailed;andinthatmomentitwouldsearoutacrossthevoid,clutchingforthemindsofthoseinthemothershiptowhichIhadoncebelonged.Isettledforthelongdropintothevortexofanti-matter:theplanwasset.

All space isvacuum,but there isnone tocompetewith theenormityof thatwhichsurroundsablackhole.Sinceallthingsbegan,ithassuckedeverygrainofmatterwithinthevastpowerofitsattractionintoitself,sothattheemptinesswhichsurroundsitcannolongerbemeasuredevenintermsofthespeedoflight:itmustbeinthatofdark.Intothisabsolute void I tumbled, ever accelerating, butwith no sense of speed:with nomatteraround me to which I could relate, it was as though, for weeks, my craft remainedstationary.ButIknew,exultantly, that Iwashasteningever inwards:nownothingcould

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haltmyprogress,nothingcouldavertthespecificofmyend.

I became aware very slowly. At first, I thought it was a trick of my admittedlyfeveredmind,aphenomenonduetotheevergreaterproximityofnothingness,somehowreflectingmythoughtsandgivingmetelepathicechoesofmyself.ThecloserIdrewtotheblackhole, thegreaterwas the intensityof themindwaves; realization after realizationcameuponme,untilfinallytruthdawned.Myessence,whichhadbeenhatred,changedtodesperation, the desperation to send amessage; and the pitch ofmy emotion nowwasgreatereventhanithadbeeninmyearlierwillforrevenge.

A message: it is that one which has been-as I once hoped my hatred would be-imprintedthroughallthefabricofspaceandtimeandallthefurtherdimensions.Itisthatmessage which you, and I in my time within the cage of time, have heard but neverunderstood; it is that warning to which you-we-have been so oblivious. Now thisobliviousness forces me into this most inadequate of attempts at communication: theimplantingofmystoryinthemind,andthereforethewrittenwords,ofoneofyourtime,your constrictions, your inabilities. It is hopeless, I knowalready:you, I,we all cannotdeviatefromthelineonwhichweareirrevocablyset.Yetstillthereisstruggle;yetstillmyscreamreachesfartherthanevenIcouldhavedreamed.

The essence, the telepathic output of the blackhole-no, it is time to do awaywithsuch inanimate imagery-the antimatter itself, the one composite antithesis of allwe areandknow, isnot intelligence,norwill,noremotion.Even in thematterofessence, it isutternegativeIsensed. Iknewwithevery limitofsense, that thatnegativeofnegativeswasutteroblivion,utterobliterationforus.Inthematerialsense,ofcourse,Ihadalwaysknown this to be so; now I also knew it in every other one. I drew closer, and themindwavesbecameevenmoreintense;bythistimeableonlytoabsorb,nottofight,Iwashelpless.Theenormityofmycrimebecamecleartome.

Theanti-matter,initstotality,isalsoanti-mind,anti-soul,anti-brain,anti-spirit;then,itwasstilldormant.Theoblivionwhichtheblackhole,thewindowatwhichwepeeredbutcouldnotpenetrate,hadtendereduswasarbitrary,impartial;thesuckinginofmatterthroughall timehadbeenmerely thebreathingofaSleeper.This is tobenomore: thenoiseofmyapproach,theintensityofmyhatred,hasintrudedintheslumber,anditstirs.

Ofwhatuse ifdull, lifelessmatterassustenancewhenwakefulnesscomes?Nowitrisesfromsleep;now,inme,isabouttotastetheaddictivesweetnessoflifeandofspiritfor the first time.Now itwakes, flexes Itsmuscles, begins to feel the full extent of Itspoweranddominion.Itsmillenniumiscome:soon,now,ItwillbegintofeelItswayoutacross the cosmos, across all time, all dimension, in the craving to satisfy Its endlessgreed,tosatiateItsendlesshunger.

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Waiting

‘Iwake up;without a shadow of doubt I have done so. The hands of the bedsideclockshowanhourwellbeforemyaccustomedoneofconsciousness;thealarmhasnotyetgoneoff.Foronce,ratherthandriftingbacktosleep,Ireachoverandpushdownthelever,sothebellwon’tringlater.Myheadismuzzy,thebrandyoflastnightisstilltracedaroundmymouth;thereisthesuspicionofaswollenglandontherightsideofmyneck.Ihavepassedtheborderline,trulyawake,andnowilltoreturntosleepcanberealized;soIobeytheunaccustomedimpulsetorise.

Thedayissomediocrethatitcannotevenbecalledhostile.Thegreynessandthewetare uniform, but in an almost clandestine way. I can look at the day and say «This isnothing»;butmyeyes,turnedaway,willbeallthemorebleary,damp,andunfeeling.Itis—dull,ambiguous,anonymous-awaitingday,andadayforwaiting.

Acupofblackcoffee,madeinautomaticfashion;waterhasspilledovertherimofthecupontotheworksurface,whereitalreadystartstocongealintoastickypastewithoddgranulesofcoffeeandsugar.Ihaveopenedmymail,glancedatopeningparagraphs,signatures-and postponed proper reading to a later, more aware, time. Slumped in myfavoritechair,Idrinkthecoffee,smoketwocigarettes,readthemorningpaper.Thereisnothingofsurpassinginterestinit-anearthquake,afootballresult,twofoolishmistakesinyesterday’scrossword,listingsofanothereveningofvaluelesstelevision.Ineedthepaper,though,asjunctionwith,normalizationfor,theday;withouttheritualofmorningreadingImightwellpassthroughtheentiredayinadreamstate.

Theritualisclone,andIhavearrivedatwhatIliketopretendisaconditionoffullconsciousness. I’m pleased that it’s still early: a full day awaits, packed with preciousminutes;timetowield,bend,fashiontomyownpurposes.Toooften,thesedays,timehasitsownwaywithme; today,now, I amupbefore it is ready,haveahead start, and so,perhaps,canmaster it foronce.Soonenough, Iknow, itwillbesnappingatmyheels-Ideterminenot to lose this advantage I have.Still I ama little queasy, a little slow, stillthere is that lump belowmy jaw, intermittently throbbing; perhaps time has an illnesspreparedformeinitsarmoury.

Ignoreit;itmaynotcome.So,anothercupofcoffee,andIlookatthelettersproperlywhilethekettleisboiling.AtsometimeIwillreply-inamonth?Two?—butnotnow,nottoday,notwhile thegrainsof timearealreadyjoiningeachother, remorselesslyready. Itakeittomyroom,clearawaymypapers,smokeanothercigarette;nowtowork.

A fresh sheet of paper, and I make some notes. Another and some guidelines.Another, and some connections. Already three sheets of paper covered with scrawl,impregnatedwiththought:theirsumtotalisconfusion.Thisissilly—Imuststop,clearmyhead,trulythinkofwhereI’mgoingifthere’sthepossibilityofseeingthelieofthelandinadvance.Now:letmegetmyselfstraight.

Stareoutofthewindow.Stillanindifferentday,gray,dull;spittleofrainaddedtoitnow.Abstraction,meanderingthoughts;oncemore,concentration.

Iknowexactlywhatthispieceismeanttobeandmean,butIjustcan’tseehowto

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getitout.Icanfeelitprowlingaroundinsideme,acagedcat,clawingandscratchingtobe released. If I’mnot tobesavaged…no, I’m theonlyonewhocandoanysavaging,either tomyself or to thework, bymistiming ormal-execution. Still, unless I becomeawareofthepositionofthedoorinthiscageIwouldbeaswelltobeaprisonermyself.Icouldsimplybeginwriting?Thatwouldatleastbringsomethingintotheopen,fleshbothbeastandbars.Butthen,Icouldcallmyselfnokindoftrainerforthecat,nowielderofpower.OnceIknowwhichwaythebeastwillrun,everythingelsewillfollow-thatisthevital problem. I knowhow the thing should be, surely I can find its physical direction.PerhapsifIjustgivemyselfuptoit,allowmymindfreerein…

Totalblank.

Perhapsanothercigarette;perhapsatea,orsomethingtoeat.Perhapsanythingtobeoutof thisroom,off thischaironwhichI’venowbeenslumpedforanhourandahalf.Ah, the dog: awalk!The fresh air, thewindwill clearme ofmy stiffness,mental andphysical.Whenoutwalkingtheclog,alone,Ialways thinkmost lucidly;I’msure thatIwillbeabletosortoutallIneedtoknowinordertowritethestory.

Shoes,coat,lead,keys.Onceoutside,thedayislessneutral,moreinhospitablethanitseemed.It’sarelieftolettheclogoffhisleadatthefields;hehasbeenpullingonitalltheway.Mywrist is chafed, the exposed skinbelowmy sleeves cold and soaked.Haircontinuallyblownintomyeyes.Mybodyfeelsthecoldincolor:nosered,knucklesblue.Watershakenfromthetreesdripdownmyneck;lashingsplintersofwindandraininmyface.Thrustmyhandinmypockets,huddleupmyshoulders,walkautomatically.Thedognowahundredyardsaway, chasing squirrels.The story-ah,yes,plentyof time to thinkaboutthatonthewayback.

Foamingwaterrushesclownanopendrain,whitenoise.

A slug inches with barely perceptible motion across the path, white, glistening,moving on his slime; with a twitch of his horn at something unknown-perhaps mypresence-hechangescourse.Timeissomethingdifferentforhim.

Arag,caughtinayoungfirtree.Closer;no,apigeon!Itswingsareoutsplayed;thebranches’needlessnareandripatthefeathers.Ablackandstaringholebehindtherighteye,theneckjarredandtwisted.Probablyitflewatobliviousfullspeedintothedeath-trapspineofthetree.Thedogboundsup,nostrilsepilepticforthesmell,triestopullitclown.Ishoohimaway,butleavethebirdtorotinthetree:awarningoftheclangerofhaste.

Walkon,thinkon.People,events,plans,futures,dreams.Nowthehouseagain.

Theclayhasgainedmomentumbut retains identical inertia. Idry thedog,andmyrain-soakedhair;Ichangemyshoes.Thatcupoftea,thatcigarette,andbacktothatroom.IknowthatIamnowseveralmovesfurtherawayfromtheworkandthatImustsit.itout:thereisnootherway.Thinkofthestory;mymindwellsupwiththeechoesofobservationandconjecturefromthewalk.Outside thewindow, thedayseemsworse thanever; it isnotyetnoon,but there isalreadya feelingofduskabout it.Thinkof thestory.Awordcomes tomind: look itup in thedictionary, in the thesaurus.There’sanother interestingword, look it up,mark it: half a dozen random chains through thewords of reference.Anothercigarette.Thinkofthework.Blank.

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Exhaustion: fold my arms on the desk, rest my head on them, try to absorb andconcentratethroughrelaxation.IknowthethingI’mworkingtowards.Iknowitverywell.The characters, their actions stand out clearly, but they are separated like pieces of ajigsawpuzzle.Icannotseehowtheyallfit,howitfitstogether.Icannotseeanylinewithwhich I could possibly begin. It’s ready, it’s built up insideme for long enough… butthere’snowaythatIcanletitout,thatIcanwriteasinglewordtostart,it.So:thatmustmeanthatIhaven’tfullyunderstoodorgraspedityet.Try.Blank.

Sometimepasses,dimly,quasi-consciously.Ihavegonetothedarkplaceinsearchof the roots of this fiction; I return empty-handed to the same unyielding, unchangingrealityoftheviewfromthewindow.

Startagain.Afreshpieceofpaper.Mapout ideas,connections,causalities.It’s justscribble,evenlesscomprehensiblethanthepreviousnotes.Noneareratall.Inafury,ballthepaperupandthrowittowardsthewaste-paperbasket,misseventhat.Runmyhandsthroughmyhair:dirty,greasy.Massagemyforeheadwithmyfingertips:itfeelsbulbous,nodular…likemybloated,aimlessthoughts,likemybrain.

Makesomethingtoeat:toast,friedeggs,creamcheese,tomatoes.Moretoast,butter,marmalade,anothercupoftea.Playwiththeclogandhisball;improvise,clumsily,onthepiano; play one side of an album.Without thinking, turn on the television: an hour ofafternoon soap opera. More cigarettes, more tea, more toast, more time. The preciousminutesspurtawayanddownthedrain;thewhitenoisebuildsupuntilIcanstanditnolonger.TimeIworkedagain.

Back in the room; stareoutof thewindow.Dayyetmoreneutral, total absenceofcolororvitality.Headonthearms,think,gropeforanswers,lookoutofthewindow;headonthearms,strainforthestory,blindsearchforword,meaning,motive.Nonearer.Nowtimehasgainedascendancy;nowitslipsfrommewithincreasingmalevolenceandspeed.

Bynowdarkoutside.Withtheonsetofdarknessitispossibletorelax,ifyouknowyouhavetriedduringtheday.Icannothavetriedhardenough:Ihadastart,aholdontheday;andIhavegotnowhere…thereisstillmoreefforttobemade.

Stilltheroom.Thenumbing,dimshuntingofthestory,thestory,thestoryaroundmyhead.Timeaches, sucks,yawnscollapsesaboutme.Thoughtextends intodaydream, todissipation, to near-catalepsy. Eyes closed eyes open head onmy arms look out of thewindow:everywaythesamedullvoidoftheday.Nonearer.

The main meal. Have I clone nothing but eat all day? Fish fingers, frozen peas,instantpotato.Sludge.Coffee.Isuccumb,atlast,tothebrandywhichthedrinkscupboardhasbeenofferingmeallday. Isuccumb,again, to theT.V.: thenews, thesamenewsasalways; someboxing, programmesonmotoring and rock climbing. I amnot interested,butIwatch.Ahomily,andclose-down;thescreen,too,confrontsmewithgrayvacuum.Iamhauntedbyguilt,thatIhavenotgivenenough.Inwardly,Irageatmylackofeffortorconcentrationorcapacity.Anotherday,anotherpieceofworkisalmostlost.

Theroomagain.IfonlyIcouldstartwriting,havesomething,anythingtoshowformyday.Tomorrow,Imightbeabletobuildonit.Effort.Tenhalf-completeopeninglines,allmanifestlyinadequate;oneclosingone,soambivalentthatitmightaswellbethefirst.I re-read these things; direction and content are hopelessly wrong.More paper for the

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basket;myhandsrake,tearat,myhair.

Re-assemble all previousmaps, conjectures, diagrams and plans beforeme on thedesk.Re-consignthemtothebasket.Handsbetweenknees,headondesk,blank.Elbowsondesk,headonarms,blank.

PerhapsIamnowworkingonlywithregard to time,not to thestory: ithasalmostdefeatedme.

Headup.Stretch, yawn, eyesopen.Thenumbingbeat of timeatmy temples.Thestoryisnowalmostforgotteneveninintention;noneofitseemstomakesenseanymore.Maybeitshouldbejustonepartofalargerone,orbedividedintosmallersectionsitself;maybeitisnotastoryatall.Maybethereisnothinglefttosayorworthsaying,nothingthathasnotbeensaidbefore,nothingIcanwritethat,isnotrisibleand/orpointless.Nowanumbdespair.EventhoughIknowthatit istheday,thefrustration;it isnotthestory,nottheformwhichfails,butme.

Allthiswritingthough.Headonthearmsonthedeskeyesclosedfreerein.Hardlyeven sureanymorewhyorhow I amhangingon.Any flickerofdistractionenough todiverttheattention.Ihavefullknowledgethattherewillbenothinghere,butdoggedhopedrivesme.Harrowingthesoilofmemoryforexperience,hallowingthesoulformeaning.Ohdoesitcome?No:driftingaway…waitingforthestory.

Like a woman desired in a way resonant with future knowledge of fire fed andquenched; like waiting for her. At first, all hope, belief, vibration; then burgeoninganticipation, the recurrence in themindofher face,herbody,herpresence, soon.Timeslips by, a numbness comes, the knowledge of absence, of solitude, grows. Finally,resignation,acceptance.

Oh,yes,waitingforwomen,oftenithasendedso:alonewiththepurestemotion,themostdistilledsentiment,fedonlybythefireoftheimaginationandunsulliedbyactuality.Atothertimes,ofcourse,thewomanhascome,anddesirebeenquenched;yetsomethingelse,somemystery,isalsoextinguished,andafterwardstherecomesthatotheremptiness,thatcolddoubt…all isasitshouldbe,butall isnotenough.Somewish, lesspersonallydirectedormotivatedremains;perhapsformorecogentimmolation.Thesolitudethenisdeeper, the fear-that nothing is important-greater.The tender embrace suddenly becometheghost touchofamirage.Thedreamofaperfectmoment, thewaitingfor it, isoftenbetterthanitsarrival;foritisthenthatillusionsareshattered.

Yes,andtherehasbeenwaitingforstoriesbefore;whenmysharehavecometome,ithasnotbeeninasingleincandescentmoment,butinhoursofwritingwheretimeisaphysical,ratherthanaspiritualconstraint.Andafterwards?Afterwards,likethesex,whenitisdone,achapterclosed,itnolongerseemstobeofimportance.Always,Iamnostalgicforthemomentwhenitwasneitherherenorthere,whenitwasstillonlythepuregermofanideainmyhead,forall thechillpainofstriving,wanting,waitingitcausedme.The«work»towardswhichіtrytobedutiful,ofwhichIamsojealous,ismerelythecopyingdownofthatidea,stretchedinthesand,beforetheoceanoftimeclosesonanderadicatesit.

Still we wait. So we all wait through our days for one moment of passion,knowledge, enlightenment.We recognize trivia and ritual, but are unable to relinquish

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them; we yearn only half-comprehendingly. From time to time, in the course of briefwalksoutsideself-obsession,wereceivesignalsandsigns,butrarelytakethemtoheart.Insteadwewait foronemomentofvision:an instant in thewakeofwhichall instants,whicheverwayitgoesorisorwillbe,willbeofnoimportance.Perhaps,forafewofus,it will be the perfect story, the perfect orgasm, the perfect death. For most, there willprobably be disappointment in the end, and anticlimax. But there is something in thewaiting, thewill and effortwhich it requires,whichmust be at least as valuable as theecstasyormindlessnesswhichfinishesit?’

Sothereheis.Hehasbeenwaitingforastory:itcouldhavebeenasong,apoem,apainting.Itcouldhavebeenaplan-howtomakehimselfamillionaire,orhowtohijackanaircraft,orhowhewouldblowawayanairport. It couldhavebeenhis suicide.Does ithavetobesomethingsodramatic,justbecausethethoughtsarehereonpaper?

Andnow,attheendofit,hashewastedhisclay?Hehaslivedit.Onwhattermsarewetojudgethat?

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TheMadonna

Hehasnoideaoftheprecisetime,butthedarknessandsilencetellhimthatitisthemiddleof thenight.Outside,acityalien tohisslumbers.Thehotel roomintowhichhewakes is known to him: lumpy bed, ancient telephone, cramped shower, anonymous,peelingwallpaper.The bedside table is known to him, andwhat rests on it: toothglass,bottle of grappa, ashtray, packet of cigarettes. He has been playing a game of doublepatience in this room for some clays, and his opponent has been time. Now, althoughnothingsoannoyshimasbrokensleep,heisawakeandrestless.Herollsonhisbackandhismindisflushedemptyevenofannoyance.Adrenalinfloodshim.

Besidehisbed,overhim,thererisesashapealmostthatofahumanbeing.Insomedimanddistantway,hefeelsheshouldknowwhatitis,butcannotplaceit.Hestaresupforaseeminglylimitlessminute,hissensesunabletofocusproperly,incapableofsendingadequatemessagestohisbrain.Itisasifhehasbeendazzledbyheadlights,orsufferedamild concussion. Wherever he looks the centre of his vision has substance, but theperipheryshimmers;itisasthoughthe«corner»ofhiseyehastakenoverallbutthemostdirect line of sight. He could be looking clown a translucent tube, all distortion savethroughtheapertureat.theoppositeend;orstaringatoilywaterintowhichapebblehasbeendroppedatthecenterstillness,butarounditdisturbance,insanityofshapeandform.

Hecastshiseyeinalldirections.Eventually,heformsacomprehensibleimagefromindividualpointsofcohesionandfocus.Thefigureisthatofawoman,andsheisdressedin black. Except for the color of her garments, she is exactly like one of those plastermadonnasfromtacky,materiallypiousreligiousshops.Hefeelssomethingofchurchashelooksupather,yethedoesnotreact,reverentially.Excepttobedumblyastonished,hehardlyreactsatall,andthoughtheadrenalinrusheshimtototalawareness,heisstrangelyafraid.

Herfaceistheonlypart,ofherbodyhecansee;whenhedoessohelooksnowhereelse.Ithangsabovehim,framedinthecowlofherrobe.Thefamiliarityhehadfeltinhermerepresenceshinesfromherface.Itisasthoughhehasknownit,beenclosetoit,aclayorayearbefore;orasthoughheknowsthathewillknowitinthefuture;orthathehasseenit.,onceonly,inadream.Thefeaturesandlinearealmostunbearablyperfect:sharpand smooth, cold as marble, flushed with fever. The expression is one of repose, butsuffusedwithsomeinnercalm,somedeeppurpose.Theeyesaredark,intense,hypnotic,andhefeelsthatiftheymeet,his,headon,hewillsurelydrown.Butthereisnochanceofthis:thoughsheisonlyinchesaway,leaningoverthebed,hereyesremainsteadilyfixedat the horizontal, as though examining something of surpassing interest on the wallopposite. She looks across and beyond, rather than at or through him. Not a singlemovementofhereye,head,orbodydisturbsthesilence,theessenceofthemoment.

Andyethedoesnot really seeher, it ismore than that; in somemost sensoryandsensuous ofways, he feels her in thismoment. The instant seems to last for hours, asthough,inorderforhimtoabsorbherpresencefully,shehasstoppedtime,orspeededuphis rate of absorption, until now his every awareness is her. And now, only now, shespeaks, her voice seeming to come simultaneously from every corner of the room andfromonetinyvibratingpointinhisownbrain.

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‘«Takegoodcareoftheknife,foryouwillhaveneedofit.’»

Sheisgone.Forabeingofsuchtranquilityandcalm,herwords,redolentofthreat,andviolence, hadbeen incongruous; this is lost onhim in the awfulness of her suddendisappearance.Foramoment,theutmostanguishofloss.Butnormality,therealityoftheroom, reasserts itself, and the brain begins to question.He raises himself on his elbow,shaking,andforfullyfiveminutessearchesouttheshadowycornersoftheroomforher,hercontinuedpresence,herreality…orat leastsomeevidenceofherhavingbeen there.The room is empty and silent. He is unquiet with a feeling of otherness and the faint,unstatedmenacethatitbrings.

There is fear in his soul, but hismind races for comprehension and assurance.Heknowsaboutdreams;hethinkshemighthavebeendreaming.Severaltimeshehaswokenfromonedreamintoanother,andnotknownthatitwassountil,finally,hehaswokenup.But he is not dreamingnow, and there has beennomovement betweendreamand realworldsinallthis.Atonemomentshehadbeenstandingoverhim,andatthenexthewassearchingthecontoursoftheroomforherpresence;throughout,hehadbeenfullyawake.Heisawakenow.

Shewastooreal,hecannotacceptthatshewasahallucination,aprojectionfromthedreamworldintotherealone.Hereachesforthesanity-albeitinconclusive-ofaVision,anApparition,thinksofSaul/Paul,Bernadette…Hissoul,asitdidlongsincetosuchthings,demurs, and responds to the groped-for conclusion with questions. If there are dreamswithindreams,worldswithinworldsbelowthelevelofconsciousness,couldwenotalsoimagine states of existences, and that fromour position in itwe canonly seewhat liesbelow,canonlyguessatwhattowersabove?Hadshebeenfromahigherstepinsuchasystem?

His soul whirls in supposition. It does not change his knowledge of what he hasexperienced.

«‘Takegoodcareofyourknife,foryouwillhaveneedofit.»’

Theurgencyofsearch-firstforher,thenforreason-diesaway;memoryandemotiononcemoretakeholdofhisuneasyspirit.Herwordscareer,pin-balllike,aroundhishead.They bounce from one potential though or meaning to another, flashing lights ofrecognitionandpresentence;then,undertheimpulseoftheirowngravity,theyfallaway,only to return again, stimulating the same thoughts, the same recognitions, the sameuncertainties.

He is exhausted; sleep exerts its own gravitational pull, and sucks himdown.Thewordsstill run throughhisbrainashefalls,nowmadeall themoremeaningless tohimthrough repetition.This is all there is:hecanno longerkeep thegameofconjecture inmotion.Hehasbeenawake-most intensely so-forbarely twentyminutes;now the sleepintowhichheplunges,too,holdsmysteriesforhim.

«Theglobehangsintheairbeforeme.Irecognizeit.Ihaveseenitherebefore.Itisatadistance,butseemssoenormousthatIcanseenootherdetailofwhereIam.Icanhearthesea.Withsightalone,Icansomehowtouchtheglobe.Iknowhowitfeels,butitis likenothing.Thesurface isneithersmoothnorpitted,neitherhardnoryielding. It. islikeanamalgamofeverything,ofmetal,woodandstone-yetnoneofthese.Itisdulland

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bright,soundlessandthundering,acidandsweet.Implacablemotionthroughaliensky;itcomestowardsme.Itsmerepresencecrushes theairaroundit. It losesneitherenormitynorweightasitapproachesme,butallperspectiveisreversed;evennow,onlyfeetaway,Icanstillseeitall,thoughitstruesizecanonlybeappreciatedatadistance.Itshrinks,butremainsthesame;perhapsIgrow.IfmylimbswerenotparalyzedIwouldtrytopushitaway.Onlymyeyesandbrainarenotcompletelynumbedby itspresence. Itcomeson,nowtowardsmyopenmouth;Iampowerlesstoclampitshut.Ityawnswidetoreceivetheglobe,wider,wider.Nowthethingisonmytongue,Iknowitstouch,anditisasmyeyessawit.Itisthenegativeofalltaste,ofalltactility.Nowitexpandstofillmywholemouth, now it contracts to the diameter ofmy throat. It is still complete, it is still thesame…Iswallowit.»

Sothefirstdream.Hebreaksthesurfaceofsleepforamoment;itisjustlongenoughforhim todifferentiate thisdreamedexperience from the realoneof theMadonna, justlongenoughforthedreamtolodgeitselfinhismemory.Thenoncemoreintothedarknessofunconsciousness.

Hehashadthedreambefore.Itis,ofcourse,wellknown,anarchetype.Insofarasthesethingscanbebroughtforthintowakingreality,ithasevenbeenfixedinpaintandcanvas,bywhoelse?—Magritte.Buthedoesnotthinkofpaintingsashememorizesthedream,norofthoseotherswithwhomhesharesit:thistime,itisspecificallyforhim,anditismorethanitseems.

Therearethingswhichmustbeunderstood.Sincetherearetobedreamsfollowingthisonewhichweshallnotseeoverhisshoulder,eavesdroppingonhisslumberingspeechcenters,itisbestthatthesethingsareunderstoodnow,inrelationtohisfirstdreams.Tlieyshallhold,also,forthosewhichfollow.

First,wehaveseen thathis sensoryperception isbothacuteandatypical.Thathis«eyes»should«touch»isnotunknownindreams:thoughonlythebrainisactiveinthem,it «receives» information, and the logic of the knowledge faculties requires that this«comes»throughthesleepingsenses,evenifthesearesometimesconfusedorcoalesced.Butinthisdream,andthosewhicharetofollow,thesefacultiesplaynosuchcharade,andhis references to eye, taste, and touch are only the obligatory dogma of speech-centersanity. The sensations in these dreams are too strong for sensory evaluation: he knowseverydetailofthescenariothemomenthestepsintoit;heperceiveswithasupra-normalclarity.Thisinitselfwoulddifferentiatethesedreamsfrom«ordinary»ones.

Butthereissomethingmore,andmoretothepoint.Thisdreamhassomethingelseincommonwiththosewhicharetofollow:itis,initsbrief,butunfragmented,way,atest.Somepartofhimhadknownthiseveninhissleep.Inthecaseofthefirstdream,thetestwas merely to finish it: on the previous occasions when he had had it, notably in hischildhood,hehadnevermanagedtoreachtheend,alwayswaking, tovomit,at thefirsttongue-touchof theanti-matterglobe.This time, inorder topass the test, to furnish theanswer, he had had to find it in himself to swallow it-and, of course, since thiswas adream,noamountofintellectorconsciousnesscouldhelphimtothataction.Thetestwasthusofpureself,ofhisspirit,andofaspiritualorder.Therewasnopossibilityofcheating.

Hisconsciousselfobservesandrecordsthedreamsinhismemory,andhasnomore

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interactionwith them than to know the total nature of the experience-even though thiscannothelphimcomethroughit.Hedoesnotknowwhatthepenaltyforfailureinanyoftheseexaminationswouldbe-not.towake,perhaps?—butheknowshemustnotfail.Inone of his brief periods of consciousness between the dreams, he will think that he isunderattack,ratherthantest,sofrequentandintensewilltheybe;butbeforehereturnstosleephewillknowthattheexaminingforceisoneofstrictness,notvindictiveness.Onthisnight, thecruxofhisexistenceliesinhisownspiritualhands:inhisperformanceinthetests.

Ihopethatthisisunderstood;asyet,hehimselfistoomuchembroiledinthepresenttobeanywherenearunderstanding.

Therearefifteen,twentyofthesedreamsoftest.Thepatternofdreamingbecomesaroutine: darkness; instant and all-embracing light: awareness, experience, necessaryinformation; test; survival; waking; memory-retention; darkness. There is the finger-bloodying cling to the neck of a Pegasus, the knowledge of when to let go, to fall inperfectparabola.Thereisthewalkover, thenthrough,thepit,whereonewrongfootfallwouldplungehimintonamelesshorror.There is thebalanceonthebeam, thelinguisticpuzzle, the numerical maze. There seems always another test to follow the last., eachanswertobefoundinhimself,hisowncapacity,withnootherdeterminanttohelphim.Atlast,thereisafinalitytooneofthedreams,andinhismomentarywakingrecognitionofit,heknowsthatthisspiritualexaminationisdone,atleastfornow.Thenextdarknessisblissfullydeepandquiet.

Dawn. He wakes, and the crumbs of comfort he had gathered to himself at theconclusionofthedreamsarebrushedfromhisbedbytheillnesswhichsuddenlysitsinhisbody. His head buzzes, rather than aches, with pain. Hardly a limb feels as though itbelongstoanother:allseemhaphazardlyswollenordessicatedbyturn.Acoughcrouchesonhischest,hisnasal-passagesarebonedry,hiseyeswater.There is fever inhim,andintense,exasperating,thrashingdiscomfort.

Atfirst,herages,thinkingthatthisforceoffeelingwill,byitself,driveoutwhateverinhabitshimsocruelly.Butheisnotnowintheworldofdreams,andhisangeraggravatesratherthandispelstheillness.

Nowheliesonhisbackandtriestoignoreitall:thesickness,thevisionsandtrialsofthenightjustpast.Hetriestoconcentrateonthefactthatheisinahotelroominaforeigncity;thatheispassingtime,andthathemuststiffenhisresolveanddojust.that.Butitisnouse, thenight has taken toomuchout of him.Hehasno further energy reservesonwhichhecancalltobindhimselftogether.

Hestaresatthemustyceiling,atthecrackedlampshadegraduallybecomingvisibleinthegraydawnlightthroughtheshutters.Hedecidesthathemustmaketemporarytrucewithtime,waittillthecityismoreawake,whenitsenergycanbeharnessedwithhisownagainstwhateverisuponhim.

Timeisalliedtosilence,andsilenceisJudastotheheart.Herememberssomethinghewrote,longago,anadolescent,poemwhichestimatedthenumberofheartbeatshehadleft until his (average projected) death. ‘Never the same’, it had been called; now heknows that it is always the same,what is left, and that its number is both relative and

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irrelevant.Hisconsciousnessisdrawninexorablytothebeatingofhisheart,thecountingout of his time. It seems the only organ in his body which is not betraying him withmalfunction;but, even in this truce, it is turned traitor,on thesideof time.The rushofblood,thebeat,hisbody-clock.Hehasnorealthoughtsorfeelings,theyhaveevaporated,goneintovacuum.Hedoesnotknowifheliestherefortwohoursortenminutes.

Hecanhearthestreetoutsidebegintobustle,butnoneofthehopedforenergyseepsthroughtheshuttersortheroom.Hefeelshisfeverincreasing,hisleadenlimbsgrowingyetmoreweighty,hisdiscomfortbecomingexcruciating.Somehow,hefeelsthatbothhisillness and his inability to fight it spring from the same cause: his experience of thepreviousnight.Theenergysodrainedfromhisbodywasnotreallythatofcalories,butofwill.Hedoesnothavethestrengthofmindtofight.So:hemustbend,butnotbow.Hemust go with the current, and strike land as and when he can; he must conserve andchannelwhatthereisofhisenergy.Thismeansgoingintolimbooncemore.

Butlimbooffersmixedcomfort:hismindislockedtodaylighttime.Nowthereburnsin him a moment of full clarity, of realization connecting the day and the night: thisillness,too,isaformoftest.Hislethargyisjerkedfromhim,butthisinspiredknowledge,orguess,orfurtherhallucination,cannotreallyhelphim:timestillhastobewaitedout,whatevertheillnessisormeans.Sonowheliesstill,andsuffers,butdoesnotresist.Hegoeswiththetide,andtoitsurrendershisbody;butnothisspirit.Hewishesfornothing,and tries to thinkofnothing.Atonepoint,a treachorous thoughtcomes: ‘Icoulddie inthis room’. But it is only passing fear and conjecture: the resolution to accept withoutgivinginreturnstohim.Timepasses,begrudgingly.

Now it comes upon him in all its fury. He has been in greater pain before, hasexhibitedmorealarmingsymptomsatothertimes,butneverbeforehassuchafeelingoftotalsicknessfloodedhisbrain.It isas thoughitcomesfromcell level; fromeverycellaching, insistent torture.Hisbodilymindcriesout fordiscorporation,his spirit screamsagainsttheillness;butitchokeshim,andtimedripsintohimlikepoison.

Hiscoughhassprungdeepintohislungs:dryrepetitiveandspasmodic.Feversuckscoldsweatfromhispores,atapitchwhereneithermovementnorimmobility,eveninthedefensivefoetalposition;assuageit.Exhaustionrunsthroughhiseveryfiberindeadeninganesthetic. It seems that his only functioningmuscles are thosewhich rack him in thecoughing.Hisnostrilsandsinusesfeelasiftheyhavebeendustedwithgroundglass;hiseyesandlidscoatedwithmercury.

Itlastsatthisdesperatelevelforthreequartersofanhour;then,quickly,itisgone.Heis left,soakedwithsweat,drained,with the legacyof theheaviestofpossiblecolds,with a raspinghoarseness in the throat.He is still uncomfortable, still ill; but this is asnothingcomparedtotheconvulsionsofillnesshehasjustbeenthrough.

Nowheliesonthebed;attemptingtoread.Heisinneutral,physicallyandspirituallyspent,yetfullyaware.Distancednowfromtheintensitiesoftheillnessandthedreamsofthepreviousnight,hehasforgottenneither.

Hedoesnothavetostayaloneinthishotelroom.Therearepeopleheknowsinthiscity: he could go to visit, to be comforted by, them. He makes no move, even in theknowledge that they would make him remember normality, forget what he had been

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through;nomove,notevenonetentativetelephonecall.Heknowsthathehasseenandexperiencedsomething;heknowsthat,ofall times, it isnowimportant thathedoesnotforget.Sohewaits,asaloneashehaseverbeen,allthemoresoforthefactthatcompanyisonlyasixdigitnumberaway,anumberwhichhisownhandrestrainsthefingerfromdialing.

As,insomeincoherentdepthofself,hehadknownitwould,itcomes.Itbeginswithanaching lightness inhis chest., emotion satphysicallyoverhisheart.Nowayearningbegins,namelessandcauseless:thepotentquintessenceofhopeanddespair,ofuniversaljoy,ofinfinitesorrow.Nowtheemotionsstarttorolloverhiminvibrantintensity.Theyfeedbackon themselvesandonhim, running thegamutof their range.Theyvibrate inharmony,toachievemind-shatteringproportions.Theycrashintohiminwavesalternatelyicyandscalding,stickhimdeepdownintotheirundercurrents.

Somethingofhismindhadbeenpreparedforthis,butthatisnowofnousetohim:hisbrain inoverrun,explored toeveryextremitybynameless thoughtsandfeelings.Hehasnoreasonwithwhichtoholdthemback,nochoicebuttogowiththem.

He finds himself pacing the room maniacally, threshing his hair with wild,uncontrolledfingers.Hefindshimselfpunchingadoorjambwithallhisstrength:bloodontheknuckles,blindnessinthecrazedeyes,darknessinthemind.Hefindshimselfcastonthebed,faceburiedinthepillows,handsclenchingandopeningtosomeunstatedrhythm.Irrationaltearsstreamdownhischeeks.Betweensobs,hehearshisownvoice:«‘Oh,no,notagain…notagain…notagain…»’

Thewavesofemotionsubside;themadnesswithdrawsinasteadilyebbingtide.Thedeafeningnoise of the blood rushing throughhis uncomprehendingmind is gone; he isquietoncemore,andalmostunderstanding.Hismind’s turn tobe tested, too,hascomeandgone.

Heliesprone,finallyandutterlyexhausted.Hehasbeentoocruellyexamined,butheiswholeinmind,body,andspirit.Toosoon,tootirednowtoaskwhy,tofind-evenifitispossible-any true comprehension.He thinks of something he once heard; it seems longago,itseemsthatithasbeeninhisheadforever.

«‘Takegoodcareofyourknife,foryouwillhaveneedofit.’»

Nowhedropsintosleep,intothefinaldream.

‘Iaminaprisoncell.Moisture,littlelight,nocomfort.ItcouldbeMonteCristo,theMan in the IronMask, de Sade. It is that time, that dark.No knowledge of crime.Noknowledgedirectlyofpunishment..NoideawhetherIamcriminalorinnocent.Thiscouldbeprisonorprivatedungeon.ItcouldbeKafka.Itisthatdark.Thisisnotlife.Ihavebeencondemnedtolosemylife,tospendwhatisleftofithere.

The faceless man comes through the door. He is here to murder me. A secretexecution. I crouch against the sweatingwall beneath thewindow-slit.He advancedonme.Me,him,frommanypointsintheroom.Thecorner.Heisoverme.StillIcannotseehisface.Hisformlurchesoverme,misshapen,hunched.

Myhandfindstheknifethatithasbeenclasping.Idonotknowhowlongithasbeenthere.Thrustintotheknottedback,theside,thechestofthefacelessman.Hecollapseson

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topofme,suffocatingme.Iforcehimaside.Noblood,butheisdead.Iamfree.AtleastIamalive…Ilookattheknifeinmyhand.’

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TheSpider’sWeb

«No,David,»shesaid,«youmustpromise…»

Hehadbeenthinkingaboutsomethingandsomeoneelseatthetime,farawayfromthere;itwasonlywitheffortthathebroughthisattentionbacktoher,hisfocusbacktohersun-bleachedheadrestingonhischest.Itwasevening;outside,theinsectsweretuningupfortheirtone-poemofthenight.Acoolgraymisthadsettledoverthevillage.Fragmentsofjuke-boxmusicdriftedthroughtheopenwindowandreverberatedfaintlyintheroom;thesoundechoedwithmelancholy,asthoughalllife,allpeoplewereveryfaraway.Ghostvoicescarriedthroughthedusk.Theflagstonesofhisbedroomcaughtthelastofthelightby the window and scattered it among their ridges. Already the rest of the room wasdrapingsuchfoldsofshadowaboutitselfasitcould,later,befashionedintoheart-nudgingspecters.Whitewallsandalcovesmergingintohomogeneousplaneswiththeblackwoodof the high, carved wardrobe. The paintings, dark, brooding in their frames, offeringthemselvesaswindows,shafts,orprojections.Thedark,angularnightdrewon,and theroomwelcomed it.Only inonecornerof the roomwas there light.Yellow, fromanoillamp, it flickered over a plain table on which rested a chaos of books, magazines,newspapers,filesandmanuscript.Clotheshadbeenhastilyflungovertheaccompanyingchair:jeans,asweatshirt,alightsilkdress…

«David?»

«What?»

«Youmustpromise…»

«I’msorry,»heshrugged,«Imusthavebeenmilesaway…whatmustIpromise?»

«Thatyouwon’t…oh,you’renot really listening.»She rolledawayand layonherback.Suddenlyshewasengrossedinfiddlingwithastringofbeadswhichhungaroundherneck.Therewasmorethanalittlereproachinthisinterest.

Hesighedwearily.Themusicfromthecafe’sjuke-boxwaftedintotheroom,joinedbythepercussionofherclickingbeads.Heleanedovertothetable,locatedhispacketofcigarettes, flickedoneoutand lit it.One longdraw,one longexhalation;oncemoreoffintothesmoke-filledpast.

HethoughtofSusan.Twoweeksago,theyhadbeenlyingnexttoeachotherbythesea,inhisfavoritecove;itwasthelastdayofherstaywithhim.Hisinvitationtoherhadbeencharacteristicallyoff-hand,andhehadhardlyexpectedhertotakeitup;butshehadcome.ShehadflownfromEngland,hercaptivatingsmile,herdisarmingfranknessthrowninanovernightcasewithhersummerclothes,andbeenwithhiminhisvillaforaweek.Hehadbeensurprisedathoweasyitwastoshare,beingoutofthehabitofdoingso,buthehadsharedwithher:hisboard,hisbed,hissecretthoughtsandplaces…hissecrets.

Perhaps,hethought,hehadbeenunwisetowelcomeherwithhisarmsspreadfullyopen; she carried the seeds of the citywithin her. Cities in themselves held no specialdread for him, but he knew that he had attuned himself to, made his own, theMediterranean lifeandall its tempo,moderationandexcess.Here, fast thingshappenedslowly,andslowthingscouldlastbutamoment in time,orforever.HeandSusanwere

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fromdifferentcultures,differentworlds,now.

Once, theirmindsand liveshadrun inparallel;hewonderedwhereandwhentheyhadlostthelines,whetheritcouldhavebeenhelped.Thelasttimetheyhadreallyknowneachotherwastoomanyyearsagotocontemplate:thelasttimehehadlivedinLondon,observing, assembling, and finally writing ‘The Lost Keepsake’. So long ago? Susan-observed,desired,elusive-hadbeenacentralcharacterinthatbook;butshehadbeenoneofhisimaginationratherthanexperience.Increatinghisfiction,hehadmadehimselfanobserver, aside-player, never totally involved in the real lives of those friends who,camouflaged andmaneouvred, peopled his writing. Thus he had known Susan, he haddevouredher,intheprocessofwritinghisnovel,butthecharacterhehadgivenherwasskeletal,not fleshed,moreanextrapolationofhison ideas thana true representationofher.Now,heneededtoknow.Theyhadmetagainbychance,ataparty,whenhemadeonof his increasingly rare forays to his erstwhile home city; he had offered her hishospitality,andshehadaccepted.Probably,shehadbeenlookingmerelyforthesun;hewaslookingforcompletion,foraffirmation.Somuchtimehadpassed:hewantedtopulltogetherthestrings,resolvethesuspendedchord,findwhathadchangedandwhatwasthesame.Hewantedtofindoutwhathehadneverknown.Toomuchtime:theyhadnotseeneach other since the book was published. The intervening years could have changed,alienatedthemtotally;yetheretheywere,lazinginthesun,tipsyonredwine,theirfeetdanglinginthewater,alone.

Theyhadneverbeenalone,itseemed,intheLondonclays.Thentheyhadbeenadriftin an ocean of humanity, ferociously tangling the lines of their lives about themselves-those became, in time, the very lines which threaded themselves through «The LostKeepsake’.Iftheyhadnotalreadydoneso,theirpathswouldcertainlyhavedivergedwiththesuccessof thebook,withbis lionizationand resultant security.Therehadbeen fourmorenovelssincethen,ofcourse,infurthercapitalization:onemoresetinLondon,oneinNewYorkandanotherofjet-setitinerance.Thelatest,‘TheLimbsofPurgatory’,hadbeenset.here,inthetempestuouslyeasypaceofthelotus-eaters»society.Hehadalwaysusedtheplacesandpeoplehehadknownto thefullest,andherehehadfoundarichvein tomine; energy crackled around theMediterranean days and nights, poised itself, flared,dissipated. Everymonth, it seemed, an acquaintancewould find his efforts coined intosuccess іwhatever field he avowedly chose; everymonth, anotherwould drown in thebottomofabottleofbrandy.Therewasasimple,bleached-outdesignhere,aslownessoftimeanddistance,andhelikedit.Sohishomewasherenow,anditwasherethathesiftedthroughthepan,lookingforrememberednuggetsofhumanbehaviorwithwhichtofillhisfuturework.

It was several worlds away from London. A young man, full to the brim withabandonandbraggadocio,hehadfeltpartofthecityonce;now,anoutsider,hefounditcold,dirty,repellent,closed,andheloathedit.YetSusanwasstillapartofthatcity,andeverysooftenamove,agesture,wouldshowthatshecarrieditinherevenhere.Perhaps,afterall,ithadbeenamistaketoinviteher…

Only a passing cloud; only the heat, becoming prickly and stifling in the breezechoppedforamoment;onlytheeffectsofthewine,thissenseofdoubtandmelancholy,upfromthewellsofnostalgia.

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«Pennyforthem?»sheasked;hesmiledquietly.

«Ithoughtso,youhadthatlookonyourface.»

«Whatlook?»

«Thatoneyoualwayshad:„Iamthinkingveryseriousandimportantthoughtswhichareofrelevancetothewholehumanrace,sowilleveryonepleaseleavemealone.“I’vealways found it abit comical, actually.Anyway, I’venoticed thisweek that it seems tocomeonyouwhenyou’rebroodingaboutthepast.»

«That’snotquitefair,»hesaid,hisdignitylightlybruised.

«No, no, don’t worry, I was just kidding you; got to keep a sense of perspective,haven’twe?Allthesame,Ihadafeelingyouwerethinkingaboutallthat.»

«London?»

«Yes,London,thosedays,thatbook…Isupposeit’sinevitablethatyoushouldstart,rootingaroundinthatagain,withmebeinghere.»

«Ah, you’ve read the books, then?» he asked. There were studied overtones ofsurpriseinhisvoice,arootnoteofpleasure.

«Onlythatone,andlongago…»

Sheseemednon-committal;hepoured twomoreglassesofwineand lookedout tosea.Aferrypassed lowon thehorizon.Briefsilence.Hefelt theneed toprobe.Forhisego,hewantedtoknowwhatshethought,ofhisnovel.Forhimself,stillwantingto«find»her, he looked for her feelings about, the circumstances, the experiences, the lifestyle,whichhadengenderedit,andwhichtheyhadshred.Heventuredalead;hishesitancywasamplifiedbytheobviousnessofitsnature.

«Theywere…prettystrangetimes,weren’t,they?»«Doyoumeanasinthebookorasinthetimes?»«Wholething.»

Underherbreath,shemutteredsomethingwhichsounded-hedidn’tquitecatchit-like«Same thing».Pressed, shewould saynothing;buthehad foundoneof«his» subjects,andwarmedtoit.Alreadythesignsoftheagedsemi-alcoholicborewereincipient.Therewas,afterall,muchofpersonalrevelationthathecouldsaytoSusan;beherambledintoareasofcommonandmutualknowledge,reminiscedwithanostalgiaofwhichthewarmthwasnot thatof events remembered,butof storiesmany times told.He recounted, amidgalesofhisownlaughter,manyofthe«strange»and«crazy»thingstheyandtheirfriendshaddoneinthepast.Someofthesestories-thoseshehadforgotten,thoseheembellishedbest-she greeted with similar mirth, and acknowledged others with a wry smile ofrecognition.Tothebulkofthem,sheofferednoreactionatall.

Herealizedthathehadallowedhimselftobecarriedawaybyhispast,andthat,forsome minutes, there had been no response from Susan. She seemed pensive, a lightfurrowingonherbrow,asthoughsomeideahadcometoherwhichshewasnowdebatingwithherself,tossingitfromsidetosidetogaugeitsweight.

«Whatisit?»heasked.

«Iwasjustwondering…»Evidently,shehadtobringherselfbacktothepresent,to

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conversation. «Hearing you talk like that about the old days-do you find any difficultysortingoutwho’swhoinyourownmind?»

«Well, sometimes I have difficulty remembering the names of the people on theperiphery,but…»

«No,Idon’tmeanthat…notwhopeopleare,theirnames,atleastnotinthatsense.Imean,doyouknowwhotherealpeopleareorwere,andwhoarethosefromthebooks?Youmuddle themsometimes,youknow-their lives, theirnames…»Shegavehimacoysmile,«…ontheperipheryofcourse.»

«DoIreally?I’msorry,it’ssolongago…»

«It’sadeeperthingthanjustmistakenidentity,youknow;Imeanitmorefullythanthat,itdoesn’tmattersomuch.Butcanyoutell?Doyoutell?»

«Of course I do, it’s obvious. Look, I don’t know quite where you’re leading, ifanywhere,butonalevelbelowrememberingpeople’snames,there’scleardifferentiation.Naturally,thecharactersinthebooksarefictitious…»

Hereyebrows lifted inanexpressionhalfwaybetweenamusementandadmonition,butarestrainedcoolnesshadcomeoverhereyes.Itoccurredtohimthatshewastryinghardtoputhimathisease.Ifthiswereanattack,andhehadanuneasyfeelingthatitwas,itwasonewhichsheundertookbegrudgingly,asthoughunderhigherordersthanthoseofherownwhims.Herexpression,itsquizzical/inquisitorialset,hadbroughthimupinmid-sentence;hervoiceoncemoretookupwherehishaddropped.

«Maybe I’m being a bit obscure, it’s difficult…Look, I read the book; to tell thetruth,acoupleoftheothers,too,Ijustdidn’twanttoinflateyourego,makeyouthinkI’dbeenfollowingyourstar.ButIdidfollowit-yoursuccessinadetachedsortofway.I’mverypleased foryou,but…But Iknowhow it allworks: I thinkyoumayhave trappedyourself.IknowwhereitcomesfromandI’mworriedthatyoumayhaveceasedtoseeit.Imean,yourcharacters,they’reso…transparent.»

«Thin?» he asked, a note of hurt in his voice. Itwas not entirely feigned; he had,perhaps,thepresentimentthatthiswasonlythestart,thathewouldhurt,andhurtmore.Forthemoment,though,thepaintouchedonlyhisepidermis,thatskinintowhichhesocomfortably fitted: successful novelist, man of the world; debating, socializing,conversing,alwaysuntouched.Really,hewashurtonlyinhisself-regardastheWriter.

«Icanseewhatyou’rethinking,»shesaid,«butIdon’tmeanitthatway;notliterarycriticism,Iwouldn’tdream,Ican’tofferyouthat.Notstyle,characterization,flesh,Idon’tmeantransparentinanyofthoseterms.Butthepeople…Look,youtakeanypersoninthebook-t.hemomentyouexaminehim,straightaway,youknowwhohewasinreality;orIdoatleast.Your„fictitious“people-they’reonlytooclearlytiedtotherealpeoplethey’retakenfrom.»

«Ah.Well,Idon’tmakeanysecretofthefactthatI’minspiredbymyenvironment,by thepeople in it.Actually, I’vealways thought that thiswasoneofmystrongpoints,veilingpeopleover-makingthemopaque,inyourterminology.Youdon’tthinkso?»

«Isupposemostpeoplewouldn’tknowwhoyouwerewritingabout;afterall,none

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ofuswerefamous.Butthat’sstillnotreallythepoint.I’vejustbeenwonderingaboutthedifficultyindrawingthelinebetweenfact,andfiction.Iknowthatwritersingeneralhavethisproblem-they’relivingintheirfictionallivesforagreat,dealoftheirrealones,aren’tthey? But with you… you treat people so differently, the true and imaginedmust blurmorethanever.Idon’tknow…itjustseems,seemed,moreimportantthanusualwithyou,somehow.»

Itseemedshewantedtoterminatethediscussion.Itwasasthoughshehadentereditswaters up toher depth andnow, rather than swim, committed to the current,wanted toreturntosolidsand.Ifshedidnotwanttomakethatcommitmentthenstilllessdidhe:thepast, beneath its placid surface,was cloggedwith sandbank and riptide, inexorable ebbandflow.Hebegantofashionasentencetofinishwiththetopic.Itwasnothard;hehadrundownthislinemanytimesininterviews-thepatanswertoanalwaysnaggingquestion,allthemoretriteforrepetition.

«Idon’treallyhaveanyproblemwiththis,youknow»,hesaid,affectingcharmingreassurance, «it’s quite simple. People are distinguishable in that they all have theirindividuality, theirseparate lives. I’vegot toomuchrespect for themto try toabsorborchange that.Thepeople in real life and those in thebooks, theyallhave theirdifferentcourses. I can’t change things in real life; in the writing, I just chronicle, extrapolate,watchtheinteractionofthelives.AsIsay,it’smyrespectfortheindividual-thereisn’tanyconfusion,Iknowwhichworldisfactandwhichfiction,becauseofthat.Myrespectforpeople…»

«Oh,comeon,David,don’tgivemeallthat!»Hehadintendedonlyaclosingshot,alast dictum to round off the subject; in fact, it had re-energised it. Her face was nowseriousanddetermined;hefelthisownindignationrising,hisdefensiveinstinctsstirred.Theyhadcrossedthethinlinedividingdebateandargument.

«Just think about it a minute,» she continued. «I’ve seen it from both sides,remember?No,it’snotsoimportantthatthepeopleweknew-anddoubtlessthecharactersinyourotherbooks,too,whoIdon’tknow-arerecognizableinthefiction,there’snothingwrongwiththat.Butyouseemblindtopeople,totheusesyoumakeofthem;maybeevenblindtoyourself,youkidyourselfthatyou’vegiventhecharacterslife,thatyou‘respecttheir individuality’, and I think you actually believe it. But there isn’t any realindividualitythereexceptforwhatyou’vetakenfromthepeopleyouknow.Sure,you’vegottohavesourcematerial,butfromwhatIknow,youdon’t,reallybuildfromit,expandit.Youjustdrainthelifefromthosearoundyou,tartitupabitandgiveittheoddtwist-sowheredoyourfamousfictionalindividualscomefrom?Asforrespect…*.»

«What,exactly,areyousaying?ThatI’mavoyeur?»

«Oh, if it’s definitions youwant, then I’d have to say a parasite: you do feed onothers.Butevenparasiteshaveapositivefunctionfor theirhost,usually…withyou, it’sonly you who stands to gain. Your protagonists certainly don’t-well, apart, from thoseegotist cretins who think you’vemade them immortal. Oh, Christ, that’s not it, either:parasite’sanastyword,andIsupposeallofhaveabitofthatinus…It’syou,youdeludeyourselfso.»

«Well,IsupposeI’veimmortalisedyou.Isthatwhat’sbotheringyou?Doyoumind

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thatmuch?»Hisdefensivetoneandposturewerewelltried.Brazenitout,makeoftheselfa mirror fromwhich all attacks are reflected; absorb, remain aloof…observe. It was adefensebadlychosenandexecuted.

«Idon’tgiveafuck.I’mnotconcernedwithmyself;sure,I’vegotmyownproblems,butthey’renothingtodowithall this.Iwasn’tburning,itwouldn’treallyhaveaffectedmeifI’dnevermetyouagain;Inevertriedtogetintouchwithyouafterthebookcameout.Ididn’thaveanyaxetogrind.Butwedidmeetagain,didn’twe,andIcouldn’thelpnoticingwhathadhappenedtoyou;youcan’tseemtoseewhatyou’vemadeofyourself,what you do with other people, you say you’ve got it straight, but there’s really noborderlineforyoubetweenfantasyandreality.Youlookatrealpeopleinthesamewayascharactersinanovel.Respect?Everyone’sapuppettoyou,fuelforyourowngloryandgratification.»

«Doyoufeel»-themorepersonal,emotional,defence—«asthoughIlookonyouasapuppet?Howcanyou?Youknow…»

«I’ve already told you, I don’t care.»Her responsewas timed perfectly to destroythis, his latest and last, line of self-protect ion. If it hadbeenover-hasty, itwouldhaveexposedasenseofaffrontment,ofcaringverymuchindeed;over-delayed,itwouldhaveshownanalysisatwork.Evidently,shewasspeakingfromatrueself,fromheartandheadtogether.

«Icareaboutyou,though,»sheadded,hertonemellowed,butstillwithanedgeofirritation. «I’ve been talking about, concerned about you. Me, I’m just a specific, —present-illustrationinall this.But…theyouthatwas, theyouthatcouldhavebeen, theyouthatis…Imean,once…»

Her voice trailed off.A cloud edged across the sun. She squinted up and shiveredslightly,crossingherarmsabouther.Anapologeticsmile,andstretchedoutahandtohischeekinagestureofreconciliation.

«Talking about all this… it’s heavier than I’d imagined; let’s not any more. It’sgettingabitcold—canwegobacktothevilla?»

Henoddedassent,andtheypackedupthepicnicthings:thehamper,thebottles,thetowelsandtheirexcessclothes.Sidebyside,theystartedtheclimbuptotheroadthroughtheolivegrove;close,butverydistant.Occasionallytheywouldstumbleintoeachotheras the incline became more steep and the footholds more crumbling; they gruntedapologiesasthoughtheywerestrangersinthepressofatrain.Theydidnotspeakagainuntiltheywerehalfwayupthehill,andhadpausedforamoment’srest.

«Once what?» he asked, in as casual a tone as he could muster. He stared at thelengtheninghorizon,thegrayingsea.Shedidnotreplyuntilheturnedandmethereyesdirectly;whenitcame,heranswerwasphrasedslowly,deliberately.

«Once,David,youusedtoseepeopleinmorethanjusttwodimensions.Ithinkyouwerethebetterforthat.Now,comeone,let’sgetback.»

Shesetoff;momentarilytakenaback,hefollowedherinsilence,apaceortwototherear. For some reason, the image of a knight errant came to him: he recognized thenumbnessofawound,theknowledgethathisarmorhadbeenpunctured,andthathewas

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inwardlybleeding.Tofightonmeantlucklessoddsagainstsurvival;towithdraw,anendtoallhonorandself-respect.

«I just don’t knowwhat you feel so bloody bad about,» he called out to her. Shepaused,andhecameabreastofher.«Yousaidyourself thatyoudon’t,know thatmuchaboutmeandmylifenow;youcanonlyrecognizewhatyouprojectofmefromthepast,you keep saying you’re talking aboutme, but I just don’t see it: you’re only going onabout,mytreatment,ofothers,really.What’sthatallabout?Imean,damnit,youdidn’tcomeoutinsuchabadlight,inthebook.»

«That’snotthepoint.»

Heranswerwasemphatic,buthewassetonhiscourse,followinganargumentwhichmightdiverthersfromwhatevertargetitwasseeking.Hewasnot.tobestopped.

«Not.justyou,everyone…Look,you’dgone,butIwasstillinLondonafterthebookcame out, and I saw everyone a lot. They all read it, and I don’t remember anyonecomplaining tome aboutmisrepresentation, or parasitism, orwhatever you’re going onabout.Isit,suchanewthingthatyou’vegottobringupnow?What’sthebigobjection-I’musingmylifeandmyvisiontocreatenewanddifferentlives?»

«That’snot thepoint,butyouwon’tseeit.Youwon’t takemyvisionintoaccount;you…»

«Nonetheless.»herodeon,oblivious,carriedawaybyhislineofargument,«Ireallyputdownsomeofthepeopleweknew,Iwroteabout,andsomeofthemIdidn’teventrytodisguiseatall.Thatinitselfshoulddisprovewhatyou’resaying.Butifyourtheoryisright,andmyportrayalsofpeoplearesotransparent,thensurelythey’dhaveknownwhotheywere,andsurelyI’dhavehadbadsceneswiththepeopleI’dhadagoat?»

«Ofcoursetheyknew.»

«Whynoconfrontationsthen?Youknowme,I’venevergoneinforpunch-ups,butsurelysomebodywouldhavetakenitupwithmefacetofaceiftheyknewIusedtheminthe way you say? But it’s my work, writing-you can’t deny me that, you can’t say Idiminishmyselforothersbythat!»

She stopped, and he was a yard in front of her, looking clown the angle of thehillside,assheoncemorelockedonhim,eyetoeye.

«Don’tyousee,David?»shesaid.«Don’tyoureallyseethatit’sallthesamething,allpart,ofyou?Youcan’t,tellwhichcharactersarerealandwhichfictionalbecauseyouliveinahalf-worldbetweenthetwo.Respectfortheseparateindividualitiesofcharactersandpeople?Youjustdon’t,know!youjustdon’tseemtoknowthatyou’vedoneadealwiththedevil,norevenwhatyoursideofthebargainis.yes,youcandoit,youcanwrite,and‘well’;butyou’veneverhadatruerelationshipwithanyoneinallthetimeI’veknownyou-howcouldyou,knowingso littleof thedepthsofothers,breatheseparate identitiesinto your characters? And you’re surprised when I, knowing the people who they are,thinkthey’retransparent?God,Ihadn’t,realizeditwouldgothisfar…butyouevidentlydon’tsee.I’vegottofinishit.now.»

Onesword.Thethread.Nother,hehadit,waitingonlyforhertonudge.

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«Those people we knew…naturally, they never let on that they recognizedthemselves:partdeference,partpride.Andwhyshouldsomeoneyouoffendedgiveyouthegraciousgift,oflosingtheirragatyou,alltobewrittenupinafollowingbook?Muchbetterjusttoforget,it.»

Shemovedtowardshim,herhandtookhiselbow.

«Therewasatime,David,»shesaid,«whenyouwerejustthesameaseveryoneelse.Butprettysoon, longbeforeanythingwaspublished,everyoneknewwhatsortofwriteryou were and would be. From that moment people have acted with you, to an extentknowingthatnothing,butnothing,wouldgounregistered.Theyknewthatyouweregoingtowriteit:onguardtime.Thisacting…don’tyouseewhatitdoestoyou?»

«What,»hecroaked,«doesit,dotome?»Stingingeyelids.Thesword.Thethread.Thetruth.

«Itputsyououtside. Itdehumanizesyou.You,youknow thatyouusepeople, andthat’spart,ofit.Hasitneveroccurredtoyouthattheymightbeusingyou?They-andyourwhole attitude shows that it goes on more than ever now-make of you the recordingmachine,thediarist,thepersonalhistorian,safelyoverthereinthecorner.That’sallyouare topeople.Theydon’twant close relationshipswithyoubecauseof thedanger:youmightlearn,andwrite,toomuch.Butaround,inthethickofit,observingbutuninvolved,the scribe, seeing their profiles outlined…yes, that’s fine. For shots at immortality, it’sprettysafe:alwaysenoughdisguiseintheworkforthemtotakethepleasurewithouttheresponsibility.SometimesIbetpeopleevenbegyounot.towriteabout,them,huh?Theymustwant itprettybadly, thosepeople,don’tyou thin, tohave it somuch in the topoftheirminds?Sowhathaveyougot, apart fromagold-plated ego?People aren’t real toyou,andyouaren’t real to them.Fairdeal.Butpeoplecangooff, relax,benormalandreal for eachother any time they like, you canonlygo to that little room inyourheadwhere the typewriter lies. You’ve clone it, David. You’re not in the real world at all.You’renotreallyalive.»

Notherwords,nother.Him,hehadit,yesitwasinhim.

Downtheswordthroughthethread.

—o—

Ohwell,lifegoeson,doesn’tit?SusangoesbacktoLondon,theclaysgoround,thesungoesdownandcomesupagain.Thebloodgoespoundinginthetemples,thetemplesgo echoing into the terror of thought, and themindgoes racing from it into the go-go-going of the everyday. The world fails to come to an end as the threads of a rationalattitude,aposetowardsitarecut.Moreimmobilethanever,inthemidstofit,heheldoffthemotion.Hewasunable to facework.Everythinghe lookedator touchedseemed tohimbleary,pointless, facile.Theroomsofhisvilla fedhimonlyacheandabsence,anybookhepickedupaggravated, rather thanassuaged,hisdoubts; theprimitive televisionserviceannoyed,ratherthananesthetized,him.

ItwasaweeksinceSusanhad left,enough time toknow thatnoscabwould form

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overthewound,thatnoamountofknottingwouldrebindthethread.Hehadtakentothebar,andbeguntosinkhimself inargumentwithhisoldfriend, thebrandy.Itwas there,sittingatoneofthetablesoutonthecobbledstreet,thatheencounteredHector.

Hewatchedhimwalkupfromthevillagesquare,sweatingintheafternoonsun;hewasmoppingtheperspirationfromhisfaceandforeheadwithahandkerchiefpulledfromthe breast pocket of his lightweight suit. Hewas a bigman, and filled that suit to theseams.Therewassomethingofthecarorcarddealerabouthim,sharpanddull.Hisshirtwasofaviolent floralpattern. Itwasopenat theneck, toexposeagold«H»onagoldchain; at his left wrist, more gold-a solid, extravagant watch to match his solid,extravagantperson.

No-one knew the original source of his wealth, but it was generally held to beexcessive.Sixmonthsagohehadboughtoneofthelargevillasatthetopofthehillandimmediatelyconvertedit fromitsplaingracetohisownfountain-filled,air-conditioned,marbled taste.Now itwas rumored that hewas going into property in a similar spirit,buyingandguttingfineoldhousesto«modernise»them.Forthis,hewasnotlookedonwith love by the expatriates, who feared that the arrival of other residents whowouldappreciatehisstyleofthingswoulddestroytheunspoiltvillagewhichtheyhaddiscoveredand settled in-conveniently forgetting that thus it had thus already been spoiled bythemselves.

DavidhadheardthetalkaboutHector,buthadneverreallybeeninterestedinsuchincestuous speculation; occasionally, they had passed each other on the street, but hadneverexchangedmorethanaquietnodofquasi-recognition.Until today,hefoundwhathesawoftheman,hisactivities,hispossiblesinsandsanctities,merelyboring;butnow,himself sunk in a pit of boredom, a bog of inertia, he welcomed him through thebeginnings of an alcoholic haze with a brotherly smile and outstretched hand. Hector,perhapsimprobably,respondedinkind;maybehehadhadaparticularlygoodorbadday,stimulating him towards the comradely pseudo-affability of the bottle. In any event, hetooktheprofferedhandwithaheat-beaten,gold-toothedsmile,andsatatDavid’s table.Thusbegananunlikelydrinkingallianceanddrunkenconversation.

Timeandbrandyslippedby;warmedbythelatter,theymovedthroughthetraditionalandpredictable topics: thevillage, theweather, the tourists.Formuchof the time, theykepttheirsilences,andtheirsurfaces,inplace.

Suddenly,itwasevening.Theyhadforsakenindividualmeasures,andnowabottleofbrandysatonthetablebetweenthem;alreadytheyhadpaiditafairdealofattention.With the passing of the light their mood had changed and now, perceptibly clumsy,lookingdolefullyupandclownthestreet,theyweregrippedbytheabstractmelancholiawhich comes with advanced drinking. The alcohol dribbling words out of them, theymoved towards self-revel at ion, albeit only of strangers’ minimalism: each soughtsympathy rather than understanding.They remained distanced, neitherwishing to bringhimselftoofarforwardintothelight.Likeabsent-mindedactorsinarepertorycompanyoverworkedwithpartsandproductionstheycuedeachother,deliveredtheirmonologuesto each other-but spoke lines from different plays.Only as the alcohol further numbedtonguesandmindsdidtheydifferfromtheirnormalselvesenougheventoagreeontheirtopics.Questiontime,direct,crude,irresolvable,had-asitalwaysdoes-arrived.

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«Everbeenmarried?»askedHector.Hismannerhadbecomebrusqueandclippedasthedrinkcameonhim;notthemostgentleorunabrasiveofmenatthebestoftimes,therewas now almost something of the retired army officer about him, in spite of the goldtrinkets, the faint cockney edge on the voice. Aman tomince hands, perhaps, but notwords.Whenitcame,David’sreplywasaccented,asclosetoawinkasvocalexpressioncomes.

«No, no…I, er, cohabited a couple of-short-times; but I never actually got to thevows.»

«Interferewithyourwriting,would it?»Therewasanoteof spite,orcontempt, inthat,andDavidwasabouttorisetotheimaginedbait;buttheothermanevidentlymeantitonlyasanaside.Pouringhimselfanotherbrandy,hereturnedtohisoriginaltopic:«I’magreatbelieverinmarriagemyself;beenthroughitthreetimes,asamatteroffact.»

«Threetimes?Thatdoesn’tseemtosaymuchfortheinstitution!»

«Well, I’ve seen it all ways now, y’know: been a divorced man, a widower…»Hector’svoicetailedoff,plainlyintothepast,andDavidfeltaprickofdiscomfort.

«I’msorry,Ididn’t,mean…»

«No, not at all, it’s no shit to me,» said the big man, cutting David, and hisembarrassment,short.«Theywerebothcows,myfirsttwowives.OK,toughluck,Isabeldied…that happens. Didn’t change the fact that she was a cow when she was alive.Anyway,that’snotthepoint:itwasn’ttheinstitutionthatwaswrong,it.wasthewomen…onewasabitchandtheotherwasaslutandtheywerebothcows;mymistake…thistime,though…Well,I’mstillabeliever,staunchbeliever.»

Hector’sheadwaswobblingandhiseyesgiddy.Itwasasmuchofaspeechashe’dmadethroughouttheirconversation,perhapsasmuchofhimselfashewasabletoreveal.David, however, still niggled by the implied or implicit jibe at his ‘writing’, could not.resistprobingforaquickertouch.

«I’msurprised,then»-gatheringhiswords-«…ifyou’vehadacoupleoffailures,thatyou’restillabeliever,thatyou’vegonethroughitagain.Maybe…Well,Imean,marriageis about, people, really, yeh, even if it’s strict, and legal?You don’t, seem to…Look, Idon’tknow,butyoucall them„cows“soeasily-it’snotaveryhumanmemoryof them,uh? Perhaps you didn’t really think about them as peoplewhen youweremarried andthat’s…»

«Theyweremybloodywiveswhenweweremarried!»Hector’sfistbegantobeatonthetable,accentuatinghispoints.«ForChrissake,allthatstuff,thatequalityandsharingandmakingdoandreverence, that’sallrightbefore,everybodydoes it,yougot todo it.But when those vows are taken, you just, forget it, that woman is your wife, shebelongs…»

«Butthat’sapreposterouswaytolookatpeople!»

«What’s wrongwith it? Bloody onlyway to look atmarriage if you askme, andyou’dbetteraskme,‘cosyou’venobloodyclueatall!»

«Butit’ssuchatotallyobsolete…»

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«If you mean old-fashioned, that’s allright by me, that’s the way it should be.Everyone-bloodyfaggotsandliberals-wantstotearitclownthesedays,butit’ssimpleandobvious:manisthenaturaldominator,andanywomanwhochallengesthatbelongswiththerestofthedykesandnotinthekitchen.»

«Which,presumably,iswhereyouthinkawifeshouldstay?»

Hectordidnotevenneedtomovehisheadinorder tonodhisassent.Theirvoiceshadbeenraised,but.theyhadbeenarguingwiththemselves,ratherthaneachother;nowtheydroppedhurriedlyintosilence,anxiousnot.tothrowawaysuch-drunk-understandingas theyhadearlier achieved.Happymendon’t argue like that, andonly trulydesperateonesdobeyondsuchastandstill.Plainly,iftheeveningwastocontinue,theywouldhavetosteertheconversationawayfromthevolatilityoftheiropposedconvictions.ItwasuptoDavid,evidently,torestarttheconversation;itwasinhisnaturetodosoonthesametopic, albeit on less acrimonious lines.Hector’s attitude, after all, was so diametricallyopposed tohisown thathewas intriguedby itbothpersonallyand (oh,yes, in spiteofSusan, in spite of his current ennui, he still regarded himself as a professional)professionally.

Swirlingthebrandyinitsglassandthewordsinhismouth:«Sorry,I,er,oversteppedthemarkabit-it’syourlife…anyway,yousayallthat’sinthepast…Thingsseemallrightnow?Howlonghaveyoubeenmarriedtoyourpresentwife?»

«Jane?Oh,justoneighteenmonths…andyou’reright,thistimeit’showamarriageshouldbe.Mind,I’veknownherforyears.»

«Really?»

«Yes,sinceshewassix,actually.»

«Huh?»David’sattentionstirred, likeasnake,shakingoff theskinofdrunkenness.«Howoldisshenow?»

«Twenty.I’dknowherfather,yousee;hewasaclosebusinessassociateofmine,andIusedtoberoundathisplaceagreatdeal.Shewasalwaysa lovelylittlegirl…usedtocallmeUncleHector,Idon’tknowthatsheremembers.IusedtobealmostasmuchofafathertoherasHarrywas.Nevermind,nevermind,that’salllongago.WellHarrydied,y’know,andIdidn’tseeherformanyyearsafterthat;shegrewup,ofcourse,Universityand so on. Meanwhile, there’s been Isabel and Carol…met her again at her mother’sfuneral,actually…»

«Howextraordinary,»Davidsaid,buttherewasnorealneedforhimtodrawoutthestory:Hector,wellintohiscups,wasallfortellingitbyhimself,asiftomakeupfortheprevioustensionbetweenthem.

«Yes…Anyway,shewasinahellofastate;she’dalwaysfounditabithardtofitinwithpeople,andshe’dhadsomekindofnervousbreakdown…shewasjusta jumble.Ihadabitofspare time-asIsay, itwas justafterCarol-soI tookheronacruise,gethermindoffthings.Itjustsortofhappened:shewasgrownup,ofcourse,butallalone,and…well,Iknewsherespectedme-andthereyouare.Mind,I’mgladtosaythatmarriagehasmade a real woman out of her, not nervous at all now, enjoys parties, wonderfulhousekeeper…»

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«Sothisistheone,isit?Thisisthewaymarriageissupposedtobe?»

«Seemsso.»

There was something touching, almost child-like, about the man’s affirmation.But…?

«Theremustbeabigagedifference, though?»askedDavid.«Whatareyou, thirty-eight,thirty-nine?Isthataproblem?»

«Notsofar,anyway-Icertainlyhopenotinthefuture.»

«Butideas-aboutmarriage,forinstance-havecertainlychangedovertheyears.Aren’therideasdifferentthanyoursbythedifferenceofyourages?»

«Isupposeyoumeannotsoold-fashioned?»Theybothallowedthemselvesasmileatthis as Hector continued. «Well, she wouldn’t have stayed a wife of mine, after myexperiences,forverylongifshehadn’tchangedanideaortwo.Shedid;itworks;shedidpromisetoobey…»

«Whataboutsex?»askedDavid,althoughtohimselfhewasconjecturingwhetherornotthemanbeathiswifetoobtainthatobedience;thistackseemed,perhaps,aby-waytothat.Itwasmetwithrepressionitself,though.

«Quitefrankly,that’ssomethingbetweenmywifeandmyself.»Davidsuppressedachuckleattheunintendedwordplay.«It’snoneofyourbusiness.»

«I’msorryifIappearedtointrude.»Hehadmanagedtopullthemaskoverhislaugh,at least to the eyes of the other drunkenman. «Itwasn’t really sex itself Iwas askingabout.Look,wemightaswelladmit thatourattitudes tomarriagearepolesapart…andyou’retheonlyoneofuswithpracticalexperienceofthestate.Now,I’llacceptthatthereis some fundamental change in a relationship at the moment of marriage… I’m justinterestedinseeingwhereexactlyyourattitudefinallyleadsyou-togettothecoreofthatattitude,inaway,Isuppose.»

«Thatstilldoesn’tmakemysexuallifeanyofyourbusiness,doesit,though?»

«No, of course not. Let me put it another way, a bit more sideways. Perhaps if Ipropose a situation to you-hopefully one you’ve never experienced, and won’t in thefuture; perhaps your reactionswill tellmemore about how you seemarriage than anystraightquestionsandanswers?»

«OK,shoot.»

«Whatwouldyoudo…»-apause toemphasise the‘would’-«Whatwouldyoudo ifyou caught your wife in bed with another man? Obviously it would be a betrayal foranyone,butsinceyoufeelshe’ssomuchyourchattel…?»

Hector,staringintothebottomofhisglassofbrandy,seemedoblivioustohiswords,and thequestiononDavid’s lips tailedoff into thepotentiallydangerous futureof theirown propositions. In himself uncertain whether to change tack, start afresh, or probefurther,thedrinkpropelledhimonintothelastoption.

«Surelyit’snotsoextremea…?»

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ButHectorlookedup,andcuthiswordstothegroundastheyemergedwithahead-ongaze,witheyeswhich,foramoment,cleared,hardened,brightened.Apresencewhichhad not been there earlier dropped over his shoulders, and ruthlessness ofwhatever hisoriginalbusinesshadbeensat inhisstance,aphysical, fightingdogstrength.Suddenly,hisarmsseemedtobealliron-muscled,hishandsallfist.Itwasatense,eloquentmomentofsilence,acoldvoiceinthewriter’sheadran«Ofcourse,ofcourse…»Whentheothermanspoke,hisvoicecamefromfarinsidefromsometwitchingbrainsynapsewhich,inturn,triggeredtheflickerofmusclesatjawline,templeandwrist.

«Thatwouldbeobvious»,hesaid,gratingoutthewordslikeold,hardenedCheddar.«Ihavemyguns,youknow;andifnotthem,Ihavemyhands…»

The tensiondrained fromhis frame; the electricitydissipated to earth.Onceagain,thecomplexmaskofdrunkennessfellacrosshisfeatures.Davidsatopen-mouthed,amanwho had climbed into a ring expecting boxing, only to find that the bout was karate.Ruffled, a shiver of primeval recognition running along his spine, he attempted somemonosyllabic response, but the other man-now his turn to draw the conversation tonormality,todispelthemomentofpower-waveditasideandcontinued.

«Adultery…Isabel…» The distance, the disconnections of drunken talk were withhimagain;oncemore,theyweretalkingaboutsometheoreticalsituation,andthepresenceofthepreviousmomentwassuckedbackintothat.Hismind’smind,nothisbody’s,wasoncemoreincontrol,orsuchapproximationtothatasthebrandywouldallow.HepouredhimselfanotherglassasDavidwatchedandwaited.

«I’ve hadmy experiences of violence inmy time,»Hector continued, drawing thestreamofwords into sentences and straight lines oncemore. «I don’t, think I’d have amoment’shesitation.Idon’tholdwithadultery…I’venothingagainstscrewing-theycallit„casualsex“now,don’t.they?—butIdon’tholdwiththeft.Ifsomeonescrewsmywife,thenthat’stheft.Icouldn’tgetbackmyproperty,butI’ddamnsuregetmyownback…I’dgetmy revenge, and right there…both of them. Theywouldn’t deserve anymore. TheSiciliansgotitright;it’s.,natural.»

Hewoulddoit,thoughtDavid,hewouldactuallydoit.Thewordsandthereactionwouldcomeforthwithsucheasethat,inanotherman,theymighthavebeenmereshow,pose, calculated enough inhisbeliefs to carry them through to their logical conclusion.Suchobsessivedogmatism-ah,thetheory,thetheory:intenseinsecurityasregardsstatus,security, power, wealth, age. Two broken marriages; any children? Probably not-if so,disowned. And now, the child bride; almost certainly, he would beat her to buy herobedienceandsubmissionwithfear.Classic.Yes, thispowerful,wealthyman,hewoulddoit,outofhisfear.Hehadcagedhimselfinalifeofimageanddoctrine,fashionedawaytolivewhichwouldnotallowofdoubt.Itwouldnotbethedoubtwhichdrovehim,butthewell-worn paths of posturingwords, of certainty, of braggadocio.Not to kill, then,wouldbetheendofallframework;tokillwouldbetheactionoffinalabsorptionintohisownblueprint.

AhollowlaughbouncingbetweenDavid’sears.Herehewas,observing,evaluating,storingandsummingup-thefactionalwriter.Heprobedfor,hetracedtheimageofthelostsoul;hesawittrappedinitsself-madecage.Yetwerehenothimselflosthewouldnotbe

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sittinghere,swillinglikeapiginthebrandy.Ohyes,hehadgoneouttomeethisfear,toforswearallcagesofconvention;buthehadbecomeevenmoretheprisonerforthat.Stillhewatched,ontheedgeofmockery.Hector,whohadonlyonecoursetofollow,Hector,lost in the city of souls. He himself was in the desert: all directions were equal, andequallyworthless.Theywerebothtrapped.

Nomore,nomore.Mutually,theysteeredawayfromthereefs,thewhirlpooltowardswhich their conversation had taken them, and instead dived into further drinking.Theytalked gossip, trivia, conjecture, and kept consciously away from further personalrevelation.They talked, and drank, alone: thoughbetween them they knewmost of thepeople who drifted past their table as the bar filled towards the evening peak, theyexchangednomorethanafewwordsofgreetingwiththem.Itwasalltooevidentthattheweightofthenight,andthedrinkwasonthem.

Late,asitwaspronetobe,ashewaspronetodo.Davidbegantotalkaboutmovingawayfromthevillage,tryingsomethingorsomewherenew,cuttinghimselfadrift;hehaddonesooftenenoughbefore,and,previously,thishadbeenmerepretenseatfreedom,bythesimpleinvocationofitsname.Butrecenteventsgaveitmoreimportthistime,andashe talkedherealized thatmovingmightwellprovidehimwithasolution tohiscruxofpurpose. The mere action in itself, of course, would solve nothing, but a change ofgeographicallocationmightwellridhimoftheself-accusationwhichinhabitedhisrecentmemory.Tofindhimself,somereason,sometruelifeagain…

By this time Hector was incapable of talking anything but property, and his onlyinterestinthetopicwasthefuturesaleofDavid’svilla.Itwouldbe,theyagreed,theeasyandnatural thing forHector tobuy it. IfDavid thoughtaboutwhat thatwouldmean, itmeant little to him.: the conversion job (thatmarble? those fountains?), new bourgeoisoccupants, the further «destruction» of the village.He, after all,would be gone, tryingoncemoretoexistwithpurpose;whatheleftbehindmightaswellnotdosoatall.Theyleftthematterinabeyance:theywouldtalkaboutitsoon.Hectorwouldcomeandlookthevillaoversometime.

After this, therewasnothingmuchmoretosaytoeachother: theyhadreachedthebottomof the bottle of brandy and of the possibilities of conversation.Hector slumpedoverthetable,hislollinggazedirectedattheboxofmatcheswithwhichhisfingerstoyed.David, leaning precariously far back on his chair, one leg hooked over the arm, staredclownthestreettowardsthesquare,rolledanunlitcigarettearoundhislips.

«Hello, dear,» Jane, Hector’s wife, came upon them suddenly and unexpectedly,havingwalkedclownthestreetfromthetopofthehill.Sheworeanenormousstrawhatwith a scarf tied round it whichmade her seem an incongruous creature of the day toDavid’snight-soakedeyes.Sheputanarmroundherhusbandandplantedakissonhisforehead;hisglazedeyesrolledroundtoher,andhegruntedagreeting.ShelookedacrossthetableatDavid.

«Hello. You’re the writer, aren’t you? David Stirling? I’ve seen you around thevillage.I’mJane.»

«Yes, Hector’s been tellingme all about you. Hello.» he answered, with asmuchcharm,asmuchofacourteousnodoftheheadashecouldmuster.Shewaspretty;tohis

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tiredeyes,sheshone.

«Ihopenothingtoobad?»Aninnocent/serioussmile.

Hector stirred fromhis slouch.Far, far gone, heburbled, «Time togohome,» andbelched.

«Forme, too,» saidDavid, and rose to unsteady feet. «Another arduous day’s toilcompleted.»ThatsamesmilefromJane.Inonedemonstrativesweepit tookinhim, theemptybottleandthesemi-sensateformofherhusband.AlreadyDavidlikedher.

The threeof themstarted the climbup the cobbled street to their respectivevillas.They had not gone far before David was forced to support the other man as his legsmutiniedagainsthissenseofdirection;soonJanewasproppingupherhusbandfromtheothersideasitbecameevidentthatDavidwasinnosteadystatehimself.Hewasdrunk;Hectorwasdestroyed.Theycarriedhimthusallthewayuptohisdoor.ThereJaneofferedprofuse thanks, apologies for her husband, and coffee.Davidmadenothingof the first,insistedthatthesecondwashisfault,andgratefullyacceptedthethird.

AftercarryingHectorintothehouseanduptohisbedroom,Davidwenttothetoiletandthrewup,splashinghisfacewithcoldwaterandrinsingouthismouthafterwards.Hefeltinfinitelybetterthen,andthecoffeerevivedhimstillfurther.Now,hewasonceagainin a state to listen; and Jane talked. Her story: university, freedom, dissolution, drugs;arrest, hermother’s horror and shame; the cover-up, themental hospital, the correctivetreatment which sapped her of will and vitality; her mother’s death; the marriage toHector,clutchingattheprofferedstraw,whilestilloblivioustothefuture,deadened,onlytechnicallyalive.Andnow,ofbeginningtofeelaliveagain.

She talked toomuch,Davidknew;camewith toomuch, toosoon…itcouldbe thegushing of her youth or the irresistible swell ofwords until nowheld clown and back.Probably,he thought,her lifehadbeenmoresheltered thanshemadeout;probablyshehadcomeclosertothebrinkthanshewouldadmit.Still,shewastalkingnow;sheseemedtowantreality.

Hedidnotstaylong.Hemadehisthanksandhisexit;stillnotsobered,hestumbleddownthehilltohisownvilla.Hefeltold,old…butwascryinglikeachildbythetimehereachedhisdoor.Andsotothis.Thebeadsaroundherneckclickedunderherfidgetingfingers.Thedrunkennighthadbeenaweekago.Today,knowingHectortobeintownonbusiness,andnotduetoreturnbeforeearlyevening,hehadgonetohisvillaandinvitedJanetojoinhimathisplaceforanafternoondrinkand(theechoofhiswords:«Thereareso fewwithwhom it is possible to…») talk. There had not really been a seduction oneitherpart:themovetowardsbedhadbeenmutualandexplicit.Andnowthosepalegrayeyeslookedintohisownandbeggedhimtopromise.Shewaswaiting.

Shewasworriedby something-ormotivated? ItwasnotHector, no the chancesofbeingfoundout…often,shehadexplained,shewentoutwalkingintheolivegrovescometheevening,soherhusbandwouldthinknothingstrangeinherabsencefromthevilla.Buttherewassometension…itniggledatDavidashewatchedher.Washerrequest-perhapsevenherpresenceinhisbedatall-anact, just thatorderofactwhichhenow,thanksorcursestoSusan,knewtobeintendedsolelyforhisbenefit,asobserverandrecorder?Heguessed not-surely she had not known him long enough to be aware of the vampiric

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elementinhisart?Stillshehadunderstoodthat,therewasapossibilitythathemightwriteabouther…even so,why this insistence thathepromisenot todo so?Was she, in fact,hopingforglorification,tomakehimfindhiswaytowardswritingabouther,inevitably,becausehehadsaidhewouldnot?Shewouldknow,then,somethingofhisperversity…andshewasnotdull,thisone…

«David, please…I don’t,want you to say you loveme, or anything like that! Justdon’t,writeaboutme?»«WhatifIsaidthatIdid,butwouldn’tpromise?»hetried.This-thementionoflove-was,afterall,anotherangle.«Idon’tneedthat…David?»

So: there was to be no illumination of her motive. Ah, well, it hardly matteredanyway: one more promise, one more masque, one more tryst…in any case, soon hewouldbegonefromhere.If-therewas,hesupposed,theremotestofchances-heweretowriteaboutheratsometimeinthefuture,thebreakingofonemorepromiseamongthethousandsofothershehadmadeandbrokentohimselfandotherswouldnotmakemuchdifference. Therewere other,more important things than this. Ultimately, it was of nogreatconsequencetohimanymore.

«Allright:Ipromise.»

«Youmeanit?»

«OfcourseIdo.»

«Youdon’tmind?»

«Ofcoursenot.»Ifshehadpushedhimwithjustonemorequestion,hemighthavetakenitback;butnonecame,andhesmiledatherwithgenuinereassurance,opennessandhonesty.

«Thanyou,then,»shemurmured,laidherheadclownonhischestandtracedcirclesaroundhisnavelwithherfingers.Jukeboxmusic,drifting.

This,hethought,thisisthetruetaste.Thelinesstretchoutfromthismomentandthisroom.,signalinglikethoseinthespider’sweboncethepreyiscaught.Herehewasnotobserver,recorder,diarist,butaman;andherehislifewasreal,notsham,nottrickery,notacting. His freedom loomed before his imagination. Outside, a clock struck the hour:seven.Sleepy,sleepyhewas,buthismindwasracing.

HethoughtaboutSusanagain,thatdayonthebeach:oftheawful,diminishingtruthsabout himself and his life towhich, almost regretfully but notwithout venom, she hadpointed him. The despair attendant upon them: that he had become undead, a pariahamongsuccessivesetsoffriendsandacquaintances,neverevenallowedthetruestationofexile. Instead, he had been buffoon, jester, the butt of endless charades, the bolster foreager egos.The clown,withmake-upof desolation; the fool, brimfulwithbelief in hisown genius; the emperor, in all his pomp and circumstance of manner, in all hisnakedness.Hehadbeenleftwithnoclothes,oldornew,andtimehadallbutclosedthedoorsofpossibilityandhumanitytohim.

Yet he had found time, had clothed himself, had stuck his foot in the jamb of theclosingdoor,hadassertedhislifeaswellashisexistence…hefeltitnow,pulsingthroughhisbody.Hehadfoundthathecouldfacehisfearanddespair;inthefacingofthese,the

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surroundingdesertwasasnothing.Hefelthimselfoncemorealive,freefromthatundeathinwhichallunknowingly-thoughnotinignoranceorforwantofknowledge-hehadbeenburyinghimselfforyears;andheluxuriatedinthesight.

He thought of the street, the bar, the lights, the insects, the glowering hillsidetoweringoverthevillageincrag,rock,screeandscruffyvegetation,ofcracksandgullieswhereonecouldsoeasilybreakalegand,eveninthisidyllicsetting,dieofexposure.Hethought of Susan’s eyes in the olive grove, of Jane’s but a moment ago, pleading butinscrutable.HethoughtofHector’ssizeandstrength,ofhisfistclenchedonthetable,ofthemadrighteousnessinhiseyes.

Thesweet,fevertouchofgoldenskinonhisown;thesmellof,theyouthofher!Life,now!

Juke-boxmusic;distant,discerniblevoices;footstepsonthecobblesoutside.Aspiderspinsitswebbytheopenwindow,buffetedbythebreeze,butpersevering,determinedtocasthisnet.

He thought of the note he had dropped insideHector’s front door as they left thatafternoon:

VERY IMPORTANT I SPEAKTOYOUABOUTMYVILLA: COMEROUNDANDSEEMEASSOONASYOUGETBACK.

DAVIDSTIRLING.

Hissuicidenote.

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Balance:TheMine

Out,forward,beyondtheedgeofthecliffs,eternalskysweepsdowntocrashintotheseaat thehorizon…brilliant, endlessbluebeyond the reachofeithermindoreye.Thelight, the gulls and the waves move in circular repetition, the ritual of time: half themechanical turningofaclock’shands,half thefreedomofsummerdance.Thecliff, thevantagepoint,isadividingknife-edgebetweenthatglobaltime-scale,outthere,andourownlinearone.

Therearethosewhoaremarkeddownforthesea.Whentheystareoutlikethis,therhythmofthewavestrapsthemintoatrance,andthewaternourishestheseedsofoblivionintheirminds.Thetranceisnotofhypnosis,orsleep,oranysuchstraightline:thesea,neithercruelnorkind,allowsonlythosealreadypartytoitsuniversalmagic,purifiedbyitsspells, tohold it to themselves.Thuswhenfinally theyslide intounion,serenityandorderwiththewater, thereisnosuddenchange,nosharpdividinglinebetweenthepastandwhatwillnotbe.Alaststringofbubblestrailsasfarewelltotheland,whosecreaturestheyhaveceased tobe;part,of thewhole,becomingwholer, theyswellalready toplaytheirpart,intheendlesscycleofocean.Onthelandsuicides,eveninthatmomentoffinalextremity, end themselveswith somethingof an eyeon the future: thediscoveryof thebody, themourning, the continuing life, in others’memories, of their last, act, the lastframeinthefilmof their lives.Thosethat theseaclaimsrelinquishnotonlylifebutallname,action,memory,andbodilyformtotheundulatingrhythmofitsembrace.

Suicideisnotformanyofus,though,asindividuals,evenifadayliketoday,aplacesuchasthisissobright,sodistortinglycrystalline,sointenselyvitalthatitturnsthemindtowardstheshade…

Andtheseaisnotforallofus:itknowsitsown,andwithitsfuriousassaultonthebasehurlsmebacktowhereIstandatthetopofthecliff.Downthere,wheretheelementsmeet in amaelstrom of rock, foam, spray and thunder there are no halfmeasures: theoceanattacks,erodes,withdrawsandattacksagain; theland,fornow,willnotsuccumb.The balance, the tension of opposites, locked in the endless cycles, lost without eachother…thisisNature.

AndhereistheevidenceofMan.Twentyyardsbackfromthecliffedge,parallelto,butaworldawayfrom,thepublicfootpath,isabarbedwirefence.Signsontheconcretestanchions which support, it deny both entry and information. We may run from themysteriousorderof theseaandNature:wemayrunfromthecity,whichalsomakesitserosions,claimsitsground;wemayrunasfaraswecan,butalwaysweareconfrontedwith the signs of ourselves. We find that we go, that we have been, before ourselveseverywhere.

We have been here, and one of our possible futures lives here, in the squat, solidbuildingsamileaway,lowagainstthehill.Set.backfromthecliffs,whereNature’sforcesmeetinsuchconstantviolence,sitstheresearchstationwhichwillfeedthefiresofsomecomingbio-chemicalwar.Thereisnorealparadoxhere:liketheland,likethesea,thatwarofthemicrobewillbeneithercruel,norkind,norevenhuman.Afterall,impartialityhasneverbeennumberedamongthehumanattributes.Weshuffleforwardtoalinearbeat:

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weandourworksaremoreimplacableeventhanNature.

Thereisatriplebalancehere,betweenthesea,thelandandtheWorldandWordsofMan.Thereisabalance,but,especiallyonthisanvilofadayonwhichIhavechosentotakethiswalk,itunbalancesme.Iam,afterall,aman,andIwonderwhatplaceisminehere.

Ihavebeenstandingonthisspot,lookingaround,fortoolong,andhurryonbeforeIbecomerootedbythesymbology.Theareaofpubliclandwhichthepathcrosses,boundedononesidebythebarbedwire,ontheotherbythecliffedge,becomeswider.Somewayon,IcomeacrossmoreofMan’slandscape;thoughthisisevidentlydisused,passive.

Emulatingtheplateauoftheclifftop,satuponitlikeaslab,isanexpanseofconcrete.It ispitted,rough,old: theuniformityisbrokenrandomlybyrustedhooksandrings,byclumps of hardyweeds and grasses thrust through dog-leg fissures.Here and there arecavities,asthoughenormousteethhavebeenextractedfromtheirbeds.Thesemustoncehaverootedmachines,longsinceremovedforscrap:theconcretewasonceaplatform,aworksurface.Astimehasclaimedit,ithasgainedingeography,andnowsitsaspowerfulcomplement to the natural formations of rock and sea. Lines of energy and purposeendure, though, in this new-found lie in the land: towards the seaward end. There, theremainsofananteroom,nowcloggedwithvegetation,aresunkintheground;theroofisgone,butwhatwasitslevelisthesameasthatofthesurroundingconcrete.Theopenendoftheroomjoinswitharampedinclineslopinguptogroundlevel,inwhichareembeddedrusted rails, obviously for the movement of small trucks. I move down the ramp, toexaminetheroommoreclosely.Thereisnofloor:theroomistheheadofashaft,apit.Allthiswasonceamine.

Theshaftseemstodropclownthefulllengthofthecliff,ifnotevenlower;apebbledroppedclownittakesseveralsecondstosendbackasounddenotingarrivalandrest.Mymindjumpstomystery.Thetimberswhichsurroundandsupport,themawoftheshaftareblackened, warped and cracked, as though fire had raged up from the workhead,devouringminers andmachines. A single beam, once horizontal across the roof of theshafttosupportpulleysandtackles,hasslippedtoanuneasyangle.Thewoodcreakswithage, and the imagination makes of it a funeral keen for the men whomust have diedbelow.Eveninthebrillianceofthesummerclay,theabandonedminetakesonasinisterair,asdarkanddankasthatwhichrisesfromtheblackpit.

But I know that it is nothing: thewood is charred not by flame but its antithesis,rising moisture from the sea below. The shaft has been destroyed in a slower, moreleisurelyfashion,suited toNature’spatience.Theminemusthavebeenabandoned longago, when whatever its contents were proved no longer precious or useful enough tojustifytheworking.Manonhislinearpathagain;progress,progress…sideways.Thereis,infact,nomysteryhere,noteventheghostofthepast;already,longsince,theforcesofland and sea have begun to reclaim these, their preserves, into which men once solaboriouslyburrowed.

Fiftyyardsaway,therestandsachimney,perchesprecariouslyamongtheelements.Itcouldalmostbeatowerfromwhichfirst,warningcouldbegivenofapproachingclangerfrom the sea. There is a certain mystery here: there is no building at the base of the

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chimneyfromwhichsmokewouldbeextracted.Instead,onitsseawardside,thereextendsfromthebaseabricktunnel.Itisfourfeethigh,andreachesalmosttothecliffedge.Thisgivestheedificetheappearanceofasnakepoisedtostrike,thechimneyrearingintotheairandthetunnel-thetail-supportingit.

Iwalkalong thesideof the tunnel.Halfwaydown, timeandvandalismhave takentheirtollandthereisahole-gapingwoundinthereptilehide-wherethebrickshavebeenprisedapart.Itholdsthesimultaneousinvitationandthreatofafractionallyopeneddoortoadarkenedroom;andifIcrouch,itisjustlargeenoughformetoenter.

Itisnecessarytomovealmostonallfourstomakethelengthofthetunneland,afterthe initial splay of light at the opening, the passage is in darkness. Interior bricks havefallen to the floor,and theway is ruggedanduncomfortable,butashaftof light fallingdownthechimneyatthefarendbeckonsmeon.

Iarrive there; there is roomtostand, tomoveafewpacesat thebaseof thestack.Therearenobonesortrinketsonthefloor,ofcourse…butthisstillseemsamagicplace.

Verticallyaboveme,abrilliantcircleofbluesky;thelightrainsdownfromthisandsparklesonthewalls,shiningandglintingasoncutglass.But.Iseethattheinsideofthechimneyismadeofthesamebrickastherestofthebuilding:itisnotthatwhichshines,buttiny,beautifulcrystalsencrustedonit,likesnowflakes,likediamonds.Theydancefortheeyesinthelight,andmakeoftheplaceanenchantedcavern.

The walk, the crawl were worth it: the crystals, the womb-like towering of thechimney, itsceilingof tactileblue.Howsolid theskyseemswhen, like this,onlyafewsquarefeetofitarevisible!Howgoodtobealive,howgoodtoexperience,howgoodtosee!Andwhatcrystalsarethese?

Thehandreachesouttotouchthem.Afewflakeawayeasilyfromthewallandclingtothefingertips,whichcarrythemtowardsthetongue…

Whatwasminedhere?

Andwhatisthetasteofexperience?

Itwasanarsenicmine,andthetasteisthatoftheflowersofthatelement.Theyhavebeenleftunclaimedfromthesmelterfluewhereiswassublimatedfromtheminedpyrites.Thisisallthatremainsfrompastpurpose.Inoursearchforknowledge,understandingandbalancebetweentheforcesarounduswearerarelymorethanafingertipawayfromeatingourowndeath.

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TheMessage

He knew that the endwas coming.Nomorewere there aficionados to buy, steal,hoard his paintings, interviewers from glossy magazines to probe his psychologicalmotivationsandsexualquirks,pilgrimstositathisfeet,attemptingtodistillknowledgefromsuchsweatofhisbrowas fellon themwhileheworked.Hehadknownall these:known,accepted,enjoyed,beendiscardedbyanddiscardedinturn.Therewereotheridolsfor them now,with stranger andmore labyrinthine forms of expression to relate to theworld;now,forhim,therewasnoworldlefttowhichhecouldrelatedintheoldmanner.Thaterawhichhehimselfhadinsomewayexpressedandepitomizedhadpassed;henolongerhadeithertheinclinationorthedesiretopushopentheshuttersonhisinnermostthoughtsandfeelings.Thelightneitherenterednorshoneout.

Itistruethathehadrevelledinhisfamealmosttothepointofself-idolatry;hehadfelt and savored that sense of exquisite freedom and security-albeit of the zoo-whichapproval by one’s peers confers. Dipping his toes into the water, he had found thesensationandtemperaturetohisliking,andsohaddivedheadlongintoit,againandagain,alwaysfromahigherboardandalwayswithgreatere’lanuntilamomentarrivedwhenitwasimpossibletodifferentiatebetweendiveanddiver,sogreatwastheheightfromwhichheplummeted.Eveninthismadness,hecouldhaveretainedcontroloverhisownlifeanddeath:seeing thecushioningandabsorbingwaterdrainingfromthepool,hecouldhavetwistedawayinmid-air;afinalact.ofindividuality.Again,hecouldsimplyhavestayedwallowinginthepool;thiswouldhavebeenenough,andcomprehensible…yettherewasmore.He stood at the crossroads, unsure evenof thenatureof thedecisionwhichnowfacedhim:togoonalongtheroadonwhich,longago,hehadsethimself,everontowardsthehorizonofgloweringclouds?Or,repenting, toturnhisbackonthathungry, invitingvision, tobegin the longanddesperatemarchback towhatever remainedofhisstartingpoint?Heknewthattheendwascoming;andheknewthathedidnotknow.

Ithadbeentwoyearssincehehadcloneanypainting.Intheinterveningtime,asthestrength of his will waned and his moral incertitude waxed, he had presented to adwindlingpublicthestockpileofhislastyears’work,passedoffascontemporary.Poisonarrowsofcriticismandmaliceweredrawnandfiredonthecanvasesastheyemerged,butthe effects did not touch him; already hewas distanced in time andmind, already tooconcernedwithgropingforanendwhichwouldsatisfyhisbeginningstobehurtbythispresentinvective,directedatlaborsonlyheknewwerelongclone.

His life had drifted from him, and his friends: the former, lately, in aimlessmeandering; the latterwithall tooclearlydefinedspeedanddirection. If friendshipandlovearebasedonthereflectionsfromothersofwhatwewishorimagineourselvestobe,thenwhenthemirrorclouds,nottobereburnishedbywhateverfreshlifewebreatheontoandintoit,wequicklyshroudthesurface,passonandforget.Hehadmadeithisvocationto be, to provide, a looking-glass for humanity’ the effacement. he sufferedwas all themoretotalforthat.Perhaps-wecouldtrytobekind-hemighthavefeltthatthereflectionshegaveouthadbecometooperfect,toovivid,asunbearableforthosearoundhimasforthoseonandbywhomhisnamehadbeenbuilt;suchself-absorptionmighthavemadehimmorehumaninpride,mightatleasthavegivenhimsomemeasureofconsolationandself-

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justification in the years of increasing solitude and isolation. In truth, though, suchthoughtsneveroccurred tohimatall: thedisappearanceofhis friendsmeantas little tohimasdidthatofhiserstwhilelaudorsandprotogees.Theabsenceofthosewhohadoncecrowdedroundhimdidnotevenraise inhimthatflickeroffeelingwhichmenwhoarealone often see in themselves as ultimate proof of their individuality. He had simplyceasedtocare.

Hehadspurnedsuccess,andyetforgottenitsmeaning.

He had, finally been rejected by his peers, and yet, having already disassociatedhimselffromthemandtheirjudgements,suchrejectionwasmeaninglesstohim.

In the sense that creation is the evocation of the unknown for presentation to, andcondonationby,one’sfellows,hehadceasedtocreate;yetthesenseisasshallowastheword is presumptuous. He was already half-dead: he had foresworn his stake inpresumption. As his friends and fellows stumbled away from the darkness whichincreasingly surrounded him, the lines which joined them to him slipped through hisnumbinggrasp.

Heclaspeddarknessandnegationtohimself:yet,within,hehadneverbeforewalkedinsuchpositivelight.Becomingparadox,allmeremeans,allsideshows,allirrelevanciesfell away fromhim; he had seen the end in time tomakehis own ends clear.Nowhisevery energy was directed towards one goal, his every drive channelled into a singlecurrent.Hisambition,ego, religion,certitude,will forcommunication,craving for love,his intelligence, intellect, training, toil and patience all became enmeshed in a singledream,inamonopolyofpurposewhichcanonlybecomemanifestwhenitisknownthattheabsoluteendisdrawingirresistiblyclose.Now,thoughceasingtocareinandforallmundane terms,hewasdrivenby theutmostdedication,andurgency infectedhiseverythoughandaction:urgencybornoutofasuddenknowledgeoftime.

Hehadownedthecottageformanyyears:inthefirstflushofyouthfulprosperity,hehadfollowedtheadviceofaccountantsandworldly-wisefriendsandboughtitastangiblepossessionandsecurityinatransientworld.Hehadhadhisown,moreromanticreasonsfor thepurchase, too:primitive, isolated,half-derelict,hehadseen theplaceasbeing intouchwith therootsofNature,and thusofMan.«Back toNature»hadbeenoneofhis(often contradictory) watchwords, as though Nature were a constant, not a perpetuallyshiftingaxisofrealitybywhichManisbothchallengedandmeasured.Atfirst,hehadhadthoughts of settinguphome there permanently. «Free from the city,» hehadonce said,flushedwithdrinkandenthusiasmtothepointofvoidingintellect,«Icanfindandknowmyself,andcreatefromthebowelsofmybeing.»Soonaftermovingthere,hefoundthathehadtakenthecitywithhimtohisretreatamongthechalkhills,andthatallthatcamefrom his bowels was fear of meeting the unknown alone. Though this was, in somemeasure,self-knowledge,itsickenedhim.

Whensummercame,he tried toassuagehisfearby invitinghishedonistic friends-mirrors tohismirror-tostay,and theyspent theclays inadruggedanddrunkenhazeoflethargy.Thesummerwaslong,hot,sterile;insuchmomentsasheraisedhisheadabovethemorassof self-indulgence,hesustainedhimselfandheldback thebayinghoundsofconsciencewith the thoughtofawinter’sworkandcontemplation.Theweather turned,

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hissolitaryliferesumed,thefeelingofsterilityremained;nowheknewthatitresidednotin the summer heat, not in the social excess, but in his own ideaswhen faced only byhimself.Themiragewasdispelled, thedream-thatbymerelychanging thegeographicallocation throughwhichhewalkedhecouldchange thenatureof theburdenhecarried-shattered.Theisolation,thestarkimagesofselfwhichwereallheencounteredthereweretoomuchforhim:he left thecottage for thepleasurepalacesof theworld, for theself-affirmationwhichonlysuccess,adulation,andthetangibleapplicationsofwealthwouldbring him. Thenceforth heworked as,when, andwhere he could, and his inspirationalcircuitswerefloodedonlywithfeedbackfromtheglitteringpublicworldinwhichhewasresoundinglysuccessfuland-foranartist-revoltinglyrich.

Now,ashe rejected that shadow-playof a lifewhichhehadhimself espoused, thecottagewastheretocomebackto:hehadneverseriouslythoughtaboutsellingit.Atfirst,tohavedonesowouldhavebeentoomuchofanadmissionoffailure,ofthefactthathewascapableofself-delusion;andhewouldallowofthispossibilityneithertohimselfnortoothersinthoseclays.Later,whenheownedplushhomesonthreecontinents,theplacewasconsignedinhismemorytothedustiestofbackshelves.Now,atlast,itwastoservehim well, its isolation matching that which had bred internally in him. The external,romanticidealismofhisyouth,thecultivationofpessimismanddespairinwhichhehadthen indulged-if only to nurture thekernel of self-celebration at both their centers-werelonggone;bynow,hehadcometoknowandaccepttruesolitude,analonenessstillvital,stillthrobbingwithlife…hisown.Sonow,attunedtoitsnature,hehadcomebacktothecottage;comebacktomakehisfinalandgreatestwork.

Therewouldbenocomparisonbetweenthisandwhathehadpreviouslydone:therewouldbenopointeveninrelativeassessment.Inthegrowingrejectionofhiswayoflife,of the use towhich he had put his time, he had also rejected his previous painting; hecouldnolongerowniteveninhismemory.Inreality,ithadpassedoutofhispossessioninthosemomentswhenitfirstadornedthewallsandcorridors-asclinical,almost,asthoseof hospitals-of the museums of modern art; the salons of those hostesses who, rich intemporal terms, sought spiritualwealth in the acquisition of ‘culture’; the bedrooms ofthosefriends,acquaintancesandparasiteswho,acknowledginghismortalityasmirrorinwhich theycouldshine, substitutedhiswork forhimandforwhatever relationship theyhadwithhim-amorepermanent,morereliablesurfaceinwhichtheycouldexamineanddisplaythesymmetricalperfectionoftheirwartsandblemishes.Asforhim,hehadtradedhispaintings forpride; that, too,hehad relinquishedas it tarnished in the lightof self-realization.Forhim,allthatnowremainedofhisworkwastheincrementalchangewhichtimeandvisionhadwrought,withinhim;thecavasses[sic]themselvesseemedtohimasdull,lifelessandflatasforgottendreams.

Once, he had drawn rigid lines within himself between his work and his life, theformerbeinga separatemanifestationof, ifnot justification for, the latter;now the twobegantobeat in thesamerhythm, tobecomeindistinguishable.Withtherealizationthathis lifewasgatheringitselfupbythemoment therecamefurther intimationsof itsverynature; as twilight cameonwith stealthygeometricalprogression,his lifebecamemoreandmore identifiablewith his search andwill for final expression. Such time-fritteringconcepts as importance, relative truth, artistic honesty no longer gnawed at hiscomprehension, for such things were devoured by, implicit in, the effort he was now

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making;thepresent,itsinfinityandtimefellaway.Withultimatepatience,bornofhaste,he began to assemble the forces of his life and, in so doing, willed them intotranscendenceofhimself towardsagoalandavitalitywhichcouldoutstripthetransientegotismof«creation»and‘Art’.Now,drawingon forcesolder,deeper,more intuitivelyfelt than any he had hitherto called upon, he ceased to be concerned with the mereexpressionoftheself:hestroveforitsencapsulation.Againstthispurpose,alltheeffortsofhispastlife,allhispastpaintings,wereasdustinthewind.Hisfinalworkhadbecome,forhim,hisonlyone:itwastobefilledwiththewholeessenceofhisexistence.

This in itself, though, would not be enough: paradoxically, in the course ofdissociatinghimselffromhispasthehadgrownmoreawareofhisplaceandnatureintheoverallschemeofthings,anditwassomeintimationofthatuniversalawarenesshenowwished toconvey.Ameremonument tohisownlifeandvision,howevermuch imbuedwiththem,howeverfreeofthetaintofego,wouldnotsuffice.

Hegropedforclearsightofhisownintentions;theythrobbedinhisveins,beatathistemples,inhabitedhismindineverywakingmomentandcasthalf-glimpseddreamslikepebbles into the millpond of his sleep. Eventually, the barest of outlines was formed;although still without specific definition, it offered some hope at least of the work inprospectachievingalongetivityanduniversalitybeyondhisown,mortal,imagination.Hewouldtrythroughthis,aman’swork,topassonsomeintimationofMan’sstate,balancedbetweentwoorders:civilisation,ormankindintime,andNature.Heknewthathewouldhave to express opposed concepts simultaneously: transience, analysis, intellect againstimmutability, intuition, spirit. As a man at a specific point in time, he realized thattrappingtimeitselfinitsvestments;nor,indeed,couldheaccuratelyrepresenttherateofchange-intermsofknowledge,action,faith-ofcivilization.Somehow,though,ifhecouldonlyfindtherightimageandmethod,hecouldencapsulatethebalance,thetension;andthen, if thework lasted, it could show futuremen, ofwhatever time, that others beforethemhadatleasttriedtosee,toexpresswhatitmeanttobealive.

Atlast,hehadfoundtheparametersofhisintent:nowthedaysformedthemselvesinto ranks ofweeks andmonths as he searched for the imagewhich could embody thetotality of his vision.He did not bemoan the passage of time itself, since all was nowwaiting;but frustrationgnawedathimconstantly.Sometimes, likea frustratedchild,hewouldrushoutonto thehillsidewhichflankedhiscottageandhurlstonesas farandasaimlesslyashecouldtogiveventtohisangerathimself,hisinadequacies,hisinabilitytofindtheiconhesought.Later,thesesamehandswhichhadthusfashionedthemselvesintothefistsandcatapultsofnihilismwouldunconsciouslymovedinthedepthsofaspiration,struggle, strivingandsearch.Thesehands…finally,heknew, theywouldhave todo thework,makesenseofhisunfashioned ideals,make reasonof theirown irrationalpower;sometimes, mesmerised, he would stare at them, wondering if they could possiblyconform to the discipline, achieve the controlwhichwould be necessary to fashion theuncontrolled.Thenhisdarkestmomentswouldcome,whenitseemedthathehadavowedtoomuch,hadsteeredtooclosetoblasphemy.Hewished,afterall,tomaketheultimatestatementofwhichhewascapable,inthemostencapsulatedform.Yet.heknewthattherecouldbenootherway:ifthiswasblasphemy,thenhemustblaspheme.Havingforsakenhis past existence, renounced his past and primitive efforts at self-expression, his onlyreasonfor livingnowwasthiswork, thisgoalas totalasanyhecouldenvisage;andhe

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was leftwith theknowledge thatonly in itsprocessandcompletioncouldany trueandfinalunderstandingevercometohim.

At times, his cogitations had seemed to have no end; but finally he settled on theimage he would use. The subject was age-old, but could bear representation withmodernity;itslifebreathedintoinanimatesubstance,allthenecessaryelementswouldbefused,andtheeternityofhisideatransmitted.

Atfirsthehadtosketchit:onlythuscouldhemateriallyformalizeallthosewishesandintentionswhichhismindhadcatalogedand,intheimaginationatleast,boundintoawhole.Trialaftertrial,formafterformflowedfromhispenineverymannerhehadeverlearned, from slapdash speed tometiculous patient, craft. Each in turnwas rejected asbeing too inanimateor toovital, of toouniversal aview forhis specificpurposeor toominuteaoneforitsbreadth,oftooclassicalortoomodernaform.Finally,hishand,mindandeyecametorest,andonthepaperbeforehimlaythelinesforwhichhehadsearchedfor so long, towardswhich his whole life had been directed. Now it remained only totransfer these lines into his chosen permanentmedium, onewhichwouldwithstand theravages of permanent medium, one which would withstand the ravages of time, retaintheseunmistakablemarks,suffernodeteriorationofessenceofconfusionofintent.Nowonlythephysicallaborhadtobeclone.

Theweekspassedintomonths,andtheearthwasblessedwiththesweatofhistoil.His hands became gnarled and hard with blisters; his biceps throbbed with effort andenergy;hishairgrewlongandmatted,hisfacecreasedwiththelinesofoutdoorwork;hiseyessmolderedtopermanentcoalsinhisfurioushaste.Hewasted,andhegrew:hehadnever been so strong as hewas in those final days, yet he had never looked so utterlydrained-hiswholelife-forcewasfedintothecompletionofthework,andhepausedonlytosleepandeat.Timehelditsbreathforhim.

Anditwasfinished.

He stood back and viewed it: there had been nomistake in his inspiration. Itwasdynamic, yet immutable; urgent, yet in a strange repose; it summedup his passion, hisindividuality,butwassimultaneouslyuniversal; inbothsubjectandexecution, itwasofnowandalltimepastandfuture.Thesubjectwasonemenwouldhaveseenalmostsincetheybegantosee,buttherakeofthelinewasunmistakablymodern;andalsohehadnot,he reflected, suffered the purgatory of the salons and art galleries all those years fornothing-unmistakablyhis.Thebeinghadlife,summonedupthoughtsofflightandspeed,yetsuspendedinfranticmotion,wouldremainhereforever.

Thebodyarchedforwards,awideningcurvetotheshoulders,andthelimbsseemedto flow out from it in smooth arcs, not as appendages, but. as intrinsic part; the head,strainingforward,wasmerelyhintedatbyshapeandoutline,andinitscenteronestaringeyebulgedwiththeeffortofchase.Eachstrokeofhispenintheoriginalsketchhadbeenmagnifiedhundredsoftimes,andinthesimplicityofthesefewlineshehadcapturedthelife of his subject; captured that, andmore.Not onlywas thework infusedwith, and asummation of, life, but also, suspended between Nature and mankind, it capturedsomethingoflifeinhistime.Therehadbeennomarginforerror,andheretherewasnone;

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theworkwasthatwhichhehaddreamed,forwhichhehadprayed.

The simplicity of execution, the elimination of all but the barely essential, thethoughtsand implicationsofspeed,hasteandvigorwhich theworkembodied,all thesewerecodesintrinsictohiscivilization.Thelines,sounlikethoseofitssubjectinreality,still captured its essence.Thework belonged to, could only have been clone at, a timewhenManwasnolongercontentsimplytoobservewhatthesaw,butwasdeterminedtostriketoitsroots, itsskeletaldiscovery,ofquest,of lifecontinued,expanded,enhanced;now, as mankind began to reach for the stars; now he, with this subject of simple,unequivocal grandeur, had here encapsulated not only his own feelings and aspirations,butalsothoseoftheage.Life,light,hope;thesurgeatbarriersandboundarieswhichexistonly to be penetrated; the first glimmer of understanding ofwhat lies beneath the dulltridimensionalityofoutwardappearance-hereandnow,hehadintuitivelycapturedallofthese;hehadgraspedthemin,andfashionedthemwith,hismortalhands.

And so he sat upon the hill, his end almost upon him, drained of all but thesatisfactionofhavingclone;andlookedacrossathisfinal,hisonlywork.Inthecenturies,in theaeonstocome,menwouldreturnto thisspot, lookupontheresultsofhis labors,andbe sure to receive themessage.By the figurative sparsityof line,by thecaptureofessenceindimensionsotherthanthosewefullyunderstand,theywouldknowthatit.wascreated by a man in an age whenMan had truly begun to live, and not merely exist.Perhaps (who know?) by then the Earth might be a barren waste, left behind in thespawningof thegalaxies,andonlyachancecosmonautwouldcomeupon theplace-buthe,too,wouldknowandunderstandthathereitallbegan.

Hismindspuninpure,humble,exhilaration:themessagethathehadcarvedoutforthefuturecouldneverbemisinterpreted.So, joyfullywithout further reasonfor life,hisbreathslippedawayashelayonthehill,hiseyesrestingforeveronthewhitehorsehehadcutintothechalkaboveUffington.

Thewhitehorsehasstoodthetestoftime;butitsmeaningandmessageremain,forus, a mysteries, and we can only guess at the culture, civilization, hopes, fears andintentionsofitsmakerormakers.Havewenot.comesuchalongwayfromthesethings?

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Brasilia

—thisminceptcord

—date25/11/45

—emittant1-401/E97BSA

TheLegendgoesthattheworldwasonceagarden,filledwithwildflowers,treesandanimals. The gardenwas the closestwe could come to theGods before finally joiningthem. This had been our place since all creation.But the people sinned, andwere castdownandoutforever.

TheLegendgoesthatwhentheDevilcame,hewasterribleinappearance.Hecameasaman,attheheadofmanymen.Allthesehadoncebeenasus,buttheyhadfallentothepoweroftheDarkOne.Theycame,hidingtheirbodies,ofwhichtheywereshameful.Theireyeswerewild,emptyofpride,andthepalloroftheirskinsmatchedtheirsouls.Wefoughtthem.Wefoughtthemwithourblow-pipes,ourarrows,ourpoisons,andwekilledmanyof them.Thesewedidnot consume, for their inpuritywouldhaveweakenedourrace.Wekilledmany,butalwaystheDevilhadmoretothrowforwardatus.Alwayswefought them,andHim through them.TheDevilattackedus inanotherway.Hesenthisarmies of disease amongus, so that soon all our peoplewere laid sick.Then theDevilcamewhiletheywerewastedwithfeverandpoisonedthemwithdartsintheirarms.Whenour people recovered the strengthof their bodies, they found that their spirits hadbeenweakenedbythepoison.Thentheybowedto theDevilandacceptedhisLaw.Thiswasthefirstoftheirsins.

TheLegendgoesthatwhentheDevilcame,hewasterribleinappearance,inthathecameasaman.Hehadthevoiceofamanaswellashisface.Hedismissedhisarmiesnow, forhehadnofurtherneedof them.Ourpeoplewere inhispower,andhehimselfremainedamongus.Aftersometime,ourpeoplethoughtandreasonedthathemustbeaman,nottheDevilforhehadaman’sfaceandvoice.Thentheytriedtopersuadehimofthe Tightness of our ways, and asked for the freedom to follow them. The Devil wascunning,andpersuadedourpeoplethathetoowouldacceptourcustoms.Henolongerhidhisbody,andwalkedamongusasoneofourown.Butwhilehe listened toourpeopletelling him of our ways he, too, was teaching. Our people accepted his teaching as aman’s,fortheyhadbeguntoaccepthimasaman.Inthedepthoffriendshipbetweenmen,they took some of his teaching to their hearts. In time, the Devil led our people intoforbiddenareasoflearning.Hetaughtthesignswhichmadewords.Hetaughtreadingandwriting,andourpeoplelearnedthem.Thiswasthesecondoftheirsins.

TheLegendgoesthatwhentheDevilcamehewasterribleinappearance,inthathecameasaman.Aswellasthefaceandvoice,hehadthereasonandlogicofman.Soheswayed our people more and more, and his domination increased rapidly. Finally, hepersuadedus to leaveourhomesandfollowhim.Wewere to fightanotherpeople.Ourspiritwasweak,andtheDevil’swillbecameourown.Wedidnotnoticethepallorofourskins,thevoidinoureyeswherepridehadoncebeen.Wedidnotnoticetheclotheswhichhidourbodies.WewentwiththeDevilashisarmy.This,thethirdsin,wasthefinalone.

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TheLegendgoesthatwhentheDevilhadconqueredallthepeoplesoftheworld,henolongerremainedasaman.Hetookhistrueformback,anditwasmoreterribletoseethanallotherthings.Thenallthepeopleoftheearthwereforcedtofleefromthegarden.ThisitselfwasdestroyedbythemerepresenceinitoftheDevilinhisnaturalform.

ThisistheLegendofourFall.

Idon’tknowwhatbroughtallthatbacksosuddenly,therote-learnedfablewhichhasbeen passed on down through the generations…my poor superstitious ancestors! It isplain, from all experience and memory, that we have always lived in this world; theconceptionofanideal«garden»isandalwayshasbeenmereself-deception.Onecanonlywonder how these strange fictions came about-trees, flowers, and animals in wildabundance,greatarmiessentbyabeingwhochangesshapeatwill.Onecanonlywonderatmypeople’sinabilitytoacceptwhatisasreal;instead,theyfollowedtheircompulsiontobelieveinsomeidealpast,togropeforsomeschemeofthingswhichcouldneverhavebeeninreality.Oh,thehumanprogresswhichhasbeendeniedtousovertheyearsbytheblinkeringeffectsofthismadflightoftheimagination!

Yearsofrepetitionhaveembeddedthesuperstitioninmymemory,butIamfreeofitinmymind.I,atlast,can-must-seethingsastheyreallyare.Myancestorscannotbehurtby themnow, so let themhave theirmyths and fables.Nothing can hurt themnow, nopain,hope,orimagination;theyareallgone.Asthelastofus,Ihavetherightaswellasthemindtodoawaywiththesepreoccupationswithafabulouspast;myonlyobligationnowistomyself.Asarealist,Iknowthatanyhopefor«ourpeople»hasdelusionatitsheart.Iamthelastandtherewillbenomore.

This end has long been inevitable. The world always was and will be a confinedspace,andourfoodsupplylimited.Inthedistantpast,ournumbersproliferatedtoapointwherelifewasofminimalqualityandsurvivalwasflatandbare.Itbecamevitaltocontrolour numbers. Thiswas accomplishedmuchmore than satisfactorily: in the generationsfollowingthatdreadfultimeofovercrowdingandstarvation,thegeneticcontraceptivehadwiderandwidereffects.Ithadstartedasasavingvaccine;itendedasineradicablevirus.The numbers of barren women grew until my mother was the last capable of bearingchildren.Shediedinhavingme;Iwasalwayscertain tobe the last.Asextinctiondrewcloser,themembersofthepreviousgenerationsturnedmoreandmoretowardstheancientfables; one can sympathize with that, for no other continuity remained. Now there iscontinuityatall:thelastofthemisdead,andIamalone.Hopeis,forme,awordwithnomeaning;onlyexistenceisthat.

I shall live out my time in this world and then I shall die. I shall walk the samegroundasthosebeforemeandmineshallbethelastfootfall.Thenweshallallbegone.There shall be no further generation to hear the legends, and all the dreams, fictions,exploits,discoveriesandthoughtsofthepast,too,shallbedead,asiftheyhadneverbeen.I can spendmy time; I can look at the films and records; I, the last, can explore everyhiddencorneroftheworld.

—thismindceptcord

—date4/3/49

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—emittant1-40,1/E97BSA

By now I had thought to know every inch of what I still think of as our world,althoughitisonlymine.Itsconfinesarenottoogreattoexplore,andIlongagodevotedwhatremainedofmylifetodoingso,Iorderedandanalyzed,halfdrivenbythethought,thatsomedarkrecessmightfurnishmewithareasonforexistenceoverandabovesimplybeing.Ididnotfindsuchaplace,andbelievedthat,bynow,Iknewitall.ButIbelieved,also, in the unchangeable nature of my surroundings, and accepted form as a constantreality.Thesethingsarenowrevealedtomeasmirages;orelseIaminsane.Yet.Ifeelincontrolofmysenses:itissurelynotthosewhichsoconfuseme.

I know this corner of the world well; it is one of those most clustered with theapparatusofcontrol.Ihavestudiedtheareaofteninmyexplorations;insomewayIwasattractedtoandpleasedbythearrangementoflights,dialsandswitches,thefunctionsofwhichhaveneverbeenknown.ShallInowsaythatIsensedsomething?Irecallthatoneofthemostantiquefilmsfeaturedtheplaceasofgreatsignificance.Themeaningeludedme;perhapsthecensorshipofthecenturies,imposedtoprotect,thepeoplefromunbridledthought, camouflaged it. Now there is no camouflage; but I am still far fromunderstanding.Thisplaceisattheedgeofourworld;intheapparentlyseamlesssurfaceofthefinalwall,anelectricdoorhasopenedtorevealapassagewaybeyond.Thereshouldbeno beyond, no passageway, no door; not here, at the edge of existence. But for theevidenceofmyeyes,itwouldbebeyondbelief;yettheytestify.Afurtherworldbeyondtheworld?ThisisahopeIneverdared.Most,cynicalofallthegenerations,mybrainandsoularefloodedwithfeelingsIneverknewwereinme.

Ihavenochoice.Iamthelast,andmyonlyobligationistomyself:toknowasmuchas possible beforemy death. The life of allmy heritage rises inme. Is all notwithoutvalueandpurpose,isallnotwithouthope?Imustfollowthepassageandtreadwherenomanhasbeeninalllivinghistory.

The corridor stretches upwards. Far along it., I round a corner and am struck byfuriouslightfromtheotherend.Evenatdistance,itsintensityissuchthatthefearwhichumbilicallyconnectsmetotheworldalmostdrawsmeback.Iamwalkinginanunknownplace.Butevolution,aswellastheneedforrevelation,forcesmetowardstheclimb,thejourneyofdiscovery.Witheverystepthelightstreamsbrighterandmoreblinding;severaltimesIhavetostoptoadjusttoit,andtocalmmypalpitatingnerves.ButImust,Ido,goon.

Now, on the threshold, the light seems almost a solid barrier at the end of thepassage;my resolution is shaken to the core. Clearly, theworld beyondwhatwe havealwaysknownas theworld isof immenseenergyand intensity. It is sodifferent, that IevenwonderifIhavedied.ThereisnootherwaythatIcantakethesesteps:Iclosemyeyesandwalkforward,outthroughthelight.1don’t,knowifIexistorwillceasetoexistatanymoment.Perhapsthegroundhasalreadydematerializedbeneathmyfeet,andIamwalkingonlyonmyownsuppositions.StillIwalk,feelthegroundundermytread.Ihavecomefarenough:Imustopenmyeyestotheworldbeyondworld.

Brasilia

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Now.

Color,light,shade,line,heat,intense,pain,silence,color,shade,light,burn,beyond,fear,joy,know,see,color,light,shade,tower,glass,solid,metal,sharp,empty,burn,cold,blue,gray,color,line,angle,white,distance,space,size,immense,dead,intensity.

Devil-void-army-empty-vast-endless-color-shade-light-line- angle-intensity-dead-void-Devil-Legend-void-

vast-Devil-sin-forever-dead-empty-vast-garden-destruction-shape-form-line- angle-contour-texture-numb-dead-Devil-Legend-shade-light-void- empty-Devil-despair-true-true-true-void-despair-true-order-reason-life-lost.

TheLegendcome.

Legendsay,hollowlaugh,empty,despair.Legendsay,Devillaugh,true,true.

Legendsay,Devillaughinshapelinesizecolorshadelighttowerglassmetalendlessnoend—«Ihavetakenyouruniverse;hereismydespair.»

Allonealltrueallendforevervoid.

Thus, the farthestof futures.Thus themanBrasiliaemergedfromtheundergroundshelterintowhich,centuriesearlier,hisancestorshadfledfromtheholocaustofthefinalwar. That subterranean world had been the only one he, and thirty-eight previousgenerations, had known. Behind him, in it, he left only its nerve center, the telepath-computer, and it is from this that the preceding passages of his thought and perceptionhavebeenplucked.

The timehadcome.Thecomputer’s sensorshadshown that theatmosphereof theearth’s surface was once more, at age-long last, safe to breathe. Automatic relays hadopened the door to the outside world in anticipation of The Exodus. From his shelterBrasiliahademerged;buthehaddonesoasaloneintheoutsideworldashehadbeeninhis own.Everyother underground earthwasbynowempty, silent, a vast technologicalmausoleum, a museum which only electronic eyes covered; and only electronic lifecontinuedtoflickerinthecitiesbeneaththeground.

Soitwas,inBrasilia,thatthelineended.Inhimthegenesofalltheinitialoccupantsof the shelter had mingled during the centuries of underground isolation: Amerindian,European,Chinese,African,Indian.Hecarriedinhimtheresidueofalltheiraspirations,alltheirblindhopesforthefuture,alltheirquests;thesethingshaddrawnhimonalongthepassagewaytohis,andMan’sdeath.Themythsandreligionsofhisantecedents,too,were in him, coalesced and intermarried intoone strain: theLegend.For all its garbledimageryandlanguage,forallitsforms,theLegend,themanythings,wasonething:theonlyabsoluteManfinallyheld.Itwasthistruth,materializedbeforehiseyes,whichkilledBrasilia.

HeemergedintohisnamesakecityfromthosebowelsoftheearthtowhichManhadburrowed; he emerged intowhat had been the garden. Jutting around him, the angular,monstrousshapes, thesearingplanesofdeadmetalandconcreteandglass.Abovehim,thecavityof thesky, itsdistance, stilland foreveredgedwith iridescent, fall-outviolet.WhatBrasiliasawwhenhecameoutsuckedthelifefromhiminitsenormityofsizeand

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meaning.

HesawwhattheLegendhadalwayssaid:theDevil,andallhisworks.

RunData/Logicinterface.

Earthatmospherestandard,

radiationlevel/viruslevelgo.

extra-shelterlifecapabilitypositive,

atmosphericreleasedoorsopen.

Run.

gotomindceptcordbanksforextra-shelterexcursion.

Check.

Positive:index1,generation40,1/E97,BrasiliaS.A.

Run.

Rescanforexcursionmindceptcords.

Negative.

Returnmindceptcord4/3/49:1-401/E97BSA

Overloadregistered.Cessationoflife.

Closedownnon-hardwaresupport.

Reducenon-essentialpoweruse.

Gotostatusready.

Man, the Devil, and all his works — we can hope for the ultimate goal, self-knowledge.Darewe hope thatwhen it dawns itwill not bemerely to be stored in thememoryofa telepathcomputer?Waiting,perhaps,foranotherof itskindwithwhomtoshareanemptyuniverse?

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IIPoems

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Killers,Angels,Refugees

4.30

It’sfunny…onyourfirstun-schoolgirldayyourauraofinnocencefellaway.

Wemadeloveintheafternoonandafterwardsashadowcame,pastpresencetouchedme.

NowIseeyou’renotinnocentnotgulliblenotachild.

Andit’sfunny…whenallthatinnocencewent,someofitmustfellonme.

Hahaha.heehee:HE.

ADoorWithNoHouse

Thecandidateforpityturnshisbackonmirroredwallsasfate’slastjester…butwhoknows?…hurriesfromtheroom.Apilgrim’staleliessplinteredonthehearth.Sixeyesstarethroughthegating.

I’mthinking,maybeI’llbehereforever.

Biggies

Suddenly,Iremembersharpness,inplaceofrelativity

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andpre-childhood.

Isquattedonthefloorinthesunlight,readingBiggies.

Later,lyinginthedarkness,staringatthewrithy,coiledceiling,Iwasscaredtodeath…andcouldn’tfindareasontobethereatall.

Evennow,sometimes,coffin-laden,snakes-infestedjunglestretchesbeforemysingle,featheredpropeller.Evennow,sometimes,Iamscared.

Flies

AsIopenedthebackdoor,twoflieswerecopulatingonthecooker:Ifoundthisverysignificant.Lateatnight,myhandgropedfortheaerosol.

Theystayedtogetherforthefirstfewseconds,wingsscorchedinthesuddenfire,mindsdisintegratinginthedeadlymist.Quitesuddenly,themaletorehimselfawayfromhispenisanddroppedtothefloor.

Sheremained,rollingaroundonthewhiteenamelandthenfellthroughacrackintotheoven.Perhapsshehadbeenavirginandthoughthiswaswhatalwayshappened.

Iatemyeggwithafewpangsofconscience.Laterthatnightthesedisappearedwhenanotherflyshatonmefromthelightbulbabovemybed.

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GalileoGalilei

Isolatedstonesturnfaintedgestothemoon.Roughly,intherock-markedfaces,youexaminetheuniverse.Butyouareyourselfauniverse,andtheblacktrailofyouralwayscloaktrapsittofinity.Youcontradictyourself,turningaskepticalmindonexistence,andwashingawaybeliefinyourwake.Clinically,asinabattlefieldsurgery,withtar,youamputatecomprehension.

Grandma

Sandstoiled.Steelshards.Black-clackneedlesstrikethehour.

Somethingscrapesonherspine.Somethingopensherlacyeye.

Thesuddendryflood.Palpitationsofthepartlydead.Croak.

Empty.Still.

Closethesilentfountainandthevacanttap.

Decomposingalready.

October3

Myattitudetowardyouhaschanged:it’snotthatyoudon’tliveinthewayIwould,

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nor(areyouamazed?)thatIcanfindnowaytotyrannizeyoursoul.

Isitthatyoufalltotrustmewithyourtruth,orevenwithalie?

Youspeaktomeinwordsbetweenthetwo,andIamsad,forsomewhereIhavelostyou.

Now,withhollowlaughterandstaticpresenceyouonlytalkbehindmyback.

MaybesoonIshallforgetandrediscoveryou,withgoldenbear,flower,laughandhairunchanged.

Yes,maybesoonIshallforgetmyself.

OutOfStep

Myeyes,sad,arereflectedinthewindowsoftheearlymorningtrainandIamalone.Mymouthissofullofwordsthattheyclogmytonguesosilence,andthehandwhich,longminutesago,madehousewithyoursnowgatherstiredandtoo-wornphrasestoexpresstheconfusioninmyhead.

We’vefallenintoanoldgameofprotectiveopposites…IthinkIt’scalledlying.Youtalktomeoflovefromyourthroneofice.Ispeakoffriendshipfromtherack.

Lastnight,besideyouontheunstainedfloor,armsachedwithlove,mindattheedgeofcontrol,Iwantedtoholdandholdandholdyou.Iwatchedyoursleepyfeatures;Iturnedaway…onetouchcouldlosethetinypartofyouthat’slefttome.

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Nowyouaresomeoneelse’slove.

OnThursdaynext,rememberme,forayearagothenitbegan…andsomethingIwishmyfeetandarmshadneverdancedintimetomyheart.Really.

Rehearsals

abcdefghijklnmop

inthebasin

q

onthestairs

r

youinconcert?

s

ifyoudare.I'llmake

t

inthebasementif

u

butthebreadwhile

v

isthevacuuminmy

w

head.

x

intenseoftrauma

y

isn'titclear?

Lifeislinearlyboring

atfourinthemorning,

rehearsing,encoring…

I'mpracticallysnoring

Ifear…

zzzzzzzzz

Someone’sBeenLying

Maybeit’sabouttimeyouwroteanothersong:watchthewayyourwearinessstretchesandembracesyouinasicklyshroudofrelaxation.

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Orismywholelifesomesortofcomplicatedconsecratedburstofcreativity,andeverybreathItaketuneful?Ifthisisso,someonehasbeenlyingallthetime.

Look:it’snotwhollynecessaryforyoutoscreamandclimbatopthetower…yourparachuteisonlythereforshow;yourwordsareonlytheretoletyouknowthatyou’realiveinsilentmomentsandyoureallyshouldn’tworryforthem.Ifthisisso,someonehasbeenlyingallthetime.

TheMountHotel

Yourvoicesoundedlost,callingthroughtheflyingwindsofthemoors.Icanfeelyoureyes,scaredinthedarkness,asyoustruggletotalk.

Icanhearyou.Butdowe,anyofus,reallyknowwhywecarryonthewaywedo?Anddoweallfallautomaticallyinthecategoryofourwork?Whatdoyouwantmetosay?Whatarethequestionsbehindyourquestions?

Youarescaredbymyworlds?Youarescaredbythesilence?Youwantmetosootheyourfear?

Ithoughtyouknewmebetterthanthat.

TheTinierWorlds

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Tiny,Silent,Wewait.

Onthisbladeofgrass,untidyblackgardenbackwaterofcreation,wehavelivedinrandomorder,inperpetualentropy,infear.Nowtheuniverseisabouttoexplode.Nowthemurderousfootfallisuponus.Wecannotshoutloudenoughthroughthedarkyears.

Tiny,Silent,Wewait.

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IIILyrics

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TheAerosolGreyMachine(VdGG,1969)

Afterwards

Youstareoutinyelloweyeslargerthanmymind;inviscouspoolsofjoy,relaxing,weglide…it’salltoobeautifulformymindtobear.and,asweshimmerintosleep,something’sunshared.

But,seeingtheflowerthatwasthereyesterday,atearformsjustbehindthesoftpeaceofyourshades…Theworld’stoolonelyforamessagetoslipbutbetweenthedyingrailsofpeaceyoutrip.

Thepetalsthatwerebloomingarejustpaperinyourhand;youreyes,whichwereclearinthenight,areopaqueasyoustand…Itwastoobeautifulforittolast…Thesevisionsshimmerandfadeoutoftheglass.

(Norfolk,1967)

OrthenthianStreet

Thestreetinquestiondoesnotexist,althoughasearchforit,andthehotelwebelievedittoholdamongitshouses,took well over an hour: symptomatic, perhaps, of life inbands! This was the first song of mine which dealt — ifobliquely — with that lifestyle and the endless vistas ofmotorways and assorted potential destructions. If it isclaustrophobic and inconclusive then that only serves tofurtheritspoint.

Ifeelacallingforthesea,Iwanttowalkonthesanddunes…Ihopeyou’llforgivemeifIsayIcan’ttakeyou:atsometimesI’vegottogetaway,ifjusttogetabreakfromtheplay

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thatwe’reallinvolvedin.

AlltheloveI’mlivingnowcouldhaveendedyesterdayifthesnowhadfallentoohardupthereontheMotorway…Ifithappens,don’tfeelsorry,Iwon’tfeelalone:it’sjustanothertravelingzonethatyoucan’tcomeon.

Can’tstopforasecond:wemightseehowsillyweallare.Can’tgetout,evenforamoment:mightbehitbyapassingcar.Dreamsshatterandfallintodust,aslongaswe’retravelingIsupposetheymust.But,whilewe’reontheroad,ourdays’llbeglowing;andwhenwepart,asyouknowwemust,we’llleave,justgoingeversoslowly,eversoslowly.

Motorwaysignsflashpastlikeflies,it’sgettinglateandwe’regoinghome.Wealltravelinparallellines,headingintothetwilightzone.AllIreallywantnowisyoubymyside;yes,it’sasweetridewhilewe’restilltogether.

Yes,it’sasunnyday,andwe’reoffonourseatrip;Thewatermaybecoldinthebay,butwe’resafeonoursailingship,and,ificeforms,youcanwalkhometolandandstillclingtomyhandifyoustillwantto…

(London,1969)

RunningBack

IthoughtI’dgiveitupforgood,‘causenoneofmyactionsareunderstood.IthoughtI’dreallyleave,andmycomingback’ssomethingyou’dneverperceive.IthoughtI’dmakeit;

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Yes,IreallythoughtI’dmakeit,butthenyousmiled,youdidn’trileme,nowI’mrunningbackrunning,runningback.

IsawavisionofalovelongdeceasedandachillywindcomingfromEast.IknowIcansayIdidmybest,buttherewerenomorewarmwindsfromtheWest.StillIthoughtI’dmakeit;Yes,IreallythoughtI’dmakeit,butthenyousmiled,youdidn’trileme,nowI’mrunningbackrunning,runningback.

Ithoughtyou’dneverbemissed,andIreallybelievedwe’dnevershareanotherkiss.AndIthoughtforthelasttimeI’dtouchedyourhand,butyourlovedrawsmebacklikequicksand.StillIthoughtI’dmakeit;Yes,IreallythoughtI’dmakeit,butthenyousmiled,youdidn’trileme,nowI’mrunningbackrunning,runningback.

AndnowI’mcomingyeshome.

I’mcominghome.

(OldWindsor,1966)

IntoAGame

Ineverthoughtitcouldcometothis,asyousittherecrying,hangingonwithyourfingertipstosomethingthat’salreadydead.Nowwe’reintoagameandit’sallabitstrange.

Onceonatimeweweresincere;now,we’reactingcharades,hidingbehindcrackedimagesfromotherpeople’sstages;

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now,we’reintoagame,andit’sallabitstrange,butfamiliar,too…therulesneverchange;Iknowit,butdoyou?

I’veseenitallbefore,andthisplaynolongermovesme,buttheclosingofadoorisnevereasy.

TheAerosolGreyMachine

Justonebreath,andit’sinstantdeath,it’stheAerosolGreyMachine!Justonebreath,andit’sinstantdeath,it’stheAerosolGreyMachine!

You’rewalkingalongtheroadoneday,upcomesamandressedallingrey;heblowsalittleaerosolinyourfaceandyoufindyourmind’sallovertheplace…

Justonebreath,andit’sinstantdeath,it’stheAerosolGreyMachine!

(hype:)«BuyanAerosolGreyMachineforyourownhometoday!»(dissent:)«Shan’t.Shan’t.I’mnotgoingto!»(sniggersnigger.chortle.)

(Manchester,1967)

Aquarian

This song has a chequered history of assorted titlesand intentions: originally to be a celebration of theincomingAquarianAge,itwentthroughaphaseofbeingahymn to an assorted band of troubadours bound togetherunder the aegis of a certain record company. After thesufferanceofno little trialand tribulationat thehandsofthis concern, I had no regrets as I withdrew my lyrical

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support from it and re-engaged the song on its old rails.Pitfallsaboundinanyeulogizingsongs,andsincethistimeIhavebeenmoreconcernedwithmydoubts insongsthanwithcertaintieswhichareasfickleastheseasons.

Thefirstperformanceofthissongwasonplatform6ofDerbyMidlandStation(afineinstitution),toasurprisinglyraptaudienceofporters,fellow-travellersandChrisJudgeSmith.

Nowwesithereinourspecialplace,allwearingourhappyfacesgladly.Sunlightappearsinourworld;ourjoyhasbeenturnedfrombadness.Nowwe’vemovedandleftaloneandit’seasierthatway.Weareridingonrainbowsandhappytoday.Nowwemovetothesunineverydirection;wearecloakedinveilsofmysticprotection…jokingalot,smokingornot,floatingouryachtofftofreedom,votingtobeAquarian!

Iholdsilverflashingmetalinthepalmofmypetalhand,watchingitquiver:tobreathetoocloseisdeath—ah,butwatisbreathbutawaytodeliverance?Soonwewillallbejoinedinagreatsilvertube,wantingeveryonetocomealong,thatmeansyoutoo!Nowwemovetothesunineverydirection;wearecloakedinveilsofmysticprotection…mappingtheway,clappingtosaywe’rehappytoday,andassuredofthefactthatwe’reallAquarian!

Hardlyanymoney…whoneedsbreadanyway?Well,Imeantosay,it’sjustthereadtofreedom!Everything’stoofunny;wejustridealongsohigh,watchthebadscenesfloatingby,whoneedsthem?Soonwewillallbejoinedinagreatsilvertube,wantingeveryonetocomealong,thatmeansyoutoo!Nowwemovetothesunineverydirection;

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wearecloakedinveilsofmysticprotection…Lightingthepath,rightingthepast,fightingthedarklikecenturions,writingournamesasAquarians!AsAquarians,butasAquarians!

Writingournamesaswemovetothesun,we’reAquarian!

(Manchester,1968)

Necromancer

YesIliveintheblackwoods,whereyoudarenotevenspeakmyname.Ifthereisevilinyourheartandyouwillcomeneartomeyouwillloseyoursane.Myformismystic,butmyheartispure,you’dbetterbelievewhatIsay:IamtheNecromancer.

Icastdeepspellsandpotent:IamaSeeroftheReal.Myforcesworkagainstevil,forIloveallIfeel.Iknowthesecretslongforgotten,you’dbetterbelieveinme:IamtheNecromancer.

Lookintomyeyes!Itellyou,occultspowerliesinlove.Ifightagainstdarkness,thepoweroftheBlack.

Everydaythepowerisgreater,andsoontheworldwillcometorights.Throughthemagic,throughthepower,shamanshalldieontheseventhnight.Andnowremembermagicishere;you’dbetterbelieveintheWhite.

IamtheNecromancer,andIcometocarryyourheartawaytogood.

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(London,1968)

Octopus

These lyrics, dealing with a similar case ofdisorientationandinabilitytoover-view,werewritteninthesnow-besiegedStudents’UnionofSouthamptonUniversity.TheoriginalOctopustooktheformofamuralintheflatofthe ladyconcernedand it is, inaway, validatory that therelationshipwasneitherconsummatednorclarified.

Iwanttopaintyoupoemsfulloffire,youwhoIdonotknow.

Nowmymindistestedwithlovewhichtwistsandwaversfromsidetosideandwhichsomedaysoonyoumaysee…Iwantyoutocascadethroughtenthousandrainbowswithmeanddredgemountainsfromthesea:youwhoInowbegintoknow.

Butemotionispentupinside,tooscaredofdyingagaintolive,andmeanwhileImustendureyourred-copperhairscreaminglikeawater-babyblackeyesstarefrommyceiling:youwhoInowtrulyknow…

NowIcannotseetooclearlyandalreadymytrellisstandsbare…HowcanIbreakfreeoftheseoverclingingarmswhichentwineandenfoldme?…Andreachtotheclearbluesea?Iwantyoutoknow,buthowcanItellyou?Iwantyoutoseebutmyowneyesareblind…

TheOctopusnowenfoldsme,Iknowyoutoowell…

(Southampton,1976)

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TheLeastWeCanDoIsWaveToEachOther(VdGG,1970)

Darkness(11/11)

Asongofnumbers:althoughIamnonumerologist,thecircumstances of writing this highly instinctual songdictateditsformanddirection.

Itwascomposedonthenightof11thNovember.1968,RemembranceDay,bychance.SomeyearsbeforeIwroteanovel which purported (with devastating failure) to be anIcelandic saga;on re-reading it, some timeafter finishingtheselyrics,Iwasstruckbytheopeningsentence:«Itwasthe eleventh day of the eleventh month.» November is, ofcourse,themonthofScorpio,underwhichsignIwasborn,andmylifenumberis11.Itwas,Isuppose,inevitablethatasongaboutfateshouldbewroughtamidtheseconjunctions.

To this day I do not know how Hereward the Wakecametobeinvolved.

Daydawnsdark,itnownumbersinfinity…Lifecrawlsfromthepast,watchinginwonderItraceitspatternsinme…Tomorrow’stomorrowisbirthagain/Boatsburnthebridgeinthefens/Thetimeofthepastreturnstomylifeandusesit.

Don’tblamemeforthelettersthatmayforminthesand;don’tlookinmyeyes,youmayseeallthenumbersthatstretchinmyskyandcolourmyhand…Don’tsaythatI’mwronginimaginingthatthevoiceofmylifecannotsing!Fateentersandtalksinoldwords:Theyamuseit.

Handsshinedarklyandwhite:onlyindarkdotheyappear.Blessthebabyborntoday,flyinginpitch,flyingonfear!(WickedlittleScorpio,doomedtodieathousandtimesbeforehelives!)TheyshineinmyeyesandtouchmyfacewhereIhaveseenthemplacedbefore…don’tblameme,please,forthefatethatfalls:

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Ididnotchooseit.

(London,1968)

Refugees

For six months I shared a flat withMike and Susie,who are among my oldest friends. When the time fordeparturecame,Iwaswashedwiththemelancholiawhichnormally attends moving from home’ and the physicalmemories it retains, heightened in this instance by theknowledge that, from being the closest of triads, wewerecommittingourselvestoaseparationinwhichmonthscouldeasilyslideintoyears.Inthisknowledge,thelastvestigesofhope lay only in a future Utopia and re-joining of thehands.

Inthewriting,however,thesongdevelopedalifeofitsown (as is always the best way), and the hope becomesmuchmorethanthatforreunionwithmyfriends.Weareallrefugees,andthereisnohomebuthope.

«EasyToSlipAway»is,ofcourse, thenaturalsequelto‘Refugees’.

N.wassomewhereyearsagoandcold:icelockedthepeople’sheartsandmadethemold.S.wasbirthtopleasantlands,butdry:Iwalkedthewaters’depthsandplayedmymind.E.wasdawn,comingaliveinthegoldensun:thewindscamegently,severalheadsbecameoneinthesummertime,thoughaugustpeoplesneered…wewereatpeace,andwecheered

Wewalkedalong,sometimeshandinhand,betweenthethinlinesmarkingseaandsand;smilingverypeacefully,webegantonoticethatwecouldbefree,andwemovedtogethertotheWest.

W.iswherealldaysshallsomedayend;wherethecoloursturnfromgreytogold,andyoucanbewiththefriends.Andlightflakesthegoldencloudsabove:WestisMikeandSusie,

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WestiswhereIlove.

Thereweshallspendthefinaldaysofourlives…tellthesameoldstories:well,atleastwetried.SointotheWest,smilesonourfaces,we’llgo;oh!yes,andourapologiestothosewho’llneverreallyknowtheWay…

We’rerefugees,walkingawayfromthelifewe’veknownandloved…nothingtodonorsay,nowheretostay;nowwearealone.We’rerefugees,carryingallweowninbrownbags,tiedupwithstring…nothingtothink,itdoesn’tmeanathing,butwe’llbehappyonourown.

WestisMikeandSusie;WestisMikeandSusie;WestiswhereIlove,Westisrefugees’home.

(London,1969)

WhiteHammer

Intheyear1486theMalleusfirstappeared,designedtokillallwitchcraftandendthepapalfears:prescribingtorturestokilltheBlackArts……andtheHammerstruckhard.

MalleusMaleficarumslaughteredandtorturedallthoseundersuspicion,astheInquisitionordered—burningblackheartsandinnocentsalike,killingthemad…suchwasthepowertheHammerhad.

ThoughHexenhammerwasintendedtoslayonlyevil,fearandangeragainstmagicoverspilled:theyalsokilledthoseoftheWhite.

SofortwocenturiesandmoretheytriedtoslayboththeBlackandtheWhitearts—butspiritover-ridespain.Foreveryonethetorturetook,twowerehidsecure,andsothecraftendured.

Loveandhatelivedoninthefaceoffear,Hexenhammer’sforcedied,

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andtherealpowerbecameclear:

WhiteHammernomoreisbeaten;nowitbeginstobeat,andtheGrey,onceoppressor,now,atgoodhands,facesdefeat.TheBlack,too,shallbowdowntothepowerabove…BlackhatebeatsGreyButsupremeistheWhiteHammerofLove.

(London/Derby,1969)

WhateverWouldRobertHaveSaid?

Robert is R.J. Van der Graaf ofM.I.T., although therelevance of this to the song escapes me, as do thecircumstancesofwritingit,whichisextremelyunusual.Itisasthoughitarrivedonedaywithoutanyinstigationonmypart,andnomemoryofmyhavingworkedonit.Iknowthatthissoundsbothunlikelyandnigh-mystical,butperhapsitismorethanappropriatewhenrelatedtothenatureof thesong.

IAMthesuckofairyoutakethatyou’vehadmanytimesbefore;

IAMtheblowofairyoufake,butwhichstillthrowsyououtthedoor;IAMtheairthatfillsyourlungs,butleavesyouemptierthanbelow;IAMthevoidthatyoucan’texplain,butwhichiswhereyouwanttogo;IAMtheloveyoutrytohide,butwhichallcanunderstand;IAMthehateyoustilldeny,thoughthebloodisonyourhands;IAMthepeaceyou’researchingfor,butyouknowyou’llneverfind;IAMthepainyoucan’tendure,butwhichtinglesinyourmind.

Flamesucksbetweentheballsofsteel;nothingmoves,theairitselfcongeals…Lookattheflameifyouwantto,hearthesharpcrackofthefission,smellthebriefvapourofozone,feelstaticmotion!

IAMthejoyyoureallypayfor,butwhichcomescompletelyfree;IAMYOURGODONTHEFINALDAYforthetruthisyouareme.

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(London,1970)

OutOfMyBook

This song makes reference to an unfortunate schoolexperience,theallocationatthestartofatermofamathstext book in which the answers to exercises are absent.Although working from an answer to a question is adishonestwayofapproachingascientific,asanemotional,problem it is disturbing to know that there is no ‘escapeclause’,andthattheonlywayonecanarriveatanansweris by logic. In such an illogical emotional area as thecontextofthissong,thedisturbanceitselfcanseemgreaterthanthedisturbingfactor,thequestion.

Wesatbyourselves,stilllookingforcompany;therecouldhavebeenpeace,butthateludedme—allIcouldthinkofwaswhatwasonyourmind.Youtriedtobekind,butIblockedyourfeelings.Now,sensesstillreeling,yousitinyourquietroomandcry.

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Youtriedtomakemeone,butIalwayshidewhenthere’saglimpseofsun.

Runningalonginsunlightmeadowsyoureyeswerenevermorethanhalf-closed:throughflutteringlashes,youwatchedmewatchingyou.ItriedtobetruetothewaythatyouthoughtIoughttobebut,inspiteofallmyefforts,Ifailed.Itriedtomakeyouseebutyoureyeswereblindtoallbutthebadinme.

WhatdoyouthinkImeanwhenIsaythatIneedyou?HowamIsupposedtoseemwhenwehitanotherproblemandtheanswersarealltornfrommybook?

Ourlivesareonpathswejustcan’tcontrol;wecangrowcloseraswegetold…Canyouimagineusasweadjust?Canyouimagineusgettingneareighty;welivemoresedately,stillhopingthedreamwillcometrue?We’lltrytobesecure…

ButI’mofuncertainmindandhowcanIbesure?howcanIbesure?howcanIbesure?

(London,1969)

AfterTheFlood

Continuingthestory,humanitystumbles—goneistheglory,there’safardistantrumble.Thecloudshavegatheredandexplodednow:axesshattered,thereisnoNorthorSouth!Faroff,theiceisfounderingslowly…theiceisturningtowater.Thewaterrushesoverall,

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citiescrashinthemightywave;thefinalmanisverysmall,plunginginforhisfinalbathe.

Thisistheendingofthebeginning…thisisthebeginningoftheend,middleofthemiddle,mid-point,endandstart:thefirstpeakrises,forcesthewavesapart.Faroff,theiceisnowre-forming:polesarefixedoncemore,water’sreceding,likedeath-blood.Andwhenthewaterfallsagain,allisdeadandnobodylives.

Andthenhesaid:‘Everystepappearstobetheunavoidableconsequenceoftheprecedingone,andintheendtherebeckonsmoreandmoreclearlytotalannihilation!’

Thisistheendingofthebeginning…this,thebeginningoftheend.Andwhenthewaterfallsagainallisdeadandnobodylives…

(London,1969)

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HtoHe,WhoAmtheOnlyOne(VdGG,1970)

HtoHe

The fusion of Hydrogen nuclei to form Helium nuclei is the basic exothermicreactioninthesunandstars,andhenceistheprimeenergysourcefortheuniverse.

WhoamtheOnlyOne

Killer

Soyouliveinthebottomofthesea,andyoukillallthatcomenearyou…butyouareverylonely,becausealltheotherfishfearyou…Andyoucravecompanionshipandsomeonetocallyourown;becauseforthewholeofyourlifeyou’vebeenlivingalone.

Onablackdayinblackmonthattheblackbottomofthesea,Yourmothergavebirthtoyouanddiedimmediately…‘Cosyoucan’thavetwokillerslivinginthesamepadandwhenyourmotherknewthathertimehadcomeshewasreallyratherglad.

Deathinthesea,deathinthesea,somebodypleasecomeandhelpme,comeandhelpmeFishescan’tfly,fishescan’tfly,Fishescan’tandneithercanI,neithercanI…

NowI’mreallyratherlikeyou,forI’vekilledalltheloveIeverhadbynotdoingallIoughttoandbyleavingmymindcomingbad.AndItooamakiller,foremotionrunsasdeepasfleshandItooamsolonely,andIwishthatIcouldforgetWeneedlove,Weneedlove,Weneedlove…

(Manchester,1968)

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HouseWithNoDoor

There’sahousewithnodoorandI’mlivingthereatnightsitgetssocoldandthedaysarehardtobearinside.There’sahousewithnoroof,sotheraincreepsin,fallingthroughmyheadasItrytothinkouttime.Idon’tknowyou,yousayyouknowme,thatmaybeso,there’ssomuchthatIamunsureof…Youcallmyname,butitsoundsunreal,IforgethowIfeel,mybody’srejectingthecure.

There’sahousewithnobell,butthennobodycalls;Isometimesfindithardtotellifanyarealiveatalloutside.There’sahousewithnosound;yes,it’squietthere…there’snotmuchpointinwordsifthere’sno-onetoshareintime.I’velearnedmylines,Iknowthemsowell,IamreadytotellwhoeverwillfinallycomeinOfthelineinmymindthat’scoldinthenight,itdoesn’tseemrightwhenthere’sthatlittledarkfigurerunning…

There’sahousewithnodoorandthere’snolivingthere:onedayitbecameawall…wellIdidn’treallycareatthetime.There’sahousewithnolight,allthewindowsaresealed,overtaxedandstrainedNOWNOTHINGISREVEALEDBUTTIMEIdon’tknowyou,yousayyouknowme,thatmaybeso,there’ssomuchthatIamunsureof…Youcallmyname,butitsoundsunreal,IforgethowIfeel,mybody’srejectingthecure…Won’tsomebodyhelpme..?

(London,1970)

TheEmperorInHisWar-Room

InretrospectIfeelthattheselyricshaveoneparticularfailing: in my efforts to illuminate the life of the Tyrant,horrific images bred and grew out of themselves, so thatthey became self-justifying, rather than explanatory.However, the matter was largely out of my hands, as theelements involved hang on the edge of memory (race orotherwise)andthereforehavetendenciestoself-direction.Icanonlyhopethatthesystemworksinreverse.

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I.TheEmperor

StandinginthespacethatholdsthesilentlaceofnightawayfromyouYouthinkthatyoucanholdthesearing,moultengoldbetweenyourfingers…Butitslipsthrough,tearingtendonsasitgoes,exposingthewhiteofaknuckle…flesh-and-metalforminglettersinthemould.

Cradlingyougun,afterchoosingtheonesyouthinkshoulddie—Lyingonthehill…crawlingoverthewindowsillintoyourliving-roomTheystareout,glass-eyedaimlessheads,bodiestornbyvultures..youarethemanwhosehandsarerankwiththesmellofdeath.SaviouroftheFallen,ProtectoroftheWeak,FriendoftheTallOnes,KeeperofthePeace…Ah,butitistheonlywayyouknow…

Lookingouttosea,aflattenedplaneofweedswhichbearnolivingYoucrushlifeinyourfistasyourheartiskissedbythelipsofdeathGhostsbetrayyou,ghostsbetrayyou,inthenighttheystealyoureyefromitssocket…andtheballhangsfallenonyourcheek.Complainingtonguesarestilled;athousandmouthsarefilledwithrustingmetal.Yourfaceashadeofgreen;somehowyoutrytospeakthroughallthegarbageinyourmouthButitwon’tcomeout,andyoucannotframethewordsasyourstepsonthrowsyourfameintotheflamesandyouareburned.SaviouroftheFallen,ProtectoroftheWeak,FriendoftheTallOnes,KeeperofthePeace.Ah,butitistheonlywayyouknow…

II.TheRoom

Livebyswordandyoushalldieso,Allyourpowershallcometonought,everylifeyoutakeispartofyourown,death,notpower,iswhatyou’vebought.

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Cringinginyourroomastheoutridersofdoomsteponyourthreshold;Beggingforyourlifeastheimpartialknifesinksinyourscreamingflesh…withoutmalice,merelytakingmurder’stoll,youmustpaythepriceofhate,andthatpriceisyoursoul…

Liveinpeaceordieforeverinyourwar-room.

(London/Derby,1970)

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Lost

I.DanceInTheSandAndSea

Sohereweare,orrather,hereIam,quitealone,I’mseeingthingsthatweresharedbefore,longago…mymemorystretchesandIamdazed:youknowIknowhowgoodthetimewasandhowIlaughed…Timeshavechanged,nowyou’refaraway,Ican’tcomplain:Ihadallmychancesbuttheyslippedrightthroughmyhands—likesomuchsand;IknowI’llneverdancelikeIusedto

I’lljustwaittilldaybreaksuponthelandandthesea.hopingthatIcancatchallofthememories,thenImustcrawloffuponmyway,allofmelisteninghardforthefinalwords.Buttherearenone;thesunrisecalls,I’velingeredontoocloseforcomfortandIdon’tknowquitewhyIfeellikecryingIknowwe’llneverdancelikeweusedto.

Ilookup,I’malmostblindedbythewarmthofwhat’sinsidemeandthetastethat’sinmysoul,butI’mdeadinsideasIstandalone…

I.DanceInFrost

Iworemymoodslikesomanydifferentsetsofclothesbuttherightonewasneveraround;andasyouleftIheardmybodyringandmymindbegantohowlItwasfartolatetocontemplatethemeaningofitall:YouknowthatIneedyou,butsomehowIdon’tthinkyouseemyloveatall

AtsomepointIlostyou,Idon’tknowquitehowitwas;Thewonderlandlayinacoatofwhite,chillingfrostIlookedaroundandIfoundIwastrulylost:withoutyourhandinmineIamdead…

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RealityisunrealandgamesI’vetriedjustaren’tthesame:withoutyoursmilethere’snowheretohideanddeepinsideIknowI’venevercriedasI’maboutto…

IfIcouldjustframethewordsthatwouldmakeyourfireburnallthiswaternowaroundmecouldbethelovethatshouldsurroundme.

Lookingoutthroughthetearsthatbindmemyheartbleedsthatyoumayfindme…oratleastthatIcanforgetandbenumb,butIcan’tstop,thewordsstillcome:ILOVEYOU

(London/Derby,1970)

PioneersOverc

This ismyonlyattemptatwritingaspecificallysci-fisong,althoughthebalancingismuchmoretowardsfictionthanscience.

Man’s first plunge into the unknown territory beyondthe speed of light (c): in the light of the discoveriesnecessaryfortheattempt,thedateismeaningless,althoughinrationaltermsitisludicrouslyoptimistic.ThePioneers…the first hyper-nauts… are, because of theoreticaldeficiencies,thrownintotime-warporabsoluterelativity,inwhichtheyexistas«creatures»oflimitlessimaginationbuttotal non-physicality. They are thus potentially ghouls,ghosties,poltergeistsandallmannerofindefinableForces:this is one possible explanation but, truly, in suchcircumstancesexplanationsaremeaningless,irrelevantandtotallyspeculative.

MyonlyregretisthatIfounditnecessarytoprovideacertain chronological continuity in order to remain, iffaintly,withintheboundsofcomprehension.Idon’tpretendthat there are any answers here, and any questions areentirelysubjective.

Lefttheearthin1983,fingersgropingforthegalaxies,reddenedeyesstaredupintothevoid,1,000starstobeexploitedSomebodyhelpmeI’mfalling,somebodyhelpme,I’mfallingdownIntosky,intoearth,intosky,intoearth…

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Itissodarkaround,nolife,nohope,nosoundnochanceofseeinghomeagain…Theuniverseisonfire,explodingwithoutflame.Wearethelostones;wearethepioneers;wearethelostonesWearetheonestheyaregoingtobuildastatuefortencenturiesagoorweregoingtofifteenforward…

OneLastbriefwhisperinourlovedones’earstoreassurethemandtopiercethefearstandingatcontrolsthenstillunknownwetoldtheworldwewereabouttogoSomebodyhelpmeI’mmissing,somebodyhelpmeI’mmissingnowtouchwithmymind,Ihavenoframe,touchwithmymind,Ihavenoframe…WellnowwhereisthetimeandwhothehellamI,herefloatinginanaimlessway?No-oneknowswhereweare,theycan’tfeelusprecisely…

Thereisnofearhere.Howcansuchathingexistinaplacewherelivingandknowingandbeinghaveneverbeenheardof?

Doomedtovanishintheflickeringlight,disappearingtoadarkernight,doomedtovanishinalivingdeath,livinganti-matter,anti-breathSomebodyhelpmeI’mlosing,somebodyhelpme,I’mlosingnowpeoplearound,there’sno-onetotouch,nopeoplearound,no-onetotouch.Iamnowquitealone,partofavacanttime-zone,herefloatinginthevoid,onlydimlyawareofexistence,adimlyexistingawareness,Iamthelostone,Iamtheoneyoufear,Iamthelostone,Iamtheonewhowentupintospace,orstayedwhereIwas,ordidn’texistinthefirstplace…

(London,1970)

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PawnHearts(VdGG,1971)

Lemmings(incorporatingCog)

Asongofextremepoliticalambivalence:atthetimeofwriting. I was aware of both feelings and intendeddirection,butIbecomemoreandmoreunsure;this,asthesong,todowithmeansratherthanend,ofwhichIhaveadegree of certainty; I have now arrived at a position inwhich I cannot decidewhose voice iswhose in the lyrics,andcannomoreconcludewhetherthelife-and-deathstyleof the Lemming in this context is desirable, good or badthanbesuretheseabstractionshavemeaningintheoveralllife-line.Theonlyconclusionwhichstands the testof timeisthattendingtowardsafarfuturehope,perhapshopefora self-identification to replace my current ambiguousstance.

Istoodaloneuponthehighestcliff-top,lookeddown,around,andallthatIcouldseewerethosethatIwoulddearlylovetosharewithcrashingonquiteblindlytothesea…Itriedtoaskwhatgamethiswas,butknewIwouldnotplayit:thevoice,asone,asno-one,cametome…

‘Wehavelookedupontheheroesandtheyarefoundwanting;wehavelookedhardacrosstheland,butwecanseenodawn;wehavenowdaredtosearthesky,butwearestillbleeding;wearedrawingneartothecliffs,nowwecanhearthecall.Thecloudsarepiledinmountain-shapes,thereisnoescapeexcepttogoforward.Don’taskusforananswernow,it’sfartoolatetobowtothatconvention.Whatcourseisthereleftbuttodie?

WehavelookedupontheHighKings,foundthemlessthanmortals:theirnamesaredustbeforethejust

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marchofouryoung,newlaw.Mindsstumblingstrong,wehurtleonintothedarkportal;No-onecanhaltourfinalvaultintotheunknownmaw.AndastheEldersbeattheirbrowstheyknowthatitisreallyfartoolatenowtostopus.Foriftheskyisseededdeathwhatisthepointincatchingbreath?…Expelit!Whatcauseisthereleftbuttodieinsearchofsomethingwe’renotquitesureof?’

Whatcauseisthereleftbuttodie?Whatcauseisthereleftbuttodie?Whatcauseisthereleftbuttodie?…Ireallydon’tknowwhy…

Iknowourendsmaybesoonbutwhydoyoumakethemsooner?Timemayfinallyproveonlythelivingmoveherandnolifeliesinthequicksand.

YesIknowit’sOutofcontrol,outofcontrol:Greasymachineryslidesontherails,Youngmindsandbodiesonsteelspokesimpaled…Cogstearingbones,cogstearingbones:Iron-throatedmonstersareforcingourscreams,Mindandmachinerybox-pressthedreams.

…buttherestillistime…

Cowardsaretheywhoruntoday,thefightisbeginning…nowarwithknives,fightwithourlives,lemmingscanteachnothing;deathoffersnohope,wemustgropefortheunknownanswer:uniteourblood,abatetheflood,avertthedisaster..there’sotherwaysthanscreaminginthemob:thatmakesusmerelycogsofhatred.Looktothewhyandwhereweare,looktoyourselvesandthestarsandintheendWhatchoiceisthereleftbuttolive

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inthehopeofsavingourchildren’schildren’slittleones?

Whatchoiceistherebuttolive?Whatchoiceistherebuttolive?Whatchoiceistherebuttolive?tosavethelittleones?

Whatchoiceisthereleftbuttotry?

(Worth,1971)

Man-Erg

Index, appendix and clarification; it has all thepositivesthatLemmingslacks.

Thekillerlivesinsideme:Icanfeelhimmove.Sometimeshe’slightlysleepinginthequietofhisroom,butthenhiseyeswillriseandstarethroughmine;he’llspeakmywordsandslicemymindinside.

Thekillerlives.

Theangelsliveinsideme:Icanfeelthemsmile…TheirpresencestrokesandsoothesthetempestinmymindandtheirlovecanhealthewoundsthatIhavewrought.TheywatchmeasIgotofall-well,IknowIshallbecaught,

Fortheangelslive.

HowcanIbefree?HowcanIgethelp?AmIreallyme?AmIsomeoneelse?

Butstalkinginmycloistershangtheacolytesofgloomand Death’s Head throws his cloak onto the corner of my room and I amdoomed..Butlaughinginmycourtyardplaytheprankstersofmyyouthandsolemn,waitingOldManinthegablesoftheroof:hetellsmetruth…

AndI,too,liveinsidemeandveryoftendon’tknowwhoIam:Iknow,I’mnotahero…IhopethatI’mnotdamned.

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I’mjustaman,andkillers,angels,allarethese:Dictators,saviours,refugeesinwarandpeaceaslongasManlives…

I’mjustaman,andkillers,angels,allarethese:Dictators,saviours,refugees…

(London,1971)

APlagueOfLighthouseKeepers

ThereisnotverymuchIcansayaboutthisbywayofclassification or enhancement: extrapolation wouldinevitably destroy. I will, therefore, let it speak for itsclandestine self, save only to say that it is a cinematicpresentationof«self»inseveralpossiblematrices.

I.Eyewitness

Stillwaitingformysaviour,stormstearmelimbfromlimb;myfingersfeellikeseaweed…I’msofaroutI’mtoofarin.Iamalonelyman…mysolitudeistruemyeyeshavebornestarkwitnessandnowmyknightsarenumberedtoo.I’veseenthesmilesondeadhands—thestarsshine,butthey’renotforme.

IprophesydisasterandthenIcountthecost…Ishinebut,shining,dying,IknowthatIamalmostlost.Onthetableliesblankpaper/mytowerisbuiltonstone/Ionlyhavebluntscissors/Ionlyhavethebluntesthome…I’vebeenthewitness,andthesealofdeathlingersinthemoltenwaxthatismyhead.

Whenyouseetheskeletonsofsailing-shipsparssinkinglowYou’llbegintowonderifthepointsofalltheancientmythsaresolemnlydirectedstraightatyou…

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II.Pictures/Lighthouse

(Eddies/rocks/ships/collision/remorse.)

III.Eyewitness

Notimenowforcontrition:thetimeforthat’slongpast.ThewallsarethinastissueandifItalkI’llcracktheglass.SoIonlythinkonhowitmighthavebeen,lockedinsilentmonologue,insilentscream

Anyway,I’mmuchtootiredtospeakand,asthewavescrashonthebleakstonesofthetower,Istarttofreak……andfindthatIamovercome…

IV.S.H.M.

«Unreal,unreal!»ghosthelmsmenscreamandfallinthroughthesky,notbreakingthroughmyseagullshrieks…nobreaksuntilIdie:thespectresscratchonwindow-slits—hollowedfaces,mindlessgrinsonlyintentondestroyingwhatthey’velost.

Icrawthewalltillsteepnessendsintheverticalfall;mypailhassailedintothesea:nojokinghopesatdawn.Whiteboneshineintheiron-jawmasklostmastheadspiercethefreezingdarkandparallelmyisolatedtower…noparaffinfortheflamenoharbourlefttogain

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V.ThePresenceoftheNight/KosmosTours

«Alone,alone,»theghostsallcall,pinpointmeinthelight.TheonlylifeIfeelatallisthepresenceofthenight.

WouldyoucryifIdied?WouldyoucryifIdied?Wouldyoucatchthefinalwordsofmine?Wouldyoucatchmywords?Iknowthatthere’snotimeIknowthatthere’snorhyme…falsesignsfindmeIdon’twanttohate,Ijustwanttogrow;whycan’tIletmeliveandbefree?..butIdieveryslowlyalone.Iknownomoreways,Iamsoafraid,myselfwon’tletmejustbemyselfandsoIamcompletelyalone…

Themaelstromofmymemoryisavampireanditfeedsonmenow,staggeringmadly,overthebrinkIfall.

VI.(Custard’s)LastStand

LighthousesmighthousethekeybutcanIreachthedoor?

IwanttowalkontheseasothatImaybetterfindashore…buthowcanIeverkeepmyfeetdry?IscanthehorizonImustkeepmyeyesonallpartsofme.

LookingbackontheyearsitseemsthatIhavelosttheway:Likeadoginthenight,Ihaveruntoamanger…nowIamthestrangerIstayin.

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AllofthegriefIhaveseenleavesmechasingsolitarypeace;butIholdexperienceinmyhead…I’mtooclosetothelightIdon’tthinkIseeright,forIblindme…

VII.TheClotThickens

WHEREistheGodthatguidesmyhand?HOWcanthehandsofothersreachme?WHENwillIfindwhatIgropefor?WHOisgoingtoteachme?Iamme/mearewe/wecan’tseeanywayoutofhere.Crashingsea/atrophiedhistory:ChancehaslostmyGuinevere…

Idon’twanttobeonewaveinthewaterButseawilldragmedeepOnemorehaggardDROWNEDMAN…

IcanseetheLemmingscoming,butIknowI’mjustaman;DoIjoinordoIfounder?WhichcanisthebestImay?

VIII.Land’sEnd(Sineline)/WeGoNow

Oceansdriftingsideways,Iampulledintothespell;Ifeelyouaroundme…Iknowyouwell.Starsslicehorizonswherethelinesstandmuchtoostark;IfeelIamdrowning…handsstretchinthedark.

Campsofpanoplyandmajesty,whatisFreedomofChoice?WheredoIstandinthepageantry…whoseismyvoice?Itdoesn’tfeelsoverybadnow:Ithinktheendisthestart.Begintofeelverygladnow:ALLTHINGSAREAPARTALLTHINGSAREAPARTALLTHINGSAREAPART.

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(London/Germany/Worth,1970)

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Fool’sMate(1971)

ImperialZeppelin

These lyrics of Chris Judge Smith’s, finally recordedon «Fool’s Mate’, deal with a hypothetical scheme wedreamed intended to provide us with an unhurried andblissfulexistence:buyaZeppelin,fillitwithacrew/colonyof‘suitable»people,andfloatabovetheworldformonthsata time, landingonly for fuelandsundryvittals.Havinglivedamicroscopicparallelexistence forsome time, Iamnow aware that the impracticabilities are far more thanmerely financial but, hare-brained scheme though itacknowledges itself to be, the idea, as a romantic fiction,remainsappealing.

Packyourbags,we’releavingearth,wherehateisseething;nothing’sworthbelieving…There’snotime,makeupyourmind!ImperialZeppelin…

Quick,theenginesareturning,cabinlightsareburning,nowthere’snoreturning…We’llhaveloveamileabove…ImperialZeppelin,ImperialZeppelin,ImperialZeppelin!

We,theundersigned,beingofsoundmind,herebydodeclare:‘WehenceforthpledgeourselvesuntothepoweroftheUpperAir.’Doesn’tthatsoundsimplysuper,Zeppelinvisionsofthefuture?Ofcourseweallknowverywellitwouldn’twork,butwhatthehell—everydicedeservesathrow,andwhenwegetbackhomebelowwecansaywehadago!

Overboardwearethrowingseedsoflovewearesowing,hopetoGodthey’regrowing…

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Flyinghighacrossthesky:ImperialZeppelin!

Wewilltrytodosomegood,Idon’tknowwhywereallyshould,Ionlywishthatwecould!Downbelowthey’llseeandknowallaboutImperialZeppelin!ImperialZeppelin!ImperialZeppelin!

(CJS-Manchester,1967)

Candle

Lookatthecandle,asit’slifeisbought,asthewickjustrollsofanddies;lookatthewax-dropsastheyceasefromtheirgoalandthegametheywereplayinglosesitsjoyandtheyouthwhichtheyplayedinrunsaway…Howlongwillyoubegone?

Flamessucksatairnowanditsbreathcomesshortasitwaverstohalfitssize;vacuumclosesinanditattacksthesoul.Nowtheforceomnipotentitselfisdestroyedandforlackofitselfitwanesaway…Howlongwillyoubegone?

SodoesmymindflyasIfightmythought—andIlose,forIcannotfind:sentmyeyeslongmiles,theydonotknowhome!ForthelifeIwaspartofbreathesitslastandnotonlylife,buthopehasgoneaway…Howlongwillyoubegone?Howlongwillyoubegone?

(Derby,1966)

Happy

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Howwasitthatwefirstmet?…Iforget,allIknowisyoulookedhappy.

Wewalkedaroundandtalkedawhile;InyoursmileIfoundthatIwashappy.

Iwanttotellyou;itseemsathingtodo;IwanttoshowItrulycare.

Nowateverytimewemeetwewalkthestreets,I’mwithyouandIfeelhappy.

JustthoughtI’dtellyou.Itseemsathingtodo,IwanttoproveItrulycare.

Buthowlongwillallthislast?Timegoesfast,Itdoesn’tmatter,withyou,I’mhappy.Timegoesfast,Itdoesn’tmatter,withyouI’mhappy.

(London,1969)

Solitude

Ihaveacertainconfessiontomakeaboutthis:thefirstandlastverseswerelooselytakenfromapoembyHermanAllmers,originallyset tomusicbyno less thanBrahms! Iadded the somewhatmore20thcenturymiddleversesandslightlychangedtheoriginals,sincethefeelingofthesongwas so close to my heart that I could not resist theplagiaristicliberty.

SilentlyIrestinthetallgreengrassandlooksteadilyupwards.Birdssingceaselesslyaroundme,andtheblueoftheskysurroundsmestrangely.

Outhere,lifeisatitsessence,

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andwatchestheworldwithinnocenteyes;farfromgrime,farfromrushingpeopleitseemsthatIhavefoundatinypeace.

Onthebluebackdropoftheunknownwaterdropletstracetheirpaths;onthesky,mortalshangonmetal—butwhoistoknowhowlongeitherwilllast?

Thelovelywhitecloudsglideacrosstheskyandintomydreams…IfeelasthoughIhaddiedsometimeago:nowI’llwanderwiththecloudsthrougheternalspace.

(Derby,1967)

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Vision

Ihaveavisionofyou,lockedinsidemyhead;itcreepsuponmymind,andwarmsmeinmybed…Avisionshimering,shiftingmovinginfalsefire—light;avisionofavision,protectingmefromfearatnight,asthesea-sownsrollon,andmylovestaysstrong.

Idon’tknowwhereyouend,andwhereitisthatIbegin.Yousimplyopenmymind,andthememoriesfloodonin.Irememberwakingup,withyouarmsaroundme;

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Irememberlosingmyselfandfindingthatyou’dfoundme,astheseasonsrollon,andmylovestaysstrong.

Bemychild,bemylover,swallowmeupinyourfire-glow.Takemytongue,takemytorment,takemyhandanddon’tletgo.Letmeliveinyourlife,foryoumakeitallseemtomatter;Letmedieinyourarms,sothevisionmaynevershatter…Theseasonsrollon;mylovestaysstrong.

(London,1967)

Re-Awakening

Ifyoucatchmerunningalongbythesea,withbarefeetinthesand,thenyou’llknowIamdreamingmylifeoutinawayyouwon’tunderstand.I’mslippingrightoutofyourmind,thisIknow,andIacceptthefactlazily,forImustgointothenextfield,wheregrassisgreenandI’llfindpeace.Letmesleep!Letmedream!Letmebe!Reawakeningisn’teasywhenyou’retired.Don’tpushme:Iwastaughtself-expressionwhenIwasachild,andsoIknowthebestwaytogoisslow.

Sometimes,whenskiesarecloud-grey,andtrouble’shangingheavyonyourmind,Iadviseyou:curlup,slidawayanddreamyourlifeout,asIam.Reawakeningisn’teasywhenyou’retired.Don’tpushme:Iwastaughtself-expressionwhenIwasachild,andsoIseethebestwaytobe’sasleep.Reawakeningisn’teasywhenyou’retired.

(London,1967)

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Sunshine

Oh,suddenlythingsbegintocomeclearinmymindasIlookintothelandlaidbarebyyoureyes;E-S/Mattractionsareworkingbehindmythought,Ican’thelpmyfeelings,thewaythatmyemotionsareover-wrought.

Refrain:Goodmorning,sunshine!You’reallaroundmyhead,Goodmorning,sunshine!I’mreadytobeled.Goodmorning,sunshine!Youknowhowsaditmakesmetoseeyouunhappysosmile,spreadsunshineallaround…

Howsweetitwouldbetobechainedbyyourside;howsweetifyouwouldstripmyworriedmind.Yourblonde/brownhairhangsdownonyou,howIwishthatithungonme,there’ssomethinginyourallure,thatmakesmeknowI’llneveragainbefree.

Refrain

I’dliketorunonthecloudsofmyliberty,butforyouI’dgethookedandfloatsixinchesmud-free.Thesightofyoursmilejustmakesmewanttojumpandclap;thefactthatyoumaybeowedtosomeoneelsecan’tentirelytightyourtrap.

Refrain

(Derby,1967)

Child

Idon’tknowquitewhat’shappeningandmyeyesdon’tseetooclear;allIknowisIneedyouhere,ifonlytoshieldmefromthemoodoftheworldandholdmeandsayitdoesn’tmatter…

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butI’mlikeachildwhosedreamsareshattered,

Crowdingroundme:imagesofbrokenthought,linesofmylifenowovergrown.AllIcanfeelisI’msoalone,withoutevenyourbrighteyestoreachintomymindandsaythatinmylifeI’vedoneright,andI’mlikeamoonchildinthesunlight.

Socastyourthoughtsuponme,whereveryouare,thatImayfeelyouclosebesidemeandholdyourhand,foryoutoguidemethroughallthesecatacombswhichfreezemewiththeirtouch;unknowing,knowingsomuch,mymindcriesoutandI’mlikeachildwhenthelight’sout

Withachild’sfearofthedark…

(London,1967/Derby,1971)

SummerSong(InTheAutumn)

Summersongintheautumn,foryoudidn’tcatchthecolourofthefallingleaves.Somanywordshavebeenspokenwhichyoudidn’tunderstandandsocouldn’tbelieve.Andthesongthatyou’rehummingisyesterday’stune—Someonewhoyouloveisleavingyou.

Youwalkinginsunshinebytheseawithgullcryingoverhead;butnowtheskiesarecloudy,andtheloveyouhadisdead.Andthewaterrecedesfromthefarthestdunes—Someonewhoyoulovedisleavingyou.

Yourememberthehappinessyouhadasyoulaughedalonginthesunbutnowyoureyesarecomingdull,there’sanumbnessonyourtongue…

Youlookoutatthewaterwhichiscallingyouoverthewind,thenyouthrowasideyourhandbagandslowlywalkrightin.

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Andtomorrowyou’llbeinyesterday’snews:someonewhoyoulovedhasleftyou.

(Derby,1967)

Viking

AnothersongderivingfromIcelandicfolklore,inthisinstance, the Vinland sagas. The list of crew membersreturning from their explorations is made up of variouscharactersfromthetales,althoughthereisnocommonlife-spanandsome, indeed,wereswornenemiesand thereforeunlikelytotravelbacktoIcelandonthesamelongshipeveninspirit.Onecanonlytakeauthenticitysofar…

Lookingoutforwardovertheprowofourlongship,pullingouroarsandlisteningtothefoam;helmetsandsheepskinssalt-dampinthesea-mist:We’regoinghome.

AslakofLangadale,EinarThorgeirsson,OlaftheWhiteandSigurdthePowerful…

Lookingforconstellationsabovethehorizon,Westwindcuttingsharperthanourblades;smilingforeverintoanendlesssunrise,we’reflyingonthewaves.

ThorfinKarlsefny,AudtheDeep-Minded,SnorriThorbrandsson,ThorsteintheBlack…

OutofdarkVinland,withgreywavesracingbeforeus—Wewantnorest.Backtothehomeland,Iceland,sleepinginwinter—backfromtheWest.Fiveyearsweroam;nowwe’regoinghome.

(CJS/PH-Manchester,1967)

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TheBirds

…oneof theearliest songs Iwrotewhichwasworthyofthename…RobertFrippmakesaspirallingappearanceonelectricguitar.

Springcamefartooearlythisyear:MayflowersbloominginFebruary.ShouldIbesadforthemonths,orgladforthesky?

Thebirdsdon’tknowwhichwaytosingand,myfriends,neitherdoI.

Twodaysago,agirlItrulythoughtIlovedsuddenlydidn’tseemtomatteratall.ShouldIsingsadfarewelltothingsI’mreallygladI’veleftbehind?Thebirdsdon’tknowwhichwaytosingand,myfriends,neitherdoI.

Inanotherday,heavysnowwilllieupontheground,

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andbudsprematurelybloomshallfail;Andeverycreaturelivingnow,thenwillsurelydie…Thebirdsdon’tknowwhichwaytosingand,myfriends,neitherdoI.Thebirdsdon’tknowifit’stimeyettofly,andtheydon’tknowwhichwaytogoand,myfriend,neitherdoI.NeitherdoI.NeitherdoI.NeitherdoI.

(Derby,1967)

IOnceWroteSomePoems

The poems concerned, written on the occasionsoutlinedbythefirstandsecondverses,areofsub-marginalinterest.

Ioncewrotesomepoemsofstillnessandsilence,standingbyriversofreflectedlight:mythoughtswereonbeinglovedandyetunloved,too—Isurrenderedtothewarmthofthenight.AndnowIfeellikedying,andifthewaterwerestillhere,itwouldholdmeclose.

Ioncewroteapoemwhilewalkingongravestones,ascobbles,rainandtearlasheddownmyface…Ithenfeltmywholeworldwasfadingasmemoriesjostledandfellintoplace.AndnowIfeellikedying,andthepainofoldfiresstillburns.

IneverwrotepoemswhenIbitmyknucklesandDeathstartedslippingintomymouth…butthatwasreallyalongtimeago,andI’mnotwritingpoemsnow.AndthoughIdon’tfeelquitelikedying,thereissomethingdeepinsidemesoftlycrying.

AndthoughIdon’tfeelquitelikedying

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thereissomethingdeepinsidemesoftly…

(London,1967)

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ChameleonintheShadowoftheNight(1973)

GermanOveralls

Manheim;rainySaturdaywithnomoneynorfriend,onlyTequilacanendtheboredom.TrytoreachLondonforapocketofhope;we’rechildren,wegropeinthedark.HughspendshislastMarkoncoffeeandcheese…Ifeeljustlikearefugee…Rathaus-keepersandtrafficpolice,middle-agedmaidswithrottingteethindustrialmagazinesandoldSundayTimes;readingmaterial/bleedinglines.Whatarewedoinghere?

Memorialmanace,eagerforrevenge,hasbeguntobendourminds.Shower-curtainimperativeinthepresenceofacid;now,feelingplacidisdeath.ItrytoholdmybreathastheP.A.comesdown…hereweallareinKtown!TheBigWheelneverfailstogrindaround;itdragsmeup/dragsmedownSevensentenseswonder‘Canthisbereal,oramIbecomeaperformingseal?’Whyarewedyinghere?

Iwalkthestreetsalone,trytofindasignoflove,I’vecrushedtheplaster-boneinthefreakyclubs,IhavebitthefruitbutallIliveforistoplayandI’mtiredofthenightsandthedaysofairports,taxisandmotorwayshowers,groopingforakeyintheafterhours.Davidtakestotravellinginthevan,Heknowsthatweallcanunderstand;we’reatthemercyoftheKosmosTour,makingapilgrimagetotheGermanLourdes…butwe’restillcrippledhere.

Cathedralsspiralskywards,IthinkI’mgettingvertigo,IthinkIdon’tknowwhatisreal.

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Onamoresuddenspotlight,onemoremadnessisover…Imustnotshowasignoffear.Wordsechoroundmyears,IthinkI’mgoingtolaugh…thinkI’lljustgoandtakeabath,GuessI’llwashmyclothes,don’tyouknowI’llgrowtogoandmakemyname,maybeaservantintheFamegame;stakemysaneandrestmylifeontheline…Nowlaymeasunderandrendmymind;atthefallofthecurtainletthisbemyghost…

(Worth,1971)

SlenderThreads

IsawyourpictureintheEveningStandard:youwerewearingyourbattledress.IreallymustconfessthatIshedasilentsmileforyou—ithadreallyblownmymind,Iwonder,areyoustillsokind?Areyoustillsopure?Thereareotherrhymesaroundheresomewhere,butI’mnotsurehowtheyfit…

Jenny,pennyforyourthoughts,Iwonderhowyou’rethinkingnow;Ihesitatetovisualise:ourworldsaremuchtoodifferent,that’sasignofthetimes.TimewaswhenIreadyourcardsandwrotethenumbersinthedust;Ican’trememberwhattheywere,butanyhow,Imissedthecuspso,solong,andso,goodbyeDoyouthinkI’llrecogniseyoubyyourhairorbyyoumindnow?

Westartouttogetherbutthepathsalldivide:whentherearenomorecrossroadsIopenmyeyesandfindI’mwalkingonalonethroughthesnowycold…IwonderifI’llmakeitthroughthenight?

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I’manauthorandanactortoo;you’reamodelinthezoo…I’mjustthinkingonwhichsideofthebarsI’mlookingthrough.IfIprophesiedanavalancewouldyouwaitandcallmybluff?IfIgaveyoujustalittlesongwouldthatbeenoughtosaveyourlifeoristheknifealreadyturninginmyhand?

(Worth,1972)

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RockandRole

Watchforthesilentmoments,onlywaitingtobesaved.WaitfortheLiemaker;hecomesagainandsinkshisbarbsthroughhonesty;rollhimoverwithallpossiblespeed!Don’tlethimtouchyouwiththecandleofhisneedorlethimbe,hystericallyravagingyourgrave.Youareemotionpicture,re-runatsingleframe.

Youaretheinstantplayback,nochancetochange;smileandsmile,livingdiary!

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Rollyouoverbeforeit’stoolate:beforeyou’reexposedtothemonochromephase…whichcanrelateonlyfearandhatethroughthehaze.Iamtheautomatedarrow,homingontheheatofpain;IamthePeacebringer…Itissostrange,Ifeedongriefandgrievethroughjoy.Sorollmeoverandturnaside;don’tletmelookintothemirrorofyoureyesforfearthatImaysteelthelifeyougradlygave.

(Worth,1971)

InTheEnd

Ipromiseyou,Iwon’tleaveaclue:notell-taleremark,noprintfrommyshoe.Stillasteadytrailtothewater’sedge—Iwillkeepmypledgetotheend;Iintendtogofree

Nomorerushingaround,nomoretravellingchess;IguessI’dbettersitdown,youknowIdoneedtherest…Yes,it’stimetoresignwithequanimityandplacidityfromthegame.Ican’texplain;Ican’trelate…HaveIdoneitalltoolate?

Nowisthetimeforthecommissiontoreport;tilllately,Ithought:I’dbeenplanted.Tryinghardtomakeitallcomereal,permissiontofeelisungranted.But,nowit’shappening,I’dliketokeepitprivateifIcan;lastwords,lastlook,makeafinalstand.Nowmynumber’scomeuponthePools,guessI’llboardTitanicforacruise…

Nowisthetimetomakemystatusclear,toolate,Ifear,andlonely,asfriendsandenemiestraversethestage,allinaragedisownme.

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Andallthepip-propsshatterintodustaboutmyears;memoryandconscience,hopeandfear.AsIcrawloutfurtheronthelimbsomethingtellsmeIamcrawlingintounknownpropheciesandlives—therainbow’sendishemmedaroundwithknives…

AsIstandontheboardsandthestagelightsgrowdim,shallIgooutofdoors,orshallImaybegoin?HaveIreachedthepointwhenIshouldtakemycueandfollowyouandyoursigns?Ican’tremembermylineatthepromptercatcallsandthecardsallfallinthestrike

Allthepagesarethin,allthecornersarecurled.Doesthestarshinefallinthroughmywindowontheworld?oramIlivingour(theseedsofdoubt)achronicleofrevenge?Thewillowbendsasdomyhands—doyourunderstand?Andwillyoustillbemyfriendintheend?

………WhenmymouthfallsslackandIcan’tsummonupanothertune,shallIthenlookbackandsayIdiditalltoosoon?

(Worth,1972)

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What’sItWorth?

What’sitworthtobesafe?What’sthewaytobesane?Icouldthrowmyselfatthegardenonmyhands,prunethelawnandmowtheroses,butIneverunderstandhowtogotobefree;intheendIonlywanttobeme.

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Winterdaysherearemine;still,nobites,what’smyline?Icouldhurlmyselftothebonfirewithallnerve,clearthepathandweedthedeadleaves,butIreallyjustdon’thavethenervetobepartifthatsceneisthisjustsomekindofstrangedream?

ThinkI’llwalktothesteeple,wherethepeoplearesoinquisitive.Icouldmakeittothecornerstoreandbuyahoardofderivativesnow.

Whichwaynow…climborcoast?Willmyeggseverpoach?Icouldthrowmyselfinthefryingpanforthesakeofmyname;hittheroadorsmilehermetically,butit’sreallyneverquitethesame;everytimeasubtletwist,IthinkI’llgrabmyplotandsimplyexist

Orwouldthatbeasubtleslashatmywrists?

(Worth,1971)

EasyToSlipAway

My,friends,Ineverreallythoughtyou’dgo,but,then,weknowthat’sthewayithappenshere.Nowtimeislikecat’scradleinmyhands:wegatherupthestrandsmuchtoslowlyTherefugeesaregone…theytaketheirseparatepaths,obliteratethepast:figuresinanashshroud.Susie,Iguessyou’reonyourwaytobeastar,butIdon’tknowwhereyouare:theonlytimeIseemtoseeyouisonT.V.It’ssoeasyjusttoslipaway…

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Mike!It’sayearortwosinceI’veseenyou…ImighthavedroppedyoualineifI’dhadtimeorthewill.It’smyfaulttoo;Iplayahermit’sroleofcarsandstages,wages,supersoulhardlyeverseemtogetoutsidethesedays.So,dearfriends,aswegrowonwefeeltogrowaway,canonlyliveinthehopethatsomedayitwillallreturn.It’ssoeasyjusttoslipaway…

(Worth,1971)

DroppingTheTorch

Thisbeganlifeaspoemandonlylaterbecameasong.Dark, yes; but without acknowledgement of what mighthappenitWILLhappen.Nonetheless,onecouldsaythattheyoungmanhereisatadtooseriousforhisowngood!

Weplaygamesandeverymoveisnoteddownasasubsequentcauseandeffectivelychainsourfreedomandwilltolive:wesettleintosimplesurvival,hangingonourpleasuresgrimly…wemustneverletthemgo…

Ourprisonwallsareslowlybuilt,stonebystoneanddaybydaynoprovisionforescape,entombedaliveinsafetyanddecay.

Timesetsaroundusinkillingframes,blackborderroundournames.Ourfingerslosetheirgripandthetorchslips.

Theenemyforeveryoneiseveryone,inside—Ifeelthehandofsecuritycreeponmewithice-coldfingers

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andcrushmyfloweroffreedom;I’velostthecourseofmyadventure,allthingsI’mmeanttodoarelost.

Thereisonlyoneflameeachtokeepaliveinthewind.butfinallywesnuffthemoutallbyourselves.

Wesettrapsand,intheend,fallintoourownsnaresandhavenowheretogo.

Timeevermovesmoreslowly:lifegetsmorelonelyandlessreal.

(Worth,1971)

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InTheBlackRoom

Iwasthinkingaboutthinkingbutitreallydidn’tgetmeveryfar,soIthoughtI’dthrowaTarotbutIonlygotthePriestessandtheStar.There’sashadowcastbetweenthefutureandthepast:theroomandIagreetobuysometime…Thecardsdon’ttelltruthnorlies,onlyoptionsandcusplinesthefurnitureintheblackroom.

I’vebeenthinkingaboutacid,but,itseemthere’snotareasontobelieve.Idon’tmakeavitalbreakthroughanditwalksmelikeadoguponalead.It’sallunrealand,thewayIfeel,

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I’dliketotryandmakeitonmyown…Goingtothefeelingisfind:Ireallyhavemeagoodpleasurecruise.But,deepinmymind,I’mnobetterorworse,justopentothewalls.Paintpeelsintheblackofmyroom

I’monlytalkingaboutmyself,orderingmytreasureshell,documentingthesepresentfeelingsasthefuturesetsmereeling…WhatI’llbeiswhatIam,I’msimplytryingnottoshamorfake.Usevisionassenseandnotascrutch!Itdoesn’tmatterallthatmuch;whateverhappenswe’llallsurvive.I’monlytryingnottopawnmylife.

WhenI’m(maybe)oldandstrait-laced,shallIthendenyallthatIfeel?Inwordsofbittercompromise,re-smeltthewraththat’sinmyeyeslikesteel?Beahermitthen?Orbeamiser?Beamanwhohasn’tmanagedyettowritehisrules?TheFool?Thefutureholdsmyhandintheroom…Well,thenmyghostsshallsteerdownthroughtheyearsandlayahanduponmysoullikeice.

(Worth,1972)

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TheTower

So:ontothefamiliartopsteps!incloud-scudmoonlightglowtheTowerreels.I,theblindman,feelingforapathIknow…don’tyouknowthatI’monlyfeelingforhowtofeel?

Ratsrun.Snakescoil.Fathers,stareoutatthewhisperingnight;rubmudontheirarms.

Spiders,Mudboils,Children

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whimperinthehumanvortex;facesglowofworms.

Thunder

Silence.Omens…

ForpainshallcomeandchangeshallrundownthroughmyheartandshakemykneesandNOWitiscoming,allroundisthehummingoftheWorld.

Toolate!Withmybalancegone,deadeyeddoll,I’mfalling,fallingbacktowhereIbegan…

InTheBlackRoom(II)

I’mfeelinglikeakidagain,I’mfeelinglikeIjustwalkedinthedoor,and,withmyheadonfire,Iwrotethissong—Idon’tknowwhoit’sfor.Handsheldfastincamera,I’llswearIheardtheStammererexclaim:«I’matraveller,unraverller.Ionlylivethroughpain,andshame,andchange!»

Inmyroom,thesecrettomb,Icanseefutureforms,space/timestorms:they’reallme,andI’veonlygottochoose!

InmyheadIamdeadifIfailInthetrap,thesubtlelap,

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safety’spall…butI’mlivingwhileIchoose…

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TheSilentCornerandtheEmptyStage(1974)

…butallof this isonlyofcrypticsemi-informationalvalue,givenat theturningoftheyearswithappropriatearbitrariness;ithasallbeendivertingtorecallandtowrite,andso also (perhaps) to read. The songs, however, must speak— or remain silent— forthemselves,soherefollowtheirwordsandhere«I»disappeartomakewayforthem.

Modern

Jericho’sstrange,throbbingwithlifeatitsheart:peoplearedrawntogether,simultaneouslytornapart…Foundationsareshatteredinthecityinsidethebarricadeddoors—hidingbehindtheirwalls,lonelyasnightfalls,maybethepeoplearewaitingfortrumpets…

Babylon’sstrange,seventhwonderoftheearth:gardensablazeincolour,slowlyrottinginthedirtand,withyourheadonfire,youcan’treallysee.Thehanginggardenssing,butwithahollowring:thelifeisfalse,itskillingme…

Don’tlookback,oryou’llturntostone;lookaroundbeforeyourlifeisovergrownwithconcreteslabs!Onyourbackthesearchingeyesthatstabbetweenchintzcurtains,glinting,butneverowningtoaname—liketheinmatesofasylumsallthecitizensarecontagiouslyinsane…

Atlantisisstrange,theexplosionofanage:no-onereallyknowswhattodo,andthecityisacage.Ittrapsinashenhoursandconcretetowers,imprisonsinthesocialorder:thecity’slostitsway,madnesstakesholdtoday…Ican’tliveunderwater.

(London,1969/Worth,1973)

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Wilhelmina

It’s probably only possible to write such anuncomplicatedsongaboutortoachildbeforeonebecomesa parent oneself. Shirley Bassey nearly covered this onceuponatime!Nowthatwouldhavebeeninteresting…

Willie,whatcanIsaytoyoutoholdtrueinyourchanginglife?You’vecomeintoacruelworld:littlegirlscanlosetheirwayinthegrowingnight—Ihopeyou’llbealright.

Willie,trytostayachildsometime,foraslongasyoufeelyoucanlearn.Babiesallturntopeople,andpeoplecanreallybestrange:theychangeand,changing,bringpain.

Trytotreatyourparentswellbecausetheycare,andwhatmorecanyoudo?Whenyoufindyourlovers,begoodtothemasyouhopethey’llbetoyou—behonest,betrue.

Willie,youarethefuture;allourlives,intheend,areinyourhands.Life’shardnow—youknow,itgetsharder,andhopeisbutasinglestrand;wepassitonandhopeyou’llunderstand…

Weknowthatwedoitwrong,we’renotsostrongandnotsosureatall;gropinginourblindness,wemayseembignowbut,really,we’resosmallandaloneandsearchingforahomeinthenight.

Meanwhileyou’restillababy;you’llbealadysoonenoughandthenyouwillfeeltheburn.Soholdmywords:peopleallturntochildren,spitefulchildren,andthey’rereallysocruel…cruelfools!Justfollowyourownrules—don’tthinkthatI’msilly,Willie,ifIsayIhopethatthereishopeforyou.

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(Worth,1972)

TheLie(Bernini’sSt.Theresa)

(which is to say that the statue is the inspiration,butnottheLie)

Genuflection/erectioninchurch.Sacristycloth/moth-eatenshroud.Secretsilence/sacredsecretsaccumulatedust,aggravatetheeye.

Incautiouslaughterafterconfession.Benediction—fictionalfearHiddenfaces…Graceisaname,likeChastity,likeLucifer,likemine.

Youtookmethroughthewindow-stain,drownedinimage,inscence,choir-refrainandslowecstasy—I’dembraceyouifIonlyknewyourname…

Thesilentcornerhauntsmyshadowprayers:ice-coldstatue—rapturedivine,unconsciouseyes,theopenmouth,thewoundoflove,theLie.

Youtookme,gavemereasonsforsaintsandmissals,vigils,allthemoreholymartyrs—I’dembraceyouandwalkthroughtheone-waydoor…I’dembraceyou,butitwouldbejustanotherlie

(Worth,1971)

ForsakenGardens

Whereareallthejoysofyesterday?

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Where,now,isthehappinessandlaughterthatweshared?Gone,likeourchildhooddreams,aspirationsandbeliefs—Timeisathief,andheravagesourgardens,strippingsaplings,fellingtrees,tramplingonourflowers,suckingsapanddryingseeds.Inthemidnightcandle-lightofexperienceallcolourfades,greenfingersgrey…

Time,alone,shallmurderalltheflowers,still,there’stimetoshareourplotsandallthatwecall‘ours’.Howmuchworse,then,ifwealldenyeachothers’needsandkeepourgarden’sprivately?

Itsgettingcolder,windandrainleavegashes;lookingback,IonlyseethefriendsI’velost.Firessmoulder,rakingthroughtheashesmyhandsaredirty,mymindisnumb,Icountthecostof‘I’:«Ineedtogeton,I’vegottotendmygarden;gottoshutyouout,notimetocraveyourpardonnow».

NowIseethegardenthatI’vegrownisjustthesameasthoseoutside;thefences,erectedtoprotect,simplydivide…There’sruinationeverywhere,theweatherhasplayedhavocwiththegrass—doesanyonebelievehisgarden’sreallygoingtolast?Inthetimeallottedus,cananymankeepmiserlyhisown?Isthereanypleasureinasolitarygrowth?

Comeandseemygardenifyouwill—I’dlikesomeonetoseeitallbeforeeachrootiskilled.Surelynowitstimetoopenupeachlifetoall—teardownthewalls,ifitsnottoolate!

Thereissomuchsorrowintheworld;thereissomuchemptinessandheartbreakandpain;Somewhereontheroadwehavealltakenawrongturn—howcanwebuildtherightpathagain?

Throughthegrief,throughthepain,ourflowersneedeachothers’rain…

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RedShift

Once,allthestarsintheskywerebright,nowthey’reredandfadingandallthecolourswewore,theshadesthatweborehavemoved.Andthegoldturnstoredwithnotimeforchanges:RedShift,allmovingawayfromwe.

Once,constellationswereholy,nowdarknesspervadesalltheolderonesandinthebruntofimplosion,allyesterday’sgoldennowreddenedsuns…andhopeisawordwithnospaceforblamein—RedShift,displacednowintimeandrelativity;RedShift,allmovingawayfromwe.

SohereIam,thoughImightwellbewithme:I’mfallingdowndeeptotherimofthewheel.Isitsham?Doestheworldhaveameaning?Themorethatweknow,thegreaterconfusiongrows:starsarelikeatoms,andatomsarepatternsandprobablyintheend:«Maybeitsallbeenadream…»

Timelockedinnegativematter,alltheoriesshatterbeneaththeweight.Happyisthemanwhobelievesthattheworldisadreamandallreason,fate.Timemovesonwithnotime;theeyemovesonwithnorhyme,andI’masonginthedepthofthegalaxies—RedShiftistakingawaymysanity;RedShift,allmovingawayfromwe…

(Manchester,1968/Sussex,1973)

Rubicon

Ilaydownbesideyou:Iamaunicorn,youavirginalmaid,andIcomeinlaughingplay—but,maybe,tobesaved.

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Peerthroughthebackcloth:Iamacharacterintheplay,thewordsIslurarepre-ordained—weknowthemanyway.

Don’tchangeyourmind,don’tbeaficklefriend;don’tchangeyourmind,don’tpretendtosomethingfalse.

Openthetoy-box:youarePandora,IamtheWorld.Ifyoucrossthestream,younevercanreturn;Ifyoustay,you’llsurelyburn.

Don’tchangeyourmind,don’tcomeallorchideyes;don’tchangeyourmind,don’tdisguisethefearyoufeel:it’sreal,andyoumustguardyourcastlewell,forIamthelonewolf,andtheboaratbay—grantmeyourPax,youknowweonlylivetoday,andon,andon,andinto:«soLong»—ittakessolongtodrown;ittakessoverylongtochokeonthetasteyou’dspurned.Ifyoucrossthestreamyounevercanreturn;Ifyoustayyou’llsurelyburn.

(Worth,1971)

ALouseIsNotAHome

Sometimesit’sveryscaryhere;sometimesit’sverysad;sometimesIthinkI’lldisappear;betimesIthinkIhave.There’salinesnakingdownmymirror:splinteredglassdistortsmyface,andthoughthelightisstrongandstrangeitcan’tilluminatethemustycornersofthisplace.Thereisalofty,lonely,Lohengreniccastleintheclouds—Idrawmymurkymeaningsthere,butsevenyears’darkluckisjustaroundthecornerandintheshadowslurksthespectreofDespair.Acrackedmirrormidthedrapesofthelanding:splitimage,laboredunderstanding—I’monlytryingtofindaplacetohidemyhome…

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I’velivedinhousescomposedofglasswhereeverymovementischarted,butnowthemonitorscreensaredarkandIcan’ttellifsilenteyesarethere.Mywordsarespidersuponthepage,theyspinoutfaith,hopeandreason—butaretheymeetandjust,oronlydustgatheringaboutmychair?SometimesIgetthefeelingthatthere’ssomeoneelsethere:Thefacelesswatchermakesmeuneasy,Icanfeelhimthroughthefloorboards,andHispresenceiscreepy—HeinformsmethatIshallbeexpelled…Whatisthatbutoutofandinto:Idon’tknowthenatureofthedoorthatI’dgothrough,Idon’tknowthenatureofthenaturethatIaminside…

I’velivedinhousesofbrickandleadwhereallemotionissacred,andifyouwanttodevourthefruityoumustfirstsniffatthefragranceandlayyourbodybeforetheshrinewithpoemsandposiesandpapers—or,ifyoucatchtheruse,you’llhavetochoosetostay,amonk,orleave,avagrant.Whatisthisplaceyoucallhome?Isitasermonoraconfession?Isitthechalicethatyouuseforprotection?Isitreallyonlysomewhereyoucanstay?Isitarule-bookoralecture?IsitabeatingatthehandsofyourProtector?Doestheidolhavefeetofclay?Homeiswhatyoumakeit,somyfriendsallsay,butIrarelyseetheirhomesinthesedarkdays.Someofthemaresnailsandcarryhousesontheirbacks;othersliveinmonumentswhich,oneday,willberacks—Ikeepmyhomeinplacewithsellotapeandtin-tacks,butIstillfeelthere’ssomeotherForcehere:

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Hewhocracksthemirrorsandmovesthewallskeepsstaringthroughtheeye-slitsoftheportraitsinmyhall;Heravagesmylibraryandtapsthetelephone—I’veneveractuallyseenHim,butIknowHe’sinmyhomeandifhegoesaway,Ican’tstayhereeither.Ibelieve—er—Ithink—well,Idon’tknow…

Ionlyliveinoneroomatatime,butallofthewallsareears,allthewindows,eyes:Everythingelseisforeign,«Home»ismywordlesschant:mmmmmaah!Giveitachance!

Iamsurroundedbyfleshandbone,Iamatempleofliving,Iamahermit,Iamadrone,andIamboningoutaplacetobe.Withsecretgarlandsaboutmyheadunearthlysilenceisbroken:theroomisgrowingdark,andinthestarklightIcanseeafaceIknow—couldthisbetheguywhonevershowsthecrackedmirrorwhathe’sfeeling,merelymumblesprayerstothegroundwherehe’skneeling:«Homeishomeishomeishomeishomeishomeisme!»Allyoupeoplelookingforyourhouses,don’tthrowyourweightaround,youmightbreakyourglassesandifyoudo,youknowyoujustcan’tseeandthenhowareyoutofindthedawningoftheday?—DayisjustawordIusetokeepthedarkatbay,andpeopleareimaginary,nothingelseexistsexcepttheroomI’msittingin,and,ofcourse,theall-pervadingmist—sometimesIwonderifeventhat’sreal…MaybeIshouldde-lousethisplace;MaybeIshouldde-placethislouse;MaybeI’llmaybemylifeaway

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intheconfinesofthissilenthouse.Sometimesit’sveryscaryhere;sometimesit’sverysad;sometimesIthinkI’lldisappear;sometimesIthink…

(Worth/Ross-on-Wye,1972)

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InCamera(1974)

FerretAndFeatherbird

Timehascomebetweenus:inthepassingmonthsI’vefeltyouslipawayasyourwordsandminecamelikenurseryrhymestilltherewasnothinglefttosay.

Distancecamebetweenuslongago,asourmemoriesfadedaway…overthemilesIceasedtosmilebecausenothingfeltthesame.

That’showitseemedaweekago,faroffintimeandspace.

Timeanddistancearebetweenusnow,theyformabondtomakethingssure.Nothingevershatters,youknowwhathappens:timeanddistancemakealovesecure.

(London,1969)

NoMore(TheSubmariner)

Inmyyouth,Iplayedattrains:nowallsteamisgone.Inmydreams,briefshelterfromtherain,Itrytocatchthefireglow…WithDinkyToys,IthoughtthatIwasStirling,withcricketbat,IsawmyselfasPeterMay;now,withalltheseimagesreturning,IwonderwhoIamtoday?

Asachild,Irefoughtthewarwithplasticplanesandimagination:IsankTirpitz,blewuptheMohnedam,alltheseandmore,IwasthesaviouroftheNation!Oh!Tobethecaptainofashipofwar!ThepilotofaTempestoraYork!

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ToholdmytrenchagainstthePanzerKorpsinsteadofsimplybeingonewhotalksandreminiscesofhisfantasies,asthoughlifewasnothingbuttolose…theseonlyantecedetheknowledgethat,eventually,hemustchoose.

It’sahallmarkofadulthoodthatouroptionsdiminishasourfacultiesforchoiceincrease,tillwechooseeverythingandnothing,toolate,atthefinish.

Inmyyouth,Iheldbelief:myfaithandthoughtwerestrong.ButnowI’mstrippedofeveryleaf,anditrobsmeofthesightofrightandwrong.Oh!TobethesonofCheGuevara!Oneunitintheserriedranksofblack!APapistoranOrangeman,aeunuch…thendoubtwouldnevercastthedaggerinmyback.Oh!TobeKingJohnorDouglasBader,HumphreyBogartorVictorMature!Whichoneisfalseandeasy,whichoneharder?Ofthat,ofthis,ofmeI’mreallynottoosure.

Tapeworm

Brutal compressionandnoise—and that ‘sonly thelyrics! Guy Evans did a great job of overdubbing drumsontoaprettyvagrant(sic)basicrhythm.Themiddlesectionwas originally (yet another) guitar riff; just for once, Ithoughtitbettertoholdthatfuzzed-outhand.

WhenIwasachildtheymademereadword-daggersofquiverandsquirm;nowinthestumblingdarkIseeIamaworm,silentlyfruitingyourgarden,mysister,mychild.Nightcastsominousmeaningsonthepurityofmysoul

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IfeeldevilishleaningsI’mbeginningtolosecontrolandthevortexsucksmein.SteepedinsinIdiebutamreborn.

Iwanttoseethecosmosslip,planetsandmoonscollide,feelgravityloseitsgrip…it’sallinsideAllthedeadhusksareshattered,mylife-blood,myworldrippedapartinthelaughterofspaceit’sallchaffblownoutandlost.NowIammakingthepacealthoughIdon’tknowwhattapeI’llcross…maybecatastrophe.WhenIcrossthelineIknowthatIwillfindmyselformaybeyou.

Iamamanfromthecountryofdestruction,Iamamanawomanandagod,Iammyownweaponofkamikazeandwillonedaycutthroughthehiddenknot

Feedmehoneyandwatchmerisetothebaitlyingontheknife;ifyouletmeIcanhypnotiseyourlife.It’sallreallysosimple,mylover,mytwin.Handinhand,sprintingdownthehighway,runningovertheedge,onandonintoourdoomsday;thereisnosavingledgenoroutgrownshrub.Isthistheway?Outinablazeofglory?SomedayI’llfindtheanswersomedayI’llendthestory.

(Worth,1971)

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Again

The song has some connection with «Just GoodFriends»Isuppose…acombinationoflonging,regretandabsolutenewness.

Istretchmyhands,clutchvacantlaughterinsilenceandsweet,sweetpain;withoutdemand,butwithalongingforwhatwillnevercomeagain.

Ismellyourperfumeonthesheetsinthemorning:itlingerslikethepatternsonthewindowafterrain,apastthatlives,ifonlyforthepresent,butwhichisgoneandwillnevercomeagain.

Toyoursadeyes,turnedaway,minesay«Doyou?Didyou?How?»Asthedarknessslidesawaythedayshowswhatwasandmakeswhatisnow.

Iseeyourpictureasthoughitwereamirrorbutthere’snopartofyououtsidetheframeexceptthechangethatyougavetome:thiswillnevercomeagain.

Iamme,Iwassobeforeyou,butafterwardsIamnotthesame.YouaregoneandIamwithyou:thiswillnevercomeagain.

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Faint-HeartAndTheSermon

Withmyfacedrainedofcolourandmybrainofblood,likeBillyBuddI’mlashedtothegrating.WithsensesgrowingdullerandwithquakingheartImakeastartattemperatureequatingandmylungssuckuselessair.

Likeparaplegicdancersinformationteammyunderstandingseemshideboundinitsmovements,contemplatinganswersthatcouldbreakmybonds—tobehalfwrongwouldbe,inme,improvement…butmycomprehensivefacultiesareimpaired.

Anditseemsabsurd,butnowallI’veheardfadesinemptywordsandisworthlessastheHumanLaughrocksthecenotaphbutthejokeishalf-true,andmirthless.

TryingtotraceareasonfromthespinningwordsbutallI’veheardseematoddswiththeirmeanings,phoneticallypleasingbutdeliveredinsuchhastethatintheirplacemymindcommencesscreaming.

OnthevergeofbeliefIcrashontothereefandacynicalthiefstealsmysenses.SoIclingtothepewwithdimensionsaskew,andrecognitionrefusespresenttenses.Allthelivesofthesaintsdemonstratethatmyfaintisaminorcomplaint,buttheendisnowhereinsight.Whycan’tIfindmeawaytogo?

Idon’twanttodieinthenave,

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butIknowitmaybewithmesomedaysoI’vegottofindawayIcansaveupmyenergies,andfindacausetopraytosomethingforsomethingtowhichIcangivemycreed.

I’dgladlysuccumbtothewave,ifIthoughtthewatertaughtawaytolight;I’dgladlysuccumb—I’mnotbrave,andit’seasytobelievewhatthepreachersaysexceptfortheconflictragingbetweenmyheadandmybrain.Idon’twanttodie,butjustthesame,someday…

WaitingforamomentthatIknowwillcomewhenI’llhavetorunandfindanothersermon.EverymanandNormanandthetalkingpriest—still,Iamatleastholdingallthedoorsopen.Insidemealloutsideisshared.

AsthecrackedbellspealitallseemsunrealbuttheseventhsealstaysunbrokenandtheOffertoryplatetendersnoescape—stillIrefusetoscrapeupatokenofesteemforthesefalsealleywaysofthecourse;Imusttrytodivorcesensefromsensing.Tellmeagain,tellmethewaytogo.

SowhenItalktomyselfalthoughItakegoodcaretolistenmyheartgrowsevermorefaint,there’ssomethingmissing?

TheComet,TheCourse,TheTail

TheysayweareendowedwithFreeWill—atleastthatjustifiesourneedforindecision.

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Butbetweenourinstinctsandthelusttokillwebowourheadsinsubmission.Theysaythatnomanisanislandbutthentheysayourcastlesareourhomes;it’sfeltthechoiceisours,betweenpeaceandviolence…oh,yes,wechoose,alone?

Whilethecometspreadsitstailacrosstheskyitnowhereneardefinesthecourseitflies,nordoesitfinditsowndirection.

Thoughthepathofthecometbesure,itsconstitutionisnotsoitsmeaningispossiblymorethanthetracingofatailinonebriefshotatglory.

Loveandpeaceandindividuality,soorderandsocietyareman-made?Warandhateanddarkdepravity,orareweslaves?Channelingaggressiveenergies,theDeathWishandtheWilltosurvive,intofindingandpreservingenemies,isthattheonlywayweknowthatwe’realive?

Intheslaughterhouseallcorpsessmellthesame,whetherqueensorpawnsorinnocentsatthegame;inthecemeteryauniformcloaksthegravesexceptforoutwardpompandcircumstance.

Thereisatimesetinthecalendarwhenallreasonseemsbarelyenoughtosustainalltheshootingstars:timesarerough.I’mwaitingforsomethingtohappenhere,itfeelsasthoughit’slongoverdue…maybearestatementofyesteryearorsomethingentirelynew.

Andtheknowledgethatwegaininpartalwaysleadsusclosertotheverystart,andtothefoundingquestions:HowcanItellthattheroadsignedtohelldoesn’tleaduptoheaven?WhatcanIsaywhen,insomeobscureway,

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Iammyowndirection?

Gog

SomecallmeSATANothershavemeGODsomenamemeNEMO…Iamunborn.Somespeakofmeinanagrams,somegrieveuponmywrath…theoneswhogivemeserviceIgrantmyscorn.Mywordsare‘Toolate’,‘Never’,‘Impossible’,and‘Gone’;myhomeisinthesunsetandthedawn.MyNameislockedinsilence,sometimesit’swhisperedoutofspite.Allgatesarelocked,alldoorsarebarredandbolted,thereisnoplaceforflight.Willyounotcometomeandlovemeforonemorenight?

Someseemeshining,othershavemedull;gun-metalandcutdiamond—IamALL.Somesweartheyseemeweepinginthepoppy-fieldsofFrance…inthetumblingofthediceseethemfall!Somelaughandseemelaughingdownthecorridorsofpower:someseemysignonCaesarandhispall.Myfaceisrobedindarkness,sometimesyouglimpsemeintheshade,Allfriendshavegone,allcallsareweakandwasted,thereisnomoretosay.Willyounotcrawltomeandlovemeforonemoreday?

Somewishmeempty,otherswillmefull,somecraveofmeinfinity—IamNONE.Somelookformeinsymbols,sometracemylineinstars,somecountmywaysinnumbers:IamNoOne.

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Somechroniclemymovements,mycoloursandmyclothes,sometracetheworkinprogress—itisdone.Mysouliscastincrystalyetunrevealedbeneaththeknife.Allwellsaredry,allbreadismaskedinfungusandnowdiseaseisrife.Willyounotrunfromthisandlovemeforonemorelife?

Magog(InBromineChambers)

InBromineChamberstherecanbenomercy,nobitterflagellationforyoursins;noforgivenessandnosackclothcanceasethedanceofashesonthewind.

Toolatenowforawishtochangeallwishing;toolatetochange,tobreathe,togrow.Toolatetosmotheroutthetell-talefootprintswhichmarkyourpassagethroughthegreyingsnow.

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Nadir’sBigChance(1975)

Theway of it is this: I was sitting in the waiting-roomwhen I gradually becameawarethatIwasnotalone—oratleast,notsingular.Thislastedonlyamoment,however,andthatmyalterego,Nadir,tookmeover.SothatIwasbothhiminbodyandmyselfinobservation. Light, a curious, desultory silence; several moments of disorienting neo-dematerialization. An ice-blue Stratocaster spinning through space; Nadir crashing hiswaythroughdistortedthree-chordwonders.TheanarchicpresenceofNadir—thisloud,aggressive perpetual seventeen-year-old— has temporary through complete dominion,and I can only submit, gladly, and play hismusic— the beery punk songs, theweepyballads, the soul struts.This album is,moreor less,what heplays andwhohe is; howcould I denyhimhis simple say?After all,with the state theworld’s in there’s alwaysroomforanotherNadir.

P.H.

Nadir’sBigChance

Myfirstthreechordtrick.Irecalldrivingeveryoneoutof the control room with the SHEER VOLUME of the(neo)solo, played on a cheap and wonky lap steel guitar.ThetunewaswrittenwhenIwassixteen.Theselyricscamelater!

I’vebeenhangingaround,waitingformychancetotellyouwhatIthinkaboutthemusicthat’sgonedowntowhichyoumadlydanced—frankly,youknowthatitstinks.I’mgonnascream,gonnashout,gonnaplaymyguitaruntilyourbody’srigidandyouseestars.

Lookatallthejerksintheirtinselglittersuits,pansyingaround;lookatallthenerksintheirleatherplatformboots,makingwiththeheavysound…I’mgonnastamponthestardustandscreamtillI’mill—iftheguitardon’tgetya,thedrumswill.

Now’smybigbreak—letmeuponthestage,I’llshowyouwhatit’sallabout;enoughofthefake,bangyourfeetinarage,teardownthewallsandletusout!We’remorethanmeremorons,perpetuallyconned,socomeoneverybody,smashthesystemwiththesong.

Smashthesystemwiththesong!

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TheInstituteOfMentalHealth,Burning

ItwasthefirstdayofJuly;nowindbreathedintheskywhenapin-stripedsuitsawthattheInstituteofMentalHealthwasburning.

Hestooduponthecornerwherethesunwaswarmer…lookingacrossthestreet,hemovedtheshacklesonhisfeetastheInstitutewasburning.

Flameswereroaring,singinglikeathunderstorm;smokewaspouringstraightuptothesky;windowssmashing,Gothicdoorsandlintelsfall;timberscrashingandwebothknowwhy.

Nobodyelsecamebytostare;yousee,theydidn’treallycare.Can’tcallthefirebrigade—noneofthemhadbeenpaidandsotheInstitutewasburning.

Throughoutthecity,peoplesayitisn’tpretty,everyoneagrees,andeveryonefeelsglad;doctoredbrainscelebrateandeveryonewavestheirchains…It’sapitythey’reallmad.

TheInstituteofMentalHealthspontaneouslykilleditself.Ashestoashesanddusttodust:mychainsbegantorustastheInstitutewasburning,burning,burning.

(ChrisJudgeSmith)

OpenYourEyes(TheLocarnoSong)

Iwassittinginthedance-hall,

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butmymindwasfarawaysowhentheusherettewalkedoverIdidn’tknowquitewhattosay.ItriedtolookcoolbutIknewthatIblewitsomehow.Herfishnettightstookmequitebysurprise…Ihadtoopenmyeyes.

ItoldherIwasdancingbutshedidn’tseemtohear;sheaskedifIwantedtolearnjudo,thenshethrewmeoutonmyearbeforeI’devenhadtimetotakeabow.Ilandedonthestreet,alldishevelledmydisguisebutIreallyopenedhereyes.

Soifyou’releaningoverthebalconyorhangingaroundthefloorthesearethelastofthedaysoftheLocarnos—therereallyarenomore.Andtheusherettesmiles,butshe’snottellingallsheknows…Butthere’stimeintheendforusalltogetwiseifweonlyopenoureyes.

Nobody’sBusiness

Theanti-outroat thestart is typicalof thewelling-upof the noise. The song dates from ‘67: the final mixwrapped up a tighty-riffed structure in a wall of noise.Goodthing,too.

Lookoutthroughyourdarkhair,tellmethecolourofyoureyeswhenthey’recool;lookoutthroughthedarkagesandtellmewhat’scovert,transfixingyou.

Oh,you’renobody’sbusiness,oh,you’renobody’sbusinessandthepatternsofyourlifearesuddenlytwistedandtornandgonearealltheclothesthatyou’veworn.Justlikeyesterday’spapers

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you’retiredandforlornandyou’reno-one.

Lookbackatthephotosyou’vesaved,deadmementoesofyourmodellingdays;Ilookthroughallmycuttingsofyou,buttheyallseemsolost,sodead,outofphase.

Oh,you’renobody’sbusiness…

IthinkbacktothegirlthatIknew—shedoesn’tseemsoverymuchlikeyou:sheusedtocareabouthersmileandnotherface…that’sbeforeitwasherfortuneandtookoverhersoul’splace.

Oh,you’renobody’sbusiness…

Paperingyesterday’spages,taperingoffinthestorm,you’reno-one.

BeenAloneSoLong

BeenalonesolongthatI’veforgottenwhatit’sliketofeelsomebodynexttomeandhearherbreathingpeacefullywhenIwakeupatnight.

BeenalonesolongthatI’veforgottenwhattosay—ifImeetsomebodywhomighteasilyresembleyouIsmile,butlookaway…Ilookaway.

BeenalonesolongthatI’veforgottenwhattodo:howtomakethewholethingrightandhowtohelpifshe’suptightandwhentorunandwhentofight…howtomakeherstaythenight—that’sifIeverknew.

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BeenalonesolongthatI’veforgottenwhatit’sliketofeelsomebodynexttomeandhearherbreathingpeacefullywhenIwakeupatnight,wakeupatnight

(ChrisJudgeSmith)

Pompeii

Thegoldendream,theseatofalldecorum,asatellitetomatchthelightofRome;itssilverchildrenchatterintheForum,thebath-house,andthebrothels,andtheirhomesaboutthelatestfashionsfortheirclothes.AcrosstheTyrrhenianSeacomesdriftingasongthatnoneofthemhaveeverknown.

ThegoldendreamthatholdsbackallthehoursfortheladiesintheirDionysianrites,blondeheadsallgarlandedwithflowers,wineandloveandlaughterthroughthenightinconstantmasqueandpageant,constantflight.Thegroundbelowthemwhispersinamurmurofpassionwhichishotteryetthanwhite.

Thegoldendream,thecityofallcities,itstowerspiercingintoazuresky,whosehandisdealt,regardlessofallpity,condemnedtomartyrdom,butnottodie.Twoloverslookupfromtheirhiddenbower.Thewinehasstoodtoolonganditturnssour.

Iseethetallandbendingofyourstreetsbutnowtheyechoonlyleathertouristfeetandwaking,ashen,grey-blueblindingdeathyoursuddenwinding-sheet.

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ShingleSong

Thisoldsong’soneofmanystrandsfromtheseashore.Uncomplicated—asimplesongandasimplesentiment.

Youcanseeinthelastlightthat’sgracedasdawnthatthere’snothinginmyheartbutpainasIstand,facingsea,knowingthatyou’regone…alltheelementsragetoexplainthatIshouldreallybeonmywaybutthereissomethingwhichensuresImuststay.

Beneaththeroaroftheseethingsurf,beneaththecaterwaulofscatteredcallwindthoughtsandgesturesunspoken,unheardandnowthedanceofrapturebeginsasthewavesrushalongacrossthebeach—likeyou,likeyourloveforeveroutofreach.

Lookatthesky,butit’semptynow;lookatthesea,itholdsnothingbutdespair.Iraisemyeyes,butmyheadstaysbowed…Ilooktomyside,butyou’renotthere.AndIcan’tgetyououtofmymind,no,no,no,no,Ijustcan’tgetyoufrommymind.

Airport

Istandonthetallestbuildingandstaredownatthegreyrunwayandthetail-smokeoftheBoeingjetthat’stakingyousofaraway.

Believeme,Idon’twantyoutoleaveme;lookinmyeyesandyou’llseethemfilledwithpain.ImaginejusthowsadI’llbeinsomefuturedaywhenIturnandnolongerseeyourface.AllIcannowcryisgoodbye,love,goodbye.

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Inaweek,inamonth,inayear,inalifetimehowI’llfeelnonecantell.AllIknowisnowyou’regoingthere’sreallyno-oneheretohelp.

Believeme…

Alreadyit’stoolate,you’rethroughtheboarding-gateandwalkingonthetarmac.Alreadyyouarefree,alreadyyou’veleftmeandcannotbeartolookback,canyou?

Abrieftaxiontherunway,thenupintothestillingnightsky;andI’mstandingontheobservationtower,myeyestoodimmedbydistancetocry.

Believeme…

AllIcannowdoiswalkawayalone,withoutyou.

PeopleYouWhereGoingTo

Yourfatherhasjustleftyourmother,goneofftolivewithhislatestlover;shesitsthere,juststaring.Soyougetbacktoyourownflatbecausetheatmosphereinthereissobadyoucan’tbearit.AndthepeopleyouweregoingtoAmericawithjustleftonthedawnplanewithoutyou,withoutyou.

Thepeopleinthedownstairsflatarenolongertherenowbecausetheyleftthegastapon,they’realldead.Soyou’veno-onelefttotalkto,youjustliethereinmelancholy,half-nakedonyourunmadebed.AndthepeopleyouweregoingtoAfricawithjustleftontheSouthernStar

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withoutyou,withoutyou.

Yes,thehazethat’sbeenformingroundyourwindow-panesisnowprotractedandpoisonedandyoucannotfeelaportionoftheworldoutside.

Canyouimaginethewayyou’dfeelifallthesethingshadhappenedtoyouandthedoctorsaysyou’redying?ThatisthewaythatIfeelnowonfindingthatyourlovebelongstosomeoneelseandnotI.MychanceofheavenhasjustblownawayuponapassingcloudandthereisnothingthatIcandowithoutyou.

Thepeopleyouweregoingtohaveleft,gonefarawayandyou’relonely.

(Manchester,1967)

BirthdaySpecial

Whatasillysong.Butithasgotthatmad(overloadedNadirera)forwarddrive.Here’stooalltheparties.

I’vegotsomethingtosay,anditain’ttheusualsortofsob-storythatyouheareveryday.I’vegotsomethingtoask,andIknowthatnow’sthetime,nowalltheroomsofthepartyaredark.Proffermethecandy,yes,Iunderstandisfine;blowanothercandleoutandthrowanotherline…Birthdaygirl,I’vegotsomethingforyou,there’siceinthecauldron,lookoutnow;birthdaygirl,herecomesaspeciallikeHanselandGretelneverhad.

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There’sparrotsinthepantryandthere’slizardsintheloo;there’sbloatersinthebathroomandthispartyisazoo;I’msittinginthekitchentryinghardtotalktoyouBirthdaygirl…

IjustwantedtosaythatI’dliketomakethisthehappiestofallyourbirthdaysandifthatmeansturningthekeythenI’llturnitwithyouandthere’llbenodoubtaboutthewayIagree,Birthdaygirl…

TwoOrThreeSpectres

«Sodthemusic,»saidthemaninthesuit,«Iunderstandprofitandwithoutthat,it’snouse.Whydon’tyougoawayandwritecommercialsongs;comebackinthreeyears,thatshouldn’tbetoolong…»He’sajokerandanacrobat,arecordexec.inaMayfairflatwithAltecspeakerswalltowall,aRadfordandaRevoxandthroughitallheplaysstrictlynowhereMuzak.

«Hey,listen,baby,thisband’sgotalotofsoul…ifwecanbeatthatoutofthemIseeadiscofgold!Givethemanimage,maybeglitter,maybesex,maybeoutrage,maybeelegance—howaboutasnervouswrecks?»Signsuptheproductattwopercent,justifiedbyvinylshortageandtheincreasedrentontheyachthehastohiretomakehispitchatMidemandallthepressreceptionsforhisbusinessfriendswhospilltheirTaittingeruponthefloorwhilethebandsipEnglishlagerjustoutsidethedoor.

Treble,alto,bassclefsonthepage,crotchets,quavers,minimsalltheragebutyou’llneverfindapoundnoteinthescore—it’stherewhenit’sstrictlymerchandise,

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throughallthepropagatedliesaboutwhatthewholething’sfor.He’llmakeyouastar,he’llmakeyousofamousthatallyoudesireistobeleftnameless,drainedofallyoufeltyouhadtoofferatthestart.

Notwithoutblame,either,arethegentlemenofthepress:youcantalkaboutthestateofmusic,theywillwriteaboutyourdress.Playthemthenewalbum,theywillsayit’sgreat(ornot)—whenthearticlescomeout,they’reallabouthowmanydogsyou’vegot.Godtokeepthehumaninteresthigh,andthehacksareonlytoowillingtocomply,pandertotheego,buildupfrailmenasgods—butsomewhereintheprocess,theprimepurposeisforgotten.

Groupiesoffertheirbodies,thehangers-ontheircoke;it’sallveryjolly—whatajoke!Fellinicreaturesclusterroundthedressing-room,theheavenlybodiesallgottohavetheirmoons.Inthecultofthesupermanthemusicplaysasupportingroleandfarmoreimportantistheshapeofhisnose,thesizeofhiscodpieceandthecutofhisclothes…soulandfeelingalwaystakesecondplacetothebumpandgrindofaFenderbass.Frankly,mostmusiciansboreme—butnotasmuchasthosewhochasetheglorytobaskinreflectedlight,makingthemanmuchmoreimportantthanhisarpeggiosandmordants,whenit’stheotherwaythat’sright.

OnthevaluesbywhichthisworldmakesitsheroesthenthebestviolinisteverwasNero,becausehehadthemostPressandhisfiregimmickwassimplythebest.

Wegotthelivethingtoo,theHumanZoo:Tenthousandarmsareraised,justliketheHitlerYouth—tenthousandpeacesignsmarktheentryofthesax.Tenthousandpeacesigns,butthey’redifferentfromtheback.

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Godbluff(VdGG,1975)

TheUndercoverMan

Hereattheglass—alltheusualproblems,allthehabitualfarce.Youask,inuncertainvoice,whatyoushoulddo,asiftherewereachoicebuttocarryonmimingthesongandhopethatitallworksoutright.

Tonightitallseemssostrange—myspiritfeelsrigid,mybodyderanged;stillthat’sonlyfromonepointofviewandwecan’thaveillusionbetweenmeandyou,myconstantfriend,evercloseathand—youandtheundercoverman.

Ireflect:‘It’sverystrangetobegoingthroughthischangewithnoideaofwhatit’sallbeenaboutexceptinthecontextoftime…’Oh,butIshirkit,I’vehalfamindnottoworkitallout.Isthismadnessjusttherecurringwaveoftotalemotion,orahidefortheundercoverman,oralitany—allthesignsarethereofferventdevotion—orthecrackingofthedam?

It’scracked;smashedandburstingoveryou,therewasnoreasontoexpectsuchdisaster.Now,panicking,youburstforair,drowning,youknowyoucarefornothingandno-onebutyourselfandwoulddenyeventhishandwhichstretchesouttowardsyoutohelp.ButwouldIleaveyouinthismomentofyourtrial?IsitmyfaultthatI’mheretoseeyoucrying?Thesephantomfiguresallaroundyoushouldhavetoldyou,youshouldhavefoundoutbynow,ifyouhadn’tgoneandtriedtodoitallbyyourself.

Evennowwearenotlost:

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ifyoulookoutatthenightyou’llseethecoloursandthelightsseemtosaypeoplearenotfaraway,atleastindistance,andit’sonlyourowndumbresistancethat’smakingusstay.Whenthemadnesscomesletitfloodondownandovermesweetly,letitdrownthepartsofmeweakandblessedanddamned,letitslakemylife,letittakemysoulandlivingcompletely,letitbewhoIam.

Theremaynotbetimeforusalltorunintandemtogether—thehorizoncallswithitsparallellines.Itmaynotberightforyoutohaveandholdinonewayforeverandyetyoustillhavetime,youstillhavetime.

ScorchedEarth

Justonecrazymomentwhilethedicearecast,helooksintothefutureandrememberswhatispast,wonderswhathe’sdoingonthisbattlefield,shrugstohisshadow,impatient,tooproudyettokneel.

Inhiswakeheleavesscorchedearthandworkinvain;smokedriftsupbehindhim—heisfreeagain,freetorunbeforetheonslaughtofadeadlyfoe,leavingnothingfitforpillage,hardlyleavinghome.It’sfartoolatetoturn,unlessit’stostone.Chargingmadlyforward,tracksacrossthesnow;windscreamsmadnesstohim,everonhegoes,leavingspoortomarkhispassage,tracehiswearyclimb.Crossthemoorandmaketheheadland—stumbling,wayward,blind.Intheendhisfootprintsextendasonesingleline.

Thislatestexponentofheresyisgoadedintoanattack,persuadedtochargeathisenemy.Toolate,heknowsitis,toolatenowtoturnback,toosoonbyfartofalter.Thepastsitsuneasilyathisrear,he’swalkingrightintothetrap,

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surrounded,butstrivingthroughwillandfear.Aheadofhimheknowstherewaitsanambuscadebutthediceslipthroughhisfingersandhe’slivingfromdaytoday,carryinghisworldarounduponhisback,leavingnothingbehindbutthetell-taleofhistrack.

Hewillnotbehostage,hewillnotbeslave,nosnareofpastcantraphim,thoughthefuturemay.Stillherunsandburnsbehindhiminadvancedretreat;stillhisliferemainsunfettered—hedeniesdefeat.It’sfartoolatetoturn,unlessit’stostone.Leavethepasttoburn—atleastthat’sbeenhisown.

Scorchedearth,that’sallthat’sleftwhenhe’sdone;holdingnothingbutbeholdentono-one,claimingnothing,outofnofalsepride,hesurvives.Snowtracksareallthat’slefttobeseenofamanwhoenteredthecourseofadream,claimingnothingbutthelifehe’sknown—this,atleast,hasbeenhisown.

Arrow

Stubtowersinthedistance,riderscrosstheblastedmooragainstthehorizon.Ficklepromisesoftreaty,fatalharbingersofwar,futileorisonsswirlasoneinthisflight,thismadchase,thissurgeacrossthemarshymudlandscapeuntilthemeaningisforgotten.Hoodmaskstheeagerface,skinstretchedandsallow,headlongintothechillingnight,asswiftasanyarrow.

Feetagainsttheflagstones,fingersscrabblingatthelock,cravingprotection.«Sanctuary!»croaksavoice,half-strangledbytheshockofitsrejection.Shottheboltinthewall,rustedthekey;nowtheechoesofallfrightfulmemoryintrudeinthesilence.

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Whatacrawlagainsttheslope—darkloomthegallows.Onetouchtothechapeldoor,howswiftlycomesthearrow.

«Compassion»youplead,asthoughtheykeptitinabox—that’slongsincebeenempty.I’dliketohelpyousomehow,butI’mintheself-samespot:myconditionexemptsme.Weareallontherun,onourknees;thesundialdrawsalineuponeternityacrosseverynumber.Howlongthetimeseems,howdarktheshadow,howstraighttheeagleflies,howstraighttowardshisarrow.Howlongthenightis—whyisthispassagesonarrow?Howstrangemybodyfeels,impaleduponthearrow.

TheSleepwalkers

Atnight,thismindlessarmy,ranksunbrokenbydissent,ismovedintoactionandtheirpacedoesnotrelent.Instep,withgreatprecision,thesedancersofthenightadvanceagainstthedarkness—howimplacabletheirmight!Eyesundulledbymoon,theirarmsandlegsakimbo,theywalkandlive,hopingsoontosurfacefromthislimbo.Theirminds,anticipatingthedawnoftheday,shallneverknowwhat’swaitingmereinsightaway—toofar,toosoon.

Sensesdimmedinsemi-sentience,onlywheelingthroughthisplane,onlyseeingfragmentedimages,prematurelycurtailedbythebrain,butbreathing,living,knowinginsomemeasureatleastthesoulwhichrootsthematterofbothBeautyandtheBeast.Fromwhattoothorclawdoesmurderspring,fromwhatfleshandblooddoespassion?Bothcutthroughtheairwiththependulum’sswingindeadlybutdelicatefashion.Andeveryrangeoffeelingisthereinthedreamandeverylogic’sreelingintheforceofthescream;thesensessting.AndthoughImaybedreamingandrealitystallsIonlyknowthemeaningofsightandthat’sallandthat’snothing.

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Thecolumnsofthenightadvance,infectiously,theircrypticdancegathersconvertstothefold—intimethewholerawworldwillpacethesesamestepsonintothesamebitterend.

Somnolentmuster—nowthedancingdeadforsaketheshelteroftheirsecurebeds,awakentoaslumberwhosedepthstheydread,asifthegroundtheytreadwouldgivewaybeneaththesolemnweightoftheirconception.I’dsearchthehiddencornersofallthisworld,makereasonofthesensorywhorlifIonlyhadtime,butsoonthedreamisended.

Tonight,beforeyoulaydowntothesweetnessofyoursleepdoyouquestionyoursurrendertothedropfromLover’sLeapordoestheanaestheticdarknesstakeholdonitsveryown?Doesyourbodyriseinservicewithnotonedissentinggroan?Thesewakingdreamsoflifeanddeathinthemirroraretwistedandbuckled;lashesflicker,acatchofbreath,skinwhiteningattheknuckles.ThearmyofsleepwalkersshaketheirlimbsandarelooseandthoughIamatalker,Icanphrasenoexcusenottoriseagain.Inthechorusofthenight-timeIbelongandI,likeyou,mustdancetothatmoonlightsongandintheendI,too,mustpaythecostofthislife.Ifallislostnoneisknownandhowcouldwelosewhatwe’veneverowned?Oh,I’dsearchouteveryknowledgethatIcouldfind,unravelallthemysteriesofmind,ifIonlyhadtime,ifIonlyhadtime,butsoonmytimeisended.

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StillLife(VdGG,1976)

Pilgrims

Sometimesyoufeelsofaraway,distancefromalltheactionoftheplay,unabletograspsigninficance,markingtheplotwithdiffidentdismay,standedatcentrestage,scrabblingthroughyourdiaryforalostpage:unsureofthedream.Kickingastoneacrossthebeach,achingforloveandcomfortoutofreach,thewayaheadseemstobesobleak,there’sno-onewithanyfriendshiplefttospeakorshowyouanyrelationbetweenyourpresentandfuturesituation:losttothedream.Away,away,away:looktothefuturedayforhope,someformofpeacewithinthegrowingstorm.Iclimbthroughtheevening,aliveandbelieving:intimeweshallallknowourgoalsandsofinally,home.Fornowallissecret—thoughhowcouldIspeakit,allowmethedreaminmyeye.I’vebeenwaitingforsuchalongtimejusttoseeitatlast,allofthehandstightlyclasped,allofuspilgrims.

Walkinginsilencedownthecoast,merelytojourney—herehopeisthemost;merelytoknowthereisanend,allofus—lovers,brothers,sisters,friendshandinhand.Shiningfootprintsonthewetsandleadtothedream.Thetimehascome,thetidehasalmostrunanddrainedthedeep:Irisefromlifelongsleep.

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ItseemssuchalongtimeI’vedreamedbutnow,awake,Icanseewearepilgrimsandsomustwalkthisroad,unknowninourpurpose,alone,butnowworthless.andhomeevercallinguson.We’vebeenwaitingheresolong,allofourhandsjoinedinhope,holdingtheweightontherope,allofuspilgrims.

StillLife

Citadelreverberatestoathousandvoices,nowdumb;Whathavewebecome?Whathavewechosentobe?Nowallhistoryisreducedtothesyllablesorourname—nothingcaneverbethesame:nowtheImmortalsarehere.Atthetimeitseemedareasonablecoursetoharnessalltheforceoflifewithoutthethreatofdeath,butsoonwefoundthatboredomandinertiaarenotnegative,butallthelawweknow,anddeadarewillandwordslikesurvivalArrivalatimmunityfromallage,allfearandallend…whydoIpretend?Ouressenceisdistilledandallfamiliartasteisnowdrainedandthoughpurityismaintaineditleavesussterile,livingthroughthemillionsofyears,alaughascloseasanytear;living,ifyouclaimthatallthatentailsisbreathing,eating,defecating,screwing,drinking,spewing,sleeping,sinkingeverdownanddownandultimatelypassingawaytimewhich

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nolongerhasanymeaning.

Takeawaythethreatofdeathandallyou’releftwithisaroundifmake-believe.Marshalleverysullenbreathandthoughyou’reultimatelyboredbyendlessecstasyit’sstilltheringbywhichyouhopetobeengagedtomarrythegirlwhowillgiveyouforever—it’scrazyandplainlythatsimplyisnotenough.

Whatisthisdullestandbluntestofpains,suchthatmyeyesneverclosewithoutfeelingitthere?Whatabjectdespairdemandsanendtoallthingsofinfinity?Ifwehavegained,howdowenowmeetthecost?Whathavewebargained,andwhathavewelost?Whathavewerelinquished,neverknowingitwasthee?

Whatthoughtsnowofholdingfasttheline,defyingdeathandtime?Everythingwehadisgone,everythingwelabouredforandfavouredmorethatearthlythingsrevealsthehollowringoffalsehopeandfalsedeliverance.

Butnowthenuptialbedismade,thedowryhasbeenpaid:thetoothless,haggardfeaturesofeternitynowwelcomemebetweenthesheetstocouplewithherwitheredbody—mywife.Hersforever,hersforever,hersforever,instilllife.

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LaRossa

LackingsleepandfoodandvisionhereIamagain,encampeduponyoufloor,cravingsanctuaryandnourishment,encouragementandsanctityandmore.Thestreetsseemedverycrowded,Iputonmybravestguide—IknowyouknowthatIamacting,Icanseeitinyoureyes.IntheharshlightoffreedomIknowthatIcannotdenythatIhavewastedtime,havefrittereditawayinidleboastsofmyfreedomandfidelity,whensimplerwordswouldhaveprofitedthemost……itisn’tenoughintheend,whenI’mlookingforhope.Throughtheorgan-monkeyscreamsasthepipesbegintospitstillhe’llgothroughthedanceroutinesjustaslongashethinksthey’llfit,justaslongasheknowsthatit’sdance,smile—orquit.

LikeamonkeyIdancetoastrangetunewhenallofthoseyearsI’velongedtoliewithyoubuthaveboggedmyselfdownintheweboftalk,quackphilosophyandsophistry—atphysicallyI’vealwaysbaulked,likethemaninthechairwhobelievesit’sbeyondhimtowalk.I’vebeenhidingbehindwords,fearingadeeperflameexists,faintlyawareofthepassageofopportunitiesIhavemissed,Butthenearnessandthesmellofyou,LaRossafromheadtotoe…Idon’tknowwhatI’mtellingyou,butIthinkyououghttoknowsoonthedamwallwillbreak,soonthewaterwillflow.Thoughtheorgan-monkeygroansastheorgan-grinderplayshe’shoping,atthemost,

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foranendtothedancingdays;still,hehopsupanddownonhisperchinthusualjerkyway.Thoughitmightmeananendtoallfriendshipthere’ssomethingI’mworkinguptosay.

Thinkofmewhatyouwill;Iknowthatyouthinkyoufeelmypain—nomatterifthat’sjustthesurface.Ifwemadelovenowwouldthatchangeallthathasgonebefore?Ofcourseitwould,there’snowayitcouldeverbethesame…onemorelinecrossed,onemoremysteryexplained.NowIneedmorethanjustwords,thoughtheoptionsareplainthatleadfromallmomentaryaction.Iwemakelovenowitwillchangeallthatisyettobe…nevercouldweagreeinthesamewayagain.Onemoreworldlost,onemoreheavengained.

LsRossa,youknowme,youreadmeasthoughIamglass;thoughIknowitthere’snowayinwhichIcanpass—thoughitmeansthatyou’llfinishmystoryatlastI’dtradealltheclevertalk,thejoking,thesmokingandthequips,allthemidnightconversation,allthefriendship,allthewordsandallthetripsforthewarmthofyourbody,themorevividtouchofyourlips.Allbridgesburningbehindme,allsafetybeyondreach,themonkeyfeelshischainsoutblindly,onlytofindhimselfreleased.Takeme,takemenowandholdmedeepinsideyouroceanbodywashmeassomeflotsamtotheshore,thereleavemelyingevermore!Drownme,drownmenowandholdmedownbeforeyournakedhunger,

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burnmeatthealtarofthenight—givemelife!

MyRoom

Searchingfordiamondsinthesulphurmine,leaningonpropswhicharerotten,hopingforanything,lookingforasignthatIamnotforgotten.Lostinalabyrinthoffuturemystery,tracingmysteps,allmistaken,trustingtoeverything,prayingitcanbethatIamnotforsaken.

Iwaitbythedoor,wonderingwhenyouwillcomeandkeepmewarm.Iprayfortheendofthenight,hopingthelightwillstillthestormwhichpresentlybetraysme;helplesssea-monsterstrandedontheshore,maroonedinanecstasyofwaiting.Iyearn,althoughknowingthatIshalldivenomoreinthetidealreadyracing

Mylungsbursttocry:«Finallyhowcouldyouleavemeheretodie?Ifreezeinthechillofthisplacewithnofriendlyfacetosmilegoodbye—howcouldyouletithappen?»

Howcouldyouletithappen?Dreams,hopesandpromises,fragmentsoutoftime;allofthesethingshavebeenspoken;stillyoudon’tunderstandhowitfeelswhenI’mwaitingforthemtobebroken.

ChildlikeFaithInChildhood’sEnd

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Existenceisastageonwhichwepass,asleep-walktrickformindandheart:it’shopeless,Iknow,butonwardImustgoandtrytomakeastartatseeingsomethingmorethanday-to-daysurvivalchasedbyfinaldeath.IfIbelievedthisthesumofthelifetowhichwe’vecomeIwouldn’twastemybreath.Somehow,theremustbemore.Therewasatimewhenmorewasfeltthanknown,butnow,entrenchedinsidemysett,inlightmoremundane,thoughtrattlesroundmybrain;welive,wedie…andyet?

Inthebeginningtherewasorderanddestinybutnowthatpathhasreachedtheborderandonourkneesisnowaytofacethefuture,whateveritbe.Thoughtheforceswhichholdusinplacelastthrougheonsinunruffledgracewe,too,wearthefaceofcreation

Asanti-mattersucksandpulsesperiodicallythebudunfolds,thebloomisdead,allspaceislivinghistory.Itseemsasthoughtimemustbetrayus,yetwe’realiveandthoughIseenoGodtosaveusstillwesurvivethroughthecenturiesofprogresswhichdon’tgetusveryfar.Allillusion!Allisbogus—wedon’tyetknowwhatweare…laughing,hopingpraying,joking,SonofMan!Withloweredeyesbutliftinghearts,we’regrainsofsandandthough,intime,theseamayclaimusforitsownwearetherockswhichrootthefuture—onusitgrows!

Wemightnotbetheretoshareitif

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eternity’sajestbutIthinkthatIcanhearitifthenextlifeisthebest.Evenifthereisaheavenwhenwedieendlessblisswouldbeasmeaninglessastheliethatalwayscomesasanswertothequestion‘Whydoweseethroughtheeyesofcreation?’Adriftwithoutacourse,it’sverylonelyhere,ouronlyconjecturewhatliesbehindthedark.Still,IfindIcanclingtoalifeline,thinkofalifetimewhichmeansmorethanmyownone—dreamsofagranderthingthanweare,TimeandSpacehandheavyonmyshoulders;whenalllifeisoverwhocansaynomutatedforceshallremain?Thoughthetowersofthecityaredeniedtowemenofclaystillweknowweshallscaletheheightssomeday.Frightenedinthesilence—frightened,butthinkingveryhard,letusmakecomputationofthestars.

Older,wiser,sadder,blinder,watchusrun;faster,longer,harder,stronger,nowitcomes:colourblisters,imagesplintersgravitatetowardsthecentre,infinalsplendourdisintegrate.TheuniversenowbeckonsandMan,too,musttakeHisplace…justafewlastfleetingsecondstowanderinthewasteandthechildrenwhowereourselvesmoveonreincarnationstillsitsnowperfectedsongandatlastwearefreedofthebondsofcreation.

Allthejokersandgaolers,allthejunkiesandslaverstoo,allthethrongwhohavedancedamerrytune—humanwecanallbe,

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butHumanitywemustriseaboveinthenameofallfaithandhopeandlove.There’satimeforallpilgrims,andatimeforthefakerstoo,there’satimewhenweallwillstandaloneandnude;nakedtothegalaxies—naked,butclothedintheoverview…aswereachChildhood’sEndwestartanew.

Andthoughdarkisthehighwayandthepeak’sdistancebreaksmyheart,forInevershallseeit,stillIplaymypart,believingthatwhatwaitsforusisthecosmoscomparedtothedustofthepast…inthedeathofmerehumanslifeshallstart!

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WorldRecord(VdGG,1976)

WhenSheComes

Slowmotioninthequietofyourroomsopotentisthesmellofherperfumethatyouthinkshe’seternalthatyouthinkshe’severything—butno-oneknowswhatsheis…Repentanceforallyoushouldhavesaid—herentranceseemstoraiseyoufromthedeadandyouthinkshe’sreallywithyouandyouthinkshe’llalwaysstay,alwaysreadytoforgiveyou,alwaysreadytograntyouhermercy—butinherownway.Whenshecomesshe’llbeastranger:struckdumbyou’lltrytoprotestasthedrumbeatsoutthedanger,toolate—youshouldhavenoticedthattheladywithherskinsowhitelikesomethingoutofBlakeandBurne-Jonesalwaysblockedoutthelightandshadowedallyouowned.

Stillyouthinkshe’sforever,yesterdayandtomorrow—butno-oneknowswheresheis.Stillyouswearthatyoucanwinherandyourprayeristhatshe’llwantyou;aware,onceasaint,nowyou’reasinnerandyousinsaregoingtohauntyouwhentheladywithherskinsowhitelikesomethingoutofEdgarAllenPoeholdsyourhandsoverytightandyouhopeshe’llneverletgo.

Easytargets,easycross-words,easylife:thesekeymarginsleaveyoubalancedontheknife,bleedingdarkly.Intheenditallcomesdowntosleazybargains.Thathiddenkey—youtriedsohardtofindit;allyoucanconceiveistheefforttobeworthy.

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EvennowyouneedtoberemindedthatLaBelleDameiswithoutmercy.Theladywithherskinsowhite—youneverdidquitecatchhername—nowsheholdsyouinthenightandshe’llneverletgoagainshe’llneverletgoagain

APlaceToSurvive

It’seasytosay,whenyou’resodown,thateverything’spointless;youreyesburn,yourearshowl,yourlimbsaredisjointed.Barrenfields,thebarrenearth,nevermorewillitflower—rubyourfaceandyourhandsinthedirt:nowisthehour.Sostandstraightlookingoveryourshoulder,walkonthoughyoufeartoarrive,don’twaittillyouknowthatit’sover,bestrong—it’syourplacetosurvive.

Whiletheholocaustragesaroundyou,betheeyeofthestorm;thoughtheextentofdisasterastoundsyou,forearmedisforewarned.Youmaypassedtimeinhappierwaysbutthereareofhermountainstoclimb:you’veneverlivedasyou’relivingtoday—nowisthetime.Standstraightthroughyourbackbreaksfromtrying,walkon—evennowyoumuststrive.Don’twait;whileyou’rewaiting,you’redying.Bestrong—it’syourplacetosurvive.

Theuniverseisdoubtlessunfoldingjustexactlyasitshouldandthesedreamsofremorseorforebodingwon’tdoyouanygood.Thejoy,thepassion,possessionsyouown,thebitternessandthepain,theendofeverythingyou’veeverknow—alltheseareordained.

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Standstraightlookingintothefuture,walkon—we’veeachgotourownlives.Don’twaitfortheguruortutor,bestrong—it’syourplacetosurvive.

Standstraightlookingoveryourshoulder,walkon;throughithurts,you’realive.Don’twait—ifyouwaitit’sallover:bestrong—it’syourrighttosurvive.

Masks

He’samanofthepastandoneofthepresent,amanwhohidesbehindamaskbehindamask.Aclown,afool,believingitcooltobedownorthatthegameisallaboutwholaughsthelast.

Sohetellsallhisproblemstohisfriendsandrelations,exposeshisneurosestotheirview.Theyacceptasfacteverymasochisticmumbleofhisact;howcouldtheyknowwhatwasfalseandwhatwastrue?

Sometimeswhenhewakeshefeelshe’swalkedintoadreambutallittakestoremindhimthingsarewhattheyseemisthebeliefthatthemanbehindthemaskcanreallydance.Pirouettingsmileheseeshimselfcavorting,Pierrotforawhilebeforeabortingtofindreliefintheshelterofthedark,mosttellingmask.

Afterallthepantomimesareendedhepeelsallthemake-upoffhisfacetorevealbeneaththetearsrunningalldownhischeeks:alone,heopenstotheworld…butit’smuchtoolate.He’sbeenleft,intheend,withoutaface.

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MeurglysIII(TheSongwriter’sGuild)

ThesedaysImainlyjusttalktoplantsanddogs—allhumancontactseemspainful,risky,odd,soIstayactinggodinmyownuniversewhereItradecigarettesinreturnforsongs.Thedeal’smadeharderthelongerIgoon:Ifindmegonefromallbutsecretlanguages.

Ifonlycouldphrasesatisfactorywordsinconversationtomakemypassionheard…Ifonly…

MeurglysIII,he’smyfriend,theonlyonethatIcantrusttoletitbewithoutpretence—there’sno-oneelse.It’skillingme,butintheendthere’sno-oneelseIknowistrue;there’snoneinallthemasksofmen.There’snothingelsebutmyguitar…Isupposehe’llhavetodo.

Talkingintonguesiseasywhenyouknowhow,quitepleasing,butstillnothingworksoutright.Pressurisedlungs,heartbleeding,you’dbetterslowdownandshowthatyoucanmakeitthroughthenight.Howeverdarkitseems,thepresentisjustthepresent,beyonditnodarknessliesconcealedandthroughthesedesperatedreams,thislongingforfriendsandcomfortyouknowthatintheendallwillberevealed.Whennomoreplantsordogsorroomsaretheretohearyouandno-oneisleftnearyou,thenyou’llsee:intheendthere’sonlyyouandMeurglysIIIandthisisjustwhatyouchosetobe,fool!

ThoughIknowallthisisjustescape,IrunbecauseIdon’tknowwheretheprisonlies.

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InsongslikethisIcanbeartheweight…IrunningstillIshalluntilonedayIhopethatI’llarrive.

Wondering

Iwillarise;inthedepth,Iwillopenmyeyes;asmybreathalmostfailsme,survive.

Wait—there’ssomethingunclear,there’ssomethingIfearnowdrawingclose.Coulditbeyou?Whoseisthatvoice?Isitnowtimetomakeachoice?Ah—thatirrationalpain!Thisridiculousbrainnowburstswithjoy.Coulditbeme?Coulditbenow?ShouldIbegintotakemyvows?

Iwillreturn;asIlive,asIbreath,asIburnIswearIwillcomethroughwithmyhandsstratchingoutinthedark,withmyeyepresseduptighttotheglass,wonderingifit’sallbeentrue.

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Over(1977)

CryingWolf

(Conscious) self-parody has supposedly never been astrongsuitofmine.Thissongat leasthasatwinkle in theeye!Arareforayintoquestionablesoloing,too.

Youturnoutthelightsandsitalone,tryingtopretendthatit’sanguish,startattheringofatelephone,throwdownallyourfoodatthebanquet,keepacloseeyeonallyouown,whileleavingitalltolanguish…Isthiswhatmakesyouhappy?Isthiswhatbringsyoujoy?Yourexcusesaresocrappy…sillyboy.

Youtakealltheloveandthrowitasidetowallowinyoursorrow,expecteveryonetoknowhowyoufeelinside,toforgiveandforgetcometomorrow;repayingallyourdebtswithuncommonpridebutdenyingthatyoueverborrowed…Isthiswhatmakesyouperfect?Isthiswhatmakesyoufree?Justhowlongdidyourehearseit,ordoesitjustcomenaturally?

Cryingwolffromthedepthofyoursheep’sheart,cryingfirefromthedepthofthewellinanendlessparadeofrepeatstarts,justhowlongwillitlast—canyoutell?

Untilallyourfriendsandloversaresimplyboredwiththepretence?It’llbetoolatethentodiscoverjustexactlywhatyoumeantandwhatwastrueandwhatwasfalse…thewolfturnedintohuman,

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thekillerwithremorse.

Cryingpainasthoughthatshouldbepleasure,cryingangerasthoughthatshouldberevenge,cryingsorrowasthoughthatwereatreasure—yourtreasurewillfindyouintheend.

Whenallofyourfriendshavegoneaway,unwillingtoputupwiththedangerthatliesineachspitefulwordyousay,you’llbeleft,agreyingwolfinamangerandwhenyou’veraisedyourlasthowlanddestroyedallthatyoucanwithrottingteethanslackjowlsyou’llbeleftalonelyman.Andwhenit’snearlyfinishedandyouknowtheendisnearwithtruesorrowundiminishedthere’llbeno-onelefttohear…Yourdesperatecries,theyallcomeoutasbleats:youthoughtyouwereawolf-man,butyou’rereallyjustasheep.

Autumn

Any over-idealised relationship is, sooner or later,going to hit the reefs. A little bit more realism andacceptance, please! Everything goes around and it’s all awalkuponthewater.

Sohereweare,alone—ourchildrenhavegrownupandmovedaway.livingtheirownlives,theysay…itallseemsverystrangetome.

Idon’tunderstandtheirways:ourchildrenamazemeallthetimeandIoftenwonderwhytheymakemefeelsosadandsuddenlyold.

Nowwe’releftwithanemptyhome,

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fromournestallthebirdshaveflownforforeignskies.We’rediscarded,ofnofurtheruse,thoughwegaveourkidsallouryouthandallourlives—wereallytried.

Nowthere’sonlymywifeandme;weusedtohaveafamily—nowthat’sgoneandonlymemorieslingeron…itallseemsverywrongtome.

Tooursorrowstheywerequitedeafandassoonastheycouldtheyleftustoourtears.Wealwaystriedtoteachwhatwasgood—yes,wegaveourkidsallwecouldthroughalltheyears.

Sohereweareatlast;thetimehasgonesofastandsohavemydreams.Isimplydon’tknowwhatitallmeans,thispointlesspassagethroughthenight,thisautumn-time,thiswalkuponthewater…

Iwonderhowlongitwillbetillthissongissungbyourownsonsanddaughters?

TimeHeals

Thinkingback,itseemsthatIcanliebesideyouasInevertrulydid,inafterglow—noafterwordsatall.Onlywritinglovesongswhenit’sgoneanddead;onlypayingwordsoutinstringsofhalf-forgottensentiments…Imean…Imeant…Ineverreallyquitecouldsaythewayitwas.

ThefirsttimethatwemetIsaid‘Ibetthatshe’stheone’,butIwastalkingtomyselfthen,asalways.Astimewentbyourstepsentwined,unwrittenlinesdrewtautandItriedtofindawaytomakeitallsafe…Intotheplay—whataproduction!—

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intothedaysandevermoresuction:youholdmeclose,butholdmefartherawayfromyourself—Imakemeamartyr,forpainandlovegohandinhand…Andhandinhandgoyouandmyfriend,youarehisandIamyoursandjustcannotevadeyou;mydaysadream,mynightsunseemly,stolenmomentsallIlivefor,buttheftisnowaytopersuadeyoutocomewithme,leavehimbehindyou;myhurtfuleyestrytoremindyouit’sallIcandotokeepfromscreaming«Iloveyou,Iloveyou!»—IwishIwasdreaming,butthestepswetakeallleavefootprints…

Soonerorlaterthewholethingwillbeblown:youwillleavehimorI’llbelefthere,alone.EitherwaysomeonelosessomeonebutIwon’tmindthat,Ijustwouldquiteliketoknowwhowelovethemost—well,Iguessthat’sourselves.

Thedaysarestrange,atnightwe’restrangers,lieinbedandlieinsideourheads,wecomenocloserthanasdancers.Youreyesarechange,yourpresencedanger,won’tlookmeinthefaceandyetyoukissandmakeuptheanswertoallthequestionsthatflyunanswered,unreasoned—deathinthesky,deathintheseason.Ifyouleavemenow,itmightnearlykillme…Rememberme?Rememberwethree?

Itallseemedsoimportantatthetime,wecamesoclosetowreckingallourlives,andnowit’salljustsonglines.Timeheals,timeheals—oh,butIstillbeartheweals.

Thinkingback,itseemsthatIcanliebesideyouasInevertrulydid,inafterglow—noafterwordsatall.Onlywritinglovesongswhenit’sgoneanddead,

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onlypayingwordsout:streamsofhalf-forgottensentiments…Imean…Imeant…Ineverreallyquitecouldsaythewayitwas.

(Worth,1972)

Alice(LettingGo)

WhenyoutoldmethatyoulovedmeIhadnoreasontodoubtitsoIwentaboutmylifeinsuchaselfishwayandneverreallythoughtaboutit.OhdoIhavetoletgo?OhIhadmychanceandI’veblownit,‘causeIlovedyousomuchalltheseyearsandsomewhereinmyself,betweenmyprideandfearjustcouldn’tfindawaytoshowit.

Iknowitdoesn’tgiveyouanyjoytogivemesuchpainbutyou’reinlovewithhimnow,myoldfriend—Iknowallaboutthat,there’snoneedtoexplainbutwhydoIhavetosaygoodbyewhenIloveyoustill,andcanonlyfeelthatI’mdying?Still,everywordIsayjustseemstocomeoutwrongandnoneofthemdenythefactthatyouaregoneandthatI’mlefthere,crying.

What’sthegoodofsongsanyway?They’rejustexercisesinsolitude.Ishouldhavebeenreadyfortoday—Ialwaysprayedyouwouldn’tgo,butIsupposeIalwaysknewyouwould.

Isupposeyousaytohimnow«Iknowthatsomedayyou’llleaveme»justlikeyoudidtome,andI’ddenyit,butyouwouldn’tbelieveme.OohdoIhavetoletgoofyouoohIdon’tthinkthatIcandoit—you’realwaysgoingtobetheguardianofmysoul,

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andI’llalwayshaveapartofyoutocallmyown,howstupidthatIneverprovedit.

OhIknowI’llneverletgoohbecauseIdon’twanttobejustyourfriend.Wespentsevenyearstogetherinourownway,Ican’tbelievethestoryendslikethistoday…

Whereveryouaredoyoureallythinkso,Alice?

ThisSideoftheLooking-Glass

Thestarsintheheavensstillshineupaboveme:howlovelythey’dseemifyouwerewithmebutyou’regonethroughthelooking-glassandIamlefttopassthesenightsalone.

I’mlost,I’mdumb,I’mblind,Iamdrunkwithsadness,sunkbymadness,thewaveoverwhelmsme,themirrorrepelsme,theechoofyourlaughdriftsthroughthelooking-glassandIamalone.

Nofriendship,nocomfort,nofuture,nohome,thepastlingerswithme:you’realltheloveI’veeverknownandwithoutyouI’mnothingbutemptyandsilent,reflectingonallthatI’velost.Iletyouslipawaysosoon.

Canyouhearme?Thisismysong:Iamdying;youaregone.

Thesewordsarenotenoughtosavemysoul,theyjustmockmefromthemirror.I’mcoldandI’myearning,

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I’vetoldyouI’mburning,myeyescan’tstandthelight…likeastraydoginthenightI’llshuffleoffalone.

WeallmakeourfuturesbutIhavelostmine;I’mhopingforamiraclebutfindingnosign…

Thestarsintheirconstellations,eachonejustsadlyflickersandfalls…withoutyoutheymeannothingatall.

Betrayed

WhenIbeganIwasfullofaltruisticdreams,believedinprincesandprincesses,kingsandqueens—nowIfindthey’reallhumaninside,allbitternessandpride,sowhyshouldn’tIbelikethattoo?ItseemsthatI’veforgottenallItriedsohardtolearn;itseemsthere’snotanounceofloveortrustanywhereintheworld.

Friends—they’reallharbouringknivestoembedinyourbackoutofrevenge,orspite,orindifference,orlackofotherthingstodo—intheendjustwho’sgoingtobeafriendforyouwhentheykickyouinthegutsjustasyourhandholdsoutthepearl?Itseemsthatthereisnothingleftbuthatredandlustintheworld.

Idon’tgiveadamnanymore—I’veonlywoundupbetrayed.It’sallbeenabsolutelyworthless—alltheeffortsI’vemadetobegentleandkindarerepaidwithcontempt,degradedbysympathyandworthlesskindnessandlovethatisn’tmeant.I’mthroughwithjoyandcompany,I’vedonewithprettywords,betrayed—there’snohiding-placeanywhereintheworld.I’venothinglefttofightforexceptmakingmypassionheard—

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Idon’tbelieveinanythinganywhereintheworld.

(OnTuesdayssheusedtodo)Yoga

ThelateTonyStratton-SmithoncegavemeaLute;thisisit’sonlyrecordedappearance.Altthebottomstringsweretuned identically…producing the dark low end sound.Lyrically,aspotofself-deprecation’salwaysagoodthing.So’sabitofb/wguitar,musically.

OnTuesdays,sheusedtodoyogawhileI’dsitandwatchtheboxinavegetableway,butalwaysreadytosaytomyselfthatIwasanartist,implyingthatshewasnot.

It’sfunnythewaythatself-pitycantakeoverfromself-esteem—well,Iwastheprinceofpride,andthoughI’dcheatIneverlied,asifthatwereenoughtomakeherhappy,asifthatcouldsatisfyherdreams.

ToolatenowtosaythatI’msosorry,toolatetosaythatIcanchangeandmendthethingsthathurt.Shedidn’tneedtoworry,shealwaysknewI’dgetthereintheend.

NowI’mtyingmyselfupincontortions,don’tknowifyogawilldomeanygood.It’sabouttimeItried,thoughI’dratherbeinsidefromthecold,studyingtantra—still,IneverdidthatwhenIcould.

Ineverdidthethingsthatreallymattered,thereseemedtobesomekeyIcouldn’tfindtounlockmyself;Icouldhavedoneitwithherhelp,butIwastoobusyscrabblingforeachmoment—

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nowIdon’tknowwhatIdidwithallthetime.

SometimesI’dplaythewildrover,sometimesI’djustgetsmashedallday…onTuesdayssheusedtodoyoga,onTuesdayshewentaway.

LostAndFound

Therhythmsection—GuyandNic—arrivedinmid-Walesjustintimeforthesession,directfromPiraeus.Themiddle section is an afterthought/afterintention to «LaRossa», the VdGG song: it was originally intended as acodatothatversion.Betterforittobehere.Ittiesinwiththe conceit of getting in a snatch of «Hi-heel Sneakers».Youcanstillhearmeretuningtheover-hammeredguitarinmid-riffdownattheend!

(Eventhewolfcanlearn,eventhesheepcanturn,eventhefrogbecomeatlasttheprince.)

Nomoreimaginedinsultsandnomorebloatedpride—I’llseeyouatthewedding,I’llseeyouontheothersideandI’llholdmypeaceforeverbutI’llholdmypassionmore…I’llbeholdingthedoorandwaitingfortheprincess—IcouldsayI’mwaitingfortheworldbutwhenitcomesrightdowntoitI’msimplywaitingforthegirl.OnthroughtheringofchangesI’llbeatmysideinasinglebound,lostandfound…lookingtobelostandfound.

LaRossaextendsherhands—inthemorninglightthestigmatadon’tshow.She’salreadyup,makingplans;shethinksit’smaybetimeheoughttogo.Andshe’sfriendlylikeit’saservice

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butshe’sringingroundhisheadthoughheknowsshehasnofurtheruseforhimstillhefeelslikehe’sraisedfromthedead.Outtothecoldgreydaylight,neverevenwondering,ofcourse,ifonemomentofperfectpassionisworthalifetimeofremorse.

Soit’snomoreemptypromisesandnomoreidlethreats;nomore«ifonly»sandnomore«andyet»s;nomorewishesforthefuture,nomoredenialsofthepast:I’mfreeatlast,I’minloveatlast.I’mlostandfound…

(Putonyourreddress,baby.‘Causewe’regoingouttonight,putonyourhigh-heeledsneakers,Everything’sgoingtobealright?)

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TheQuietZone,thePleasureDome(VdGG,1977)

LizardPlay

Frozenmoment,coldbloodtime:theIguanaladyissayinggoodbye.She’snotquiteready,shewantstostay,shewantstobeperfect,butnotintheway.Hetriestobecautious,onemorecigarette,hewantstobeopen,butthetimeisnotyet.

Theytalkaboutpoetry,life-storiestoo;hewantstoknowifshekeepsapetortwo.She’sintolizards,she’sintosnakes,he’sintotrauma—stillgottheshakesfromaladywhoonlytalkeddogsandcatsmakingloveinthealley—shethoughtlikethat…Sohedoesn’tnoticehe’sfallingintoachangeincolourofchameleonskin.

Andthesunbeatsdownonthebakingearthinthelandwherethelizardsplay.Andthetonguesflickout—thoughtheywanttotouchallthewordsgetintheway.Andit’syouandmeandit’sheandsheandit’severythingIsay.

Frozenvision,deafanddumb:stilltryingtoworkoutwhatI’vebecome.Itriedtoreachyou,Itriedtoscore,Ishottheboltontheopendoor…thesecretreaction,basemetaltogold,andallIfeltwasmybloodfroze…Iwalkedonwater—Iwaswearingskis—andnowthewatermustdanceonme.

Anyway,forallthat,willyoudancewithme?willyoudancewithme?

Andthesunbeatsdownonthebakingearthinthelandwherethelizardsplay.Andtheyshedtheirskinsandatlastbegin

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tofindcoloursfortheday.Willyoudancewithme?

TheHabitoftheBrokenHeart

Oh,theSistersofBlindnessfromtheConventoftheBrokenHeart,theywanttosmotheritwithkindness,theywanttotearitallapart.Andthere’sarockofsterilevirtu’inthecentreofthebay…I’msosorryhehurtyou,butdon’tthrowyourselfaway.

Youonlywantedtohavesomefun,youonlywantedtotryit;youonlywantedtobesomeone,buteverybodydeniesit.Why’sitsohardtomakeyoulisten?Don’tgoandchangeyourname…learningtolosecanbethestartofwinningthegame.You’resospecial,suchsadnessseemsashame.

Iknowthatyou’vegotaservicetocatch,Iwouldn’twantyoutomissit,butthere’ssomethingsomismatched,somemotiveinexplicit…isitthecalloftheConvent?

Youonlywantedtofindsomeoneorsomethingmorethanpleasure;penitencefortheChosenOneyoucanindulgeatleisure—bythelightofthesinkingsun,don’tturnyourbackonthetreasure.Whetherornotyouwanttofaceit,you’reabeautifulgirlandyourlay-ladylaughterhasarighttobeheard;butwhatcanIgiveyouifyou’vealreadygottheWord?

Don’tgodon’tstartdon’ttakeon

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theHabitoftheBrokenHeart

TheSirenSong

Lettersinpencil,someofthemasheavyaslead,asdatedascarbon,asblackascoal,butburningasred.Cluesfaintlystencilled:themessage,thoughleeched,isunbled,assecretasmarble—asyoung,asold,asliving,asdead.Andalwaysthatlaughthatcomesasthoughit’sfrompain:thoughI’mlashedtothemaststillithammersroundmybrain.

Laughterinthebackbone,laughterimpossiblywise,thatsamelaughterthatcomeseverytimeIflashonthatlookinyoureyeswhichwhispersofablackzonewhich’llmockallmycredosaslies,wherealllogicisdoneandtimewillsmasheverytheoryIdevise.Andthehour-glassisshatteredonlybythemagicofyourtouchwherenothingreallymatters…No,Nothingmattersverymuch!

Sothesirensongrunsthroughtheages,anditcoursesthroughmyveinslikechampagne;andwithallthesweetkissesofaddictionit’scallingmetobreakmybondsagain.

Futurememoryexplodinglikeshrapnel,somesplintersescapeonmytongue,someofthemscarcomprehension…beneaththescabtheyburn,butthewoundbecomesnumb.Andalwaysthesongdrawsmeforward,rejoicinginthesearchandtheprayer,boredwithallbutthemad,thestrange,thefreak,theimpossibledare.StillyourlaughchillsmymarrowtillIembraceitonmyknees…Oh,whenthemastbecomesaflagpole,whatbecomesofme?

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Whatbecomes,oh,whatbecomesofme?

LastFrame

Prettykeen—yes,myhobbykeepsmebusyandifItalktomyself,what’sthecrime?InthedarkroomIamadealerinspaceandtime…Whenallmemoryismellowed,whenthephotographisyellowed,stillitneverlies.

Thereyouare,youreyeslacedwithsecretpleasure,sayingthatyou’reonthewaytochange,devouringininordinatemeasureeverydiversionthat’sarranged.Foreveryappetite,acruelattraction,butthere’sapanicinyouractions…oh,Ineversawyoulooksostrange.

Fixingmemorychemically,holdingtimeonthestop-clock,hangingbackfromthatlastframejustincaseitdidn’tshowyouinthewayIusedtoknowyou…Ithoughtyou’dalwaysstaythesame.(Butyouwon’t.)

Oh,theredlight,thesilver,theblackandthebromide;thesilence,thewaitingforoverview…Thepastseemsunder-exposed,lowtide,butstilltheimagesghostthrough.Andyou’rethereinthebath,whichisallthishasledto,andIcan’tsayyourpathisarightonetochoose…

ButthenIonlyhaveanegativeofyou.

TheWave

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Thewavehitsthebeach,writingwordsonthesand;totheacademicman,thiscouldbetheanswer…Infact,it’snomorethanahunch.Stillwetrytoeatit—Ithinkwe’reallprettyouttolunch.

Thewaveisoutofreach,trailingwordsfromthehandonlyaircanunderstand.Semaphoreontheshoreline,waitingfordistancetorecede,unhappilyimperfectwhenweshouldbehappyjusttobreathe.

Butwitheachbatedbreath,sopresent,tense,wewanttoknow,wewantitsure,itdon’tmakesense!SoI’lldomineandyoudoyoursbutlet’snottradesandandseaforbrickandcement.

Thewavehitsthebeach,lapsaroundabandonedclothes,wantstoshareajokewiththosewho’llbravethebreakers,who’llbreakbreadratherthanpraywhilethedefinition-maker’slostinthesmallprintoftheday.Thewordsareonlypicturesthatthenextwavewipesaway.

Cat’sEye/YellowFever(Running)

Iwaswalkingintheevening,Iwaslookingforsomethinggood,clean,fine,pure,straight,butinsteadIfoundthebunkerwallandgate.Itwasopen:Iwasfree.Igaveatokenguarantee,thoughIlaterknewIhadpromisedmore,withanI.O.U.Icouldscarcelyscoremyway…butIheraldApocalypseanyway!(Iwasaprimebelieverinthefaithof«I»—

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yellowfeverinthecat’seye.)Andit’severythingyouwant/own/love/hate/touch/dream/trust.Andit’severythingyouneed.Igotaheartlikearocket,Iwasoutofcontrol,I’dcleanedoutmypocketsforsomelucktoshow…Reallylookinglikeahopelesscase,Ifounditinmyhand,itwastheAngryAce.Hewantstotalktome,oneonone,hewantstogivemehisprofessionalopinion…butI’mrunning,Ijustcan’twait,Ihaven’tgotamomenttoanticipate;yes,I’mrunning,Ijustcan’tstop,I’vegottogettothebottomjusttogettothetop,I’vegotthedarkalleysandtheopenskies—Igottheyellowfeverfromthecat’seye.

I’llletyouknowhowitgoesintheninthlife.

TheSphinxintheFace

Irememberwhatitfeltlikeatseventeen:Iwasacat,asnake,alizard,amouse…stillgotaninterestinthelimousineandaspouseandabrat,countryhouse,Londonflat.

I’mgonnaheadfortheislandwhenthesummer’sout,I’mgonnadoallthestuffthatIcan,drinklikeafishinawaterspout—I’mafanoftheflow,itbeganlongago,I’mamanwhoshouldknowitdoesn’tstop.

There’ssomuchtoremember,somuchtoforget:we’reallinthepossessionofthefuturetense,butdon’tknowityet.Thefleshcomesthroughthespirit,thespiritthroughtheflesh…welooktheSphinxinthefaceforanswers

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and,ofcourse,we’rereallynotimpressed.We’recaughtbetweenageandbeauty,experienceandyouth,sowefeeltheneedacutelyforanykindofTruth.

Oh,butwegetcoppedsomedays,caughtbetweenoptionswe’vefailedtoplay,suchwastedchance.SoIjointhewastrel’sdance:ithasslowaswellasfastmovements,andanychangemustbeanimprovementonsimplyfossilising,standingstill.

IgotasteadyvocationfortheQuietZone,Ijustcan’twaitforthesongtobesung,I’mstillpossessedbythepromiseofthePleasureDome

You’resoyoung,soold,suchadragtobetold.

Youresohere,sogone,sonear,sowrong,soqueer,sostrong,so…

Suchadragtobetold…

ChemicalWorld

«Wellwhat’stheharm?It’sgoodcleanfun…whydon’tyoujustgoonandhaveanotherone?Whenthere’shanky-pankyintheboardroom,wooly-bullyonthefarm,what’stheharm?It’squiteallright—Imeantosay,tomorrow’sjustanotherday…»

Oh,butinthemorning,butinthemorninglightwillyoustillfeelasfine,willyoustillneedtotradedayfornight?

Inthecountryoftheblind,theone-eyedmanisking;inthecountryofthesheep,theycallhimCyclops.Andthequalityofmindissuchatenuousthingthathereyouneeditlikeablindmanneedseyedrops.

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Getoutofthatbackroom,thisvacuum,itattractsyou,butinfactyoudon’tknowquitewhatitis;you’rebeingsappedofeverythingyouoncevaluedsohighly…Willyoustillfeelasstrong,willyoustilllongforweaknesstocome?

It’saChemicalWorld…notacandidateeverfails;thoughyousearchfortheHolyGrailyou’renotgoingtofinditintheChemicalWorld.

Asleepertrain…youcan’tescape;fastovernight…theticker-tape.Ohbutinthemorning,butinthemorninghazewillthemarkethaveturned,willtherebenomoredayslefttotrade?

It’stheChemicalWorldandfromthemomentthatit’sembracedit’stheChemicalWorldallthediamondsturntopasteintheChemicalWorld…Yeah,youthinkyou’lllooksopretty—it’sgonnablowupinyourface.

«It’sjustthetime,soslowtopass.It’sjustthedrug…itdoesn’tlast…»

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Vital(VdGG,1978)

ShipOfFools

Thecaptain’sinacoma,thelieutenant’sonadrunk,theowner’sinhiscabinwithhisspecialfriend,themonk,themidget’sonthebridge,dispensingplatitudesandjunk…Thosewildandspecialplaces,thosestrangeanddangerousplaces,thosesad,sweetfaces,it’saShipofFools.

Thenurseinblackseamedstockings,she’salreadyonpatrolforfakefurstarletspanickedbythewatering-hole;everybody’swaitingforthedramatounfoldinthosecoldandtreasuredplaces,thoseoldanddegenerateplaces…thoseposed,posed,emptyfacesit’saShipofFools.

Run,rabbit,run,you’retheonlyonethatcandoit;turn,baby,turn,there’saringoffireandyou’vegottogothroughit.

Fun,baby,fun,whenthesandshaveruntothelimitturn,baby,turn,there’saringoffireandyou’reinit.

Lookingforlogicandadventuredownthedarkendofthestreet,opencity,openseason,openlipsthatgleamsosweetofferkisseslikepiranhastothesoftfleshofyourfeetandanyman’spoisoniseveryman’smeatinthosemadandspecialplaces,thosesadanddesparateplaces,thosesad,sweetsoulembraces,it’saShipofFools.

Thosestrangeandspecialplacesthosewildanddangerousplaces,thosedead,dead,deadfaces…it’saShipofFools;

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norules.

Sci-Finance

Yougotsomesharesinaspeculativeventure,yougotsomestockinagilt-edgedbond,youstretchedouttightbythetermsofdebenture,thegameison…Youchasethebullsineternalcorrida,thethoughtoflossismorethanyoucanbear,youscantheindexforamarketleader,atipandaprayer.

Youbetterseedaylight:nightcomesontheCitysosoon.Yousayyouareachristiancapitalist,butyoudancetoadifferenttune.

Jobsfortheboysanddolefortheshop-floor;rationalize,striptheassetsandrun.Ifthecontractstalls,thenyou’vejustgottocopmore,ain’tMonopolyfun?Youmadesomeprettydealsalongtheway,JudasandFaustareinaccord.Whentherevolutioncomesyoumaybeblownaway,butIbetyou’llendupontheboard…

Onlythemoney.Onlythemoney.

Sometimeinthefutureyoumayrealisethatthedayyoumadeyourdecisiontofollowmoneyasagoalwasyoudarkestdawnandthat,sincethen,youhaveveneratedfiguresasdeitiesand,foryou,peoplearejustpawns.

Butthatdealincludesyou:you’rejustanassetliketherestandyou,too,strippednaked,begtheMoney-Godnottoputyoutothetest.

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He’sgotnofurtheruseforyou.Now,thereissilenceonthefloor.

Clevermoney-computerschatterprivately.Nopeopleanymore.Onlythemoney.

Door

He’sablindman,crouchingbythepavement,onlyseeingwithhisthirdeyeandclutchingattheastralshadowofeverypasser-by.

He’sawiseman,trumpingalltheanswers;she’sawildgirl,tryingtokeephisfeetonthefloorinwhisperedphysicallitanies:«Stayawayfromthedoor.»

«Oh,butwe’reallinthistogether,»hesays,«three-leggedraceacrossthefloor;ifonlyyou’dloosenthehandkerchiefthenI’dforgetaboutthedoor.»

«Ooh,thatfeelssomuchbetter,»hesays,«nowyouforgeteverythingthatI’vesaidbeforeandsitthereallbyyourselfwhileIwalkthroughthedoor.»

They’reablindmancrouchingbythepavement,onlyseeingwithhisthirdeye,andclutchingattheastralshadowofthedoorofaroomcalled‘I’.

Urban

Sometimeslivingforthemoment,sometimesgoingwiththeflow,

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sometimesprofessingtobeanexponentofthequietlifewhilenightlifesurroundsmeIsitandgocrazyalone.

Toomanypeopleandtoolittleactiontoomuchexterioracting,toolittleinside…yetIstillfeelthatmanicattraction.I’velivedinthecityformostofmylifeandsupposeI’llbetherewhenIdie,stillgoingthroughthesameoldmotionsstillqualifyingeverythingIsay,respondingurbanelytoeveryemotion.Thecitylifefreaksme,thecitylifefeedsme,thecitylifeblowsmeaway.

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TheFutureNow(1978)

PushingThirty

Seemsthefashion’sforone-linersthesedays,thekindthatgetupeveryone’snose,somuchback-slappingthatthevertabraearefatallyexposed…Me,I’mpushingthirty,pullingsixteen,thoughmuchofwhat’saroundmeisdead.TheygotsoshirtywhenItriedtogleanthemeaningfromwhatthey’dsaid:«Ifyouwannabeaviableartistwhenyou’retwenty-fiveyou’dbetterbeameat-headbythetimeyou’retwenty-one.»ButnowI’mpushingthirtyandI’mstillalive,sotellmewho,tellmewhohaswon?

Seethesurvivorsintheupcomingacts,theyandthemogulsmakearegularkilling—otherstakeitlyingontheirbacks,youngbloodisalwayssowilling.Me,I’mpushingthirty,that’sthewayitis,toolatetochangemymind.Theyplayitdirtyintherecordbizandyou’vegottotoetheline.IfyouwannabeanA&Rmanwhenthesinging’sdoneyou’dbettermakesurethatyouhedgeyourbets.Me,I’mpushingthirtyandstillhavingfun,Ihaven’tstopped,haven’tstoppedthatyet!

Allthewriterswatcheachotherforthewaytogo,followeachotherlikelemmings—swearthey’reallwaitingforNickyLowetoturnoutlikeDavidHemmings…Me,I’mpushingthirtyandthesteadyzone,perhapsIshouldretire,butevenifitalldesertsmeandI’mleftaloneIstillknowthatI’mfuelledbyfire.Inthisrubbishworldyou’vegottokeepthatunderthelid,‘costheyallhopeit’lldisappear…buteventhoughI’mpushingthirty,maybeontheskids,Istillcanbe,Istillcanbe

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Nadir!

TheSecondHand

Seetheoldmanactinglikeafool,runningfromtheambulance.Whenhewasayoungsterhebrokealltherules—nowhesaysthatwasjustaccident.Alwayshadthefeelinghewasgoingtodieyoung,sonowhefeelsrepentant;butthejudgewasprogressiveandthejurywashung,hegotasuspendedsentence.Soheranfromthefuture,heranfromthepast,heranfromthedesertofthehour-glassbuttheseaoftimeisarisingfloodandhe’sswampedbythewave.Hisarmsgolimpbyhisside,heonlycamefortheride,hethoughthe’dholdbackthetide,Canute.

Oneeyeonthemainchanceandoneeyeontheclock,oh,whendidhisbraingo?Andwhendoesaveterangettobeacrock…nogoldattheendofthisrainbow!Healwaysboxedcleverwithhisshadowyhopesbutnowhe’sintroublewithhisbackontheropesandthehandsoftimearebunchedintofists:he’soutforthecount.Theswordhassunkinthelakeandnowhe’swatchingdawnbreakandnowhewaitsforthestake,Drakul.

Thisboy’safool,thisfool’saman,allmenareruledbythesecondhand.

Trappings

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Hecouldhavebeensogreat,hecouldhavehaditall,hehaditonaplate,buthethrewitatthewall.Andhecan’tknowwhy,buthestillsaid«yes»totheeasylieandthepoisonedvest…thetrappingsofsuccess.

Theyofferedhimthedeal(Here’sthecontract)justlikeanautograph(signontheline)noneedtothinkorfeel(advancesareabstract)ordoanythingbutlaugh(thefuturedefined.)He’sinpossession,yeshe’spossessed;theyhadnofear,hewassoimpressedbythetrappingsofsuccess.

You’llseehimdowntheclubsoratthepremiere(it’sjustanothermovie,it’sjustanotheract)stumminginapub,everywherethat’sanywhere…(he’samanofthepeople,justaslongasthepeopledon’ttalkback)

ontheRioshoreortheRomeexpresswithaChinesewhoreoraGreekprincess…thesearethetrappingsofsuccess.

Buthe’sgotnohomeandhe’sgotnofriendsandthehumanmassrepelhim.Nowhe’sonhisownandcan’tcomprehenddidheselloutorwashecelledin?

(He’saprisonerinagildedcage.He’saprisoner…he’salltherage.)

He’swaitingforhisplaneandhisfirst-classseat;they’veblownouthisbrainswithstickykiddies’sweets;thelimo,thecoke,thecelebrityguest-list,thetoadyjokesandthegutterpress…thetrappingsofsuccess,thesearethetrappingsofsuccess.

Thetrappingsofsuccess,thetrapoffame;(in)thetrap…biggame.

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TheMousetrap(CaughtIn)

Afterallissaidanddone,notverymuchwillhavebeeneitherway:I’machroniclerofaction,I’manactorintheplay.IknowthelinesIhavetospeak,IknowthatIwon’teverquit,corpse,ordry,buttheperformancegetssopointlessandthedaysjustdriftonby.EverytimethatIgototurnthepagesofthecalendarinthethirdactofthistwenty-ninthyearoftheshowI’mawareofthelatestleadingladyandgetmadather…it’sperfunctory,butwhyshe’llneverknow.

WhenIbeganIhadmyhopes,believedthatIcouldbealeadinglightofthestage,butnowI’vestunnedmyselftosilence,exhaustedallmyinnerrage,extinguishedallmyjoyandviolence,trappedallmyfeelingsinacage.EverytimethatIgototurnthepagesofthecalendarIcanseethatI’mnotreallygoinganywhere;alltheseyearsIhaveskirtedroundexperiencelikeascavenger.CanIreallyfeel?IwonderifIdare?Attheendoftherun,willtherebeanyonewhocares?Andbehindtheactor’spose,heavenknowsifthere’sanyoneleftinthere.

EnergyVampires

Ah, that faithful old 3 3/4 ips Revox echo! This trackwasoriginallytenminuteslong,butwasreducedbydrasticediting of the multitrack tape…cut and live with it!Recordedinmid-winterinarentedhousewherethecentralheatingsentclicksalloverthetape;soIhad.toturnitoffandwork swathed in sweaters. I shouldpointout that theEV is a specific type, rather than yer «average fan» —whoeverthatmightbe.

Hunchedinthecornerofthedressing-room,tryingtogetbacktothereal…Uh-oh,heretheycome,readyfortheirmeal:

EnergyVampires,crawlingoutofthewall,

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theywanttostealmyvitality,theywanttodrinkitall.

Thisguysaysthathewroteallmysongs,thisgirlsaysshe’shadmybaby—me,Idon’tknowthemfromAdamandEve,sometimesIreallybelieveI’mgoingcrazy.

«ExcusemewhileIsuckyourblood,excusemewhenIphoneyou,I’vegoteveryoneofyourrecords,man,doesn’tthatmeanIownyou?»Oh,sure,Ilongagodecidedtomakemyselfanexponentofpublicpossessionintheprivateobsessionzone.

ButnowI’mserious,let’sbeserious,I’mnotsellingyoumysoul,trytoputitintherecordsbutI’vegottokeepmylifemyown.OnethingI’venotgotalotofistimeandit’sslippingaway…

I’vegotalifetolivetoo.

IfICould

Youmustbecrazytostayhere,andI’llbecrazywhenyougo;thoughthere’ssomuchIwanttotellyouallthewordscomeouttooslow.I’vebeenlockedinmyproblems,youseemedpreparedtowait…nowthatIknowI’mgoingtoloseyouallthewordscomeouttoolate.There’snopromiseIcangiveyouthatyouwouldn’tknowwasfake;thoughIjustwanttobewithyou,there’snoshowthatIcanmake.Andinthemorning,whenIwakeandfindyoudressingIcantellthatit’sonyourmindtogoforgood;IknowthatallthistimeI’vekeptyouguessing,butI’dtellyouifIcould.

IfInowsaidthatIlovedyouhowwouldthatseeminyoureyes?Oh,maymyvoicefallintosilenceifmywordsturnouttobelies.

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Inevermeanttohurtyou,eventhoughthat’swhatIdo—eventhoughyoumightnotbelievethisallmywordsweremeantforyou.There’snopromiseIcangiveyouthatyouwouldn’tknowwasfake;thoughIjustwanttobewithyou,there’snoshowthatIcanmake.Andintheevening,whenwesitandwatchtheTVIknowthatthissilencejustwon’tdomeanygoodandIwanttobegyou,begyou,begyoutobelieveme…I’dtellyouifIcould,I’dtellyouifIcould.

TheFutureNow

Hereweare,staticinthelatterhalfofthetwentiethcenturybutitmightaswellbetheMiddleAges,there’llhavetobesomechangesbuthowthey’llcomeaboutfoxesme.Iwantthefuturenow,Iwanttoholditinmyhands;allmenequalandunbowed,Iwantthepromisedland.

butthatdoesn’tseemtogetanycloser,andMoseshashadhisday…thetabletsoflawareanadvertisingposter,civilizationheretostayandthisisprogress?Youmustbejoking!Me,I’mlookingforanykindofhope.Iwantthefuturenow,Iwanttoseeitonthescreen,Iwanttobreaktheboundsthatmakeourlivessomean.

Oh,blind,blinded,blindinghatredofrace,sex,religion,colour,countryandcreed,thesescreamfromthepagesofeverythingIread.Youjustbringmeoppressionandtorture,apartheid,corruptionandplague;youjustbringmetherapeoftheplanet

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andjokeworldrightsattheHague.Oh,somedaytheMillennium!Buthowfarissomedayaway?IwantthefuturenowI’myoung,andit’smyright.Iwantareasontobeproud.Iwanttoseethelight.Iwantthefuturenow,Iwanttoseeitonthescreen,Iwanttobreakthebounds:makelifeworthmorethandreams.

StillInTheDark

Oh,brighterthanathousandsuns,themarchtowardsthestarsonthewheel,onthecar,offtheplane,offtheplanetandoninthesearch.Yes,weprayinthedarkintheSciences’church.

Uponthetreeofknowledgethefruitisbitter-sweet;tothemaninthestreetallitsmyriadbenefitsScienceconfersbutwe’restillinthedark,muchaswealwayswere.

RunyourminddowntheSciences;noneofthemlayclaimtoshowmorethanapartbutstillweshoutoutwhatweknowthesilenceisenoughtobreakthemortalheart.

Sobowdowninadorationtothewonderthatisman;wehavelearnedallwecan,weexploreeveryfrontierthatstraddlesourwaybutwe’restillinthedark,thoughwenowcallitday.

No,thereisnoanswer,thereisnoeternalproof,thereisnotimelesstruth;thoughwelearntoencompassyetmorewiththeeyewearestillinthedarkwhenitcomestothewhy.

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Wearestillinthedark,beddeddownandsowestilllie.

Mediaevil

Godlivesinthecathedral,orsothearchbishopstates,allfealtytotheChurch,allpowertothestate!

Goldkeystothecathedral,theygowiththebishop’scowl;helivesaspirituallifeofmaterialwealth.Arethingssoverydifferentnow?

Ohyeahohnow:saveyourprayersforthefuture.Sayyourprayersforthefuture.

Oh,God’sgonefromthecathedral,adifferentpowernowholdssway,wecanpackthemupinthehistorybooksbuttheMiddleAgeswon’tgoaway.AndtheanswertoourprayersisaValiumbythebedside,nowwefollowthepunditsonTV,nowweputourfaithinScienceandprogressandonlyhavesexuponourknees.

AndthosewhoarestrangearestilllockedinasylumsandasterilePopeproscribesthePillandthosewhoarericharestillgettingricherandthosewhoarepoorstillfootthebill.AndGodlivesinundergroundsilos,hangingonforJudgementday;ifwedon’topenoureyesprettysoonthentheDarkAges’llbeheretostay.

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AMotor-bikeInAfrika

Amotor-bikeinAfrica,he’sridingthewhiteline,obliviousofsnakesstretchedoutacrossthewayliketrip-wire,shouting«Theroadismine!»

Tracingthelineoftheskeletoncoast,ghostridersfromtheSud-West:theoriginalangelsofdeaththeyseem,sixmotor-bikesabreast.

Ridingthroughtheoppressivenight,nowonlythehardestremain.Lookatthescarsofthetyre-tracks,looktothebodiesbehindtheirbacks,lookatthebastardsbrayinAfricatoday.

ThebodiesofBikoandSowetopoor,theChristianmessageofDutchReform,thesoundofthemonster,themotor-bikeroar,thehateintheeyesoftheuniformedBoer,theheadandthebucket,thebootandthefloor…racialtortureandracialwarinAfricatoday.

ComeinRhodesia,SouthAfrica,yourtimeisup…noprotectiononamotor-bike;soonerorlaterthenormaltraffic’sgonnagetyou.

TheCut

Everythingoutofordereverythingtoowellproducedfromtheconjuror’shat—let’sturnonthejuicetogrindthecuttingplane,thebladethatgivesanedge,toscalethemountain;tofailuponthemountainledge.

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Half-wayupishalf-waypeakingthestroboscopelocksthelathe;Ilookaroundforaswitchinphase…thediscoboomstandsfirm,theeight-track’sin,theragelicksthepresent,quicklyflipsthefuturepage.

Checkthedeck:nomarkedcards,nosequentialledstraightorflush…thedicewon’tstilltheblood-linerush.Runthestar-floodnight,thecut-throatbladeisstropped;raceyourshadow…raceincaseyourshadowstops.

Everythingsooutofordernobiasontheplaybackhead;papersfortheborder—allthetapeisread,thefutureburnsmytongue,thenoise-gatesallareshut,breathethevacuum,believethere’sreasoninthecut.

Incipientwhitenoise,thestylusbarelytracks,theaircontrollersfeedthestereosonicsmack.

Palinurus(Castaway)

Oh,I’mlookingforawhitenotetoconsolidatethekey,likethepilotofanightboatinastrange,unchartedsea:Palinurus,asunsureashecanbeofhisdirection…hell,thissection’sallGreektome.

There’ssomuchIhadtomentionbutitseemstoslipmymind;still,Iswearthatmyintentionsneverleftmyhopesbehindlikethecaptainwho’sbeentrappedintheblindeyeofthewhirlwind…soheturnsinsearchofthedivine.

I’vegotnoanswerseither,I’vegotsomestoriesonluckydays…thesea-lanesarecrowdedwithpeoplelikeus:Castaways.

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Fromsopranothroughtobassomyvoicesostrainstotell,butI’mlostintheSargassoofideasthatdidn’tgelbyafraction,sotheactionisdispelled.Me,I’vegotdullreactions,protractionofdoubtaswell,soit’snomoreabidewithme,overthesidewithme…well,Iknowthatdamnwell…

Oh,thishump-backofemotion,itallseemstogosofast:onemomentprinceoftheoceanandthenextupontheraft.

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pH7(1979)

MyFavourite

InmytimeI’vetoldalieortwo,I’vebeenadeceiver,butbelievemewhatInowsayistrue.There’snootherwayIcanexpresswhatI’mthinkingof:You’remyfavourite,you’retheonethatIlove.

It’saone-horserace,stillI’mreadytoplacemybet.I’maprettyslowstarter,andIhaven’tquitecaughtupwithityet.Itseemssoextraordinarythatyoushouldcareforme.You’remyfavourite—howluckycananymanbe?

You’remyfavourite—willyoustaythecoursewithme?

You’remyfavouriteofalltime.You’remyfavourite,can’tyousee?You’remyfavouriteofalltime.Sayyou’llstaythecoursewithme.

Careering(Don’tAskMe)

Idon’tknow,can’tyouseeI’mjustpassingthrough,fastasyou—don’taskme.

Careeringoutofcontroldisappearingdowntheblackhole,careering—thewhiteman’ssoulstandsstarknakedinthefloodlightglare,standsstarkravingonthestrap.I’vehadthefeelingthatI’vebeentherebutIcan’tquitebelieveit.

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Idon’tknow,can’tyouseeI’mjustpassingthrough,fastasyousodon’taskme.

Careering,simplydaytoday,engineeringeverythingIsay,careeringfortheworkandthepay.I’mjustapassengerpassingthrough,I’mjustanaveragechap.IfIsaidIhadn’tgotacluethere’dstillcomethequestions.

Idon’tknow,can’tyouseeI’mjustanothercaseofwastedspacesodon’taskme.

Careering,myapprenticeshipnonearerthanmypensionslip;careeringdowntheCrestaRun,Iscrewitupjustlikeanyone;careering—pointlessanywaytodoitjustfortheworkandthepay.

Lookhere:Idon’tknow,can’tyouseeI’msoneartheend,getitstraight,friend—don’taskme,don’taskme,don’taskme.

PortonDown

Won’thearasoundatPortonDown,theclearliquidskeeptheirsilence,buriedundergroundatPortonDownthefastformofthefinalviolence.

Quiterighttobeworriedabouttheproliferationofnuclearbombsandpowerstations,butthere’sadeterrentthat’sgoingtounearthusyet…

HurryonroundaboutPortonDown,aquickglimpseofthefuturewarfarehiddenundergroundatPortonDown;

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fartoofrighteningtoutterwhatyousawthere.

Theygotbacteriatodropuswherewestand,theygotdiseasesstillunknowntoman,theygotthevirusandamicrogram’senoughtodoinacontinent.

Theultimatemadness,justoneshatteredtest-tubetowipeouttheworld.

Itbeginswiththemustardgas,itproceedstoHiroshima.Theculturemoveson—nowit’sbacterial,trulyinsane.PortonDownwaitstofeverthebrain.

Won’thearasoundatPortonDown,theclearliquidskeeptheirsilenceburiedundergroundatPortonDown,thefastformofthefinalviolence.HurryonroundaboutPortonDownaquickglimpseofthefuturewarfare,hiddenundergroundatPortonDown,fartoofrighteningtosaywhatyousawthere.

NosoundatPortonDown,fromPortonDown,afterPortonDown.

MirrorImages

IfI’mthemirrorandyou’retheimagethenwhat’sthesecretbetweenthetwo,these«me»sand«you»s,howmanycantherebe?Oh,Idon’tmindallthataroundtheplace,aslongasyoukeepitwellawayfromme.

I’vebeguntoregretthatweevermetbetweenthedimensions.Itgetssuchastraintopretendthatthechangeisanythingbutcheap;withyourinfantpiqueandyourangstpretensions

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sometimesyouactlikesuchacreep.

AndnowI’mstandinginthecorner,lookingattheroomandthefurnitureincheapimitationofalienationandgrief.Andnowwe’regoingtothekitchen,fixourselvesadrinkandacigarette,gettingnoclosertobeingthejokerorthief.

Still,Ireflect,thisnervouswreckwhostandsbeforemecanseeaswell,cansurelytellthathe’snotyetfree;hecanturnaside,butcannomoreignoremethanknowwhichoneofusishe,thantellwhatwearegoingtobe,thanknowwhichoneofusisme.

Andnowwe’regoingtothekitchen,fixourselvesadrinkandacigarette,gettingnoclosertobeingthejokerorthief.

Thesemirrorimages,thesemirrorimageswon’tstay,goaway,arenohelp.

Inthesemirrorimagesofmyselftherearenosecrets.

HandicapandEquality

Allmenarebornequalatthemomenttheyarrive:checkthelimbsandsenseswerequiretosurvive.Butsomecomedeafanddumbandblinded,somehavedamagetotheirbrains;parentsconstantlyremindedthatthey’llneverplaythenormalchildren’sgames.Theymaynotbenormal,butthey’repeoplejustthesame.

IfChristhadbeenborndefectivetofulfiltheFather’splanwouldhebeaseasilyacceptedasGodmademan

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ordoesthehumanvaluealterinthecrippledhumanframe?Thoughthetongueandfingersfaltermustweshutthemoutandshutthemup,andshutthecaseandwhisper«suchashame».That’showweshutthemaway.

Mostofusarelucky,freefromaccidentsatbirthbuttheirvictimsshareourrighttotheinheritanceofearth.Foralltheirgrunts,theirstumps,theirtumours,theireternalwheelchairs,we’rethefreaks,we’retheinhumans,ifwecloseoureyesandturnaside,pretendthatifwedothey’llnotbethere…They’vegottofaceit,sowe’vegottofaceit.Stillthey’vegottolivewithitinaworldwesupposedlyshare.

NotForKeith

In a general sense this song is all-too-uncomfortablymodern.KeithwasKeithEllis, theoriginalVanderGraafbassplayer.OtherwiseIthinkthesongitselfsaysallthatisnotprivate.

InGermany,hisdaysfinallycaughthim;Iwon’tinsulthismemorywithlong-distancegrief.Tearsandwakesweren’thisstyle:nothim,notforKeith.

He’dhavelaughedinmyfaceifhesawitgetmournful,he’dpullmeupshortandsay«Lifecarrieson»inthatgentlewayofbeingcruellyscornful…nowhe’sgone.

«Iwanttoseeitall,andeatit»wasasclosetoethosashecame;thoughheknewhecouldn’tbeatit,henevergaveofhimselfanythinglessthanbestinthegame.

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Oh,oneforthegame…

Ineverdidsay,Ineverquitefoundtime—hetaughtmealot,andIcarryitstill.NeverthankedhimatallforhisfriendshipandnowIneverwill.

Thediarieswewritearethosethatwecravefor,weneverputtheP.S.atthefootofthefinalpage.Hedeservedmoretime,butheneverwasmadeformiddleage,notformiddleage.NotforKeith.

TheOldSchoolTie

Ohthebrightyoungmenintheirtight-buttonedsuits:thelightbeamsoutfromcappedsmilestotheshinesontheirlick-spittlebooks.Ohthesesharpyoungsparkswiththeirfreshrosettes—yeh,theartfulwaythattheypromisetheearthtoallsuffragettes.Whattheywon’tpromisewedon’tknowyet.Theysaythey’rebuild—andshapingsocietybutweknowthey’rejustsavingfortheirownsafehomeinpolitics.Anythinggoes:lookatthemrun.

Comefromeveryside,nosesPinocchioclean;lockinsynchromesh,oilthewheelsandthegearsofthepartymachineandthefinalgoalisacabinetseat…inthetrappingsofpower,thepresumptiontospeakforthemaninthestreet.Oncetheymovein,they’reinforgood;yeh,oncetheygetthatbedmadeit’sasafehomeinpolitics.Jobsfortheboys:lookatthemrun.

There’sjustonethingnoneofusshouldforget:apoliticalmanisjustinitforthepowerandthesmellofsucess.Sure,somestartoutasidealists—

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prettysoontheyallcopforidealcareersandasafehomeinpolitics,acushyjobinpolitics;lookatthemrun.

Thepoliticiansfightitoutontheconningtowerbuttheyallagreenottorocktheboat..AsafehomeinpoliticsIt’sbuiltonyourvote.

TimeForAChange

Timeforachange:Ifeltbad,thingslookedstrange.Home,homeontherange…yes,it’stimeforachange.

«Well,youngman,whenyougrowupwhatdoyouwanttobe?»«Please,sir,ifthat’salrightI’dreallyratherliketolearnhowtobeme.»

Switchonthelight,gettinglate,almostnight.Ashillingputsyouright,youcanswitchoffthenight.

Theworldwaslookingstretchedandtight,it’sanoverblownballoon.I’vegotthefeelingsomethingbighasgottohappensoon.

Oh,timeforachange,outofreach,outofrange.GoandtellDoctorStrangethatit’stimeforachange.

(ChrisJudgeSmith)

ImperialWalls

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Strangetobeholdisthestoneofthiswallbrokenbyfate.

Thestrongholdsareburstentheworkofgiantsdecayingtheroofsarefallenthetowersaretotteringmoulderingpalacesrooflessweather-markedmasonryshatteringShelterstime-scarredtempest—marredunderminedofold.

Earth’sgraspholdethitsmightybuilderstumbled,crumbled,ingravel’sharshgriptillahundredgenerationsofmenpassaway.

(Anonymous8thcenturySaxon)

Mr.X(GetsTense)

Thecurrentaffairgetstobemybusiness,Iheardthenewsontheradio:thesunonearth…whatisthis?Isthatthewaythatthecrazygoes?

Attentiontunedtothesatellites,lookingdownforanoverview.Inthechapelofspaceweareacolytes.Inthebattleoftimewe’reallsoldierstooandtherelativechoirpushtheenergyhigherUnderfire.

Theslidingshowinthemacroscopic,fingeronthebuttonpointingtoprogress.Theapparatusroll,no-oneherecanstopit,toobusylearningmore—alwaysknowingless.Soonturkey-wrappedinthespacemanblanketwe’llofferuplameduckapologiesandsettledownforthefinalbanquet,

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thegourmetdishoftechnology…cryogenicdevicecatchesallhumanlifeunderice.

Thecurrentaffairgetstobeallourbusinness,it’sfilteredinthroughtheT.V.screen.Thenorm,theaverage…whatisthis,whenitgoesblankwhatdoesthatallmean?Andwhat’sthedriveofeachindividual?Andwhat’sthewaythatthestoryends?IsitMr.X,leftasthelastresidualholderoftheflame,conscienceofallmen?Buthe’ssotensetoexpirehethrowshimselfonthewireunderfire.

Isthisthewaytheworldends?Underice,underfire?Hastherebeensomemistakendesign?Undericegottofindthehumanvoice.Lord,deliverusfromBabel.

FacultyX

Hopebyandby,hopebyandby—motesintheeye,portcullisisshut…askullisn’tmuchofacastletoliveinwhenthechangeisgoingtocome,thechangehasgottocome.

Explosionsinthebrainattesttoit.evolutiondownthedrain—letalltherestdoit.

Ohyeah,theonlyresultiscumulativedrek.Itwon’tbethedrug,itwon’tbethesex,it’sgottobetheFacultyX

Lookingforamethod,Iplayastraightbat,throwawaythechancestoslip.

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Yeah,youtalkabouttheaverage—Idon’tcareaboutthatandmywordsareonlygivingmelip

WhenIknowthatthechangehasgottocome,orwhatamIlivingfor?OrwhyamIhere?I’mrunning,Igiveinmore,farawayfromthenear.

Gometa-physicalworld,hesignthatprotectsItwasn’tthelast,itwon’tbethenext,it’sFacultyX.

Readingseers,sages,prophets,obscurantisttracts,drainingtheelixirtothedregs;activeyeastinthebottomisontheattackanditleavesmewithoutanylegstostandon.

StillIhopethatthechangewillcome

MeanwhileIdon’tknow,IthinkI’llhavetogo,goforthegoverningbodymyconsciousnesselects.Itwon’tbesoclear,itwon’tbedirect,it’sallthatIfear,it’sallIsuspectandI’lldisappearinFacultyX

Ipluckallthesecharactersoutofthinair,Ipushthemdownintothelungs;IinfusethemwithmeaningasmuchasIdare.

Stretchoutfortheshorelineandwaitforthewave…

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ABlackBox(1980)

GoldenPromises

BesiegedinthebattlementsofBabylon,stilllookingforahat-pegyoucanhangyourheadupon—nowyou’vefoundaplaceyouthinkisAvalon:youcantalktoanyonehere.Youcanthrowyourarmsaroundyournearestneighbourandthesmilingones’lltellyouthatyou’vesavedher,thatshe’ssavedyou…Theyofferthegoldenpromises,theinstantlydivine;youswallowthegoldenpromiseshook,sinkerandline.

Ifyouchoosetothrowyoursoularoundtheattitudereasoningandindependentthoughtgodownthetubeasyougoslaveringaftereveryinaneplatitude—howweakyoufindyourselfhere.Doyoureallyneedtoloseyourselfcompletely?Howcomeyouseemtorateitallsocheaply?It’ssoweak-kneedtogoforthegoldenpromises,mail-orderholyvows;yougoforthegoldenpromises—Ithinkyoureallyoughttoknowbetterbynow.

SoIdomybestandIdomynut,Itrytoexplainalltheseanglesbutyouturnaway.Oh,nowyou’relookinginthewhiteofmyeyes,andyouknowwhatI’mgoingtosay:don’tgoforthegoldenpromises,don’tgofortheeasyway…It’srighthereonthedoorstep:fool’sgold—don’tthrowyourlifeaway.

LosingFaithinWords

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Ijustcan’tseewhyyoucan’tseewhatImean,butIcan’tmakethingsanyplainer,thewordsgetintheway—isthatquitewhatImean?Ifnotnow,thencertainlysoonerorlaterwe’vegotaproblemwithcommunication—look,IscrabblewithmyhandsItrytogetsomehead-roomfromtheelevationbutyoujustdon’tunderstand

Mostofthethingswesaymeanwemostofthetimetreatourspeechwithderision,flapourhandsinbody-telegram—Iknowthatgetsthroughsomuchbetterthananythingsaidwithprecision.We’vegotaproblemwithcommunicationandit’sgettingquiteabsurd…well,IthinkI’mgoingtoflipoutfromthesheerfrustration,yes,I’mlosingfaithinwords.

We’vegotaproblemwithcommunication,onlygettingthroughinanagrams—Itrytogetsomelinkagefromarticulation,Itrytogetsomehead-roomfromtheelevation,Itrytopullbacksomethingfrommyeducation…Yes,Itryto,tryto,trytobutIjustdon’tunderstand,Itry,Ijustdon’tunderstand,Italk,youjustdon’tunderstand.

SometimesIdon’tknowwhyIbother,butI’mbothered.

TheJargonKing

Heprescribesthesubjectheproscribesoutsidershistermshaveagoldenring.Hewantstofindsomeorderquantifyingchaosinwordsthatallthechildrensing.HetabulatesthelexiconvocabularyminimisedbowdowntotheJargonKing.

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Allquestionsbecomesosimpleifweeattheinaneanswerifweallagreetoju-juspeakwefitintotheformulaweallwithoutexceptionapprovetherule.

Wedon’tunderstandhemustbecleverhemustbecleverhemustberighthemustberightwedon’tunderstand

Closedtheranksandbarricadesimposedthesecretlanguagecomplexityallcatch-phrasedword-druggedanyanguishpigeon-holedallusionsshutthevaultbehindusIt’sanobviousconclusionwe’llbethechattelsofHisHighness.

BowdowntotheJargonKingandhisminioncode-words.

Herecomesthereign

Fogwalking

Everythingclumsyslow-motion,Ilookforthesource.Buildingsloomuplikeicebergsoncollisioncourse.Idon’twanttogointhere,Ijustwanttobealone,unpickthestitchesoftimeinLondonintheno-gozone.

I’vebeenkickingaroundlikeadog,lostmyselfintheblankmassoffog,it’ssomekindofservice.

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Allhumanity’sfall-outisthere,slumpedindoorwaysandmouthingcoldair—Ihaveheardthis.

Fogwalking,fogwalking.

Sincethecurfewthestreetsarehalf-dead,allthegoodfolkasleepintheirbeds,it’ssoeasytogoofftherailswhenthefogsporesarebreedinginsidebyhead.

Fogwalking:there’sapresencethatIsenseFogwalking:theneckmusclestenseFogwalking:it’srighthereinsideme,trytofindadefense—oh,no.

Fogwalkingthroughthewreckage,fogwalkingthroughtheworm-eatenNightApple,fogwalkingthroughwhatusedtobeWhitechapel.

TheSpirit

Thetunewaswritteninmyteens,asasettingforJohnBetje-man’s poem «The arrest of Oscar Wilde at theCadoganHotel»!Thesentiment’sanaffirmationofstruggleagainst the odds — very much my relationship with theelectricguitar…

Suchdistancetothetipsofthefingers,theganglionloomjerksinside;thebodygrowssteadilystrangerbutthespiritwon’tbedenied.

Thatsharphalogenflashjarstheeyeball,thelimbspumpinoverdrive;thebodygrowsseeminglyweakerbutthespiritwon’tbedenied.

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Yeah,theash-markstandsoutontheforeheadasthevacuumsneaksupontheeyes;thebodybecomesaconstanttraitorbutthespiritwon’tbedenied.

Andtheycallthatlivinganormallife,butnormality’snotstandardised.Thoughthebodygetsevermoreroot-boundthespiritwon’tbedenied

Yes,thespiritsurvives.

InSlowTime

DancethedancetillshowtimetheshowgoesonDancethedanceinslowtimeifthat’swhatyouwant

DancethedanceinthebackofthecarinthecocktailbartillshowtimeletitrideDancethedanceIfeelI’vebeenherebefore,thiscouldbeanywhereatallinslowtime.

Dancedthedance,oritsoonwillbe;dancedthedance,I’llbebackherewithmeinnotime.

InnotimedancedthedanceIt’sshowtimedancethedanceinslowtime.

Flight

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FlyingBlind

Ialwaysforgethowcrazythingsaresosometimesitcatchesmeoffmyguardwhentheymakesense.Thelineontheroadtrailthearrowinthesky,Isearchforthemoteinmybrother’seyebeneaththepence…atimeofbluntinstruments.StilluncertainwhenI’vewokenorwhatconstitutesaconsciousmind,thoughthethoughtremainsunspokenIknowI’mflyingblind.

Breakingintocoldsweatonthewhite-hotcoalsthepenniesfromheavendropthroughmysoul:itdon’trelent.AtthebackendofdreamsI’mamazedtoawake…Ioffermytheoriesbutjustcan’tshakethatseventhsensetowhichthere’snodefense.Itseemedthetimewasforaction,itseemedsocooltobethatkind…mytonguewrithedtoformsomeretractionbutIknewIwasflyingblind.

Iwantthingstobefast,downtothepower-dive;Iwantthezero-gravityheroestoplaydead,butstayalive.Wewantittobeslow,allthewaytostall;wetalkaboutathousandthingsthatneverchangeatall.No,itneverchange…

ItwasthenthatIknewI’dbeenthoughtless,somethinghadslippedmymind:I’dstrappedmyselfintotheFortressbuttheFortresswasflyingblind.Wegotfullclearance,sosomeonedownthereoughttoknowthetruthofourdisappearance—Ifeventhatstillshowsitaccusesandblamesme,butnothingwasquitewhatitseemed.Sometimesthingsworkoutsostrangelythatitmightaswellallbedreamed.

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TheWhiteCaneFandango

TheWhiteCaneFandangoinMorsecode,trytoshakethroughthemessage,shaketheload;onlyvenialsin,runningonthespottillthedancebegins.

Wheredoesamangowhenthemusclescramp?TrytowriteoutapostcardonapostagestampwithadrawingpinpunchingouttheBrailleforthewholewithin?

Upsetthecontangoonyourfuturestock;payingbackwardation,holdontowhatyou’vegot—suchasidewaysgrin!Somedayyoumayneedtotradethatin.

Ifweridethisrightthefuturewillfallinourhands.Ifwesurvivetheflightthefuturewillworkout—nothing’sthatblackandwhite.

Control

Thecolour-codedchartsarespread,butwe’restillglidingdeepintothered,theradioisdeadeveryvalveblownopen.Theradarscreenflicksmonochrome,airtrafficcontrollerwantstogetonhome,waitingforaphonecalltoreleasehimfromresponsibility.Nobodygoestoseehimanymoreexceptforthemanfromtheministry.

Hewantedtobe,hewantedtobethemanatthehelm,incommandoftheflightpath;he’sflyingachair,quitebeyondcontrol;he’sgoingtohavejustonemorechanceatabarrelroll.

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Allinadream,allasadream,thecolourstoobright,themusictoodeafening—theblack-outworldhasjustbeguntoshow.Thesecracked-outwordsIoffer…butIstilldon’tknow.

Coolbluesuffusethecolourgun—ohcomein,comeinnumberone:yourtime’snearlyrun.Speed-freezetheframe,thepresentandthepastholdfast…It’stoofast,thethingdon’t,thethingwon’t,thethingdon’tlast.

Cockpit

Therollingdiceclashtogether,nevermakeupthescore;thatolddevice,theejectorseat,gluedtothefloor.Everybodywaitsforeveryonetomakeashow,no-onewantstobethefirst,admittingthattheyknowhowanythingsthat’sgonedownherecouldfitintoananalyticgroove.Waitforthetacticalmove,waitforsomeactionweallcanapprove.

Toomuchtodrink,forthecupreachesdowntothesea;toomuchtothink,thebarometerpressuringme.RollingdowntheweatherforanEasterparade,reelingouttheMaydaysinthehopeofbeingsaved,buttheradioham’soutgivingblood—no,no,he’snotlistening.Thecricketerknowshis«Wisden»,thepilothasgothis«Jane’s»,butthesumofthisfactualwisdomdon’thelpustoflytheplane(no,anditneverwill…)Beneaththetartantwo-piecesomethingripsundone…Waitfortheladdertorunwaitforthesnakethattheladderbecomes.

Apassengerhitsthecockpit,willingtochancehisgame:pullsouthisgunandcocksitinthehopethatitallmightchange.

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(Oh,butitneverwill…)Afly-leaffromthelibraryshowsothershavebeenherebefore,tried,failedandkickedoutthedoor;theaircrewdon’tcareanymore.Nowtheyjustwaitforthebeatofthesilk-wormwing,waitfortheheattocomedownonusfullforceofthelaw.

Silk-WormWings

Fullforceofgravitypullsmedown,I’llbebetteroffoutofthere;aerobaticspinaround,I’lltakemychancesintheopenair.

Sycamoresilk-wormwingsorRomanCandletotheground,there’sonlyonethingforsure:whentheballoongoesuptheaeronautcalmdown.

NothingisNothing

Hesaynothingisquitewhatitseems,hesaynothingisquitewhatitseems;Isaynothingisnothing.

ABlackBox

Softly,theangelssingtheirtimeandspacerefrain:there’ssomethingineverythingifyoucanonlypindownitsnameAerobaticthoughtsatthebackofmymind—Isitnothingbuttheloopinglineweallfollow?NothingbutthespiraltwistofDNA?There’llbenolookingbackfromtomorrowontoday.

Sothewireistripped,split-secondsdefecttotheirsuccessors;theumbilicalcordisripped—hereweallareinfreefall.

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IstallwhereIam,asiftoseewhereI’vebeen,onlyrunningdowntheloopinglineweallfollow,onlychasingdownthespiraltwistofDNA.Therecanbenolookingontotomorrowfromtoday.

Life/death/night/day…coldbreathwillsurelyflyaway.Istheempireofsensationlockedinablackboxdeepinme,encodedtheresomehow?Itfirestheimaginationtoflyonawingandaprayerthroughmylife.Isthathowitis?(There’llbenolookingbackonthis…)Thisisnow,whichwillbethen?Isthisthemeans?AllIknowforsureisthisistheend.

Nolookingbackfromtomorrow,no,there’llbenolookingbackontoday;betterbelookingontotomorrow…betterthinkontoday.

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SittingTargets(1981)

Breakthrough

Art implied sci-fi story. I don’t know if the guns areslung across the desks in aggression or resignation. I doknowthattimeistherealquestionhere.Foxytext.

Thevisitorsfindthechildrengonefromschool:agedrelationsslingtheirgunsacrossthedesks…there’llbenobreak-timeforthemunlesstheytalkabouttomorrowasthoughit’salreadyonitsway.Amen,ohyes,they’rewaitingforthebreakthroughintime.

Thevisitorshidenoacesuptheirsleevesandtheclassroompulsestomanydifferentdrums.Ifonlyabreakthroughintimewouldcomethere’dbesomechanceforthevisitedones.Wecouldtalkabouttomorrowasthoughwebelievedinthat.Wecouldtalkaboutitrightnowanditwouldcomeasashocktofeelthefingernailgrowonthetriggerfinger—stillthevisitorsclockuswaitingforthebreakthrough,waitingforthebreakthroughwithtimeonourhands.

(It’sthereallthetime.)

MyExperience

An unusually mysterious subject for a three-chordtrick;somethingofthefilmnoiraboutit,Ithink.Icertainlyhad a couple of grainy cinematic images in mind whilewriting it. The questions and the silences keep nagginghere.

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Itwasnothing,itcamefromnowhereatall,itwasacasualremark,notacurtain-call.Lateforbreakfast—blackcoffee,brandy-laced…thatlookonyourface.I’llrememberlastnight,I’lllookoutforthesigns:youwerecaughtinthelight…

Timeaftertimeit’sbeenmyexperiencethatwhentherowgetsseriousacertainsilencewillfall…

ButIjustcan’tstopit,whydon’tyoutellmewhat’swrong?Myheartgoeslikearocket,thefeeling’ssostrong.Ijustcan’tstopit,whydon’tyoutellmewhat’swrong?Don’tthinkaboutittoolong.

Icouldarguethisanotherway,butonanotherdayImighthavetoshout.Youkeepyourmouthshut,butit’stoolateforthatnow:thewordgotout.Intranslationit’slost,indesperationit’smimed;isthisParadiselost,orParadisetimeaftertime?

It’sbeenmyexperiencethatwhentherowgetsseriousacertainsilencewillfall…

ButIjustcan’tstopit,whydon’tyoutellmewhat’swrong?Myheartgoeslikearocket,thefeeling’ssostrong.Ijustcan’tstopit,whydon’tyoutellmewhat’swrong?Don’tthinkaboutittoolong.

Ophelia

Two parts the Lady of Shallott to one part Ophelia,actually, I guess. I don’t know if the feeling goes for thestranger, for her, or for both of them. There’s a certaininevitabilityhere,anyway.Thisisareal«found»song.

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Thattokendragonyourcigarette,thatwell-knownfaceinthefire…itcouldbesomeoneyoucan’tforget,someoneyou’velearnttoadmire.Andit’sstrangehowthefeelinggoes.Allchange—downtheriverOpheliagoes.

You’retreadingwater,thepriceissteep,yousayyou’llcopewithitall;you’vemadesomepromisesyoucan’tkeep,youthrowyourselfagainstthewall,youthrowyourselfagainstthewall.Andit’sstrange…

Youheardanoiseinthefiregrate,youlooktoseewhogoesthere—it’sjustthestranger,he’scometoolateandevenhe’sunpreparedtofindthecupboardsobareAndit’sstrange…downtheriverOpheliagoes.

Empress’sClothes

She’sherenow,perfumecoiledlikeathuggeescarf,suchapowerfuldrugtomakeyousonakedandclean.Andyouwanttotellher,there’ssomuchtodisclose,thisideayou’vegottosellher:anewsetofempress’sclothes.

Whowasthatwomaninthemasquerade,dothoseeyesstillgiveyoufever?Whowasthatwomaninthemystery-play,doyoustillwanttopleaseher?Whereisthewomanwhocanofferescape,doyoulookforyourfreedom?Youseeherandyouwant…

Youwanthertowearthatfinery,thestylethat’sneverseen;

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you’retryingtobreakthedeadlockofthisstrangleholdingscene…oh,look,anewsetofempress’sclothes!

Thehereandnowstandsinyourway;youcarrythebell,bookandcandle…shewon’tmakeyougobutshewon’tletyoustay.Andyouwant…

Youwanthertowearthatfinery,thestylethat’sneverseen;You’retryingtobreakthedeadlockofthisstrangleholdingscene;shemakesyouwanttoconfessitall—youdon’tknowwhatitmeans,butshemakesyouseeEmpress’sclothes.

Glue

HalfwaybetweenthezooandthetempleofyourArt…butwhatdoyoudowiththismotionoftheheart?Who’llbelookingforyouwhenitallfallsapart?

Oh,butwhatdoyoudo,andwheredoyoustartwhenpeoplearetheglue,whenitallfallsapart?

Hesitation

Thisisnotimetohesitate,thelineslipsintooverload;themixturetoothick,thetouchtooclosetothemotherlode.

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Time—there’ssolittletimetodoanythingthat’snotuseless…youtriedforalittlewhiletohideyourfacefromthefuture.Nowyouthoughtitwasreleased—youfindthatit’scaptured,itstickstoyourhand,youcan’tletitgo.Whatyouknewaspainhasturnedintorapture,butnothinggoesaway,itjustchanges.Youknowit’stherighttempo,rightplace,butsomething’sgonewrongwiththecardiograph.Oh,yourdayshadowandyournightface,youthoughtitwasforeverbutitdoesn’tlast.

Time,there’ssolittletimetodoawaywiththetension.Itryforalittlewhiletoputitallinsuspension.

IthoughtIwasreleased,IfindthatI’mcaptured,thegroovesticks,itwon’tletmego.TheglassstainisnowseenasfracturedandtryasImayIcan’tchangebutIknowit’sthewrongtempo,wrongplaceandsomething’sgonewrongwiththeautograph.Oh,thedayshadowandthenightfaceconspireintoprophecy…

Thisisnotimeforhesitation.

Thisisnotimetohesitate,it’snotimetolookforanotherroad;theshiverbegins,thetouchtoocoldonthemotherlode

Thisisnotimeforhesitation.

SittingTargets

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Auto-biographical (ha ha). The car’s always a goodplaceforseriousconversation—noeyecontact!Themottofortheserecordingswas«keepitsimple,keepitclean»—butit’samessystoryanyway.

Wecantalkaboutitinthecar,wecantalkaboutitwiththedrive.Keepyoureyesontheroadupahead,(don’tforgetwhatwesaidabout)stayingalive.Ifwe’dbeenstucktherejustafewhoursmoreI’dhavecrackedup,I’dsay.

No,younevercantellwhenit’scoming.It’ssohardgettingoutoftheway…tobesittingtargetsissurelynobetterthanrunningaway.Sittingtargetsinthecar:I’llbethinkingaboutit—notsofar,nosofartodrive.

Thistimewemadeourgetaway,we’dbeenstallingfortoolong.KeepyoureyesontheroadupaheadwhileItrytoforgetwhat’sbeengoingwrong.(What’sbeengoingon…)You’dbettercheckupontheCB,seewhatTail-EndCharliesay:«Oh,younevercantellhowit’sgoing,no,younevercanseehowit’sbeen,buttostaysittingtargetsissurelynobetterthanlivingadream.»

Sittingtargetsinthecar…I’vebeenthinkingitover,it’snotsofar,notsofartodrive.

Inthecar…

Wecantalkaboutitinthecar,surelywecantalkaboutitsomeothertime.Keepyoureyesontheroadupahead,Idon’tseemtobeabletousemineandI’mlosingcontrolofmybodyandI’mrunningscared.

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Oh,we’releftwithablack-and-whitemovie,apositionalstateofaffairs,anobsessionalinterestinmovingjusttoprovethatwe’rethere,sittingtargetsinthecar.I’llbethinkingaboutit,notsofartodrive…sittingtargetsinthecar,I’vebeenthinkingitover,it’snotsofar,notsofar,nottoofartodrive.

StrangerStill

Well if it’snot tobe thecafe it’salmost certain tobetherestaurant.ThebulkoftheselyricswerewrittenstraightoffoveraParisian lunch. I’veoftenbeencaught like this,between panic and ennui (usually waiting for the show,ratherthanafterit).ItmayseemsomewhatabstracttodragEntropyintotheequation.,butmodernscientificmetaphorsaretheretobegrabbedandsurelycurrentlyrelevant?

Strangerstillinanothertown,hownormaltositoutthedance,eatingthegoodmealbymyself,toastingtheemptyglassandthey’realreadysettingoutthenextplace,alreadyforgettingaboutthelast.No,nothingcouldbelessstrange:inentropynochange,nochange,nochange.

Nodangerinanormallife,bettersteadydowntheadrenalinpump.Excessrefractioninthemirroronlyleadstothequantumjump…Oh,butitleavesmeinlimbo—howstrange,whatastrangerIbecome.No,no,nothingcouldbelessstrange,inentropynochange,nochange,nochange.

No,Iknowhowtobehaveintherestaurantnow,

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Idon’ttearatthemeatwithmyhands.IfI’vebecomeamanoftheworldsomehowthat’snotnecessarilytosayI’maworldlyman.

Keeponshufflingthemenuandtheordernevercomesontime.No,there’sonlydiffractionpatterns,noreadingbetweenthelines,onlytherateofemission,andreasonallowsnorime.Nothingcouldbelessstrangeinentropynochange,nochange,nochange.No,nothingcouldbelessstrange…

Entropy……astranger,aworldlyman.

Sign

Wrongdrinktoorder…suspiciongrows.Strongsituation…

Oh,no-oneknowswhereyou’vegonetointhepagannightandtheneonreflectionsspreadcadmiumwhite.Youcameherelookingforsomethingbutthiswasn’tit,quite.Hey,takeaPolaroid,exit,andwellyoumight.

Signthepicture,getoutoftheframe;signthepicture,andthrowitaway.Signthepicture,signthepicture,throwthepictureaway.

Nowsheturnsherattentionandhercameraonyou:thiscouldbeallofthemomentsthatyou’lleverlivethrough.Oh,butyourheartbeatstherhythmofprimevaltattoo…Ihearyoumakeyourexcuses

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asyouusuallydo.

Signthepicture,getoutoftheframe;signthepicture,andthrowitaway;Signthepicture,signthepicture,throwthepictureaway……althoughit’sgoingtocomeback.

You’vegotacertainknackofmakingofsuchthingsauspicioussigns.

WhatIDid

Aprettypassintherear-viewmirror,it’scomingontheovertake…I’vegottostoppanicking,gottostaycool,gottolearntolivewithmymistakes.Overduedebttothetaxman,Itriedtohaveandeatmycake.

IthinkImusthavebeencrazyinretrospect;allthelinesruntogetherbuttheyjustdon’tseemtoconnect.IthinkImusthavebeencrazytodoallthethingsIdid…trytokeepthepotonagentlesimmer,butsomethingblowsoffthelid.Iwanttoupdatemymemory,Iwanttorewritemypast…Ooh,nowIfoundout:nochance.

IthinkImusthavebeencrazytodothestuffIdidIthinkImusthavebeencrazy,crazy,crazy.

IthinkImusthavebeencrazybutthat’sthepricewepay—everyluckythrowofthedicewillcomebacktousoneofthesedaysIwanttoupdatemymemory,Iwanttorewritemypast,

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Idon’tlikewhatit’stellingme,itallfloodsbacksofast;IguessIwasmyownworstenemy,nowI’vecometoaprettypass.Aprettypass,aprettypass,there’snothingprettyinthepast

IthinkImusthavebeencrazy,crazy.CrazytodowhatIdid.

CentralHotel

Bruxelles.Yes,I foundmyselfonthebalcony, lookingdownontheroadworkswhichwentonyearafteryear,Yes,I keep going on/coming back. The joke stays the same—andsodoesthatbuzzofelectricguitar.

Ifoundmyselflyingonthebalcony,striplingterror,nakedtothebone;thesecretasteroidjunglenearlydoneforme—Isawitalljustamomentago.IknowI’dbetterwatchoutfortheCentralHotel…I’mnotgoingback.

Repetition,superstition,singularity,thougheverycellinthebodyhaschangedthewallsmoveinwell-accustomedhilarity—thecircuitchangesbutthejokestaysthesame.IknowI’dbetterwatchoutfortheCentralHotel.IthinkI’dbettergetout,I’mnotfeelingsowell.AndIwon’tbegoingback,notifIcanhelpit.

Ican’thelpit,Ican’thelpitifIstillamwhatIwas;Ican’thelpit,Ican’thelpit,can’tstopthethereforebecauseIcan’thelpit.ThegraceofgodshowsI’llbegoingon,I’llbecomingback.

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Iknownothingofthemilesofthemarathon,Ihearnothingofthefootfallbehind,IsearchforrhythmandIfindthatIhaven’tone…slowmotionintherunner’smind.IknowI’dbetterwatchoutfortheCentralHotelIthinkI’dbettergetout,I’mnotfeelingsowellIknowI’dbettercheckout,butanyoneherecantellI’llbecomingback,I’llbeback.

I’mtheCentralHotel.

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EnterK(1982)

ParadoxDrive

Thethoughtcrossedmymind—howcurious,whyshouldIwantsomuchshut-eye?Fightingthedarknessandfurious,oh,butIoncemorefallintothesong…justthenormalunconsciousness;couldthatbewrong?Alloutintoactionthenalldownintosleep—checkthatattraction,itmustbemorethanskindeep.

I’vecheckedthetwenty-fourhours,I’vedonethestay-up-all-night;inacertainwaythat’spower,butit’snotwiredupright.Upforthepleasure,thenit’sdeadtotheworld;ourlivessurelymeasuredbytheunconsciousthird…

LivingonParadoxDrive,wemustbelivingonParadoxDrive.

Thethoughtcrossedmymind,howcurious—whyshouldIwantsomuchshut-eye?Fightingthedarknessandfurious…oh,butIoncemoredroppedofftothedeep,thesweetcomfortofalifeonmyown,asleep.Upforthepleasureordeadtotheworld,alifesurelymeasuredbytheunconsciousthird…

LivingonParadoxDrive,wemustbelivingonParadoxDrive.

I’vecheckedthetwenty-fourhours,I’vedonethestay-up-all-night;inacertainwaythat’spower,butit’snotwiredupright,itstillisn’tright.

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TheUnconsciousLife

I’mincommand,I’mincontrol,Iamthecaptainofmysoul.Still,I’muncertaininonemajorrole…oh,Idriftthroughtheunconsciouslife,shiftthroughtheunconsciouslife,liftupmyunconsciouseyes:beyondallnormalpainandpleasureweshouldtreasuretheunconsciouslife.

We’vegotourreasonsformostthingswedo,wecouldsurelyrationalisethemthrough.Afalseringofconfidencewouldcharacteriseustrue—oh,we’redeepintheunconsciouslifeasleepintheunconsciouslife,peepingthroughunconsciouseyes.Beyondallnormalpainandpleasureweshouldtreasure,treasuretheunconscious,treasuretheunconsciouslife.

Somethingmakesmenervous,somethingmakesmetwitch,somethingmakesmescratchthatPavlovianitch,(Wonderwhatthatisnow…?)SomeonethatIbarelyknowmustunpickthestitchtounraveltheunconsciouslife,traveltheunconsciouslife,gathertheunconsciouseye…farfromsheddinglightonanymotivethecandleisvotivewhenitburnsatbothends.

I’mnotincommand,I’moutofcontrol,IamtheShip’sBoyofmysoul…

Oh,wedriftthroughtheunconsciouslife,shiftthroughtheunconsciouslife,livethroughtheunconsciouslife.

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Accidents

Thismeetingisacoincidencewhichdeservesasecondlook:we’veseenthechapterofaccidentsbecomethelongestinthebook.Iseeyourfaceinthepictureforbetterorworse,allpowertotheaccident!

Oh,thesweetestistheoneI’mholdinginmyarmsandthefleetestistheonewhosurvivesbutthemeetestistheonewho’srunningonthespotwheretheaccident’sabouttoarrive.Iknowmyplaceontheplanet,chapterandverse,allpartoftheaccident.

Iknowmyplaceinthestory,alineofblankverse,apartoftheaccident.

Nosystemworthitssaltlaysallitscardsuponthetable;nodisciplineofthoughtwillrendermemoreabletobuckthoserandomthrows.

Thismeetingisacoincidencewhichdeservesasecondlook—we’veseenthechapterofaccidents,it’sthelongestinthebook.Oh,thesweetestistheoneI’mholdinginmyarmsandthefleetestistheonewhosurvivesbutthemeetestistheonewho’srunningonthespotwheretheaccident’sabouttoarrive…(Theaccidental,theaccident!)

Yourfaceinthepictureforbetterorworse,allpowertotheaccident!Iknowmyplaceontheplanetchapterandverse,allpartoftheaccident.Iknowmyplaceinthestory,alineofblankverse,apartoftheaccident.Iseeyourfaceinthepictureforbetterorworse,allpowertotheaccident,allpowertotheaccident!

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TheGreatExperiment

«Isthatallthereistoit,»heasks,«nomoreconjectureorcontroversy?Don’tthinkIcouldgothroughit,Icouldn’tlivewiththememory.Nowisthehour,itcomeseventually;howgreatthepowerasitfallsonme!»

He’sraisinghissenseofoccasiontothelimit—(Thebigmomentiscomingup.)Practised,hissenseofevasion…orisit?(Nosidestepordummyrun.)Cravingacertainindulgence—wouldyougiveit?Wouldyougiveitintime?

Treadingwater,makingwavesfromthecradletothegrave;homebyawhisker—closeshaves!I’mwaiting,whatIsaidImeant:nofakingTheGreatExperiment.

Neartheendofthereelnow,he’shangingonbyhisfingertips.Heknowshowitfeels;atlastthekissofunearthlylips.Nowisthehourtogetatightergrip.Howgreatthepowerasthetidebeginstorip!

I’mwaiting—nofakingTheGreatExperiment.

Don’tTellMe

Youdon’thavetosayathing,thesilenceissweet;we’vebeentogethertodayinawaywemightneverrepeat.

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Oh,yourheadonthepillow,thedistanceinyoureyes—alreadyyoumightberehearsingtheword«Goodbye».

Whentheeveningcomesofthisperfectday,whentheshadowsrunwillyoulookaway,willyouslipaway?Don’ttellmeanything.

Youdon’thavetosayaword,alltoowellIunderstand:there’sanervoustensioninthetouchofyourgentlehand.Thatmakesmeafraid—I’veseenyoulikethisbefore…themomentyoufindsomebodynewyoufindyourselfbored.Oh,Idon’twanttoloseyou.

Whentheeveningcomesofthisperfectday,whentheshadowsrunwillyoulookaway,willyouslipaway?Don’ttellmeanything.

Nowtheevening’scome,nowI’mleftalone;nowthepassion’sdoneandyou’regoinghome…oh,whenwillyoutelephone?Youdon’ttellmeanything.No,youdon’teventellmethebellwon’tring.

SheWrapsitUp

Youknowthatshe’sgotsomethingshewantstogive;hardtotellifit’sofspiritorthelifeshelives…maybesomewherebetweenthetwo.Oh,thewaitingtoseewhatitis!

Theenergydonor,lookingoverhershoulder,sheseesitall,sheseesitslippingaway.

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There’sabackboneshiverfortheenergygiver…shewrapsitup,andthat’safinalwrapfortoday.

Somethingsshe’llsoonlearntolivewithout,whileothersshe’snotsecureenoughtodoubt.It’llbehardtostaysoclosewhenallthatspecialemptinessfloodsout.

Theenergydonorshootsitstraightfromtheshoulder:sheseesitall,sheseesitallrushingthrough.There’sabackboneshiverfromtheenergygiver…shewrapsitup,shewrapsitupandgivesittoyou.

Jumpingshells,theelectronswilldancelikedusk-timefireflies.Justaswellthatyoutookthatlastchancetoextendallyourby-and-bys.Let’sbeclear:don’tbetoofaraway…oh,butdon’tgetsonear!You’llremembertodayfortherestofyourlife.

Theenergydonor,lookingoverhershoulder,sheseesitall,sheseesitslippingaway.There’sabackboneshiverfortheenergygiver;shewrapsitup,andthat’saheavyrapyou’llhavetopay.Theenergydonorshootsitstraightfromtheshoulder:sheseesitall,sheseesitallrushingthrough.There’sabackboneshiverfromtheenergygiver—shewrapsitup,shewrapsitupandgivesittoyou.

HappyHour

Fuelledbyalcohol,shootingoutwordslikearocket,likeaprophetoutofBabylonmethodactingtheabsurd…ShootmethosehighballstillI’mlituplikeI’mpluggedinasocket;lockmeeyeballtoeyeball,let’snotbotherwiththewords.Oh,bringontheclowns,bringonthenight,pourmedoublevisioninblackandwhite.

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I’mfalling,falling—don’tgivemethatlook!I’mfalling,falling,it’stheoldesttrickinthebook,Mychickadee,mypassionflower,showmethewaytotheHappyHour.

Idon’tliketoseethat:oh,no,Idon’tlikethewaythehandisshaking,shape-makinglikeanacrobatonhiswaytothetrapeze.Myfriendsinthecrowdarealltakingbets—they’retakingawaythesafetynet.Falling,falling—don’tgivemethatlook!I’mfalling,onlyfalling,it’stheoldesttrickinthebook,vertigoonthehigh-wiretower—isthisreallywhattheymeanby‘HappyHour`?

Thelinebetweenthesocialandthesuicidalsofinehemightnotknowwhenhe’scrossedit,whenhe’slostit;whenthesocialkickbecomesthegauging-stickofsurvival.

Sohere’stothecircus,let’sdrinktothegameofforgettingthemarionettestringsthatjerkus,therealworldjustoutsidethedoor.IknowthatmylegshavegoneandIknowthatthelighthereisfarfromperfect…I’verehearsedit,soI’llcarryonuntilIwinduponthefloor.

Myfriendsinthebarwillstandmearound,they’lltoastmeonmywaytotheunderground.I’mfalling,falling—don’tgivemethatlook!I’mfalling,onlyfalling,it’stheoldesttrickinthebook,Mychickadee,mypassionflower,showmethewaytotheHappyHour.Vertigoonthehigh-wiretower—isthisreallywhattheymeanby‘HappyHour`?

Putonthegreasepaint,we’regettingreadyforHappyHour.Doyouhearmenow?Canyoufeelmenow?I’minthemiddleofHappyHour…Putonthegreasepaint.

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SevenWonders

Well,itmusthavebeenheresomewhere,thatwhichtheculturehighlyprized:thelistofancientbuildings,theattitudeofmind,thewisdomoftheprophets,thecatalogueofbooks…Youcan’tgetoffit,youdon’tknowwheretolook.Iknowyoudon’tknowwhattosayandit’sstrangenow,seehoweverything’schanged,includingtheSevenWonders.Nothingispermanenthere.

Newkick,newgame,newtheory,therestreducedtonought:itonlytakesamoment,oneclearandlucidthought.Oncetheprocesshasbeentriggeredallpreviousprocessdisappears…Idon’tknowwhatitisyoufear,Idon’tknowwhatitisyoufear—theshiftisnothingtobeafraidof.

Strangenow,seehoweverything’schanged,includingtheSevenWonders.Nothingispermanenthere,that’spartofthespellwe’reunder.Gettingoldthen,saywhenyou’rehappytoholdyourpersonalSevenWonders.Nothingispermanenthere.

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Patience(1983)

LabourofLove

Youdon’trememberallthethingsI’vedone;younevercatchthecarefulwordsIchoose;yourpresentwillnotadmitmypatientefforts…it’salabourofloveIoffertoyou.

Unselfishness,doesthatholdthespacebetweenus?Ahelplessness,anothing-left-to-prove?Asilencemoreeloquentthananypassion?It’salabourofloveIoffertoyou…It’sagiftoflove.

Takethishandandyouwillholditsstories;beat,theheart,andfindthetell-taletruth;takethisgift:—receiptwillgiveitvalue.It’salabourofloveIoffertoyou,it’sagiftoflove.

FilmNoir

Hecastshimselfasanadventurer,allfootonfloorandhellforleather;shenevertoldhimwhathemeanttoher—perhapsthat’sforthebetter.She’sneverclearlyseendividinglinesbetweenreallifeandpartsshe’schosen,confusescharacterandrisingsign,sexandemotion.

Shewaitsinthecaravanatthesideofthesetforthescenewithherleadingmanthathe’llnotforget…

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Thingsgetcrazyonlocationandtheyhadtheirlittleswing;onlyyesterdayhetoldherthatitdidn’tmeanathing.

She’sinlovewiththeheroofthemoviebutshe’slostherselfonsomedarktrip;she’sinlovewithbeinginthemovie.Callforaction!Thisisit:themethodactressandtheshootingscript.

Soshewaitsinthecaravanforthefilm’sfinalsceneandherlove/hatefortheactionmanwillfillthesilverscreen…

Onthedresseristhepistol,inthechamberaretheblanks,inherpocketarethebulletswithhisnameupontheshanks.

She’sinlove…

Callforaction,thisisit:themethodactressandthehit.

JustGoodFriends

Wesetouttomakeasingle—butforbetterorworsemade this instead! The song is one of a number of room-and-story,nearcinematicefforts.

Drawingbackthecurtains,sluggishcitydaylightintheafternoon…here’sthespecialsilence,justbeforeyouwalkoutofthehotelroom.Eachtimewe’resocloseIassumethatwe’llneverbeagain.Oh,howlongcanwepretendthatwe’rejustgoodfriends?

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Acasualaffairisallthatyoucansparefromyouremotionalchange;acalendarofmeetings,strangersonthestreetthebestweeverarrange.NowIjustcan’tstandallthepain,alltheconstantmakeandmend:howlongmustwepretendthatwe’rejustgoodfriends?

Igaveyoumydevotion,hidingnothingupmysleeve.IfIwalkedcleanoutofyourlifewouldyouevennoticemeleave?Somuchtangled-upemotion,shouldIstayorshouldIgo?IfIwalkedcleanoutofyourlifehowlongwouldittakeyoutoknow?Arewesuchgoodfriends?

Youusedtosay«Iloveyou»,youusedtosay«Youmakemefeelaliveandyoung».Nowwe’rejustahabit,aflavour,onceamonth,totitillateyourtongue.Howsordidthishasbecomeasthemeansapproachtheendoh,howlongcanwepretendthatwe’restillgoodfriends?

Igaveyoumydevotion,hidingnothingupmysleeve.IfIwalkedcleanoutofyourlifewouldyouevennoticemeleave?Somuchtangled-upemotion,shouldIstayorshouldIgo?IfIwalkedcleanoutofyourlifehowlongwouldittakeyoutoknow?Arewesuchgoodfriends?

Arewestillgoodfriends?

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JeunesseDoree

Theyoutharevotingwiththeirfeet,suchashamethatthedance-beatgetssocomplicated.Pretty,prettyitseems…onsecondglance,thelookisoverrated.Inthehot-housethere’samagicpotion,timelessmotion…Nowandagainnowlastsforever;jeunessedoreegildingthelilyofpleasure.

Theyoutharevotingwiththeirclothes,suchashamethatthehipposeissooverstated.Roundandrounditgoes:howcarelesstherapturethat’scalculated.Inthepicturelostdevotion,wavelessocean.Timeandagainstylegoesoutoffashion;jeunessedoreetakingtheheatoutofpassion.

Lookatthekidwiththegoldentouch,checkoutthestonyexpression;lookatthemanwiththegoldenarmandthesensationallesson.Follow-my-leader’sagamewecanplaytillweswallowthetailwithoutthinking:Catchthehook,toethelinenevermindthatwe’resinking!

Theyoutharevotingthemselvesin…butthewheeltakesafreshspinandtheyfindtomorrowgaudygarmentswornthin,allatbestrentandtheworstareborrowed.Closingorders,fadingnation,dissipation…timeandagain,time’sunforgiving;jeunessedoreegildingthelilyofliving.Nowandagain,nowandforever;jeunessedoreegildingthelilyofpleasure.

Cut.

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Traintime

Alongthetracksthewiresarehumminginburstsofcodelikefar-offdrums.Fatheringthemessage:furtherupthelinesomeone’sshoutingdownthepassageoftime.

Thecorridorrestrainsthewindow,noviewwithouttheeyewithin.Bolduponthethresholdbutholdingonthelinewe’reshoutingdownthepassageoftime.

Relativesspeakonthephone,onthetrain,talkingbeforetheyhavethoughttoexplain;voicespitchedwildlyontracksinthenightcan’tpickthepaceup…ohlettherebelight!Howlightbecomesthesoul.

Youknowyourselfthecentreofattention,youseeyourselfthelocusofevent.I’msorryifit’spainfulquarryingthelime,stagecentre,shoutingdownthepassageoftime.

Thecorridorretainsitsshadows,itssecretscompartmentalised.Dampingdownonambience,clamptheteethandgrind,shoutingdownthepassageoftime.

What’stheretoseeormakeclear?What’stheretoknowwhenthevoiceisrighthere?What’stheretopromiseorvow?What’stobelieve,whenthetimeisrightnow?

Relativesspokeonthephone,onthetrain,talkingbeforetheyhadsoughttorefrain;voicesprojected,spearsinmid-flightfrozenforever…ohlettherebelight!

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NowMorethanEver

Betweencomaandconsciousnessnohardandfastline,nochancetovoteonthemotioningeye.Amysticalvisionorafallfromgrace,thechaseinslowmotionthroughalienspace?Idon’tknowwhattomakeofthedream-time:itseemsasthoughI’mme,butI’mnowmorethaneverhappeninginsidemyself—Idon’tknowwhetherIneedanythingelse.

Storedinformationorsecretiveclue,somuchwillfitthedesign…onefieldoflifewherefreewillwon’tcutthrough:thedreamandtheunconsciouseye,inrealtime.

Wesurfbetweenwakingandthebreakersofsleeptheunconsciousocean,stillwatersrundeep.Welaydownalllogic,allsenseofcontrol,suspenddisbeliefinthewindowofsouls.Idon’tknowwhattomakeofthedream-time:itseemsasthoughI’mme,butI’mnowmorethaneverhappeningonlyinthought…Idon’tknowwhetheranysenseiscaught.Storedinformationetc……thedreamdisappearsinthelight.

Inthelaboratorythey’rewakinghimup:thedreamsonthelipsbuttheysmashthecup.Apsycho-experiment,andthereisnodoubt—thedream’sanexperienceIgocrazywithout…Idon’tknowwhattomakeofthedream-time:itseemsasthoughI’mme,butI’mnowmorethaneverhappeninginsidemyhead…isthisaforeverwiththeegodead?

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Storedinformationetc……thedreamandtheunconsciouseye.Inrealtimeit’snowmorethanever.

Comfortable

ShelikestokeepGodoutofchurch,especiallywhensheprays:allinitsplace,allsafelystoredforsomerogationday…theparadoxissoapparent,thesenseabsurd,butalltooreal;thenonsenseisarrantbutshejustwantstofeelcomfortable.

Apoundinthecollection-box,aname-platebytheaisle;shealwayswearsahat,forHe’llappreciatethestyle.Paysnoattentiontothesermon,Christinhimselfhasnoappeal,thesocialcustomistheturn-onandshejustwantstofeelcomfortable.

Treadingnotonherillusions,Iwillnotwalkuponmyown:westandamongthecreaturecomforts;we’restandingonthestockpilesoffirststones.

WestandonthebrinkoftheUltrapower,assumeit’saproperplace,viewthelivinghourbyhourinthefirstpersonsingularcase.Onwiththeusual,complacent,waitforthemortalwoundtohealwhentheabyssisadjacent…whatrighthavewegottofeelcomfortable?

Onwiththeusualcomplacency,

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onwiththecustomaryzeal;shedoesn’tneedtomatchavalency,shejustwantstofeelcomfortable.

It’sherblindnessandherblessingthatthethoughtwillnotoccurthatheaven,whenitcomes,mighthavenospecialplaceforher.She’llneverlookattheenigma,shedoesn’twantthingsquitethatreal.Oh,that’ssomekindofstigma—Whatrighthasshegottofeelcomfortable?

Shedoesn’twanttothinkaboutit,shedoesn’twanttotalkaboutit,shedoesn’twanttolookatit.Itmakesherfeeluncomfortable.

Patient

Asysteminthemaking,self-healingfortheblind,sittinginthewaiting-roomofthepatientmind;ragingattheillnesswhentheragemaybeitscause,thepurposeofthewillislostinthesearchforanescapeclause.

Fatalconvalescence,thewoundbecomesaweal;thepoisonisinessencejustthevirusofthereal.Butthere’ssympathetichealing,thepowerofthesoulbandages,concealingallthatwecan’tcontrol.

Waitingforthedoctortocome.

Asysteminthemaking,self-healingfortheblind,sittinginthewaiting-room

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ofthepatientmind…butthereisn’tanyanswertheconsciousnesscanquotewhentheloadeddiceofchancearethere,rattlinginthethroat.

Waitingforthedoctortocome.

Youputyourfaithinothers;thefearcouldnotbeworse,butNature’snotyourmothernow,justyoursucklingnurse.Thereisn’tanydoctor,thereisn’tanycure…thatmightcomeasashocktoyou,butcanyoureallybesosure?

Canyoureallybesure?

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LoopsandReels(1983)

Incontextwasall.

ThecontextoftheKora:dislocation.

AgiftfromSwitzerland(ofallplaces),itfoundit’swaybacktoEnglandwhereitsatasanobjectstrippedofpurposeandidentity.Thisdidnotfeelremotelypositive.Monthslaterthesongcame.Theinstrumentitselfdictatedthestyleandthetune,neitherofthemremotelyclosetotheoriginaldesignandpurpose.Thecautionarytalegrewanddirecteditselfasmuchat. theplayerinthecontextoftheinstrument,asat theimaginedotherinthatofthemask.

ThecontextoftheLoops:physicality.

The tape snaked out, often room wide, from the focus of record replay heads. Aphysicaljunctionwhereitwaseditedimposedasubsidiaryrhythmtowhateverhadbeenregisteredonit.Aslower,slowerpulseeachtimetheeditbumpedacrosstheheads.Lifeexpectancyreducedwitheachpass.Oxideshredding,thesoundgraduallygrewdullerandmoredistant.Inthisworldofstrainingmotorstimewouldnotstandstillformanipulation.Itstretched,butunderstruggle.

ThecontextoftheReels:accumulation.

Eventuallyall theirfragmentarysnatchesof timewerestitchedtogether.Thewholewhichemergeddidnotanddoesnotmakeacomfortablecover.

ARitualMask

ARitualMaskuponthewallfurnisheshissurroundingsandhethinksthat’sall.

ARitualMask,itspowerstillstrong,amementoofhistravels,thathegotforasong.

Hegotitforasong.

Itwasthesongofthecenturiesundisturbed,thesongofsecretsandpowerwords;thesongofaculturenotgrownimmunetothevirusofprogress,tothetheftofthetune.

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TheRitualMask,theevileyeinhabitshisapartment,inhabitshismindwithasongofvengeance,asongofadebtrepaid,asongofjustice,asongofahandunstayed,asongofacultureasoldasthehills…thatsitsuneasyontheliving-roomwalllikeasnakeabouttokill.

TheRitualMask,itwon’ttakelongbeforehefindsoutthebargainhasturnedoutdreadfullywrong.

Oh,hegotitforasong.

TheMoebiusLoop

Indecisionanduncertaintycatchyounowastheyneverhavebefore…howcomeyoudidn’trecognizetherevolvingdoor?Areyougoingtotakesidesonthechequeredfloor?Itusedtobesoeasy,yousaweverythinginblackandwhite.Whenyoulosttrackofallthemovesyou’dmadeyoulostfaithinwrongandright.

Itdoesn’tseemconceivable,lookwhat’shappeninginyourhand.Isitjustatrickofcomprehensionoramasterplan?Oh,thechangeinyourperspective,fromthegutternowyoustoop…howcomeyoudidn’trecognizethefieryhoop?Howareyougoingtotakesidesnowyou’reontheMoebiusLoop?

Nowyou’reontheMoebiusLoop.

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Skin(1986)

Skin

There’sashiverdownthespineofthebodymap…howcomeeverythinggetssophysical?Withyourfingeronthepulseandyourheadinthecloudseverything’ssotactileInyourprivateworld,Inyourlittleworld.

CHORUS:Undertheskinyousearchforparadise,undertheskinsomekindofparasiteremainsconcealed.Undertheskinatrueidentity,amemorywillsoonberevealed,undertheskin.

Hitthatbutton,notimetolose—everything’ssoimmediate.You’dhaveitallrightnowIfyougottochooseInyourprivateworld,suchatinyworld.

CHORUS

Issomethingouttogetyouundertheskin?Fullofthepromiseofparadise?Paradisenow?

Everythinggetssophysical,everything’ssoimmediateInyourprivateworld,suchatinyworld.

CHORUS

Doessomethinggettoyouundertheskin?

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AftertheShow

OneofmanyActorsongswhichhavelitteredmypath.What does happen to those liveswhich tread the boards?What’sthetrade-off?Thereareseveralonionskinlayersofreality here and some of them are obviously self-referential…

Hemadeabitofmoney,that’ssomethingyoumightliketoknow…He’llbedrinkinginthecafeonthecorneraftertheshow.

He’sbeensomanypeople,heworethemalllikepoisonedvests,stillplayingthesoliloquyfromHamletclosetohischest.

Wheredotheactorsgoaftertheshow?Wheredotheactorsgo?

Hehadhishourofglory,that’ssomethingyoushouldkeepinmind…Whenhe’sdrinkinginthecafeonthecornerthere’snosenseoftime,justwaitingonforGodot,convincedhe’sbeenhereyearsbefore…he’stakenthatphilosophyinGermansquareonthejaw.

Wheredotheactorsgoaftertheshow?Wheredotheactorsgo?

Hemadeabitofmoney,that’ssomethingyoumightliketoknow;he’llbedrinkinginthecafeonthecorneraftertheshow

Wheredotheactorsgoaftertheshow?Wheredotheactorsgo?

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PaintingbyNumbers

It’snotthatcomplicated,nomorethanaclenchoffist—shewanttopaintherheartout,shewanttotellitassheseesitis.Authoritycondemnsher,theysaytopaint’sawastewithoutabase,somebedrockofidea.

Paintingbynumbersdoesn’taddup,Paintingbynumbersdoesn’taddup,it’spassionlessbed-rest,work-bodythat’sheadless,aheadthat’swithoutheart—paintingbynumbersdoesn’tadduptoart.

Herconstantvowsmeannothing,notcontentalonethatsells—TheMarketTheorybeckons,no-onerememberswhatthestorytells;no-onerememberspassion,wejustrecitethelinethatartisfineandfashioncostly.

Paintingbynumbersdoesn’taddup;safetyinnumbers,putyourhandsupinmutesurrender…they’llbreakherorbendherfortheheartonhersleeve.Paintingbynumbersallthemodernworldbelieves.

Andthewholethingfallsapartwhenthemovement’smoreimportantthantheart;whenwe’remoreconcernedwithwhat’sbeenthoughtthansaidthisisthemomentwhentheculture’sdead.

It’snotthatcomplicated,it’ssimpleascanbe:shewanttopaintherheartout,theywantaprogrammefortheB.B.C.whereacademiccriticscantalkofartthat’sfinelikeholywine—theBlessedIntellectuals!

Paintingbynumbers,safetyinnumbers…

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ThepoetsfromVenusassumethatthey’veseenus—they’requicktodepart.Paintingbynumbersdoesn’tadduptoart.

Shell

This was originally called «Galapagos». Does thatmakeanymore senseof the«turned turtle»? I’mnot surewhat «he’s doing»/«we’re doing»…but sure as hellwe’rewritingourown(unknown)histories.

Turnacard,turnapage,theactionsuretostart,second-stagereactiontoillogicalthoughtsonrandomlines—inaBorgesdreamwemovetowardthewritingoflives.

Leaveitout,leaveitin,noedits—withashout,withagrinIsaiditwasacertaintythatI’darriveinanEschersketchwewalkaroundthedrawingoflines.

Thecharacteruncertaintyashecontemplateshislotandtriestomovewithurgencythoughhe’srootedtothespot.

Onthebrink,ontheedge,butlatelywhatIthink,whatIsaidescapesmeinaflash,atigerburningbright—doesthevisionarytranceobscuretheburgeoningnight?

Andshesaid«Whatareyoudoing?»Andhesaid«Whatdoyouthink?»Oh,no,whatoneartharewedoing?

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Thecharactersprocrastinateonthethresholdofthedoor;there’ssomethingherethatfascinates,thoughthemeaning’sstillunsureandtheplotsothick.Isitsomekindofhistory?Sketchthethumbnailtothequick.Oh,eventhoughit’sfullofcontradiction,thoughit’sflawedinthedesignthisisnofiction,it’salifeline.

Hereweare,therewewent,fullcircle,shootingstars,heaven-sent,turnedturtleonthebeachourshellsareleftbehindlifealibrary,likeamemoryofourghost-writtenlives.

AllSaidandDone

Allthewordsintheworldwouldn’tmakeyoustaythisevening;thoughIscrabblearoundforanyIcansay,sohardtotakeourleave,sohardtostopbelieving.

Iguessweknowthissilencewellenough,andyou’llbegoingbyandby;I’mscaredthatanythingIoffermightbetakenforalie.

CHORUS:Allsaidanddone,andthere’snowaytomakeitanydifferent.Iholdmytongueasyou’rewalkingaway.Sogoodbyecomes—oh,Idon’twanttomakeitdifficultbutnothing’seasywhenthere’snothinglefttosay.

Nowweonlytalkasthoughtimewereheavyweatherwithastorm-cloudbrewingoneachhastyphrase…

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allthewordsintheworldwouldn’tputusbacktogether.

Maybewehadouropportunities…mostofthosechancespassedusby;I’mscaredthatanythingIoffermightbetakenasabribe.

CHORUS

APerfectDate

Aperfectdatetohesitate,Ihopeitwon’tbetoolong.

You’reasuckerforthepunchandthetelegraphbellsareringing;nowit’scomingtothecrunchasyoustumbleontheJaffaGate.Ithinkyouknowhowithappensonthestagewhentheheavenlychoiraresinging—you’vebeentakenbyaperfectdate.

YoumadetheMountofVenusyourJerusalem,you’remarkingtimeassymbolfordebate;youhopetofindsomemomentclosetoinfinite,youhopetofindaperfectdate.

Aperfectdatetohesitate.Thefuturebeckonsuson.Therecomesatimetohesitate—Ihopeitwon’tbetoolong.

You’reasuckerforthepunch……you’vebeentakenbyaperfectdate.

You’vebeenplayingonahunchandthestringsofyourheartarezinging.Yeh,youcutloosefromthebunchbutthatdoesn’tmeanyou’vesealedyourfate.Ithinkyouknowhowithappens,thoughit’sstrange,whentheheavenlychoirstartsinging:you’vebeentakenbyaperfectdate

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FourPails

Fourpailsofwaterandabagfullofsalts.

Thatisallweare,thatisallamancomprises,chemicalsalone,withnospirit,soulorghost—nothingsobizarre.Noamountoffaithdisguiseswhatistrueiswhatwefearthemost

Nothingcansurvivesavethethingsmenleavebehindthem.Anyothercasewouldbereallytooabsurd—ifthoughtsremainedalivesurelymodernsciencewouldfindthem?No,thesoulisnothingbutaword.

AllthewondersManachievesemergefromcerebraltissue.Chemicalreactions’ebbandsurgeformthatThingthatisyou…It’sasadphilosophy,butbettersadthanwrong.Facethetruthinstead:whenyou’redeadyou’redead,whenyou’regoneyou’regone…nowshe’sgone.

Fourpailsofwaterandabagfullofsalts.

Thatisallshewas,allmyloverrepresented—thatsoundsjustasmadassayingshewillneverdie.Foolsmayclutchatstrawsbuttruthmustnotbecircumvented:asthetreefalls,somustthattreelie!

Nowthatsoundssoodd…onceIwouldhavepreacheditbrightly.NowquestionsappearIrationallycan’tignore…NothingnessorGod,Whichofthemseemsmoreunlikely?

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OnceIwouldhaveansweredclearly,nowIonlythinkI’mnearlysure.

(ChrisJudgeSmith)

NowLover

Inthehereandnow…Betweensensationatthenerve-endsandarrivalofinformationatthecortextimeelapses.So,yousee,eachtimewetouchwedidsointhepast.

Now,lover,slicingthroughtimeinaperfectcurve,Dueforamomentofenergy;somehowwe’llgetwhatwemostdeserveinthehereandnow.

Inthehereandnow,althoughcompletelydifferentpeopleinthemomentsbeforeandafterhavingsex,wearetime-locked.Cracked,forgottenstatues,wearestrangledintheundergrowth,lostinancientmagic,wearemotion,wearewonderfulflow.Wearetime-locked,Unknowingofthecode,butaddictedtothepulse

Now,lover,meltinthecrucible,fleshandbloodbodiesconsumedbythecatalyst.Somehowwe’llraiseoursightsfromthemud,wearealwaysnow,weareAlwaysNow!

Ifwewerealwayshereandnow,insteadofslightly,nowandthen…soimmaterial,solost,embracingallthegracethatcomesbeforethefall.

Ifwewerealwayshereandnow,

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electricshiverinthespine,howcouldweturnaway,seelifeasgreyanddrab?Howcomewedon’tseewhatwehave?

Ifwewerealwayshereandnow,soultosoulandskintoskin…Isitsomekindofmake-believe,isitsomekindofdreamwe’rein,withamintcopyoforiginalsin?

Inthehereandnow,betweensensationatthenerve-endsandthearrivalofinformationatthecortextimeelapses

Cracked,forgottenstatues,wearestrangledintheundergrowth;lyingonthemattressofthemagicandthewonderful,nothingreallymattersaswe’resuckedinbytheundertow…WeareMotion,weareFeeling,weareNow!

Althoughcompletelydifferentpeopleinthemomentsbeforeandafterhavingsexwearetime-locked,wearetime-locked…Thoughweknoweachtimewetouchwedidsointhepast.

Nowcomeon,comeon,lover,slicingthroughtimeinaperfectcurve,dueforamomentofenergy…somehowwe’llgetwhatwemostdeserveinthehereandnow.Meltinthecrucible,fleshandbloodbodiesconsumedbythecatalyst,surrendertonothing,welcomethefloodofthehereandnow.Slicingthroughtimeinaperfectcurve,dueforamomentofenergy,somehowwe’llgetwhatwemostdeserve;meltinthecrucible,fleshandbloodbodies,consumedbythecatalyst,surrendertonothing,nipthethoughtinthebud.

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Wearealwaysnow,WeareAlwaysNow!

Ifwewerealwayshereandnow…

YouHitmeWhereILive

Afterfinishingtherecordingof«Skin»Iwasstillfiredup, and bashed out this tune in a week or so. Only amadmanwouldhaveplayed,ratherthansequenced,allthekeyboardarpeggiation.ThatmanwasI.

Therewassomethingintheconversation,ancientlanguageswerebreakingthrough;Iwasfallingforinfatuation—howaboutyou?

Yousayit’snothingspecial,that’sjustthewayitis…youhitmewhereIlive.

ThoughIdrinkthecupitleavesmethirsting—whatonearthamIsupposedtodo?WhenItrytospeakIfindmyburstingheartfullofyou.

Yousayit’sonlynatural,yousayforgetandforgive…youhitmewhereIlive.

Iwasoncethemanwhofeltnopassion;IwasnothingtillIfellforyou.You’readuelistinyourownfashion,eyesthatrunmethrough.

Yousaythatit’samixedblessing,butIshouldtakethegiftyougive…youhitmewhereIlive.

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AndCloseasThis(1986)

TooManyofMyYesterdays

Somanyyearsago,Ithoughtyouweretheone—whoknowswhenpeoplechange,surrenderintostrangeness,adriftupontheirlives,encompassedbythepast?Whoknowswhichonebecomesthelastgoodbye?Don’ttrytotellmenothingdies.Don’ttrytotellmenothing’schanged,don’ttrytotellmenothing’snew,toomanyofmyyesterdaysbelongtoyou.

Ishelvedmybrokenheart,Iputyoufrommymind,Igotupfrommyknees,Ipickedupallmypieces,butseeingyouagainputsshakesintomysoul.JustwhenIthinkI’mfinallyoveryou,don’tcomeandshowmethat’snottrue.

Tellmeaboutit,talktome—Ihearitcoming,Ifeelitcoming,thewayyouwantthisthingtobe.You’reonlytradingonourmemoriesdon’tgoandsayyoustillloveme.

You’retradingonmymemories,you’retradinginarosypast;youknowI’mlostonstormyseas…butIstillstandbeforethemast,beneaththestarsandundersailtowardshorizonsoutoftrue…BehindthedanceofsevenveilsIstillseeyou…

Tellmeaboutit,haveyourway;Iseeitcoming,Ihearitcoming,Iknowwhatyou’reabouttosay.You’vehadtoomanyofmyyesterdays,andIdon’twanttofallagain.

Don’ttrytotellmenothing’schanged,don’ttrytotellmenothing’snew,toomanyofmyyesterdaysarelostinyou.

Faith

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One of my (all too?) rare totally optimistic songs.Perhaps it’s only in the first flush of a relationship thatthings are as simple as this; or is it later, when they ‘remorecomplicated?

EachmomentispreciousthosethatIspendwithyouareaprize—Icountmyselfluckyjustbeingalivewhileyou’reinmyeyes.

Seeing’sbelievingandIbelieveinyouIcan’tconcealit,justwhatIfeelforyou.Seeing’sbelieving,Iknowthatyou’llseemethrough.IbelieveinyouIhavefaithinyouIputmyfaithinyou.

DoubtcastsitsshadowoneveryperfectplanthatismadebutI’llbebesideyouthroughthosedarkdays—I’llbewithyoucomewhatmay.

Don’tletmedown,nowthatI’vefallencompletelyforyou.

EmpireofDelight

Memoryextendsitsempire,holdstheframebutblurstheline.Someothertimeinvadesthesense,amomentcaughtandlost,secondsight.SuddenlyIfeelyounearme,worldsawayandcloseasthis.Onestolenkissuponmylipsandthemomentslipsawayinmid-flight.

Somanyyearsago,andnowit’shardtorecalljustwhatyoumeanttome.StillIwait,I’mpatient,forthememorycomestomeeventually.Hereyouare,andthoughyoumaysoonbegonesomehowthesongstillburnsasbright.

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Ifeltithappenheretonight—here,intheempireofdelight.

Dreamandghosttheworldaroundme,youseemasrealaseveryouwere…butinabluryourbreathonmycheekhasgoneandtheeveningcomeintonight.

Somanyyearsago,andnowit’shardtorecallquitewhatyoumeanttome.StillIwait,impatient,thoughthememorycomestomeeventually.HereIam,forevercaughtupinthismysteryandthen,thatmomentwhenthefireignites—Ifeltithappenheretonight,here,intheempireofdelight.

Silver

Youlayyourplans,Itakethemastheycome,Iunderstand:wedancetodifferentdrums.It’snotinanyschoolbook,you’reheretoteachalessontousall…weplaybydifferentrule-books.Whatyousay,whatyoudo,they’resuchdifferentthings,whichistrue?Nowthetelephonerings,Mephistophelescalling…Fortypiecesforeachlieyou’vetoldIhopeyourliningsastheyallunfoldaresilver.

Oncewewerefriendsinouridealistdays,still,let’spretend,it’sfunnyinawaythatnowourfriendship’stokenyouliketosayIoweyoueverything—somedebtsremainunspoken.Doubletalk,doublestandards,youspeakwithtwotongues,truth’sabandoned,alllifehasbecomeone-waytraffictolucre.Youtakeyourmeetingsontheclothofgold,justdowntheriverfromthelivesyou’vesoldforsilver.

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Thesilvercrossedyourpalm,oh,canyouseethefuture?Ihopeyou’llknowwhenyousoldyoursoul.Argente,argent.

Allthethingsyou’vedonewillcarrytheirowntaintandadaywillcomewhenyouchorusthecomplaintthatyourfriendsdon’tdoyoufairly;thebackyouturned,theshouldersthatyoushruggednowfittheblamequitesquarely.Whatyouwant,whatyouneed,youremotionalgreedall-consumingbutnoheartswillbleedandthecoffersareempty.Yes,intheendyou’dgiveitallaway,butonthesocketsofyoureyestheylaythesilver.

BesidetheOneYouLove

You’rehelpless,entrancedbythemagicaltouchofherskinagainstyours,adrift—whatelseistherebutthis?Itfeelssosweettofallasleepbesidetheoneyoulove

Rememberthisfireside,thisquietroom,embersnowflickeringtheirlast,likeghostsandstillsheholdsyouclose.Whoelsecouldknowsuchafterglowbesidetheoneyoulove?

Somedaythememorywillcomeagainasvividassensationnowandthenthere’llbeno«why?»or‘when?’.Whoelsecoulddothesethingstoyoubesidetheoneyoulove?

Itfeelssosweettofallasleepbesidetheoneyoulove.

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OtherOldCliches

Imightaswellgiveyouallthereis,Imightaswelltakeitalltheway:what’sgoneisforgotten,andanywaysurelywordsalonecouldnotwreckyourday?Thecake’snotworththecandle,sotheysay…‘Nothingventured,nothinggained,nohardfeelings’…otheroldcliches.

I’veheldbackmyfeelingsforsolongwhileclutchingatstrawsinthecaravan—I’llsaywhatImustandtakeitlikeaman.I’vefixedmygrin,I’veraisedalaugh,andaftertheback’sbeenbrokenbythewaitinggame…‘Mustn’tgrumble,can’tcomplain,nohardfeelings’,otheroldcliches.

SuddenlyIseethescalesfallingfromyoureyes—thisrevelationsurelycomesasnosurprise?Well,whatd’youwant?Whatd’youexpect?Whatdoyousay?

Canitreallybesopredictable?Nowallofthesecretsaregivenaway,whatwordsofforgivenessaretherelefttosay?Holdmenow,don’tletgo,holdme,soontherecomesapriceIcannotpay,Itakethewordsbackstraightaway:‘I’msosorry,Ididn’tmeanit’,begforgiveness,begandpray…blindself-pity,otheroldcliches.

Confidence

Behindthesmileofconfidencesomewhereyou’llfindthewantedmanblank-facedandwaryofconversationwithhimself.Aroundtheringofconfidencethey’redancingtoadifferenttune;

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theothersseemsoconfident,whydon’tyoutakealeaffromthestormwe’repassingthrough?Inconfidencewesailacrossthesevenseastohidebehindtheveil—inconfidencethekey!«I’mingoodform,I’mfeelingfine,»responsiblyhowwellyoudo—there’snothingIcansayabouttheusualcocktailofpublicfaithandprivatetaboo.Inconfidencethetrickisthereforalltosee—Inconfidencethekey!

Oh,don’tanyoneletthecatoutofthebag,don’tanyoneadmittohumanfrailty.Someoneletthecatoutofthebag.Confidentiallywelearnwe’renotalone,inlackofconfidencewe’renotalone.

Behindthesmileofconfidencesomewhereyou’llfindthemortalmanwavinghisarmsinsomeurgentsecretsemaphore…SoI’llfacetheworldwithconfidence,I’lltoughenupmypointofview,whatbetterwaytolivealife,whatotherwaycantherebeofseeingthisthingthrough?Inconfidencethetrick,inconfidencethegame,thethingthatmakesustick—inconfidencetheflame!

Insidetheringofconfidencesomewhereyou’llfindastone-agemanlostintheforestwithdarknessfalling,strikinghisflinttoholdbacktheroaring,thealien,theworld.

Wearenotalone.

SleepNow

Incomprehensible, confusedandcontradictory thoughtheyare,thisissomekindofefforttodepictnon-possessiveparental feelings, and specifically those of a father,naturally. «As though he never knew the meaning of thewords»isexactlyright.

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Sleepnow:anotherdayinyouryounglivesisdone,gotosleepnow;tomorrowbravenewworldswillsurelycome,andtroubledeep;you’resuchawonder,suchamysterytome.

Somewhereyourfuturefriendsarelyingasyouareandyourloversrightnowareonlycryingbabesinarmsoh,theworldturnsunderourfeet,ourlivesarepassingbyinoursleep.

Sosoonyou’llbegonetothatwideworldthetunesofadulthoodcallinglittlegirls.

Remember,whateverelseinlifeyoufindtodoubt,doremember,althoughyouhearhimmostlyinashout,yourfatherlovesyouasthoughheneverknewthemeaningofthewordsuntiljustnow.

Sosoonyou’llbegonetothatwideworldonetuneofchildhoodIsingmylittlegirls…

Sleepnow,onedayI’lltellyouhowmylifehasbeen.Oh,sostrangetothinkyoureyeswillfallonthingsthatminehaveneverseen,theseeyesthatgentlyflickerinsomelostchildhooddream.Sleepnow,safeandwarminthehavenofyourbed,gotosleepnow…Althoughyouwon’trememberwhatI’vesaid,yourfatherlovesyouasthoughheneverknewthemeaningofthewordsuntiljustnow,asthoughheneverknewthemeaningofthewords.

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InaForeignTown

Hemlock

Hereitcomesuponthescreen,thepropagandaofthemilitary-industrialmachine.Bynowwefindthere’slittlechoice:whenourmasterstellus«smile»werejoice.Withthenuclearshieldsafelyinplacewe’reassuredofthesurvivalofthehumanrace.

Theearthisflatandpigscanfly—swallowhardandbelievethelies.Inthesealleysallareblind:skittlesfallforthedreamsofhumankind.

Andnuclearpowerissafeashell—Swallowhard,youngWilliamTell.Theearthisflatandpigscanfly—Ifyouswallowhardyoubelievethelies.

Inthebanksthedealsaremade—ofcoursethere’snoprofitinlendingtheThirdWorldaid.Ifthelardershellsarebareletthepeopleeatcakeandthankthegovernmentsfortheair.Meanwhile,inthecells,secretpolicechampionfreedom,offerjustice,keepthepeace.

ThePopetalkstoGod,theAyatollahtoo—swallowhardandbelieveittrue.Theearthisflatandpigscanfly—ifyouswallowhardyou’llbelievethelies.It’sahemlockworld.

It’sahemlockworldthatwemustdrink—swallowhardanddon’ttrytothink.It’sahemlockworldthatweallface—swallowhardonthebittertaste,ontheaftertaste.It’sahemlockworld.

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InvisibleInk

Followtheinstructions,theenvelopeissealed:we’rewaitingonanupdate,somethinglikethereinventionofthewheel.Whomadetheworldsocomplicated?Whomadethewatchwordwaitandsee?Iwakemyselfup,shakemyselfup,takemyselfapartbutstillcan’tsee…theesotericislostonme.

Followtheinstructionstheyspeakinmanytongues,inunlimitededitionandthelaststepontheladderisthebottomrung.Thediagramissoconfusing,anagrammaticalthemystery;Iwakemyselfup,shakemyselfup,breakmyselfapartandfindinmetheesotericmachinery,theesotericinvisibly.

Followtheinstructions,telluswhatyouthink;theylosesomethingintranslation,theymightaswellbeprintedininvisibleink.

Esotericmachinery,theesotericinvisibly;theesotericislostonme,theesotericinvisibility.

Whomadetheworldsocomplicated?WhoputthealphaintheABC?Iwakemyselfup,shakemyselfup,breakmyselfapartbutfinallytheesotericislostonme.Theesoteric,notimetothink,Theesoteric,writtenininvisibleink.

Ininvisibleinkindivisiblelinkininvisibleink.

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Sci-Finance(Revisited)

Yougotsomeshares,it’sacapitalventure,youhedgeyourbetswithagilt-edgedbond,you’restretchedouttightbythetermsofdebenture,thegameison.

Yougotafortuneonpaper,howitshinesontheVDU!Thesimpletruthisthatsoonerorlaterthemarketplaysyou.

Theregoesthedaylight!Nightcomesonthecitysosoon.Inthedanceofthetypicalcapitalistswhatpiperplaysthetune?

Money’sideal,money’spower,money’sthedrivethat’smorethanskin-deep,hardatworkthroughthetwenty-fourhours—oh,butmoney’snevercheap.

Youmadesomeprettydeals,Ihearyousay,JudasandFaustaresqueakyclean…whenthelastofthedealshavebeenclearedawaywhatcomesuponthescreen?Theregoesthedaylight—nightcomesonthecitysosoon.Inthedanceofthetypicalcapitalistswhatpiperplaysthetune?Onlythemoney.

Butthedealincludesus:Weputourselvesintothestocks;whenwebuiltupthetempleofthemoney-godweopenedupPandora’sbox.Theregoesthedaylight,nowthereissilenceonthefloor,onlymoney-computerschatterprivately,nopeopleanymore.

Nopeopleanymore,onlythemoney,onlythemoney,Isthatwhatyouwant?

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Isthatit?Theregoesthedaylight.

ThisBook

Awayfromthepast,thischanceisthelast,wearechangingcompletely,wearemovingthefeast,wearemotion.I’veseenyoubecomethebrideofthesun,yousurrendersosweetly,sacrificingyourselftodevotion.

ThisbookisendedandIputitdown,thisbookisendedandIputitdown,I’msaved,I’msavingforthefuture.ThisbookisendedandIputitdown,findI’mbefriendedinaforeigntown,I’msaved,I’msailingforthefuture.

ButonlyyesterdaynightIstoodinthepouringrain,shoutingatthethunder:Isaid«Lord,I’mstartingtounderstandthehiddenmystery.»Lord,thecompassfallsinmyhand,Icansailtothefarhorizon…

Couldyouconceiveamirrorwhereyoucouldneverseeyourself?

Awayfromthepast,theiconoclasts,wearechangingcompletely,wearebreakingthemould,wearerapture.I’veseenyouastridethewindandthetide,mydarkangel,yougreetmewithasamuraisword,closethechapter…

ThisbookisendedandIputitdown,findI’mbefriendedinaforeigntown,I’mhere,butI’mnearertothefuture.

Butonlyyesterdaynight…

ThisbookisendedandIputdown,findI’mbefriendedinaforeigntown,

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thisbookisendedandIputitdown.

TimetoBurn

Timetoburn,wecouldtalkalltheproblemsthrough…Arethepromisesstillunbroken,dothespokenwordsstillringtrue?Oh,andwhereareyou?

Timetoburn,wakesandweddings,celestialchoirs,andwhileonehandshakesonthebargainseetheotherstokethesutteepyre;sowe’reallonfire,burningfortomorrow.

Somuchtimewish-andhoping,soonthefuturewillcomewithabridalwreathfortheweddinginthehandsoftheprodigalson.Somuchleftundone,herewearewithtimetoburn.

Somuchtimewishfulthinking,allthewhitestoflieswiththeprodigalcaughtattheborderandtheorderofserviceawry.Notimeforgoodbyes,willweeverstarttolearn?

Timetoburn,wakesandweddingsbecomeconfused,allthefacesover-familiarinthewhirlwindofdeja-vu…Oh,butwhereareyou?

Timetoburn,allourlifelinesaregatheredroundwithaspeechfromthebackofapostcardallthememoriesfreeinonebound.Free,andgonetoground,free,andgoneforever.Free,andgonetoground,soIwillremembersomuchlostandfound.Herewearewithtimetoburn.

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Auto

Here’sasensationIwouldn’ttrade—pinpointintheonrush,dancingtotherhythmofthewiperblades.Upaheadontheautobahnheadlightslikealavastream;upaheadinthedistanceiswherewe’regoing,wherewewillhavebeen.

Backinthemotor,keepgoingovernight;we’vegotnocertaindestinationbutforallweknowwemight.Sogetbackinthemotor,let’sdriveitanyplace…bettertotravelhopefullythantoarrive,inanycase.

Whileyoucheckoutthemap-book,justlikeanovelthat’salloutofjoint,ourpassportintoanonymity…stickapinintothevanishingpoint.Icoulddriveforhours,don’tevenneedtoknowthewaytogo;Icoulddriveforeverwithsomeclassicalmusicontheradio.

Backinthemotor,backintooverdriveandifwetravelhopefullythenwe’llknowwe’realive.Getbackindasauto,let’sdriveitanyplace,bettertotravelhopefullythantoarriveinanycase.

Wecoulddriveforever,wecoulddriveforever,Icaughtyouthinking,Ibetyouwere,thatwecoulddriveforeverinthenever-neverlandofthemetaphor.

Backinthemotor,keepgoingovernight;We’vegotnokeytothehighwaybutforallweknowwemightaswellgetbackinthemotor,let’sdriveitanyplace,bettertotravelhopefullythantoarriveinanycase.

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Sogetbackinthemotor,let’sgetonwiththedriveandifwetravelhopefullythenweknowwe’realive.

Getbackinthemotor.Let’sgetbackinthemotor,getintunewiththemotor,getback.

VoteBrandX

Here’sthemodernpoliticalman,forsurehe’snobody’sfool,believesinmediacoverageasapromotionaltool.Trustinhimbecausehe’sgottherightface;justincaseyouharbourdoubthereisaslogantotout.

He’ssuchaprincipledman,allheart,ruledbyhisbrain:You’veseentheTVcommercials,you’veseenthepostercampaign,you’veseentheadsinthepapers,there’snothingelsetoexplain.Justsomewordstomaximisethemarket,justamessagethatwillreachthetarget,promisesthatturntodust.Heisamanyoucantrust.Thisisamanofthepeopleinpoliticsnow.

Politicsnow,it’sjustlikesellingsoappowder,nomoneydown—youluckypunters—fullguarantee,fiveyear’strialfree!

Heisamanyoucantrust.Bydintofmarketresearchheknowswhichtruthsheshouldtell;he’sgotthemarkofconviction,itservestheagencywell;yes,he’soncourseforelectioninpoliticsnow.Trustthepropagandists’manifesto,trustthepoliticianwiththepromo,trusttheadstobuyyourvote.

Voteforbrandx,it’sjustlikesellingsoappowder,whatevernext?Youluckypunters,fullguarantee…Whatevernext?Showtrialsbydecree…

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Theshowtrialsarefree,theshowtrialscomefree,voteforbrandx.

SunCityNightlife

Tothecitybeatonatreacherouscurve,upuponthehighwireyou’reobserved—youliveasyoulive,you’llgetwhatyoudeserve:Highlife,digthosehighlights,suncitynightlife:you’llbelikeamothconsumedbyaflame.

It’sarichman’sworld,kickthosebeggarsandfools;Conspicuousconsumptiontheonlyrule,butthelawofretributionwillbeterriblycruel.

Oh,butyoumustn’tstoptothinkaboutyourplaceupontheplanet;ifyoudid,youmightsteelyourselfawayanditdoesn’treallymatteriftheshowgoesuptomorrow.Afterall,thispettyplaceisdaytoday.Highlightsofthehighlife,dancingatmidnight,dancingallmoralexistenceaway.

Nightlife,highlights,highlife,twilight…Oh,youmustn’teverthinkaboutyouplaceupontheplanet,don’tlookfurtherthanthebottomofadrink,don’teverthinkaboutthewayyou’llfeeltomorrow,don’tstopdancingortheboatwillsink…allinallit’sgonebeforeyoublink.

Highlightsofthehighlife,suncitynightlife,you’llbelikeamothconsumedbyflame…Twilightofthehighlife,chimesatmidnight…you’restilldancingallmoralexistenceaway.

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ThePlay’stheThing

Howcouldheknowsomuch?Howcouldhebearsuchknowledge?Howcouldhedaretowriteitintheplays?WhatisitShakespeare’dsayifhecamebacktoday?Surelyhe’drecognizethesemortalcoils.

Howdowecarryon?No-oneknowswheretheyfitin,no-oneknowswhotheyareorwherethey’vebeen.Whatdoesthewritermean?Howdoweplaythisscene?Whatdidn’tShakespeareknowthatwedonow?

Stiffenthesinews,wearhard-favour’drage,allhistory’sdrama,theworldisastage.

«Thereisahistoryinallmen’slives,figuringthenatureofthetimesdeceas’d;Thewhichobserv’d,amanmayprophesy,withanearaim,ofthemainchanceofthingsasyetnotcometolife,whichintheirseedsandweakbeginningslieintreasured.Suchthingsbecomethehatchandbroodoftime…»

Oh,buttheshowgoeson,onthroughthesevenages—Thatoftheworldmustmirrorman’s,infact.Herecomestheseventhact,seehowthemirror’scracked,herecomessanseverythingforhumankind.

Tocapturetheconscienceofnationsandkingsallhistory’sdrama—Theplay’sthething,theplay’sthething,theplay’sthething.

Howcouldheknowsomuch?

(Thequotationisfrom«HenryIV»Pt.2,ActIII,SceneI)

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UnderCoverNames

Nothanksforthememory,nothanksatall,nowaywecanwipetheslateorcontriveescapefromthenameswe’recalled.Nothanksforthememory,hereitcomesagain,thisliferunningonthespot,thoughwehidealotwithourcovernames.

Wecannomorechangethepastthanshedourskins.

Butwekeeponthinkingthatwemightgosomeplacewherenotasoulknowswhathasgonebefore,withsuchheadfulsofself-accusationthatwedon’tevenknowourownnamesanymore.

Nothanksforthememory,nothanks.

Callthembyadifferentnameandturnabout—wecannomorechangeourspotsthanwashthemout.

Nothanksforthememory,lockedintheframe.Nowaywecanchangethepatternofthingsthathappenedundercovernames.

Andwekeeponskirtingroundthetrueconfession,withfreshidentitiesandbest-laidplans;Andwekeeponworkingtooutreachtheshadow,buttheshadowwilloutruntheman.Withsuchheadfulsofself-accusation,thatnopseudonymscanhideourshame,lostinajungleofourowncreation,lostinalabyrinthofcovernames…Wecannomorechangethepastthanliveagain.Wecannomoreshedourskinsthanknowourrealnames.

Nobodyknowsourrealname,nobodyknowstheirrealname,wehideundercovernames…Nothanksforthememory.

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Smile

Thejokesareeverywhere,thesecretdeal’scomplete—Moneytalks,somegoodadvice,thepoliticiansrunlikeclockworkmice,allfitsthemasterplan.

Adatabaseonthetelephoneandcablesunshinefloodsyourhome—so,timesaregood?Fatcatsgetfatterdaybyday,thosewhosititoutwillmaketheirway,sothingscan’tbethatbad.

Ooh,asmilehassetuponthisland,ooh,aselfishgrinofignorance;Ooh,yousimplyhavetoplaythegame.Thejoke’sonus:thisismoreandmoreridiculous.

Everything’sgreat,objectivitytaboo;self-satisfactionpumpingupminorachievementstocoverupallthefailuresandmistakesandifyoudon’tsmilealongyou’reapublicenemy,youdon’tbelong…Theblacklistsareinthemail.Thereisn’tanyroomfordoubt,we’llallbeequalwhenweshareitoutbutoutsiderswillgetnothing.

(OriginalGermantextbyHerbertGrönemeyer,translatedbyPeterHammill)

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OutofWater(1989)

EvidentlyGoldfish

Checkthehonestyofwhat’sonoffer,truedetectiveorafakefakir?Alltheevidenceiscircumstantial—asmudtheevidenceisclear.Paranormaltheinvestigation—wheredothingsgowhentheydisappear?Alltheevidencehasbeentrumpedup…asmudtheevidenceisclear,Ithinkwe’reontosomethinghere,Ithinkwe’reintosomething,Idon’tknowbutmaybewe’reallgoldfishinthementalsphere.

Evidentlygoldfish,neverquestioningenvironmentself-evidentlygoldfish,weswimincircularexperience.

Churchoflogicaldeliberation,schoolofaccidentalwheelsingear,surfaceknowledgeisaseriousmatter,alittleconsciousnessisdangerous,dear;alltheevidencemustbesummedup—asmudtheevidenceisclear,Ithinkwe’reintosomething,Idon’tknowbutmaybewe’reallgoldfishinthementalsphere.

Evidentlygoldfishneverquestiontheirenvironment;Self-evidentlygoldfish,weswimincircularexperience;Evidentlygoldfish,roundandroundandroundandroundwithinourconsciousnessinthementalsphere.

Asmudtheevidenceisclear.

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NottheMan

Therearesomanyquestions,therearesomanydoubts—thisisautosuggestionyourspiritisgivingout.IfIofferedmyreasonswouldyougivemeabreak?Nowit’sallopenseason,nosenseofgiveandtake.

YouseeI’mnotthemanIwas…

ButifI’mnotthemanthatyoutookmetobedoIfadefromyourdreams,disappearfromyourmemory?Lookatme:ifI’mnotthemanIwasthenwhowashe?

Therecanbenoreturningtothesceneofthecrime…forperfectionyou’reyearning—someromance,someforeignclime!Isthememoryexplicitunderstrictruleofthumb?Itwasalwaysimplicit,thischaracterI’vebecome.

ButifI’mnotthemanthatyoutookmetobedoIfadefromyourdreams,disappearfromyourmemory?Irememberitwell,Icanguesswhatwentwrong…youbelievedallthosewordsinthepopularsongs…but,ifI’mnotthemanthatyoutookmetobe,didIwalkinyourdreams?I’venoideawhothatpersoncouldbe.

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Lookatme:IfI’mnotthemanIwas,thenwhoishe?

NoMoonintheWater

Soifit’sjustsothenwhereisitnowwhenIfindthemomentuncertain?

Brokenwaterpail—nomooninthewater,trytoholditnow.

SoIwanttoholdonreflection’sallgone,noego—so.

Brokenwaterpail—nomooninthewater,trytoholditnow,brokenwaterpail,holdmeinthemoment,nomoreegonow.

Iwoulddrinkthedregsofdaylight,breakthebreadofconsciousnessanddream:dreamdayfornight,nightfallaroundus,waking,dreaming,awaketothedream.

Brokenwaterpail—nomooninthewater,trytoholditnow,holdmeinthemoment,nomoreegonow,nomooninthewater,

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nomoreegonow.

OurOyster

Thisone’sauthentic,sonofagun,asoundtrackfromChinaintheuniversaltongue…

Theworldisouroystertoplunderatwill,thoughthepalateisjadedbyallbutthethrilloffishoutofwater,lifeintheraw…withoutunderstandingofwhatlife’sworthfightingfor.

Outofuniversallanguagesomestuffnevertranslates—thereportscomeinclustersbutforwordsit’stoolate…sixo’clockentertainment,tearsofanguishandrage…inthezoosofthemediathespiritofmomentiscaged.

There’sonlyonelanguagethewholeworldcomprehends,there’sonlyonemessageasthedarknessdescends…Doyoustillhaveaquestionordoyouretract?There’sawholeworldofdifferencebetweentheobserverandtheact.

They’replayingWorldMusicinTiananmenSquare,they’replayingWorldMusicinTiananmenSquare,thewhistleofbulletsintheair.

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SomethingaboutYsabel’sDance

Inthenewhotel,onFiestaNight,thestaffarebored;DonnaYsabeldanceszombie-like,theguestsapplaud…Thecolorislocal,thetouristsaretanned,thenativesarerestlessandeverything’ssecond-hand.

Placesdisappear,butthenamesendureasalibis;memory’shazyhere,no-one’sreallysureofhowtimeflies…Welldrunk,thebassplayercriesintohisbeer—areYsabel’smotherorYsabeldancinghere?

Afterhoursallthecouriersareinthebarroundthecornerwiththedriversinagameofcards…InburstsYsabel,herhairletloose,herlimbssetfree;onthetabletopsshe’sdancingtoamemory—conversationstopsandeveryeyeisturnedtosee…somethingaboutYsabel’sdance.

It’sashrinkingworld,it’safun-packedcruise,amuseumtrip:skirtthenativegirl,checktherabiddog,rejointheship.There’snoCharlieMingus,hisTijuana’sgone…thissmileforthecameraisalljustatouristcon.

Butafterhoursallthecouriersanddriversknowofacantinawherethere’severychancethatshemightshow;andmaybeYsabelwilldancethedanceforrealagain,hermother’sfootsteps,viceandvirtue,lustandloveandpain.There’ssomethinghere

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theanthropologistdarenotexplain,somethingaboutYsabel’sdance…

GreenFingers

He’llbeyoungforeverifhekeepsthisup…sothebedroomplayboy’snevergoingtogrowup.Theheartisasecretgardentowhichtherearenoshortcuts.

Onlygreenyoungfingersmakethegardenbloom;fortheseriousyoungmennowisalwaystoosoon.Theheartisasecretgarden,theheadisadarkenedroom.

Closeyoureyes…howdoesitfeeltobeinlove?Muchtoodifficult,youshovegreenfingersintogloves.

Getthosefingersdirty—nowyou’regettingwarm;bloodthosehandswithpassion,turnyourfacetothestorm.Theheartisabedofroses,theheartisabedofthorns.

Bleed,greenfingers,bleed.

Somefuturememorystirs…someone’salwaysgettingburnedifintensityholdstrue.Ifit’srealtobeinlovehowdoesitfeeltobeinlove?Greenfingersstrippedofgloves.

OntheSurface

Onthesurface

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phosphorusgleaming;deepdownwecarryondreaming.

Onthesurfacecompassandchartschecked;deepdownthecurrentsruninashiningvortex,inaswirlingvortex.

Onthesurfaceoiltroubledwatersailssettheseasonfiretothefarthestquarter…Arewedreaming?Dreamdeepofchildhood,dreamdeepoffuturedays—it’llallcomegood,deepdreaming.

Onthesurfaceheadabovewaterlegskickthecarry-on…(dreaming)breakthesurface;dreamingoflong-lostchildhood,hopingforbetterdays—it’llallcomegood,deepdreaming.

It’llallcomegood,deepdreaming.It’llallcometothesurface,it’llallrisetothesurface,deepdreaming.

AWayOut

Outofjoint,outoftrue,outoflove,outoftheblue,outoforder,outoforbit,outofcontrol,outoftouch,outofline,outofsyncandoutoftime,outofgas,outoftread,

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outofroad.

Outofdate,outofstock,outofuse—out,out,damnedspot!Youwantout,youwantoutofitforgood.Outoftherunning,outofthegame,outonyourfeet,clearoutofrange,outofcontext,outofcontact,outofthewoods.

Out,out,lookingforawayout,nostrawsarelefttoclingto;out,out,goingforthefade-out…butwhatdoyoufadeinto?

Outonthetown,outforlaughs,outofservice,outtograss,outofmourning,outofpurdah,outonbail,outofkilter,outofgrace,outtogetoutofthisplace,outofthisworld,outandoutbeyondthepale.

Rightoutofcharacter,outofsympathy,sofaroutuponalimbyou’reoutofyourtree…

Outofbreath,outoftune,outofyourheadandoutofview,downandout,outforthecount,orisitjustforrevenge?Outofsight,outofmind,leaveitout,leaveitbehindoutofreachofallfamily,allfriends.

Out,out,goingforthebale-out,noparachuteaboveyou.Out,out…you’llnotfeelthefall-out.

IwishI’dsaid«Iloveyou».

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Fireships(1991)

IWillFindYou

My traditionalweakness for the simple three-chordershows throughagain, I’mhappy to say.A plain song, buthoneststill,Ihope!

Trappedlikearabbitbythefutureglare,onrushingheadlightsthatblindyou,afrightenedrunaway,atleastyouknowIcare,Iwillseek,Iwillsearch,Iwillfindyou.

Wearewritteninthestar-crossedsky,thespiritmusicremindsyou…youcanrunandhide,butsurelybyandbyIwillseek,Iwillsearch,Iwillfindyou.

Faraway,inanotherlifeyousayyou’regoingtofindyourfreedom…don’trunawaytoanotherlife.

Don’tbeafraid,there’snodarkunknown,noshadowstalkingbehindyou;don’tbeafraid,whenyou’relostandmostaloneIwillseek,Iwillsearch,Iwillfindyou.

Faraway,inanotherlife,thingsmightnotbesoverydifferent…don’trunawaytoanotherlife.

Trappedlikearabbitbythefutureglare,onrushingheadlightsthatblindyou,afrightenedrunaway,atleastyouknowIcare,Iwillseek,Iwillsearch,Iwillfindyou.

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Curtains

ThefirstgreatbittersweetswellofLordorchestration(on the album). The characters’ own sense of heightenedfiction has brought them to this morning moment in adarkened room.What «nothing» happened last night, thatbringsthemtothispass,this«brushoffingertips»?Sad,butexemplary.

Well,TommywokethatmorningwithaheadfullofrocksandSylviawasinshock.Thestorythey’dbeenfakinghadfrozenontheirlipsandfallenthroughthebrushoffingertipsandthoughtheypackedtheirbags,readyfortheroad,thecurtainsandthebedroomdoorstayedclosed.ForSylviaandTommythisisacurtaincallthey’vebeenrunningawayforyearsbutprideinflightprecedesacertainfall.

SoTommyrubshisstubbleasiftocheckhisfaceisthereandSylviacombsherhairjustlikenothingreallyhappened…they’llcarryonasbeforebutthisthingwon’twork,willit,anymore.Andthoughthebagsarepackedreadyfortheroadthecurtainsandthebedroomdoorstayclosed.ForSylviaandTommythere’snowherelefttohide:they’vebeenrunningforyearstofindsomekindofthrilltotakeawaytheemptinessthattheybothfeelinside.

Makingthefictionaloutofthematteroffact;masqueradethepicturebutnowtheframe’sallcracked.

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ForSylviaandTommythere’snothinglefttotry:they’vebeenrunningforyearstofindsomekindoflifethatoffersanexcitementthattherestofuspassby.

SoTommywokethatmorningwithaheadfullofrocksandSylviawasinshock.Thisstorythey’dbeenfakingwasfrozenontheirlipsandfallingthroughthebrushoffingertipsandthoughthebagsarepackedreadyfortheroadthecurtainsandthebedroomdoorstayclosed.

ForSylviaandTommythere’snowherelefttogo:they’vebeenrunningawaysolongthere’sjustnostrengthtocarryontheycan’tgetbacktowhattheyknewalifeabandonedonceandlongago.

HisBestGirl

OneofthesimplestthingsI’vewritteninages.Afilmstory in frozen and slow-motion frames: the foot on theacceleratorpedaloftransitorypossession.Whatdomenorwomenwant?

FootdownintheGTiCabriolettothevillaintheSouthofFranceforvacation…Keepyourheaddown,baby,keepyourhairingoldencurlsandyouwillalwaysbehis,andyouwillalwaysbehisbestgirl.

Fastforwardonthehandycamvideo;topthattanup,glowingU/Vonthesunbed;atthehealthfarmyou’llbeguardinghisinvestmentwell.

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Keepyourheaddown,baby,keepyourwitsaboutyounow…andyouwillalwaysbehis,andyouwillalwaysbehisbestgirl.

Beadsandbangles,it’stoolatetoclaimyourindependencenow:yourringsandbaublesarethemarksofhispossession.Keepyourheaddown,baby,keepyourcounseltoyourself.Keepyourhairon,baby,keepyourwitsaboutyounowandyouwillalwaysbehis…butwillyoualwaysbehisbestgirl?

FootdownintheGTiCabriolet,hisnewfriend’syoungenoughtobeyourdaughter…FootdownintheGTiCabriolet.

Andyouwillalwaysbehis,butwillyoualwaysbehisbestgirl?

Oasis

The«secret face» isoneofabsolute silenceand rest,one-on-oneinatempestofnow:coolwater.This isalovesonginwhichtheegodemandsneithertobemassagednortobepowerful—merelytobe.

Besidethepoolofclearwater,fedbyasecretspring,yourlipsaresealedbutinyourbodylanguageangelssing.

IswearontheBible,swearonthesacredandprofaneIthinkI’mdrowninginthevortexyoureyescontain.Yoursecretface,showmeyoursecretface.

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Withstarsandmoonlightforshelter,yourbreathingcloseinmyear,thewindiswhisperingamysteryformetohear:yoursecretname.

Tellmeyoursecretname,oasisinadesertworld,tellmeyoursecretname.

Letmedrinkfromthewellofsecrets,pluckthefruitfromthetreeandfeelyoursecretworldenvelopme.

Yoursecretface,showmeyoursecretface.

Showmeyoursecretface,nakedasthesun,silentasthestars,secretoasisinadesertworld.

IncompleteSurrender

This song covers several musical bases, from murkyanaloguesynthtoFury’ssoling.It—likeus—isthesumofits parts. Neither men nor women are complete inthemselves, even when acknowledging their oppositehalves. To give one’s all cannot mean to surrendercompletely,yetafailuretosurrenderisultimatelyafailureto give. If this song speaks of a particular moment, it isdiametrically opposed to that in «Curtains». Here thesurrenderistowholeness,ratherthantoseparation.

Sweetheart,Iwanttoholdbacknothingsweetheart,Iwanttogivemyall.

Rollonthefeminineside,thelionliesdownwiththelamb.Beneaththemalesurface,thechaosmerchant,we’reallhalf-human:understandonlylove’snotblind,

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onlylovesurrendersuptheheart.

Thewoman’sheavywiththefuture,withintuitionunalloyed;behindthesmirkofthemachomanisthequiveringlipofthelittleboy.Putitallinplace,Icanalmosttasteit,soIsurrenderupmyheart.

Iwantnothingmorethantobeoneforonce,tofeelyouonewithme;nofinermystery,nomysterywhenwestarttosurrenderupourhearts.

Sweetheart,Iwantnothingmorethantobeoneforonce,tofeelyouonewithme;there’snomystery,nomysterywhenwestarttosurrenderupourhearts.

Where’sthebridgetotakeusacrossthesexualdivide?Whatarcofheavenmakesuscomplete,makestheplanetsclashandthestarscollide?Withemotionsbarewewerebothaliveforasecondthereandwebothsurrenderedupourhearts.

Sweetheart,Iwanttoholdbacknothing,sweetheart,Iwanttogivemyall.

Andwebothsurrendered,incompletesurrender…

Fireships

The most complex song (of the album), but formedfromavarietyofsimplecomponents.Lotsofguitars,lotsofJacksonandGordon.FromtheArktotheIroncladsweareconfident of our own abilities, of our own indestructiblenature. When — eventually — we send up our flares indistressortriumphwelittlethinkthattheythemselveswillset fire tous.The rocket thathitsMan’s roofand sets the

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boatablazeisofHisownmaking.

There’sasmokescreenonthehorizon,fireshipsundersailtonight…

Here’stheArmadaofSouls,here’stheflotillafromGodknowswhere;fromgopher-woodtothelastoftheironcladsincommonconcerttheysenduptheflares.Whileweturnandturnaroundtherockethitstheroof…weneverthinkthatwe’llgetburned,we’refireproof,wethinkwe’refireproof.

Keepastiffupperlip,thebandplayonthroughtheraisingofthetoast;thecaptain’ssteadyatattentiononthebridge;it’ssurfacemattersthatappeartomattermost.Wewatchthegalleonsrunaground,stillwestandaloof;weneverthinkthatwe’llgetburned,wethinkwe’refireproof.

Wethinkwe’refireproof,weneverthinkthatwe’llgetburned;Wesailonfireships,weneverthink,sowe’llgetburned.

Straightfortheeyeofthehurricane,downtothelasteyetoothweneverthinkthatwe’llgetburned,wethinkwe’refireproof.

Here’stheArmadaoflight,here’stheflotilla,forheaven’ssake…We’resailingunderaflagofconvenience,castingourmessagesinbottlesinourwake.Soweturnandturnaroundtherockethitstheroof…weneverthinkthatwe’llgetburned,wethinkwe’refireproof.

Weneverthinkthatwe’llgetburned,wethinkwe’refireproof.

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GivenTime

Italkedmyselfintothecornerofdeliveringtheguitarsolo on this one; David’s orchestration is fantastic. Thesongaddressesthequestionofresponsibilityforourselves.Wethinkwehaveallthetimeintheworld;andthatthingssimplyhappentous. Inrealitywehaveonlyeachmomentinwhichourlivesaresetand,byomissionorcommission,wemake those lives ourselves. Sowe have no-one else topraiseorblameforwhatoccurs.

There’snotimefordullregrets,no-oneunderwritesyourdebts.Nosatisfactionguaranteed,butthismuchIbelievewemaketheliveswelead.

Bestfootforward,facethedayasthemomentslipsawaylikeawhisperonthewind;thetideturnsasitbreaks…Giventimeweleadtheliveswemake.

Thecurvethatwetraceintimeashapeofourowndesign.

Sayit’soverwhenit’sdonedidyoulearntotouchsomeone?Longagoandfaraway,voiceslingeron…longago,justyesterday,caughtintheclayofmaterialneed.Giventimewemaketheliveswelead.

Giventimewemakethelivesweleave.

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Reprise

Thiscollage isare-workingofmanyspecific themes,musical and lyrical, from the rest of the album. Theirjuxtapositionandrecurrencepointstoboththelimitlessnessand the singularityof choice.This isanalternatewindowonthescenes…

Wethinkwe’refireproof,weneverthinkthatwe’llgetburned;wethinkwe’refireproof,weneverthink,sowe’llgetburned;wethinkwe’refireproof.

Reprieve,reprise.

Ifhegottodoitallagainwouldhedoitoverandover?Inreprise,reprieve?

Butwillshealwaysbehis?

Gaia

A Universal song — Order, Chaos, Hope. Both alament for and a hymn toMotherEarth.All the darknessand all the light, together. There’s another wonderfulmomentofLordorchestrationwhereeverythingsucksitselfintoweightydarkness.Andthen…BeCalm,it’sDone.

Butterfliesonthewheelofaworldthatturnsunyieldingly…everyfragilebeatingwingmovesthemotorofthething,oh,Gaia!

Butterfliesstirabreezeandtheripplesflowunceasingly:farawaythecyclonesswirl.It’sawhole,connectedworld.Oh,Gaia!

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Wipethosetearsfromyourtiredeyes:everybreathyoutakeasacredsigh.

Butterfliesonthewheelmakingorderoutofchaosandeachrippleintheairturnsthemotoreverywhere.

Crythosetears,thendrythosetiredeyes:everybreathyoutakekeepsyoualive.

Butterfliesaswearefreezeinflightbeneaththestarryskybuttheghostsflyonandon…inthissenseweallbelong,oh,Gaia!

Andthesumofallthepartsistheall-forgivingheartofGaia.

Oh,Gaia!

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TheNoise(1992)

AKicktoKilltheKiss

Thisissomethingofafollow-onfrom«Fireships»andtheman/womandivide.It takessomethingofaharderlineon «how can we get on/move forward», though, than«IncompleteSurrender»,say.Averysimplesongstructurebeliessomeoddwalkinglines.Myrolehereiskeyboard(Igraduallyworkmywayup to the frets);Furygets tostruthisstuff.

He’dlikeyoutocallhimlucky,theoriginalself-mademan;nosenseofwide-screenvision,nogenderstrangenesshecanunderstand.

Rollontheold,oldstory,youcancallitoriginalsin;yeh,stampthatoneinhispassport,pasteitandcolouritin.

Colourinahistoryofprideandprejudice;whathewantsismystery,butwhathegetsisthis:akicktokillthekiss.

Hethinksitfaircompetition,somehowhavingandeatingthecake,whenthewomenareintheirbodiesandthemenareallovertheplace.

WhathewantsisParadise,ofwhichhehasnoclue.Whathewants:Oblivion.(«…Baby,allIwantisyou.»)Whathewantsandwhatheneedsareverydifferenttricks…Gotsomestrangephilosophythroughgoingforthatdictionaryticandthekickofkiss-me-quick.

Akicktokillthekissandhesays«Baby,allIwantisyou.»

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LikeaShot,theEntertainer

Thetunehasbeenaroundforanumberofyearsnow,but it tookmeanage topin itdown. I finally finished thelyrics on a (rare) day off on tour. Although there areelements of self-reference here, the questions are reallymore «What’s the story? To whom is it more important,listener or teller?» than simply stage-side whimpers.There’sacomplicityhere,evenwhentheraconteurrunsoutofstories,Ithink.

Likeashotfromthebarrelofasmokinggunhe’snot,stillheaimsforadoration.Onthespotwherethekettlehasbeencalledblackbythepotheawaitshistruevocation.You’resohot,eggsarefryingwhereyouwalkuponthestreet,whatyougotisthesecretthathe’dtradehissoultokeep.Likeashothewilltellyouallhisstories—isthatwhatentertainstheentertainer?

Likeashotoftheelixirofyouthyourtradeinstock,bothacurseandaprotection;likeashot,inlikeFlynn,he’lltiehistongueupinaknottoprofesshistrueaffection.You’resohot,eggsarefryingwhereyouwalkuponthestreet;you’resohotthatheturnstotangoeverytimeyoumeet.Likeashothe’llbethrownuponyourmercy—isthatwhatentertainstheentertainer?

Entertaintheentertainer…

Likeashot,likeapaparazzipicturegonetopothisdecaybearsnoreversal;ontherockshewilltakehismedicinestraightbutthisisnot,Irepeatnot,dressrehearsal.You’resohot,eggsarefryingwhereyouwalkuponthestreet;Xthespotwherehehopeshe’llalwaysfalluponhisfeet.Whatashockwhenhestumblesinthespotlight—isthatwhatentertainstheentertainer?

Let’stalkaboutsomethingelse;let’stalkaboutus;let’stalkaboutegocentricity;let’stalkaboutkeepingitup.

You’resohot,eggsarefryingwhereyouwalkuponthestreet;whatyougotisthesecretthathe’dtradehissoultokeep.Likeashothe’llregaleyouwithhisstories—

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isthatwhatentertainstheentertainer?Likeashothe’llbethrownuponyourmercy—isthatwhatentertainstheentertainer?Whatashockwhenhestumblesinthespotlight—isthatwhatentertainstheentertainer?

Let’stalkaboutsomethingelse;let’stalkaboutus;let’stalkaboutegocentricity;let’stalkaboutkeepingitup.

TheNoise

Takeitasyoulike,makeofitwhatyouwill.It’sclearthat a great deal of my public growing up was on/withNoise.That’soneof theelementsofrelease tobe foundinmusicofwhatevergenre.(Unfortunately,thereseemstobemorecalculated—rather than instinctive—Noiseof lateyears… but maybe it’s shifting again now.) Musically,everyonegets toput in the leadboot here, apart from theodd moment of Jackson flute. Even he’s quickly back ontenorhorn.

IlovedtheNoise,electricbreath;Noisefilledtheemptiness,roaredintheemptiness.

Anoisetostripthepapercleanoffthewall,anoisetocrackthemasonrylikeabreaking-ball,thecuttingedgeofsonic,thewavethatneverbreaksandtheheartandsoularepumpingmeawake,meawake,meawake.

IlovedtheNoise,shaketothecore;that’swhattheNoiseisfor.

Nothingcameofnothingexceptwhatwasleftbehindinthebarrageofthebombard,underorgangrind.I’mcaughtthereinthemoment,bug-eyedovernightdriveandtheheartandsoularepumpingmealive,mealive,mealive,mealive.

Andintherushofthesilencewithmyarms

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wrappedroundmewarmI’mholdingbreath,impatientforthedarkbeforethedawn…Justatthecrackofdaylightthat’llbethecurtaintorn,that’llbethegroundinaforewarningmurmuroftheNoise,ofthestorm.

IlovedtheNoise,electricbreath,Noisefilledtheemptiness;IlovedtheNoise,Ilovedtheheat—pump-pulsethatprimingbeat.

Astatementofintention,anelementalplan—theNoiseisinthetemple,theNoiseisoutofhand;theneedleontheendstop,crescendointhechoir…yes,andtheheartandsoularepumpingmeonfire,meonfire,meonfire,meonfire.

IlovedtheNoise,I’vedrunkmyfill;theNoiseiswithmestill.IlovedtheNoisethoughnowit’sgonesomegloriousechoesoftheNoisestilllingeron.

Poweron.

CelebrityKissing

In which Fury in particular comes on strong. Thekisseswereoriginally theatrical,rather thancelebrity;buttheycouldbeanyfakeones.Thereareatleastacoupleofaward-winningperformancesburiedinhere.

Celebritykissing,thishasgottostop;yeh,they’reswarminglikeflies,they’relikebeesaroundthehoneypot.Celebritykissing,willitneverend?Well,youknowandIknowthisisonlypretence…

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Yougiveitallyou’vegotinradianceonthepodium,manicuredfingersgripthefigurine.Youtaughtusallyouknewinmissionaryposition;throwyourarmsaroundyourlatestscene,itcouldhavebeencelebritykissing…Thishasgottostop:yeh,they’reswarminglikeflies,they’relikebeesaroundthehoney;youwerewonderful,darling,doesitneverend?Well,youknowandIknowthisisonlypretence.

Theysawyoucomingforathousandmiles,knewsomethingwickedbytheprickingofthethumbs;theycan’tbelievethischeekyou’returningisyourbetterside;Ithinktheypreferreditwhenyouactedyounganddumb.

Soyoutakeittothelimit,takeitfromthetop,shakeittillit’sbroken,doesthepennyneverdrop?

Celebritykissing,thishasgottostop:yeh,they’reswarminglikeflies,they’relikebeesaroundthehoney.Youwerewonderful,darling,doesitneverend?Oh,youknowandIknowthisisonlypretence…

Oh,lookout.Oh,yeh,willthepennydrop?Somekindofmadnessincharacterization,somekindofmethodinyourmade-upface;yougotyourwake-upcall,youropeninvitation,yougettopartyinthepaganplace.

Thisisonlypretence.Cutandprint,cutthatkiss,cut…andprint:thisisonlypretence.

WheretheMouthis

AsclosetoastraightbluesasI’meverlikelytoget,Isuppose. A few plain Maxwell references poke out; butreally you can take your pick of financial finaglers theseclays.AnotherframefromthecontinuingSci-financestory.

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Moneywherethemouthis,penniesontheeyes.Timesarehardandyoufindthatyou’reintroublebutit’shardtosympathize.Youtalkupquiteastory,youblowthebubblewell.Moneywherethemouthis,silver-tonguethesell.

Putuporshutup.Cutpriceorcut-up.Putuporshutup.

Moneywherethemouthis,willtherebejustdesserts?White-collarcrime—yeah,thesumming-upwillreckonsurelynobodygothurt.Hey,offerjamtomorrow—thecashwilldoquitewell.Withyourfairsharesforall,trytopracticewhatyoupreachwhentheyringthatLutinebell.Hey,putyourmoneywhereyourmouthisandhopethemoneytalkwillspringyoufromthecell.

We’veheardtheemptypromises,thebarelyveiledthreats;we’veyettoseethecolourofthemoneynow—we’veyettoseeit…Oh,butwe’llgettoseeit,youbet.

Putuporshutup.Cutpriceorcut-up.Putthemoneywherethemouthis.

Yeh,youcoppedforquitealot,buteverythingyougotfelloffthebackendoftheyacht.Youdidyourbesttogreasethemachinery,youshutusoutofthetalkingshop:thedesksareemptywhenthebuckfullstops.Hey,youputyourmoneywhereyourmouthwasnot.Youputyourmoneywhereyourmouthwasnot.

Well,putthemoneywherethemouthis,snufflinginthetrough.Yeh,putyourmoneywhereyourmouthis,withthepigsinthetrough.

Wherethemouthis,wherethemouthis.

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TheGreatEuropeanDepartmentStore

Naturally,IdomybesttobeaGoodEuropean!ButIdon’t think that necessarily means that we all have to beidentical. In the world, of consumption we become evermoresoanddon’tdoourselvesortherestoftheworldanyfavoursbythat.

It’satriumph,materialtriumph,massconsumptionandconformity.Downinhardwaretheshelvesarestackedupwiththelatestlineinluxury.Theperfumecounterhasmake-upladiesallimmaculatelymake-believe;theysellyoulifestylepackageandyou’dbetterbuybecauseyou’renevergoingtoleave.

Nationsofshoppersconsumeinafrenzythesecurityofbrandednames;they’refightinginthefoodhallforexoticvegetablesandfruit,eco-friendlygame.Itdoesn’tmatterwhichcurrencyyouusebecausethey’reallexactlythesame.

Andit’sallonoffer,everything’sonoffer,multi-nationaldoor-to-doorintheGreatEuropeanDepartmentStore.

It’sonoffer,it’sallonoffer,youcanpackitflattotakeaway:ScottishheathertoSpanishleather,GermanturniiptoDutchweather-vane.Ifyou’vegotthemoneythedoor’swideopen,theyareonlyheretopamperyou.Theethnicartroomhasplunderedseveralcontinentstodecorateyourlivingroom.Itdoesn’tmatterwhichcreditcardyouuseorifyouevensignyourrealnamebecausethey’reallexactlythesame.

Andit’sallonoffer,guaranteednatural,qualitycontrolassuredintheGreatEuropeanDepartmentStore.Hey,let’sshop;let’sgo!

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IntheGreatEuropeanDepartmentStore…

Ooh,theshopping’ssomethingshockingnow;ooh,willtheshoppingneverstopintheGreatEuropeanDepartmentStore?

PlanetCoventry

Thelastsong(ofthealbum)tobecompleted,perhapsbecause it’sonewhichcouldhavebeenarranged inmanydifferentways.Furywasn’taroundbythisstage,soIhadtoknuckle down to the guitar parts myself. Good clean fun.Andyes,Idosometimesdreamofnakednessonstage…

Youfindyou’restandingalone—notsosplendid,isolation.IntheGreenRoomthetalkisallofrighteousindignationandyoumightaswellhavelandedinsomestrangeanddistantgalaxy.TherulesareunspokenonthePlanetCoventry.

Whatreactioncanyougauge,nakedonthestage?

Thegravity’snotsogreat,buttheatmosphere’schilling;youmadesomeseriousmistakesthedayyoupushedyourselfforthegrilling;andthejigsawpieces—takealook—ajumbleofasymmetry.AllthecornersarecutonthePlanetCoventry.

Outoforder,outofreach,brieflessonthebeach;noreactionyoucanguage,onlysilencefromthefrontrow,silencefromthebackrow,silenceandyou’renakedonthestage…wakeup.

Youdreamedyou’dnoneedofdreams:that’sanaliensituation.IntheGlasshousethemimersmillindangerousmutationandyoumightaswellhavelandedinadifferentreality.TherulesareallbrokenonthePlanetCoventry.

Outoforder,outofreach,brieflessonthebeach;onemorepunterforthechop,driedupinthedock;

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headlesschicken,totalblock,tongueaGordianknot;noreactiononthispage,onlysilencefromthefrontrow,sliencefromthebackrow,silencefromtheprompter,silencealltherage—onlysilenceandyou’renakedonthestage.

Youwakeup,andyou’renakedonthestage.

PrimoontheParapet

Thisisthemostseriouspieceon«TheNoise»bysomedistance. Primo Levi was an author, chemist and —crucially— Auschwitz survivor who wrote a sequence ofbrilliant books about his experiences until his suicide acoupleofyearsago.Hismainmessagewas,naturally,thatoneshouldforgetneitherwhathappenednorthedepthstowhich human soul is capable of plummeting. The musichere is simultaneously tricksy and straightforward — themainriffwasarealfind.

Hecrawledonhallowedgroundwithoutamap;hewalksonhollowlegs,leavingnofootprint;driftslikeaghostthroughthequartersoflostdesire,breathingunderwater,stillrunningthroughthefire.

FourhorsemendrivethecoachofHolocausthomeandwithwhatsenseofhistorydoweviewourbrightnewworld,withthevideonastyblastingthroughthesetofournextdoorneighbour?Dowelearntoforget?Dowelearnjusttoforget?

Andrawbarbaritysleeps,sporeinsoil?No-oneaninnocent,no-oneentirelyimmune.Stillwewaitforasaviour,therearenosaintsasyet.Justtheguiltofsurvival,welearntoforget.

Theblindesteyeisturnedonthebeastweclothe,drabintheuniformofsilentacquiescence.SoI’llraisethistoasttoPrimo,climbingupupontheparapetwithonefinalwordofcaution:

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wemustlearnnottoforget.

There’spaininremembrance,butwemustlearnnottoforget.

Here’satoasttoPrimo,let’slearnnottoforget.Here’satoasttoPrimo,forgivebutdon’tforget.Here’satoasttoPrimo,let’slearnnottoforget.

Onelastwordofcautionfromtheveryrimoftheparapet.Onelastwordinremembrance…wemustlearnnottoforget.

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OffensichtlichGoldfisch(1995)

LyrictranscriptionbyHeinzRudolfKunze

OffensichtlichGoldfisch

PrüfclieEhrlichkeitderAngebote,FreundundHelferoderBösewicht?Allesläßtsichirgendwiebeweisen—Genauesweißmanebennicht.übersinnlichistclieUntersuchung—gibt’seinJenseitsodergibt’sdasnicht?AlleAnhaltspunktefreierfunden…Genauesweißmanebennicht.Ichglaub’,ichseh’allmählichLicht,ja,wirgehörenallezuclerGattungGoldfisch,dienichtweiß,wovonsieträumtundspricht.

OffensichtlichGoldfisch,keineFragenan’sAquarium.ZuselbstverständlichGoldfidsch,wirschwimmenimmernurimKreisherum.

KirchelogischerBedachtsamkeiten,ZufallsschattenspielimSchummerlicht…Halbgebildetseinist.anzuraten,zuvielVerstehen,undclerMenschzerbricht.DieBeweisewachsenzuGebirgen,Genauesweißmanebennicht,ja,wirgehörenallezuclerGattungGoldfisch,dienichtweiß,wovonsieträumtundspricht.

OffensichtlichGoldfisch,keineFragenan’sAquarium.ZuselbstverständlichGoldfidsch,wirschwimmenimmernurimKreisherum.OffensichtlichGoldfisch,immernurimKreisherumimBestiarium,bisdasAugebricht.

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DieKältekilltdenKuß

Erwünschtsich,dunennstihnglücklich:DerOriginal-Self-Made-Mann.KeinSinnfürHorizonte,füralles,wasernichtvereinnahmenkann.

WiederdiealteGeschichte,undihrNamemußErbsündesein.Ja,StempelsodeinenAusweis,klebeundfärbedasein.

SiegreichstetsseinstarkerArm,seinHungernachGenuß;waserwill,istfremdundwarm,dochimmerstehtamSchluß:DieKältekilltdenKuß.

Hey,soistdasnunmalimLeben,ererkämpftsichvomKuchenseinStück.UndclieFrauensindweichundweiblich,unddieMännerversteinernimGlück.

Waserwill,heißtParadies,dochkommtesniedazu.Wasersucht:Vergessen.(«Baby,allIwantisvou.»)Waserwillundwaserbraucht,stehtnichtimselbenStück.SeineWeltanschauungliebterblind,erklebtanseinemRegeltickunddemKickdesInstantFick.

DieKältekilltdenKuß,undersagt:«Baby,allIwantisyou.»

Dichzufinden

KaninchenstarrevordemSchlangenblick,ScheinwerferschockzumErblinden,verschrecktundungeschützt,

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michdauertdeinGeschick,ichlaßnichtsunversucht,dichzufinden.

UnsreNamensteh’ninSternenschrift,Urlaute,cliesichentzünden…dutraustkeinemmehr,jedochwasmichbetrifft:Ichlaßnichtsunversucht,dichzufinden.

WeitvonhiersolldasLebensein,dort,sagstdu,findestdudieFreiheit…laufnichtdavon,denndichtrügtclerSchein.

KeindunklerFremdertutdireinLeid,keinSchattenreichkanndichbinden…habkeineAngst,wenndeinHerzschlagausdirschreit,ichlaßnichtsunversucht,dichzufinden.

Favorit

BleifußdrücktdasGTiCabrioletzuderVillainclerSonnevonSüdfrankreich.HaltdenKopfschief,Babv,singfürihndasalteLied.InEwigkeitbistDusein,undDubistimmerseinFavorit.

SchnellerVorlaufaufdemflimmerndenUrlaubsfilm:DubrauchstFarbe,holDirStrahlenvonderSonnenbank.DuverwaltestseinInvestmentaufderSchönheitsfarm.

HaltdenKopftief,Baby,undhabniedasletzteWort.InEwigkeitbistDusein,undDubistimmerseinFavorit.

PerlenkettenfesselnDich,zuspätfürdieUnabhängigkeit.InSamtundSeideglühtdasBrandmalseinerHerde.ZiehdenKopfein,Baby,

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werhatDichumRatgefragt.MachDeinHaarschön,Baby,undhabniedasletzteWort.InEwigkeitbistDusein,dochbleibstDuimmerseinFavorit?

BleifußdrücktdasGTiCabriolet.DieNeuewirkt,schonfastwieDeineTochter.BleifußdrücktdasGTiCabriolet.

InEwigkeitbistDusein,dochbleibstDuimmerseinFavorit?

KaufhausEuropa

LobderMasse,TriumphderKasse,allesschlingtimTrogdenEinheitsbrei.DieRegaleentblößenHardwaremitdemletztenluxuriösenSchrei.DieDuftabteilunghatMake-Up-Laclies,dieseh’nzumVerwechselnwirklichaus;kompakteLifestylepackung,alsokommschon,kauf,denndukommstniemehtrhierheraus.

KäufernationenfrenetischgeborgenimGefühlvonMarkenqualität;siekämpfenanderKühlboxumexotischfruchtigfrischesGrün,öko,wennesgeht.InwelcherWährungauchimmerdubezahlst—fürUnterschiedeisteszuspät.

Undhiergibtesalles,hiergibt’swirklichalles,ohneGrenzen,TüranTür,hierimKaufhausEuropa—wasbrauchenwir?

Billigpreise,Bedürfnisreise—packeseinundfühldichgutdabei.DeutscheHeide,Franzosenseide,WetterfahnenausderWesttürkei.AlleTürenoffen,solangeduGeldhast,hiersindallefürdeinWohlseinda.DerEthnicArtRoomhatKontinenteleergeraubt

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zurZierdedeinerPergola.MitwelcherKarteduauchimmerbezahlst,undwelcherNameaufderrechnungsteht—fürUnterschiedeisteszuspät.

Undhiergibtesalles,garantiertnatürlich,kontrolliertundausgewählt—hierimKaufhausEuropa,woLeistungzählt.Exundhopp—let’sshop!HierimKaufhausEuropa.Wasdarfessein?Ooh,vomKaufengibteskeinVerschnaufen,ooh,hörtdasKaufenniemalsauf?HierimKaufhausEuropa:EinHamsterlauf.UnserKaufhausEuropa—wasdarfessein?

DerLärm

IchliebeLärm,denAtem-Strom;LärmhobdieLeereauf,dieErdenschwereauf.

DerLärmreißtdieTapeteglattvonderWand,derLärmdurchbrichtdasMauerwerkwieeinElefant,derSchallaufMesser’sSchneide,dieWelle,dienichtbricht,undespumpenHerzundSeelemichinsLicht,michinsLicht,michinsLicht.

IchliebeLärmdurchMarkundBein—genausosollersein.

SchallundRauchdasalles,Lärmumnichts,dochhierunddortbebtundorgelteinInferno,kreischteinSchlußakkord,dirKrafthältmichgefangen,übernächtigtundklein,undmirpumpenHerzundSeeleLebenein,Lebenein,Lebenein,Lebenein.

UndindemAnsturmderStillehaltichatemloseWacht,

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ichwarteungeduldigaufdentiefstenPunktderNacht…geradebeiTagesanbruchfälltderVorhang,steigtderSchwan,undderGrundentläßteinemurmelndeWarnungvordemLärm,demOrkan.

IchliebeLärm,denAtem-Strom,LärmhobdieLeereauf.IchliebeLärm,seinDynamit—alsZündstoffpulstderBeat.VerlautbarungdesWillens,eindunklerPlanwirdklar,dasTosenistimTempel,istnichtmehreindämmbar,dieAuslaufrilleknistert,einChorfegtüber’sLand,ja,undespumpenHerzundSeelemichinBrand,michinBrand,michinBrand,michinBrand.

IchliebeLärm,Lärmganzundgar,erbleibtmirimmerdar.ZwarflohderLärmlängstdiesenOrt,dochruhmreichklingenseineEchosweiterfort.

Poweron.

Oase

ImWeihersilbertdasWasser,gespeistausdunklemGrund,duglänztundschweigstundEngelsflügelstreifendeinenMund.

Ichschwör’beiderBibel,beiHimmel.Hölle,WeltundGlück,ichkönnt’ertrinkenindemStrudel,indeinemBlick.Geheimgesicht,

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zeig’deinGeheimgesicht.

InmildemMondlichtgeborgen,deinSternenatemamOhr,derWindträgtflüsterndeinMysteriumausderFernevor:

DeinLosungswort.SagmirdeinLosungswort,OaseinderwüstenWelt,sagmirdeinLosungswort.EinenTrunkausdemQuelldesFremden,pflück’dieFruchtmirvomBaum,nimmmichindeinenunbetret’nenRaum.

Waskeinersah,zeigmir,waskeinersah.

ZeigdeinGeheimgesicht,sonnenhellsonackt,sternenklarsostill,geheimeOaseinderwüstenWelt.

DieProminenzküßtsich

DieProminenzküßtsich,wieverbrauchtdasist:EineSchmeißfliegenbrutsummtundschwärmtringsumdeneignenMist.DieProminenzküßtsich,endetdasdennnie?Dennduweißtundichweiß,dasistnichtsalschi-chi…

Duschmilztfürunsdahin,duschimmerstaufdemPodium,gepflegteHandwürgtdenTrophäenhals.DugibsteinBestespreisiinMissionarenstellung:dochderAnlaßdeinesRedesschwallsheißtbestenfallsDieProminenzküßtsich…wieverbrauchtdasist:EineSchmeißfliegenbrut,sieumtanztdenhöchstenHaufen.Duwarstwundervoll,Darling—hörtdasniemalsauf?Dennduweißtundichweiß,keinergibtwasdarauf.

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Siesah’ndichkommenkilometerweit,dasKribbelnindenFingernzeigteBösesan;dieWange,dieduhinhältest,solldiebess’reSeitesein?DuwarstihnenlieberalsdeinsteilerWegbegann.

UnddutreibstesaufdieSpitze,biszurParodie,wringstdenletztenTropfen,fälltderGroschenwirklichnie?DieProminenzküßtsich,verbrauchtdasist:

DieProminenzküßtsich,wieverbrauchtdasist:EineSchmeißfliegenbrut,sieumtanztdenhöchstenHaufen.Duwarstwundervoll,Darling—hörtdasniemalsauf?Dennduweißtundichweiß,keinergibtwasdarauf.

O,paßauf!Na,na,fälltderGroschennoch?EinQuentchenWahnsinnalsCharakterfaden,einStückMethodeimmaskiertenBlick;kriegstdeinenwake-up-call,bistimmereingeladenzurPartyrolleimBarbarenstück.

DieProminenzküßtsich,wieverbrauchtdasist:EineSchmeißfliegenbrut,sieumtanztdenhöchstenHaufen.Duwarstwundervoll.Darling—hörtdasniemalsauf?Dennduweißtundichweiß,keinergibtwasdarauf.

DieProminenzküßtsich,wieverbrauchtdasist:EineSchmeißfliegenbrutsummtundschwärmtringsumdeneignenMist.DieProminenzküßtsich,endetdasdennnie?Dennduweißtundichweiß,dasistnichtsalschi-chi…

Dasistnichtsalschi-chi.KnipsdenKuß,Klappe,Schluß,gutgenug:DasistnichtsalsBetrug.

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DieTinteverlischt

FolgdenInstruktionen,ProblemeerstenGracls.Wirwartenaufeinupdate,sowaswiedieNeuerfindungunsresRads.WermachtdieWeltsoschwerverständlich?WerhatdasKennwortausradiert?DieStirninFalten,nichtsbleibtbeimAlten,derKopfgespalten,dochichbleibfrustriert:VonEsoterikganzunberührt.

FolgdenInstruktionen,invielenZungenlaut.Allesda,inrauhenMengen,undderletzteSchrittderLeiteristaufSandgebaut.DasDiagrammistsoverwirrend,anagrammatischlalltdieLiturgie,dieStirninFalten,nichtsbleibtbeimAlten,ichgrabinmeinemHirn,dafind’ichsie:DieesoterischeMaschinerie,meinunsichtbaresvis-‘a-vis.

FolgdenInstruktionen,dichhateserwischt,übersetztklingtallesunklar,manhältsiesichvorAugenunddieTinteverlischt.

EsoterischeMaschinerie,meinunsichtbaresvis-‘a-vis,dieEsoterikerreichtmichnie,dieesoterischeVerdunklungsstrategie.

WermachtclieWeltsoschwerverständlich?wieWerschriebdasAlphaindasABC?deStirninFalten,nichtsbleibtbeimAlten,ichraufemirdasHaar,bisicheingesteh’:DieEsoterikverfehltmichmehrdennje,dieEsoterik,dieverwehtwieGischt,dieZauberformel,derenTinteverlischt.

Ganzuntrennbarvermischt,daßderInhaltverzischt,wenndieTinteverlischt.

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Auto(WiederimWagen)

Wirfahren—waskönnteschönersein—LichtpunktinderBrandung.ScheibenwischerrhythmuslädtzumTanzenein,LichterkettenderAutobahn,lavahellerGegenwind.ImmerbleibtinderFerne,waswirseinwerden,jegewesensind.

WiederimWagen,nichtswasunshiernochhält,wirhabenkeinefestenPläne,aberalleZeitderWelt.Komm,steigeinindenWagen,egalwohin,meinKind…besservoranmitZuversichtalszuerreichenwaswirsind.

DuenträtselstdieKarteeindunklesMärchen,dasvonSchwärmernstammt,PassierscheinfürdieUnauffindbarkeit,unsreFahneindenFluchtpunktgerammt.EwigkeitamSteuer,mirganzegal,wohindieReisegeht.Ichwillsoweitfahren,wiedasRadiomirBachindieOhrenweht.

WiederimWagen,dieNachtisteinschwarzesLoch,undsiehewirbewegenuns—alsogibtesunsnoch.SteigeinindasAuto,hauchdenRückspiegelblind,besservoran,sohoffenwir,alszuerreichenwaswirsind.

Undwirfahr’nfürimmer…undwirfahr’nfürimmer…gibzu,auchDuhastschondrangedacht,wirfahrenweiter,wilder—indasNirgendniemandslandderschnellenBilder.

WiederimWagen,

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VollgasdieganzeNacht,derHighwaywahrtseinGeheimnis,zuvielZeitimStandverbracht,alsosteigeinindenWagen,hauchdenRückspiegelblind,besservoranmitZuversicht,alszuerreichenwaswirsind.Komm,steigeinindenWagen,hierversteinernwirdoch.DennwennwirinBewegungsind,dannpulsierenwirnoch.

SteigeinindenWagen.Komm,steigeinindenWagen.Hörihmzu,laßdichtragen.Steigein.

Gaia

SchmetterlingaufdemRadeinerWelt,dieunaufhaltsamkreist…jederzarteFlügelschlagAntriebskraftfürNachtundTag,OGaia!

Schmetterling,hauchstimLicht,kleineWelle,diestetsweiterweist…weitentferntwächsteinZyklon.EineWelt,inKommunion.OGaia!

Weinenicht,esisthoheZeit:JederAtemzugdemGrundgeweiht.

SchmetterlingaufdemRadlocktdieOrdnungausdemChaos.JedeWelleinderLufttreibtdenMotor,derunsruft.

Weineruhig,danntrocknedeinenSchmerz:JederAtemzugbelebtdeinHerz.

Schmetterling,KornderWelt,

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eingefror’nbeimFlugimSternenzelt,dochderGeistwehtewiglich…ererinnertunsandie,oGaia!

AlleskönntversöhntzurRuh,läuftaufihreMittezu,aufGaia.OGaia!

Schlaftnun

Schlaftnun—einalterTagsagteuchKindernAdieu,dochschonMorgentrinktihrvomSchaumderWeltundtuteuchweh,ganzsicherlich.WasfüreinWunder,füreinRätselspielfürmich.

FreundeauseurerZukunftliegenjetztwieihr,großeLiebenschrei’nnachdergroßenMutterbrustvollGier…oh,dieWeltdrehtsichunentwegt,einLeben,dassichnieschlafenlegt.

Wiebald,Mädchen,wiebaldempfangtihrdenRufderJugendzeit,undnichtshälteuchhier…

Dochdenktdran,wasimmersonstimLebeneuchverstört,vergeßtesniemals,auchwennihrihnzuhäufigschreienhört:DerVaterliebteuchalshätt’erniesorechtverstanden,wasdasheißt,bisgeradejetzt.

WiebaldziehtihrdemheimdieFernevor…nureinLieclderKindheit,singicheuchsanftinsOhr.

Schlaftnun—ichsageuchspäter,wiemeinLebenwar,fälltdasschwer—ihrwerdetseh’n,wasmirnichtmalderkühnsteTraumgebar,imFlackerneurerLiderwirdeinWunschwachundwahr.

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Schlaftnun,warmbeschütztindemHafeneuresNests,schlaftundträumtnun.Auchwennihralles,wasichsag,vergeßt,derVaterliebteuch,alshätt’erniesorechtverstanden,wasdasheißt,bisgeradejetzt.Alshätt’erniesorechtverstanden,wasdasheißt…

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RoaringForties(1994)

SharplyUnclear

Sharply Unclear is based on a guitar arpegiationwhich makes an obvious nod in the Beatles direction —although the musical principle behind it goes back muchfurther.Itis,perhaps,awordtothe(over?)wise;maybethecynic’s view of a cynic. The character it’s addressed to isself-confidenttoasomewhatoverbearingdegree.

You’venevershownatraceofhumanfrailty,No-onecouldevercatchyouonthehop:Eachpost-moderntakeontheactionwouldfindyoualready,inprinciple,totallyhot,allself-referentialcommentaryandamarketingman’ssenseoftalkshop.

Thesharpertheimageyoucutthemoreyouseemunreal;sosharpyoucouldcutyourself,transparentlyideal.

Weallknowthathard-boiledlook,youcookedituptofacedownthestares;IfeellikeI’mwalkingoneggshellsaroundyou,asthoughyou’realreadynolongerquitethere.Youacknowledgeyourtrauma,yourneurosisisstrippedandlaidbare.

Thesharpertheimageyoucutthemoreyoudisappear;sosharpyoucouldcutyourself,somehowthistransparency’sunclear.

Allthemirrorsinyourplayroom,theytwistyourpsycho-epidermisintoshape.Nodoubtyouemergedinyourmake-upbelievingquitesimply,believingthatyou’dgotittapedbutthevacancyyouofferedisalreadyaCheshireCatgape.

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Thesharpertheimageyoucutthemoreyoudisappeared;sosharpyoucouldcutyourself—areyoustillreallyhere?Andthesharpertheimageyoucutthemoreyouseemedafake,sosharpyoucouldcutyourself,transparentlyopaque…Andthesharpertheimageyoucutthelessyouseemedalive;sosharp,butthisopenbook’stransparentlyjive.

Youweresosharpyoucutyourself,sosharpyoucouldcutyourself;youweresosharpyoumadeyourselftransparentandtransparentlyunclear.

TheGiftofFire(TalkTurkey)

This song is preceded by a passage of instrumentalplaying the likeofwhichhasnot, I think,beenpresentonmany of my recordings of late. Eventually the song (oftruth-telling? Of exploited innocence? Of confidencemisplaced?)kicksin.

Likeawindinthewildernesslikeaswellontheocean…wouldthespellbeunbrokenifitwasneverphrased?

Shewasalwaysthepreciouschild,shewasalwaysastrangeone,aderangementrunsdeepdownthroughherinnocentgaze…

Thegiftoffireandthegiftoftongues,thegifttoseewhatGoddessFortuneheldinstore;prettysoontherewerewhisperingsofwitchcraftfromthecouplenextdoor.Shehadthegiftoftalkturkey,thegiftoftalkturkey.

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Shehadnomessageforthemarketplace,shewasinflamedbyeachmoment,shehadthesilverspoonofsoothsayfordestiny.Shewasalwayscomingonwiththegiftoffireandthegiftoftongues;familyaffair,itwasafortunethatthey’dgot—prettysoontheywerecookingupastoryforthecommunalpot;ontheprimetimeslottheyshotthegiftoftalkturkey.

Ohnowshecan’tstoptalkingaboutthewaysheseesitisandshecan’tstoptalkingaboutherprescience.Shecan’tstoptalking,howdangerousthatisandshecan’tstoptalking,no,shecan’tstoptalking…

It’sthecurseofthefireandshe’sburningupbeforeusinthetalkoftongues,flamesthatlickaroundthedross;thegiftoffire,ifshe’sburningupbeforeusit’sourcommunalloss,theinevitablecostofthegiftoftalkturkey.

Whatawindfallofwickednesswhentruthgetswarpedtoperversion;intheofficialversionthey’llalwaysmakeitquiteplainwhatwe’rereallynotmeanttosee.Thegiftoffireconsumesallthosewhotouchitandthegiftoftonguesisalwaysdouble-edged;theygrewawarethatshewouldtakethemtotheledge,soprettysoontheywereworkingupastoryaboutthebetstheycouldhedge.

Thegiftoffireandthegiftoftongues…theytakehernameandtheygrinditinthedust;allatoncethey’vegotalibistocoveranypossiblebustandshe’sgagged,boundandtrussedbythegiftoftalkturkey.

Butshecan’tstoptalking,thoughheraudiencedisappearsandshecan’tstoptalkingaboutherprescience.Shecan’tstoptalking,thoughsheknowsthatno-onehearsshecan’tstoptalking,shecan’tstoptalking,shecan’tstoptalking—howmiraculousthisis!

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Shecan’tstoptalking,justlikeBernadette.Shecan’tstoptalking,howdangerousthatis,andshecan’tstoptalking,shecan’tstoptalking,no,shecan’tstoptalkingaboutthewaysheseesitis,shecan’tstoptalking,justlikeJoanofArc.Shecan’tstoptalking—man,howdangeroussheis,shecan’tstoptalking,shecan’tstopthegiftoftalkturkey,thegiftoftalkturkey.

No,shecan’tstoptalking.

YouCan’tWantWhatyouAlwaysGet(ifyouhaven’tgotityet)

Forgive me for my obsessions, but the central tenethere will be a familiar one, albeit expressed in differentterms: onemust live the present life, betweenKnown andUnknown… no other one is ever on offer!«…Want» alsoacts as something of a real-world commentary on theimaginedstoriesofthefirsttwosongs.

Giveitabitofhardontherudderhotontheheelsoffoottothefloor;settingyourmindononethingortheother,doyoustillfindyou’realwayswantingsomethingmore?

Yes,andthethingyouwantforeverisalwaysthethingyoucanneverhave—Iwantdoesn’tget.

Tryoutthelineof«Thisisoriginal»;spinoutthestory:«Thisisbrandnew»;giveabitof«Ineverfeltlikethisbefore»;cuttothechase:«Ionlywantyou».

Andtheoneyouwantforeverwillalwaysbetheoneyoucanneverhave…

Iwantdoesn’tget

(Here’samessagefromthefuture

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youdon’thavetimetoforget…Here’samessagefromthedarkside:betterlivewithyourregrets.)

Andthethingyouwant’sforever,it’salways,thethingyoucanneverhave…Iwantdoesn’tget.

Whowasittoldyouyouwerethegiftedone?Whowasitsaidthatyoursistheluckystar?Somehowyou’realwayslookingtoshedyournextskin,alwaystoobusytobewhoandwhatyouare.Stilltheoneyouchaseforeverturnsintotheoneyoucanneverhave.

Iwantdoesn’tget

(Here’samessageforyourpresentandthereisn’tanycatch:betterlivethelifeyou’reliving,noconditionsareattached.)t

Youcan’tlivealifeasconstantacquisition;you’remissingthepresent,alwayslookingtoliveinthefuturetense.YoubuildupyourhopesforCorpusNonDelicti…Thecrackoftemples—who’reyougoingtosueforrecompensewhenthethingyouwantforeverwillalwaysbethethingyoucouldhavehad?

IwantjustmeansIlackbutIdon’twanttoturntheclockback.

(Here’samessagefromthefuturethatyou’dbetternotforget…Here’samessagefromthedarksidebetterlivewithyourregrets.Here’samessageforthepresentifyouhaven’tgotityet:betterlivethelifeyou’reliving.)

Iwantdoesn’tget.

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AHeadlongStretch

This is dense stuff, and contains the gamut of styles.from reflective, almost pastoral, apssages to truly mind-warpingsignatureshifts.Initsloosestsenseitistodowiththe «living in the Now» to which«…Want» alludes. Anelementofthatinvolvesgettingolderandacknowledging(ifnotnecessarilycelebrating!)thefact.

I.UpAhead

PassageassuredonthegoodshipGoodbye…dareIraiseupmyeyestostareintotherigging?

(Preparingtogo/comehome..)

Allwecouldhavedonewe’reatpainstoexplainbutallourmightinthemainisonlyemptypromiseunfulfilledatlaststillno-onecanbeblamedforbreakingdailybread,thinkingahead.

Blessedwithstrangegraceandreluctanttofaceineluctablefate,IsayIsawthefutureIsaidforgetthepastbutI’llnothearthelastoflivesI’veneverled,thinkingahead.

II.ContinentalDrift

Wemakethebedsinwhichwe’llstretchinunconsciouspre-planning;tendingandhedgingourbets

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thinkingwe’rethinkingahead.

Outofthebluecomesthegivenlife,outofthewindowvolition.Insmallmiracles,inconstantreinventionwemakesenseofeachcurrentposition.

Everychoicethatwemake,everytrickthatweturnupappearsinitsprinciplesound.Yeh,we’reself-mademen,mastersofourdestiny,freeandunbound…

Intotheheartcomesthebravenewworldwherewe’reslavestothestrengthofconviction…IbelievedecisionscomelikecontinentstoconquerlikeIbelievewe’renostrangerstofiction.

Everyroadthatwetakemeansajourneyrejectedwepretendwecanstillhaveitall;everyfuturewedreamavirtualreality,onlyvanitystillholdsusenthralledwhenthebestlaidplansofmiceandmenallunravelinthejudgementcall.

Pridestillmakeusrideforafall.

Surelywelookripeforafall,surelywelookripeforafall;maybewejustrideforthefall.

III.TheTwelve

Thejury’soutuponthematterandtheycanbarelybeartoadmitthatallthetimethatwespendplanningintheendwillmatternotonewhit.

ThoughI’vecertainlyconsideredeveryvitalproandconIgetnoscentofanacquittalIlosethedrift…thesignsarewrong.What’sgoingon?

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(Twelvesignsofthezodiac,twelvehourstoface,thetwelvedisciplesallaquiver,twelvearrowsstrikeatwelve-tonecase.)

Roundandroundinrepetitionoftheflightfromboredomintothrillandallthetimewe’rewaitingonthepunchline,thehollowlaughwithin«wewill».

Whatwon’twegivetotakeuptheturningoverofanewleaf?No-oneeverreachingfutureperfect;beforeweknowit,beyondbeliefwecometogrief,wehitthereef.

IV.LongLight

Signsserialadriftintheairimmaterialfaceuptothephosphorflare.

Ghostessencefuelsfireintherig;incandescencelet’sdanceoutthemysteryjig.

Jig,dancethedanceofmysterylight,dancethedance,jig,dancethedanceinfernallybright.

Darkwaterdarkfiredownbelow…stormquartertimetodanceoutthemystery—no!

Thetwelvewillswingustocompletenessrightfromthecradletothegraveandallourfutureprojection’sonlysecondguessingseventhwaves…Abreakintheconnections

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wethoughtwerebuilttolasthere’sachangeintheweather,Tsunamitime—thewave’salreadyrollingintowardsusfromthepast.

V.BackwardsMan

It’sonlylookingbackwardsthatyouretraceyourhand,it’sonlyinamomentofreversalthatyoucanseewhereyoustand…easeout,comethroughthefilmandthroughthemirrorwelcomethebackwardsman.

Ohyes,thebeachstillstirstheocean,andsoonthetidewillturnthemoonroundallisforgivenandallwasforeseen—all’sasitevercouldbe.

Endsforcedmotiveoutofmeaningmeansallevenoutintheend;retracingsteps,intheprocessyoulearntostand,learntowalkagainsomuchgetsforgotten,somuchisforsworninretrospect.

DidIreallydothat?WasIeversoyoung?

It’shere,lookingbackwardsthatyouconfrontyourownfaceit’sonlyinsuchmomentsofreversalthatyou’resecureinplace.Throughthefirebackwardsagainandagainreturntobase.

VI.AsYouWhere

It’ssomerelieftofindthepossibleinstore;

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beyondbelief,inovertime,I’moverboard…unchartedwaters,fullfathomfive,thefuture’srising,it’sjustarrived.

It’snotthesameasIimagineditwouldbebutthere’snoblameifeverylife’simaginary.

AndifIgetquitewhatIdeservethat’llendthesentence,thetimeI’veservedafullstoptothesentence…

Whenit’salldoneyouwilledthepersonyou’vebecomeinseriousfunit’sasyouwerethatyoubecomeandsoit’sdone.

VII.OrSoISaid

IsawthefutureorsoIsaid…Howstrangetheyseem,thelivesI’veneverled,thinkingahead.

(I’mreadytocomehome…)

Soheadon,headlong,headstrong.

(I’mreadytogo…)

YourTallShip

It’sananthem.It’sinC.Theydon’tcometomeallthatoften,butthisoneisarealnatural…

Far,sofaraway…surelyyouremember

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logbookpagesfrayedthatfannedtheflamesoflongago,gutteredinthegrate,shadowsintheembers…lookaway,lookforhome.

Voicesontheair,runningwiththecurrent;windandtidesetfair,shiptoshorethemessagegoes,allinloveisfair—acrosstheragingtorrent,sailaway,sailforhome;lookaway,lookforhome.

Land-lockedlovers,landlubfriends,inprocession:allritesofpassagehaveanend.Lookaway,sailaway,sailyourtallshiphome.

Weareocean-borne,farfromanyharbour,fromourmooringstorn,ghoststhatflyforallweknow…turntofacethestormthat’sbuildingofftostarboard,sailaway,sailforhome,lookaway,lookforhome.

LookawayintheRoaringForties.

Land-lockedlovers,littoralfriends,thesuccessionneverends…thespirit’swillingtocarryon;allritesofpassagemakeusstrong.

Sailaway,sailaway,sailyourtallshiphome.

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NoneoftheAbove(2000)

TouchandGo

Betweenthelightandtheshadow,outofthecornerofmyeyeIsawyourfeathersallruffled,anticipatingthesky…You’vegotnoreasontostay,daybydayyourimpatiencehasgrown.I’mcaughtbetweenthedevilandthedeepbluesea,Iknow.I’mreachingoutbutwearetouchandgo.

MakingamealofthemomentImightcookupastoryortwo,butthedishoftheday’sgettingcolderandIknowthat,prettysoon,you’llpickupyourbedandwalk,openyourwingsandflyawayfrommeacrosstheleaden,hammer-headedskywhileIcan’tbreatheaword,nomatterhowItry.

Soscareditshowsthatwearetouchandgo.

Ineverbroughtmyselftotellyouhowyoukeptallmydemonsatbaybutmysilencecameoutasindifferenceandnowmydiffidencehasdrivenyouaway.You’llbetheonewiththewings,I’mgoingdowninflames,stillmouthingoutthemystery,myangel,ofyourname.Howtouchandgoourtendernessbecame.

(SoscaredtoshowIknowwe’retouchandgo)

Sotouchandgo,somuchIcan’texplain.

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(Somuchisunexplained.)

NamingtheRose

Hehadworkedonthisforyearssincetheyknowthey’dbechildless:tohybridiseathornlessanddeep-scenteddamaskrose.Shewasalwaysbyhissideinthelengtheningshadows…thiscaseisclosed.

EnaHarkness,ConstanceSpry,EmilyGrey,MargaretMerrill,ZepherineDrouhin,AimeeVibertandBlancheMoreau—allthesespiritsstillsurviveintheactofthegrower(inpeaceandcompassionhe’s…)namingtherose,namingtheroseinthememoryofsweetness.

Dedicationtothecallandheoffersupthehopethatloveconquersall.

It’snoteasytoexplainhowhefeltatherpassingtheverydayonwhichthemostperfectbloomwasfull-blown;tendercrueltythatshe’dnevershareinthismoment,namingtherose.

Hetakesherashestotheseed-bedandworksthemingentlysothathersoulwillriselikesapintheplantsastheygrowandthenwhisperinghernamewritesitoutonthelabel,namingtherose,namingtheroseforthesakeofhersweetness.

Namingtherose

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inthememoryofsweetness.

HowFarIFell

(Here’stheoldmanandhisnot-so-childlikebride;here’sthehumblingofusall,delusionneverdies;here’sthestory:anyonecanfallatanytimeatall.We’reborntobefoolsinlife.)

Iwasthekingofthemountain,Ihadeverythingthatmoneycouldn’tbuy:atthesummitofambitionIwasreadyforthesky.Iviewedtheworldfromthis,mycitadel…oh,howIfell.

Silentandsleeping,thevolcano,soIthoughtthatIstoodsquareuponmyfeet.Iignoredthewarningtremorsinmyhubris,Irepeat—Ineversawyoucoming,Jezebel…oh,howIfell.

AsIlookbacknowonthetearsIwastocryIamholdingontothevestigesofpride,Iamholdingon,butIwillneverbetheonetotellhowfarIfell.

(Here’stheoldmanandhisnot-so-childlikebride;here’sthehumblingofusall,delusionneverdies;here’sthestory:anyonecanfallatanytimeatall.We’reborntobefoolsinlife.)

Afoolandhismoneyaresoonpartedandthere’snothinglikeanoldfool,sotheysay:oncetheplastichadbeenmeltedquicklyyouwereonyourway,leavingmedrowninginthewishing-well—oh,howIfell.

You’llneverknowhowdeepyoucutme,althoughanyonecanseethestateI’min.SoIpaythepriceofsuchunoriginalsin…butIwillneverbringmyselftotellhowfarIfell.

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SomebodyBadEnough

Ikeepyourpictureinthebackofthebookasindextomyhiddenpages;asecretlifeiswherewemeetandI’llnotletyougo.

IknowyouthinkthatI’mabitofacreepbutIwillgrowonyouinstagesuntilyourecognisethatwe’rebothinsodeepthatit’scontagious.

AndifyoulovesomebodybadenoughIbelieveintheendtheywillofferyouintheirlives.

Ikeepthewebsitestockedwithpicturesofyou;Ilovetoscanyourshockedexpression.Iknowthatyou’retheonlyonewhoreallyunderstandsallaboutpossession.

Andifyoulovesomebodybadenoughyouwillfollowtheirfootstepswhereverthey’regoinginlife;andifyoulovesomebodybadenoughIbelieveintheendtheyletyouintheirlives.

Andifyoulovesomebodybadenoughyouwillfollowtheirfootstepswherevertheyleadyouinlife;and,yes,IlovesomebodybadenoughIbelieveintheendyouwillletmeinyourlife.

TangoforOne

AndeverytimeyoucallmeIwaittohearwhatfavouryourequireofmethistime…Theobjectofyourowndesire,noteverything’saboutyou,I’mnotexactlyhangingonyourwords,thisaudienceisrestive,perhapsyou’venotobserved

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becauseit’sme,me,mewithyouandwhatIfeelmeansnotalot.No,Idon’tneedthis,you’rewelcometowhatyou’vegot.

Noteverything’saboutyou,myworlddoesnotrevolvearoundwhateverproblemyouwantsolved;perhapsyoumightdobetterwithafreshresolve.Butit’salwaysme,me,mewithyouandIhavehadituptohere;no,Idon’tneedthis—you’rewelcometoyourself,mydear.

You’rewelcometotheparty,sogladyourguestshaveallarrived.They’reallreflectingyourbrillianceintheiradoringeyes.You’rewelcometothismoment,everybody’shereforyou…butyou’llbedancingbyyourselfbeforethenightisthrough.

Noteverything’saboutyou,noteverything’saboutyou,noteverythingaboutyou’strue.

Andeverytimeyoucallmeyourself-obsessiongrows:you’llstewinyourownjuices,Isuppose.I’vehadenoughoflistening,there’snobodyathome;noteverything’saboutyou,everybodyknowsthateverythingaboutyou’semperor’snewclothes.

You’rewelcometotheparty,sogladthateverybodycame;oh,howtheyadmireyouasyourworthisself-proclaimed!Thespittoonsfillupwithvitriolwhileyou’repuffingupyourname.Yes,you’rewelcometothismomentyouperceiveasyourrighteousfame;andifexhaustingourpatiencehaslongbeenyourchosengameyou’reawinner,you’reachampion…inyourowneyesyou’reasaint.Isthatwhatyou’vebecome?

Yes,you’rewelcometoyourself

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butwhenthisone-offraceisrunnoteverything’saboutyou.Noteverything’saboutyou,andgettingonwithoutyouwon’tbehard,ifofcomfortthat’sacrumb.

It’salwaysme,me,mewithyou;surelyitcan’tbesomuchfuntofindyou’redancingatangoforone?

LikeVeronica

WearyourhairlikeVeronicaLakeandhesaysyoulookeversoprettyashebrushesthetearfromyourcheekalmosttenderly…soonhe’llbehome.

Fallinginlovewasyourfirstmistake,withaheartthatheldnotraceofpity.Asyoulookinthemirroryouwonderwhatfaceyouwillseewhenhecomeshome.

Soonhe’llbeinthroughthedoorinacloudofrageandimpotence;callingyouwhore,hisgreetingisaGlasgowKiss;downontheflooryouraiseyourarmsbutthereisnodefence…he’sonlyinlovewithhisfists.

WearyourhairlikeVeronicaLakeandthebruiseswon’tshowwherehehitsyou;safebehindthecurtain,inprivate,insecretnobodywillseehowhecomeshome.

Soonhe’llbeintoyourfaceinaspittle-streamofvitriolandabuse,fillingtheplacewiththestenchofalcoholandpiss;nosavinggrace,nocomfort,noescapeandnoexcuse:he’sonlyinlovewithhisfists.

Ifthisisallthatthereisisn’ttheresomewheretorunto?Ordoyouthinkinthefuturehe’llchangehisways?Isthatwhyyoustay?

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Heisnotyourheaven-sentprotector,heisnotanangelfromabove,heisnotthemanthatyouoncemarried:nowhisfistsareallheloves.Heisjustaweaklingandabully,heisnotthedevilindisguise;heisnotthemanthatyouoncemarried,heonlywantstoseeyoucry.Heonlywantstohearyoubeg,heonlywantstoseeyouhurt,heonlywants toseeyoubleed,heonlywant tomakeyoucry.He isnotyourheaven-sentprotector,heisnotanangelfromabove,heisnotthemanthatyouoncemarried:nowhisfistsareallheloves.

Oh,darling,darling,isthatwhyyoustay?

Hisfistsareallheloves.

InaBottle

Withthesenseofanticipationburningonhisskinandthetrainofconsequencesrunningatfullthrottle,beforethetouch,beforethekiss,thismomentjustbeforetheirhistorybegins,he’dgiveanythingtoputthisinabottle.

Nosenseoftime,nosenseofplace,incaseofsenselessnesshe’llsweartoheralone,(He’llsweartoheralone.)thoughheknowstomorrowthiswillbeanotherfacehe’sforgotten(Nomemory’squitehisown)beforethefire,beforethefall,allthisismagical,thefuturesounknown,he’dpayanythingtogetthisinabottle,(asifthat’sathinghecouldeverown)he’dpayanythingtogetthisinabottle.

DonJuanhadbeensocarefulbutheletitslipthattheelixirhecravedwasmoistuponherfaithlesslipsandinthehintofherperfumethatlingeredonhisfingertips…distillation.

Overstrength,thiseau-de-vie.

(Whataslip‘twixtthecupandthelipfinally…Hegotthebottle,heknockedbacktheeau-de-vie.)

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He’sstrippedofrecollection,he’sleftwithnoprotection,thiswon’tcomeagain,althoughhealwaysknewthathe’dforeseemuchmorethanhe’deverremember.(Thiswon’tcomeagain.)Losingthethread,losingtheplot,itwasn’t/notpossibletostayonfireashewasthen,he’ddoanythingtobreathelifeintheseembers.(Butthesecretstaysuntold…)He’dgiveanythingtogetlifefromtheseembers.(andthefirehasgrowncold,cold,cold.)

Betweenthepresentandthepast,hismouthagapeandtheelixirhedrainedhastwistedessenceoutofshape;andwithdarkperfumeheiswraithednowthatthegeniehasescapedfromthebottle.

Sangrial,theeau-d-vie.

(Whataslip‘twixtthecupandthelipfinally…eau-de-vie,eau-de-vie.DonJuanhadbeensocarefulbutheletitslip.DonJuanhadbeensocareful.Eau-de-vie…)

Astart

Alwayswe’retooyoungtounderstandthatlifeisneithercruelnorfair,atrandomorwell-planned.Sowestridealongtheshorelinewhileourfootprintsinthesandarewashedawayandthensay«CanIbeginagain?»

Butwhereyoucomefrom’swhoyou’vebeenandtryasyoumayyourdebtsallstayunredeemed(maybethat’swhytheyseem)whenallhistory’sasdistantasyourdreamsyoucloseyoureyesandcounttoten,say«CanIbeginagain?»

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Everyaction,everypassion,everyrationalretraction,everybreathastart…

Alwayswe’retooyoungtocomprehend,nobodyherewilleverknowthewholestory,howitends.(Ourloversandourfriends…)Holdingthemcloselyinthenoblestofpretence—life’sjustgotstartedwhenyoufindyoucan’tbeginagain.

(Everyaction,everypassion,formsalittlechainreaction,everybreathastart.Everymoment,lostorstolenformsthestory,baseorgolden:gofromwhereweare.)

Alwayswe’retooyoungtounderstand…

(Everyaction,everypassion,formsalittlechainreaction,everybreathastart.)

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Present(VdGG,2005)

EveryBloodyEmperor

Bythisweareallsustained:abeliefinhumannatureandinjusticeandparity…allwehaveisthefaithtocarryon.

Imperceptiblethechangeasourvotesbecomemeregesturesandourlordsandmastersdeterminetocastusintherolesofserfsandslavesinthenewempire’sname.

Yesandeverybloodyemperorclaimsthatfreedomishiscauseashebuffsuponhiscommontouchasaget-outclause.

Untonationsnationsspeakinthelanguageofthegutter;tradingprimetimeinsultstheimperialimpulseextendsacrossthescreen.Truth’sbeenbeatentoitsknees;theliesembedadinfinitumtilltheirrepetitionbecomesadictumwe’retraitorstodisbelieve.Withwhatimpotencewegrieveforthedemocraticprocessasourgloriousleadersconspiretofeedusthelastdregsofimperiousdisdaininthenewempire’sname.

Yesandeverybloodyemperor’sgothishandsuphistory’sskirtasheposesforposterityoverthefresh-dugdirt.Yesandeverybloodyemperorwithhissicklyrictusgrintalkshiswayoutofnearlyanythingbuttheliewithinbecauseeverybloodyemperorthinkshisrighttoruledivinesohe’llgospinningandspinningandspinningintohisowndecline.

Imperceptiblethechangeasonebyoneourvoicesfalterandthedoublestandardsofpropagandastillallourrighteousrage.

Bythisweareallsustained:ourbeliefinhumannature.Butourfaithdiminishes—closetothefinish,we’reonlyserfsandslavesastheempiredecays.

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NutterAlert

Itmightcomeinaletter,darknessfallsinatelephonecall;Iawaittheunexpectedwithoneeartothepartywall.Isittheprickingoftheconscience,isittheitchingofhairshirt,isitthedictionarydefinitionofaprecipicetoskirt?It’sthenutteralert.

Thoughthisfaceisfamiliarsomethinginithasbredcontempt;Ineveraskedforyouropinionoryourback-handedcompliments.Oh,butherecomesthatspecialnonsenseallthewordsoutinaspurt,theunhingingofthetrolleyasthemouthbeginstoblurt…it’sthenutteralert

Icanseewe’reintroublefromthatglintintheeyeyou’vegot;there’snosensetothestory,comprehensivelylost,theplot.Andhowcontortedisthatlogicyousoforcefullyexert:you’reacarcrashinthemaking,head-on,that’saracingcert.It’sthenutteralert,thisisthenutteralert.

AbandonShip!

Oh,theheptagenariansgotbehindthedeckswhiletheskeletoncrewwentthroughthemotions.Itwasonlythemedicationthatwaskeepingthemerect.Yeh,thedevilgotthebesttunessogodknowswhatcomesnext.

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Andit’sdifficulttothinkofanythinglessmagicthantheagedinpursuitofthehip.Atthelifeboatstationthere’samountingpanic…they’regoingoverboardforthisone—abandonship!

Oh,thehumanitarianstookthemselvesbelowwhiletheytriedtodebatethelatestmotion;meanwhileonlythemedicationservedtokeepthemonthego.Soit’sdeviltakethehindmost:wesailonthesloopJohnDoe.

Andit’sdifficulttothinkofanythingthat’sfactualnowwefindourselvesinAlzheimer’sgrip;soatdisembarkationit’snonames,nopack-drill,we’reallanonymousonthisone—abandonship!

InBabelsberg

Thecity’sspreadbeneathmyfeet,butnottheonethatIwasafterwhileI’vebeenpoundingoutthisbeatthelengthoftheKudamm.Streetlegendsonthetouristmap,afadingscriptinGothic,outinthestudiothey’rerehearsingindragforalark.Comeon,let’sgetlostinthedark.

Taleanotherstep,anothermove,anotherpace,whatisn’twritteninthemanuscriptisanotetoplaywithgraceandifIexitfromthisstoryinawayImightretraceitwillhavefallenthroughthecrackswhenIcomebackinanycaseanothertime’sanotherplace.

Thecity’sspreadbeneathmyfeetfromthetopoftheMercedestowerandIcanseethedarknessclosinginhourbyhour.

ButIcan’ttakeanotherstep,nofillingin,nocutandpaste,

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abankruptprocessforthememory,thisterrainislaidtowaste.

No,nothing’swritteninthehistorybooksthatdoesn’tleaveanastytaste;soshouldIstarttotellthestorywillyouputmeinmyplace?‘Causeit’llallbecrashandburnwhenIreturn…inanycaseanothertime’sanotherplace.

Justwhendidthisgetbroken?Idon’tknowwheretobegin—IgotaUbahnticketandaFlohmarkttoken…I’mintroubleintherubbleofBerlin

Thelightisgettingdimmer,thewallsofhistoryclosein.InBabelsbergthey’rehuntingforadifferentStimmungthatpredatesthewar.

Thatwasbefore,thatwasbefore,thatwasadifferentBerlin,thatwasanotherBerlin,thatwasbeforeinBerlin.

OntheBeach

Ifwehadallthetimeintheworldwemighttalkabouthowitusedtobe.Wecouldhavethrowninourcardswhenthegoinggothardbutevidentlywewentoninterminably.

RightnowIwanttowalktowardsthesea,hopingyou’restillinstepwithme.Alljokingapartlet’splayitfromtheheartbecauseatlasteventheSilverSurferagrees:thewaveyoubraveridesonadeepercomplexity.

Ah,comeon:surf’sup!

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EventheSilverSurferagrees.

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Singularity

OurEyesGiveitShape

I’mgettingtheidea,Ihaven’tgotaclue.Asmyfabulouscareerendsupdeadinthegutterthestarsareshiningdownrightoncue.It’snotmuchofashock,itcomesasnosurprisethatchangingallthelockswhenthehorseshaveboltedisauselessexercise.AndplayithowIwillandsayitasImayIwon’tpickthatpoisonpillasaeffortlessexitfromtheMysteryPlay.

I’msogladI’mstillheretoseethis,thebreakofdayattheendofthelongdarknight…

All’snotasitappears,thistalehasmanytwists—butifIwasn’theredocumentingthestorywouldthatmeanthattheplotdidnotexist?Oh,woulditnotbeabsurdiftherewasnoobjectivestate?Whatiftheunobservedalwayswaits,insubstantial,tilloureyesgiveitshape?

I’msogladthatI’mstillheretoseethis,thewholestoryisunfoldingbeforemyeyes;I’msohappyIcanbarelybelieveit…thissimplepleasureisthemysteryspiceoflife.

AndIamhappyjusttobreatheinthequalityofthelight.

I’mgettingtheidea,I’mseeingthingsanew,it’sallbecomingclearatthisdelicatejuncturetherecanbenofalsenortrue.Iwanttohaveitall,Iwanttoseethewholethingthrough…It’safiftyfiftycall:maybeSchrödinger’scatcouldbetheCheshireonetoo?

I’msogladthatwe’rebothheretoseethis:thechinkoflightinthetunneloflove’sembrace.I’msohappyIcanbarelybelieveitAsimplepleasureinthesimplethingsmakeslifegreat.

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EventHorizon

Flatonmyback,Icanfeelmyselffallingintoasingularstateofmind;asifthroughafog,Icanhearsomeonecalling.IknowI’mcuttingitfine,thinkingthatmaybeit’stimetocrosstheline.

ThelastthingIneed’sanyoutsideassistance;whateverIdowillbewhathasbeendoneandifforceisapplied,letitbefromadistance.RightnowI’mbidingmytime;holdon,I’mbitingmytongue,hopingI’mtimingmyrunacrosstheline.

It’sallgonesoquietandscary,Icanfeelthebloodrushinmyears.IfonlyIcouldkeepmyhead,ifonlyIcouldkeepmyheadfromspinning,ifonlyIcouldkeepmyheadI’dcrosstheline.

Isthatthefinishinsightoramistthat’sdescending?Thegeometry’sblurredattheedgeofthescene.Atthevanishingpointthere’llbenoperfectending,nofinaldottingof«i»s,nochanceofcrossingthe«t»s—atlast,unpickedattheseams,I’llcrosstheline.

FamousLastWords

«IfIclosemyeyesIcanpretendthebestisstillbeforeme,theworstisatanend.Timeforgoodbyestotheaudiencesthatadoredme;theyneverrealisedjusthowmuchIcametodespisealltheireagerness.»

Famouslastwords,madeinjest,overheard,isthatyourbesttestament?Orareyoucoiningaphrasejusttoseehowitplays

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whenyou’reatyourwits’end.Famouslastwords,tothelastyou’llself-serve,whatawasteofyourbreath.

Whenyoucloseyoureyeswillyoupretendthatnothingbadhashappened,thatwearestillclosefriends?Somanylies,afteralltheillusionsareshatteredstillatallcostsyoumusthidetheemptinesswhereyourtruefeelingsusedtoreside.

Famouslastwords,they’resoover-rehearsed—theyjustsoundlikepretence.You’llgooutinstyle,tothelastindenialofwhatanything’smeant.Famouslastwords,tothelastyou’llself-serve,whatawasteofallthatbreath.

(It’salittletoolateforsorry…inaraceagainsttheclocknowyouhitthatmentalblocktimetotakethatpoisoncupnowyourtimeisallusedup.)

NakedtotheFlame

Shewaswaxeduptofacethecameralikebutterwouldn’tmeltinthebackroomAgencieshammeredoutadeal:pointsonthepelt.Intheairlesslyfrenziedatmosphereshewasthemistressofmisrule,seemingcarelessofeverythingexceptherlook,coolerthancool.Andshe’ssingingforhersupperandshe’sdancinginthedarkandshe’srunningforherlifeifshebutknewit.Andthoughherheartishardasstonethat’sstilltheflintfromwhichshe’llspark…Likeamothtotheflameshewassoeagertomakeitherambitionbecamenaked.

Howiconicallyarchedtheeyebrowpluck,howvaselinedthelens.Nowironicallyevenhighbrowcriticsrushtoherdefence…

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Andshe’sspinninginthespotlight,butincreasinglyconfusedaboutthecontextthatshefindsherselfwrappedupin.Isitinthisskinshe’slivingorinthelastonesheabused?Nothingquitelikeadame,wasshethebrokenorthebreaking?Thegirl,thewomanbecamenaked.

Ipreferredherinanonymity,butnowthatcover’sblownand,absurdly,shestars,eponymouslycast:it’sSalome’sshow.Oh,becarefulwhatyouwishforasyourownheadmightgetturnedyoumightfindthebiterbitbeforeyouknowit;thoughevereagerforthespotlightshewasneverquitereadytobeburned.Attheendofthegamethesignaturedishwillgetplated.She’llgooutasshecame,writteninlightasherfateis.

Themothdiscoverstheflame’snaked.

MeanwhilemyMother

Meanwhile,mymother,waitingforwhat?Idon’tknow…Therecallofafavouritememory,orperhapsforapainfulonetogo?Shedoesn’tletthatmuchshow.

Meanwhile,aboveherheadallmymonologuesflows.«What’sthatyou’resaying,dear?»Wadingthroughtimelikeit’streacle,hereyeslookingintominealthoughshewon’tevennoticemego.

InthemeantimeIpackherthingsupandgetthemreadytostore;inbetweentimesItakeagoodlookaround,forwe’llnotbevisitingheremuchmore.

Meanwhile,mymother,distanceencampedinhereyes,notquiteobliviousbutclosetoastateofinertia

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inwhichshewon’tevenrealisehoweverything’spassingherby.

Meanwhile,mymother,lostinaworldofherown,turnstolookoutofthewindowdowntotheverdantearthbelow.Somejourneyswemakealonesomehowwe’llleaveallwe’veknown.

Meanwhile,mymother,waitingforwhat?Timetogo.

VaingloriousBoy

Isaidsteadyup,settledown,makewayfortheIdiotBoy.He’sheretosellyousomekindofastory;likeastuck-upsorethumbhe’llbecomingonbashfulandcoy,allofthewhilepumpinguphisvainglory.

Isaidgiveitup,slapitdown,idolisetheIdiotBoy;love’swhathewants,oratleastsomeattentionandhebelievesallthehype…likeanarchetypalGeijin-cum-goyheplaysuptheAlienGeniusPretension.

He’dfakehisownconfessiontogetyouonhisside.

Oh,Isaylightenup,calmitdown,timeoutforHisIdiocynow.What’sgoingtohappenwhentheaudiencedwindles?Thetide’sout,theride’sup,theworld’sgotnocomfortsomehowtruthtotell,it’llbehimselfthathe’sswindledinabroken-downprofessionofover-weaningpride.Nowheretohide…

Heavensentcomplimentsthatweremeantsincerelyfallflatandthebitterestpillistheonehecan’tswallow.

Theidioticthingiswhatwehavealwaysknown:howevergreatsuccessis,howeverfaryou’veflownyou’llcometofacethisaudience:yourself,yourselfalone.

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You’llcometofaceyourselfalone,youidiot,idiotboy!

FridayAfternoon

Whywaitforlifetohappen,whenrightbeforeoureyesblindfateunwrapsitspatterns?Ijustsaid«Seeyousoon».Mypianowasintunewhenyouwalkedoutoftheroom.ItfeltlikeanynormalFriday.

Atconcertpitch,440thepressure’smanytons;theweightoflifebefallsme.IwishIcouldpretendmypiano’sonthemend.Youtreateditlikeafriend,leftittosettledownovertheweekend.

You’vegotaticketontheterracesforthegameonSaturdayandafterwardsyoumightgoforabeer.OnSundayafternoonyou’lltakethefamilytotheparkandlater,whenit’sgettingdarkyou’llsay«We’vestillgotthatoldspark»,you’llsay«Oh,aren’twejustsoluckytobehere…»

Sostupidandsosenseless…Sometimeswe’repulledupshort,quiteshockinglydefenceless.Idon’tknowwhattodo:mypiano’soutoftune…it’snotasifIcanassumethatit’severgoingtogetanybetternow.

Aliquidlunchappointmentwhentheworkingweekisdone,there’stimeforonemorejustbeforehegoes.Aquickglanceatthewatchandnowit’stimetoheadforhome.Andsoit’sgoodbyetotheladies,grabsthekeystohisMercedes,thinking«MaybeIshouldgetacab…».Butno.

Blinddrunk,hemetyouheadon.OnanormalFridayafternoon.

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WhiteDot

Nothingislikeanythingelse,everything’sthesame,ourprogresspunctuatedbyaseriesofcoincidencetoformalogicalchain.

Nothingislikeeverythingelse,likeanythingyouname.Pomposityunpunctured,we’reapproachingavelocityofescapefromourmortalframes.

Sonothingislikeanythingelse,soeverything’sdesigned.We’reutterlydependentonourself-deludingsenseofwhatwe’vedoneandwhatwe’lldoifwehavetimewithnothingelseinmind.

Atimetothinkisnowatapremium.Youshowbareinklingofavitalsign.Thoughinthepinkineveryoutwardappearanceinsideit’swhitedottime.

Oh,nothingcomestomind.Sonothingcomestomind.Doesnothingcometomindwhenyou’refinallymindfulofnothing?

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Trisector(VdGG,2008)

InterferencePatterns

Allthatweseeillusoryeveryassumptionbasedonblindfaithalone…Onwiththemotley,bringithome!

Everything’sformedfromparticles,allthatyouseeisaconstructionofwaves.Holdontoboththoughts,undergeneralrelativitythecradleconnectedtothegrave.

LuminousAetherdissipates,Michelson-Morleywithapointtodisprove,Millikanoildropsandthecargo-cultscienceevaporates,improbablephysicsonthemove.

Nearerandnearer,it’sclearthatininterferencewhathappenswhenmattershattersiswantonlyquantumandnature’sgotsomesurprisesinstorerightnow.

Allthatweareillusory,everyobservancebasedonphysicallaw.Onlyafoolwouldthinkusreadytofacewithcertaintyallthatourfuture’sheadingfor.

Nearerandnearer,it’sclearer,we’reonlyhereforaneye-blink,apsychicmind-trick.Theproofsthatweuseareatbestprojectionsbutlet’shopethey’llseeusthrough.

Theinterferencepatternshelpustoknowthegapbetweenasimple«yes»anda«no»,theheart-feltbeatthatgetsusreadytogoand,asabove,we’llfindoutwhatisbelow

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theinterferencepatterns.

TheFinalReel

JackandGillian,facingtheirdecline,taketothedancefloorforonefinaltime.Who’ddenythemthislastshot?Takingatwirl,aretheyinthefinalreel—ornot?

JackandGillian,walkinghandinhand,disappearingalongtheshiningstrand.Who’ddenythemthisstateofgrace?Sowefindthemwithnotasinglehairoutofplace,picture-perfect,matchingpaceforpace,herheadonhisshoulder,hisarmaroundherwaist.Butifyouputthemonthespotwhatwouldtheysay?Aretheyinthefinalreelorwhat?

Sayonara,tschuss,adieu,farewell.Willwemeetagain?No-onecantell,notthemanner,notthetime.No-onecanhide,no-oneleavesthefinalreelbehind.

JackturnstoGillian,misty-eyed,andpressesthepillsinherhand.Allthey’vegotleftisthedownhillslidesothey’dbetteractwhiletheycan.

Thismuchtheyknow,they’renotinthefinalreelalone.Thismuchtheyknow,they’llnotleavethefinalreelalone.Theytakethedive,no-oneleavesthefinalreelalive.

Lifetime

Icanrememberitsowell,thebedofroseswherewelay,thecrownofthornsIwassokeentogiveaway.Allthewarningsignsignored,thepassion’splayed.

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Icouldforeseewhatwastocome,Ihadasenseofwhatmighthappen.Theriverrunsandveryrapidlybecomesatorrent,sweepingustowardsourricochet.

Ittakesalifetimetounravelallthethreadsthathavetiedusinourwebsoftourniquet.

Istakenoclaimonmemory.Istandonceremonialquicksand.Ilookforsomethingwithsoliditytohold:somethinglasting,somethingpristine,withnosenseofdecay.

Canyourememberhowthatwas?Canyouremember?

Ittakesalifetime’sunderstandingoftheflowtosurrender,letthecurrentsweepyouaway.WhatifI’dtoldyouIwouldneverletyougo,Iwouldholdyoueverystepalongtheway.Ittakesalifetimetounlearnallthatyouknowtoreturnthethingsyouborrowedforaday.

DropDead

Acharmedcircleonthedancefloor,aspell-bindingdisplay…it’srathermorethanhebargainedfor,SnowWhiteorMorganleFay.

«Dropdead»,shesaid.

Hey,bigman,lettestosteroneflow,flexthemuscleslikeamonkey.Themaleplumageisallpuffedupinshowbutthegirlsknowhowtodebunkit.

«Dropdead»,shesaid.

Inasense

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somemenarealwayscaughtinadolescence,tryingtocrackthemysterygirlcocoon.Itdoesn’ttakeawickedwitchtopointoutobsolescenceisastatetheymightwakeuptoprettysoon.Isitanywonderwhentheyhonethatperfectput-downtodeflatethemachotoughguymalebuffoon?

«Dropdead»,shesaid.

OnlyinaWhisper

DiveintotheMotionoftheAvatar,signuptotheArmyofthePhantom.No-one’sreallywhotheysaytheyare,they’reallimpostersonthestandinwitness.

WelcometothePowerofSelf-deception,headhighinthegripofHolyDeadlock.Don’tcountonthewayyourdaysarenumbered,listentothewindwhichwhipsyoureverywordaway.

Word-drunk,hastheInquisitionfoundyou?Weightfallsonyourshoulders,underpressure.Blackdoginthedesertheatwillhoundyou—hangon,onlyFaithisholdingustogether.

Dustcloudsbuildinguponthehorizon,makewayfortheonslaughtoftheVisigoths.Joinedup,alltheAutomaticWriting—somethoughtsshouldbespokenonlyinawhisper.

TakeaimontheSummitofExperience,don’tsaywe’rejustmakingupthenumbers,laywastetotheideaofanAfterlife.Somethoughtsshouldbespokenonlyinawhisper.

Listentothewindwhich’llwhipyourwordsaway,listentothewindthatwhipsyoureverywordaway,scatteredasyouratomsallwillbeoneday…Somethoughtsshouldbeutteredonlyinawhisper.

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AllThatBefore

Idon’tknowifI’mcrackinguporjustgettingcareless…isthisroomquiteairless?Justaminute—listen,didyouhearthatknockonthedoor?

I’mgoingtohavetowritethingsdownbeforeIforgetthem.Ican’tfindmyglasses,Idon’tknowwhereIleftthemsoIcan’texpecttogetmuchonthevisionaryscore,ordidIsayallthatbefore?

Oh,stopmeifyou’veheardthisonebeforeIgetstarted.Ican’tfindmymobileandIdidn’tchargeit,it’saphantomtarget,ifIcallmyselfI’llonlygetmyVoicemailoncemore.

IwishthatIcouldpinthingsdownbeforetheyescapedme.Ican’tfindmycarkeysanditseemsthatlatelyIhavetroubleevenfittingthemintothefrontdoor…ordidIsayallthatbefore?Oh,stopmeifI’mbangingontryingtograbyourattention.IforgettomentionIcan’tfindmyglassesbutIthinkIbentthemwhenIdroppedthemasIscrabbledformyphoneonthefloor.

ItseemsIcan’t,Ican’tremember,Ican’trememberwhatI’mdoing.

AlthoughIflashthatfoolishgrinthatseemedsowinningwhenIcameinI’mbeginningtoseeeveryhtingwe’vebeenisgoingtobeforgotten.

It’snotajoke,ordidIsaythatallbeforeIspoke?It’snotajoke,ordidIsayallthatbeforeIspoke?

Ican’tfindmyself,whatI’mlookingfor,andI’velostthethreadofwhatIsaidbefore.

Page 380: The Peter Hammill Book - Radiokot · Annotation This is a collection of short stories, lyrics, poems and drawings by Peter Hammill. Most of the stories, poems and drawings were taken

OvertheHill

Let’srecountourhistory,ourtaleofboomandbust.Wecouldtalkagoodfightonourdaybutwhenwegotahandtoplaywebitthedust.Nowinourthreadbaresuitswedoourduty,stillsoldonthepursuitofacommoncause.

Nowletuscalltomemorysuchwitnessaswedare.Webuiltourbridges,burnedthemdownaswell,maybeallwehavetotellisoffthesquare.Wetriedourinstantremedies—theydidn’tcleartheair.Whocouldforeseehowitwasboundtoend,inabreakorinabend?Weintendedwellenough…Oh,buttheclockwasalwayscounting,theenvelopewassealedandasthepressure’smountingstillpreciouslittleisrevealed.

Still,letusspeakofcomradeship,ofhowwestoodasone,shouldertoshoulderthroughthethickandthinwhiletheroofwascavingin;althougheverythingbeginsingoodfaith,foralloursinswe’llallendupbeingskinnedandnowthere’snowherelefttorunto,there’snowherelefttohide,we’restrappedinandwe’regunningfortheroller-coasterride.

Ifwe’relivingourlivesasthoughGod’satourshoulders,ifwe’regivingofourbest,byaneffortofwill,thenwe’llbeupforthetest,we’llneverknowwhenwe’reoverthehill.

Herecomesthenbitwherewedecidenopassengerscomeonthisride—civilians,thebroken-hearted,neednotapply.Icounttoathousandandten,Ikeepmyeyestightshutandthenunsteadilycountthenumbersbackdownagain.

Headonintothewind,onaheavenlymission,trytoplaywiththespinwhileweburninourhearts;althoughweknowwe’llneverwinwe’restilllearningourlessonsinthedark.

There’snochoiceheretomake,there’snoeasierdecision

Page 381: The Peter Hammill Book - Radiokot · Annotation This is a collection of short stories, lyrics, poems and drawings by Peter Hammill. Most of the stories, poems and drawings were taken

thantostandup,standstraightandtogiveitatryandthere’snotimeforhesitationasthestationsofourlivesarepassingby.Headsupandfacefrontasbrothertobrother,timetocometothecallifwe’retruetohowwewerebecauseatlastandafterallwe’vegiveneachotherourwords.IfweliveoutourlivesasthoughGod’ssatatourshoulders,ifwegiveofourbestandthengivesomemorestill,presson,withnopauseforbreath,thenwe’llseeeachotheroverthehill.

Nowifwespeakofdistanceswe’reonlycoveringoldground:what’sdoneisdoneandifwehavebecomeofworthatallwe’llhopetoseethingsintheround.Let’sclosethebookonhistoryandkeepitsafeandsound.Whilewe’vebeenmovingforwardtoourgoalswehavedoneaswehavetold,sothestory’sclosedbehindusandthecountdowncomesinbackwards,thatmuchwasalwaysclear,sowhenitreacheszeroourheroesdisappear.

(Weare)NotHere

Idreamedyouherebesideme,radiant,impulsivelystrong.Lightstreamingthroughusblindly,wearenothereforlong.

Idreamedusfromtheether,burstingthroughtheneuralstem,vibrationwithoutmeter…wearenothereagain.

Wearenothereagain.(Nowaytoknowthatwhen)Wearenothereagain.(thereisnonowinthen)

Wearenothereagain.

(Wearenotthereandthenweare.Henceforthwearenothereagain.)

Page 382: The Peter Hammill Book - Radiokot · Annotation This is a collection of short stories, lyrics, poems and drawings by Peter Hammill. Most of the stories, poems and drawings were taken

AGroundinginNumbers(VdGG,2011)

YourTimeStartsNow

Yourtimestartsnowwithoutaquestion,withoutaclueyourresponsewillattesttosuggestion’spower,sostrongandgrowingstronger.Withself-beliefyou’vepulledthroughbutyoubelongherenolonger.

Flybynight,it’sover;daybydayit’sdone.Wasitsimplyoversightthat’sleftyouovercome?Whileyou’vebeendistracted—playfully,nodoubt—yourtime’sbeenrunningout.

Yourtimestartsnowandthere’stheposer.You’regoingtoneedallthehelpyoucangetfortheride’snearlyover.

Allthatinformation,allthatwarpandweft…forallyourpatientfortitudeyou’repatentlybereftofclue,ofhint,ofnotion,ofanswers,evenvague.You’reploughingforwardnonethelessasthoughbysimpledoggednessthefarside’llseeyousaved.

Yourtimestartsnowandyes,you’dbestbeginit,howeverlongyou’veheldback,you’vedemurred,getontrack,pacebypace,justgoon,justgofurther…

Page 383: The Peter Hammill Book - Radiokot · Annotation This is a collection of short stories, lyrics, poems and drawings by Peter Hammill. Most of the stories, poems and drawings were taken

Mathematics

Herebenumberstranscendental,onanimaginaryaxisspun,decimalplaceswithoutlimitandzeroandone.

Mathematics,simplypurebeyondbelief.

etothepowerofitimespiplus1is0.etothepowerofitimespiis-1.

Asinglefunction,exponential,justoneadditionmustbedone…multiplicationincompletionofzero,ofone.

Mathematics,justso«wow»itbrooksbelief.

(You’dbetterbelieve,you’dbetterbelieveit.)

HighlyStrung

Thebeat,thebeatatmytemples;mypulse,mypulseinarush.I’mfeelingincreasinglymental,legsshaking,myfaceflushed.

Thelightssobrightinadazzle,thepumpingthatthumpsatmychest.I’mfeelingincreasinglyfrazzled,needsomecomfort,needsomebedrestorsomekindofintervention,coldsweatbeadinguponmybrow,thehairsonmyneckatattention,Idon’tknowwhybutsomehow

I’mhighlystrung,I’mstressedashell,Ibitemytongue,Iholdmybreathaswell.Theironlung,thedivingbell…timetodepressurise,mynervesareshottohell.

Thebeat,theheatisastounding,thepressure,thetensionfull-blown,thestaticiscracklingaroundme,Ican’tholdon,Ican’tletgo…

I’mhighlystrung,panicattack,can’tdothisone,can’tgoonwiththeact.

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I’mfrozenonthetopmostrung,Ican’tgoon,I’mjusttoohighlystrung.

Holdhersteadyasshegoes,justbeready,onyourtoes,holdhersteady…theresheblows!

Thecaseisshut,thesongissung,thewire’sbeencutandtheacrobat’swellhung.

Bunsho

I’djustdonethebestworktofallintomyhandsforquitesometime;ofnightoilI’dburnedmuch,madesurebothstyleandcontentweresublime.SoIputitforwardtothepublicforuminanticipationofmydueacclaim.

Andmeanwhile,bycontrast,I’dpennedaeulogy,pureworkaday,justhackwork,justdashedoff,packedfullofprolixpuffandsadcliche…No-onecanreallytellwhentheirhand’sbeenplayedoutwellandIdon’tevenknowhowmyownstorygoesorifit’sworthajot.

Ican’tseemystream.

WhatIthoughtwasperfect,whatIthoughtwaspolished,no-onethoughtitworthmuchandtheymadethatclear.WhatIthoughtwasworthless,merelyrepetitionsomehowtuggedtheheartstrings,broughtthemalltotears.

Ican’tseemystream.

No-onecaneverknowwhatoftheirown’stheirverybest.

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SnakeOil

Bestofintentions,fresh-faceddevoteesdisplay,satatthefeetofthemaster,hopingthatthisistheonetrueway.Eagerawareness,pickingthewoodfromthetrees,onlybeliefisimportant,onlyobediencecansetthemfree.

Herecometheparaphernalia,herecomethecatch-allrefrains,repeatadinfinitum.

Slavishdevotion,that’showitusuallypresents,inanimpossiblypompousaddictiontodoctrinesthatmakenosense.Analretentiontoanastoundingdegree,self-absorptionistotal,makingobeisancecompulsoryiftheywanttoreachtheinnermystery.

Welcometothebatsinthebelfry,thebuzz-wordsechoaround,repeatedadinfinitum.

Brainwashedandboundtobelieveintheorthodoxtext,slogansont-shirts,thepunterscan’twaittobetoldwhattothinkofnext…oh,what’scomingnext?

Well,nothingiscomingandnobodyheregoesinsearchofthequestionsposteritymightpose.There’sonlyoneanswerthebelieverscanallow…

Yes,teacherknowsbest,teacherknowsbest.Let’sputtheteachertothetest,let’sputtheteachertothetest.

There’sonlyoneanswerthediscipleswillallowout.Cultishconventionrepeatedagainandagainuntilthewordshavenomeaning,untilthemeanshavebecometheend.

Whatstartswithself-obsessionendsupinself-denial,theyjustsowanttobelieve…slavestothesnakeoilinthisparticularworld,elitistandself-referential,thecomfort’sinsharingthesecretwordwiththepictureblurred…thecompanionshipoftheherd.

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EmbarrassingKid

Embarrassingkidlooksintothemirrorandgrinslikeanidiotathisownface.Foraslongasheliveshewillnotbedeliveredfromthestuffthathedid,fromhisteenagemistakes.

Icanbarelybelieveit,howIwentandlettheoldschooldown.Yeah,whatevercanIhavebeenthinkingof?

Embarrassingkid,Isquirmatthememory,trytobangdownthelidonthecanofworms.Itremainsprettystrangeanduncomfortableterritorywheremysecretsarehidden,howeverabsurd.

Icanhardlyconcealit,howmyashenfacegotdrainedofblood.Yeah,everybodycanhaveadamngoodlaugh.

Embarrassingkid,youdon’tknowthehalfofitbutI’dstakeafewquidyou’vegotgaffesofyourown.Takealookatyourselfandyoumighthavetolaughabit…buttheteeththatyougrit,wellatleastthey’reyourown.

Andyesattheendofthedaywegetwhatwe’vegivenaway,youbet:oureternalembarrassment.

Medusa

Welcometothecoils,they’reheretosetyoufreefromanguishanddulltoil

Andshesays«Whatyouseeiswhatyougetfromme.»

You’rewelcomeinherworld,it’sclearyou’llneverleave,she’satransparentkindofgirl.

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Andshesays«Whatyouseeiswhatyougetfromme.»

Mr.Sands

Soonasyoulike,ladiesandgentlemen,pleasetakeyourseats.Inamomentthere’llbeatestofyourendurance.Stayinyourchairs:intheeventofadramaticpausepleasebeawarenothinggetscoveredbyinsurance.

Onefinalthing:pleasetakethetroubletoreadthroughyournotes,it’simportantthatyouknowwhereyou’vegottogoto.Waitamoment,maybeanusherette’llshowyou.Suchexcitement,thesearethehoopsyou’vegottogothrough…

Thenoisesoffthatturnyouonstagewhisperedfromthewings,astifledcough,ajokethatbombs,asmoulderingfusewirestring.WhenMr.Sandsisinthehousethealarmbellsstarttoring.

Everything’sincodeinaworldwebarelyknowandthetruthisonlyslowlyrevealed…

WithbestintentionsIhavestrayedfaroffthebeatentrackandofattentionIdisplayedaquitespectacularlack.NowMr.Sandsisinthehouseandthepanicbutton’ssmacked.

Well,MrSandsisinthehouse:commotioninthestallsandfromthegods,unrulyshoutsthatechoroundthehallYes,someone’sletthesecretout…thesafetycurtainfalls.

AndasIlookacrossthestagethethoughtthatfirstoccursislessthatwehavecomeofageandmorethatwe’represervedtopassourtimeindifferentshadesofignorantreserve.

Everything’sincodetillthemomentitexplodeswesuspendbelief,getreadytogofortheplayoutoftheshow—hereitisforallweknowMrSandsisalwaysreadytoroll.

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Smoke

Bestbecareful,maintainatightgrip.Yes,becarefulandkeepthemouthzipped.Bestbecareful,there’snosmokewithoutfire.

Clearlyyoudon’tknowwhereyou’regoingbutthebeatentrackbehindyourunsformiles.You’veblunderedthroughthejunglelikeahyperactivechild.

Justbecarefulandthinkthethingthrough,youmustbecarefulofwhatyou’relinkedto—justbecareful,there’snosmokewithoutfire.

Youheldyourinattentionandyourstanding’snowassuspectascanbe,thechargestelegraphedandtrackedconspiratorially.

Justbecarefulofwhereyourmouseclicks,youmustbecarefulbecausethemudsticks—justbecareful,there’snosmokewithoutfire.

5533

Youcanmakeamatrixpatternoutofalmostanything,tracingcausalimperfectionsintheinformationflow,countingoutthefootfallofprocessionalidentity.Andthenumberis…5533223

Astheprimacyofdigitstickstheboxessothecodesthattheyunlockbegintorunandthesynapsesaresnappedintoattention—theobserver,theobservedbecomeasone,reelingoutthenumbersthataremappedinshort-termmemory,soyoukeythemin…

5533223

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AllOverthePlace

So,driventodistractionbywitlessreparteeandwitteringconversationofdeepbanality,eventuallyheseeksoutinteraction,fresheccentricity.Oncloserobservationnothing’sallthatitseemstobe,nothing’smorethanitseemstobe.

Hescatteredhimselfallovertheplacewhilehidingbehindcloseddoorsanddaybydulldayfellmoreoffthepace—alifesuspendedinlivepause.Hegaveofhimselfinfractionalclues,obliquesynchronicitiesbutnobodyknowshowalienhegrew,how,drainedawaybehindhisopenface,he’dlosthisidentity.

Nownothingelseisleftbehind,justthefallensideofthesky;athousandmilesawayfromhomeIfeelthecoldghostbreathflybyoutofthedream.Nowtheimageblursofhowweseemedofwhatwewere.

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Miscellaneous

Firebrand(bsideof«PeopleyouwereGoingto»single)

This is a fairly straight-forward account of aphenomenon of dire omen which occurs in Icelandicmythology, the ‘Witch-ride’. Here, the manifestation is inthesagaofNjal,andtheeventwhichitforeshadowsistheburningofNjal’shousebyhisarch-enemy,withtheownerandhis familyasleepinside.Onthisdastardlydeedhangsthe cycle of retribution and revengewhich constitutes thesaga.

The screaming monologue of the Witch-rider is,amazingly enough, an exact translation, «poison in thecentre»andall!

Sundaynight,twelveweeksbeforewinter,theworldisinasmokyhaze.SuddenlythereappearsariderintheEast,brandishingflame.

CHORUS:«Irideandicystallion,fireateachendandpoisonatthecentre;youwon’thearmywordsasIscreamintothedarkness:hisplansarelikeafirebrand,hisplansarelikeafirebrand.»

HissteedstrainsashereachesoutoverthereinsandhurlshisflameattheWest.Themountainsdissolveinfireandheracesthroughthem,screaming:

CHORUS.

Heridesonintothefurtherdarknessbrandishinghisflamelikeaspearandbelowhimthereraceshisghoststeeddrapingthenightinfear

CHORUS.

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Njal,bewareandheedthewordswhichemanatefromHildiglum.

(Derby,1967)

W.(bsideof«ThemeOne»single)

«w» is intuitive universal, and it is thereforeappropriatethat,overtheyears,itshouldhavebeentreatedwith sounds from bagpipes to the bleeping of spacebeacons.

Wave-theory is, to me, fascinating but impenetrable,and I now prefer a «photon» view of life. However, suchopinion,whenrelatedtosuchlyricsas‘Darkness’,merelyprovesmyownconfusionandthepotentialtruthofboth.

Lifeisanendlesssuccessionofwaves,you’rehappyandyou’resadandyoudon’tappreciatethegoodtimesuntilyou’reinthebad…Youwakeuponemorning—w—andyou’retwiceasunhappyasyou’veeverbeenbeforeinyourlife.

Youwakeup,gotothewindowandseesmokebillowingacrossthelawn.Youpickyourfeetup,dragyourselfdownstairsandyou’regone.Youwakeuponemorning—w—andyou’retwiceasunhappyasyou’veeverbeenbeforeinyourlife.

Youwakeup,looktoyourleftbutyouseenoreassuringhead.Youstayinbedallday.Atsixo’clockyourealizeyou’redead.

(London,1967)

TheBoatofMillionsofYears(bsideof«Refugees»single)

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Horus,thesonofIsis,layinthemarshesofButo,poisonedbySet.ShecalledouttotheHighGodRatokillthisevil,thatherchildmayliveyet.CastingasideherpresentfearsshecalledoutontheBoatofMillionsofYears…Racameandsawandstoppedthesununtilhehadcuredthelifeoftheinnocent.

HorustheGoodlivedintheNorth,inlandsoffertilityandbeautybutSetstayedintheharddesert,tohimbelongedalldroughtandperversity.WhileheshedshistearsbeneaththeBoatofMillionsofYearshefightstokillthehawk,bearingwithhimevilanddarkness.ButHorusliveswiththesun.

Foreverthebattlerages,eviltriestokilltheinnocentbabyandonlyOsiris,theLordoftheDead,caneventuallysaveit.SowemustcastasideourfuturefearsandcalloutontheBoatofMillionsofYears.TheGodofLoveisonoursideandwithhimweshallnotdie…there’slifeintheSun!There’slifeintheSun!Onlyinviolenceisthecauselost:inpeace,greySetcan’tkillourbabyoflove.

(Derby,1967)

Shrine

LightsarebeaminginthecityasthetrainI’monarrives;myeyesaregleaming,mymouthisgritty,I’mbeggingtofeelaliveand,asIstepoutofthestationintothepouringrain,IknowthatI’mapilgrimonceagain.

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Getataxitomydestination—shedoesn’tknowyetthatit’scominghere.I’mrelaxingincontemplationofthegreattimesthatwehadlastyear;and,asIstepoutontothepavement,andringthebellof29,IknowthatI’mapilgrim,arrivingathisshrine.

Ayearagoweweretogetherallthetime;youwereagoddess,andGod!yes,youweremine…

Landlordletsmein,Iclimbonupthestairs,andI’mknockinguponyourdoor…whatamIseeing,asyoustandthere,halfyourclothesoff,lyingonthefloor?And,asIlookpastyourshockedexpression,Isee,inyourbed,anewmanandI’mapilgriminastrangeland—andtheshrinethatwasherehascrumbledintosand.

(London,1968)

Rain,3am

Recorded at Worth, Hugh Banton engineering. Thesongdatesfrom‘67.DavidJacksonplayedthefluteinthebathroom. The tune of the chorus got cannibalised later.This was originally intended for «The Silent Corner…» Ithink.

Spittingdropsofrainprobedownandtouchmycheek,interminglingwithmytearsasIsilentlyweep,thenthefatalityoflifepressescloseandpokesinmyeyesandI’mcoldandhungrytonight.

ThesegreatblackwallsofbrickworkbowlowandoppressmymindlikethewordsofpeopleIthoughtI’dleftfarbehind,butpresenceofthewordsandwallsistoocloseandit’stooclearastherainkeepswashingthroughmytears,

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astherainjustwashesthroughmytears.

Afrumplookeddownatmeandhequicklyturnsaway.He’shidingdeepinsidehimself,allaritualofthesestrangeplains.There’snooneelseuponthestreet,justthisdyingofdrunkenme,ohyes,andacatthat’shidinginthetrees,andacatthat’shidinginthetrees.

Mymemorystretchesback—asIcontinuetocry—toplaceswhereIwentwrong,althoughIstilldon’tknowquitewhy.Theplashingneonsignperclaims:allisspoiledwherethehumanlivesandinthedarknessno-oneforgives,andinthedarknessno-oneforgives.

NowAndForever

On«II solenellapoggia»byAlice;wordsandmusicbypH1989

Atfirstsight,helplesslyfalling,allatonce,lighterthanair.Feelsjustlike,I’veknownyoualwaysandnowitstarts,NowandForever’sbegun.

YouaretheoneI’vebeenwaitingforsolong.

Now,suddenly,everything’sshining,now,suddenly,everything’sclear.Hereyouare,soclosebesidemeandnowyou’recome,NowandForever’sbegun.

YouaretheoneI’vebeenwaitingforsolong.

Atfirstsight,helplesslyfalling,allatonce,lighterthanair.

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Suddenly,synchronuousheartbeatsandnowitstarts,NowandForever,NowandForever,nowourForever’sbegun,nowourForever’sbegun.

There’sNoTimeLikeThePresent(UnlessPerhapsIt’sYesterday)

On «Democrazy» by Chris Judge Smith; words andmusicbyP.H.andC.J.S.1973

There’sgottobesomechangemade,There’sgottobesomeplans.Ifyouwon’tbuildmeamachine,I’lldoitwithmyhands.I’vesaidmypiece,Ican’twastetime.I’veotherworktodo,Butdon’tthinkI’menjoyingthis,I’mdoingitforyou.

Getupandpackyoursuitcase,girlAndmeetmeatthestation.Withthingssobad,I’veorganizedOurownevacuation.Ican’ttalknow,Ihavetosplit,There’snotimeonthemeter.Ihopeshecomes,butastheysayIfyoucan’tjoinher,beather.

CHORUS:There’snotimelikethepresent,Unlessperhapsit’syesterday.Thefuturelooksunpleasant,Solet’sgetintomorrow’sway.Please,pleasedon’tmisstheride.

TheMinisterofCultureHasreallygotusinhissights.HesentarobotvultureThatcirclesroundthehouseatnight.It’samplifiersquivering,PlayingrepeatsoftheJ.Y.Prog.,

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PipingEaglethroughthecentralheatingAndDonnyupthebog.

REPEATCHORUS.

Webettershiftourselves,Itmightnotbetoolate.We’veasnowflake’schanceinhellIfwehesitate.Thenetisgrowingtighter.GonnamovetoHindustan.Theywon’tshootme,I’mawriter,Joinmewhenyoucan.

REPEATCHORUS.

Disengage

On«Exposure»byRobertFripp;vocals:P.H.;words:JoannaWalton;music:Fripp/Hammill

MrsMarionisstrictwithherservantBehindlockeddoorsovercoffeetheyspeakTheyspeaktomysistermyparentsAndI’mtryinghardnottoshriekDisengageDisengageDisengage

ShedecodesmysecretsmyfragmentsI’dcreateanybetrayalfortheirsakeSheasksmetowaitinthehallwayWhereI’mdoingmybestnottoshakeDisengageDisengageDisengage

MutteringwordstoherforconvenienceIstarttoheadforthedoorMrsMarionscreamsovermyshoulderWalkingout’sjustanothermetaphor

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Chicago

On«Exposure»byRobertFripp;vocals:P.H.;words:JoannaWalton;music:Fripp/Hall

IsmilelikeChicagoShelaughslikethebreezeItrysohardtocharmherWithminormysteriesIcollidewithhersoftnessWithwhispersandpleasEchoesofthemovementsDelicateobscenties

It’saonequarterraindanceHalfofit’sprayerIt’sasimplestromanceRattleshighintheairShe’sthegentlestpretenderI’maclownonaspreeStillit’ssweettorememberThewayitmightbe

IsmilelikeChicago

IMayNotHaveEnoughOfMeButI’veHadEnoughOfYou

On «Exposure» by Robert Fripp; vocals: P.H. andTerreRoche;words:JoannaWalton;music:Fripp

ThatisthewayitisbecauseitisthatwayItisthatwayinthatitisthewayitisInthewaythatitisthatwaythatisthewayitisInthewaythatthatisthewaythatisthewayitisthatisitisthewayOr,thatitisthatwayisthewayitisThewayitisthatisthewayitisInthatitisthewayitisisbecauseitisthatwayOrthatitisthewaythatitisisthewaythatitisthatThatisthewaythatitisthewaythatitisisthewaythatitisthatway

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ImaynothaveenoughofmebutI’vehadenoughofyou

TheLiquidator

On«TimeVaults»

Ireadthenews,inapaperNoflowersplease,donationstocharityLiketheN.S.P.C.V.d.G.G.JustsendthemoneytoGuyandHughandDavidandme.It’sajoke,thereisnohopeleft,whoevermightdisagreeTellmethatyou’reseentheworst,dishmethedirtGoonandripthebackrightoffmyshirt!TellmehowIhateHughBantonTellusthatthebankaccountiszeroantthatanywayThere’sno-onelefttoplayto,ohwell,thereyougo.

Areweevergoingtogetthisacttogetherontime?It’sbeentotallyscrewedupandIreallyjustdon’tknowIsthereanywayofkeepingacleanfeedline?Itsoutofthequestion,whenthetripledistortionbooster’sblownJackson,please!What’smatterman?You’refreakingmeoutyouknowOnlyplayinghappyfamilies,maybeplayingdifferenttunesAlwaysplayingtoohard,toofast,toosoon!WaitingforourfatetotakeusWaitingforliquidatorCaughtincolourbythepaperinthemiddleofashowWaitingforourfatetotakeusWaitingforliquidatorTheonlynewsisbadnewsWhentheonlystoryismakinguporcarryingon.