Stepping into the dream

 Posted by at 10:41 am  Hitting the Potholes  Comments Off
Aug 012013
 

tripe stew131

In the last few days I have made a (perhaps foolhardy) start on William H. Gass’s The Tunnel. I’m reminded of starting out on the Everest of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest: this is going to dominate for a while, quite a while. Anyway, the point of this is some words I have just read on page 85: ‘Memory. Mine is fragile . . . fragile . . . only paper; my sanity film thin.’ Yes, I say, I know what you’re talking about. And this is in the context of his protagonist reflecting on a dream he has had. That makes sense to me because some mornings it seems that the dreams have taken over or at least their potential of taking over appears dangerously close. Mr Ego, the day manager, has the ambition of everlasting power but is, even now, trembling on the edge: he should be and he is feeling dizzy, he is being given notice: don’t think that you have some sort of permanent contract. The grinning skull mask of our favourite Chancellor hovers in the mist before him. He suddenly realises that he too is like the rest of his staff. We are all on one of those whizzy little zero hours contracts. Yes the dreams will take over.

 

And while we are on the subject of dreams, quite suddenly I have a concern about what the long term effects are of all the advertising that we have been subjected to over the past sixty years. Particularly TV advertising. Bamboozled into drugs and slavery!

 

Dear Dr Bomboka, I want to make a request, to ask for your advice . . . You see, although this is a problem that I do my best to ignore, and some of the time Iactually succeed, sorry . . . to get to the point, what can one do about feebleness? No matter what I do I remain essentially feeble. It might be part of the human condition. I might have left it too late. But is there a pill, a spell, an incantation, a ritual, is there a prayer. Please help. Don’t delay in your answer. Yours in faith, a sufferer.

Like a B@ out of hell!

 Posted by at 1:11 pm  Exodus  Comments Off
Apr 192013
 

 

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‘Quiet woman,’ he said. ‘When did you last confess.’

‘Two days ago.’

The sparrows were twittering; they pecked at the wind-blown leaves, and twittered.

So, here you are, the visitor from hell, and you have even taken the name B@!

I should have wailed but I held back, the anxiety picking at my bones.

Back home in Transylvania, hanging upside down from the rafters, waiting for the dead to visit. Waiting for fresh blood. Hoping for a good rebirth.

So now you’re making demands of me.

The comrades won’t be very happy. Not that there are many left, so many fell by the wayside during the reign of Her Imperial Majesty. Either into the gutter (mostly) or into the slush funds of the bankers.

‘Then why are you here?’

He used the butt of the whip to knock at the door.

I hear that over the border they completely ignored the funeral. Empty squares with giant screens relaying Anglican pieties. I suppose they would have done the same for the General. It was all about saving the nation. God save the queen.

Watch out Bernard, I’ve sent out scouts to pinpoint your exact position. Wriggle as you might, you will not escape your fate. Innocent soul, uncanny wraith, that will always keep faith, ignorant of right or fear.

A few nights ago I visited my mother in a dream. She seemed much as she had done in the last years before her death. Outside there was a tremendous blizzard. Though it was disquieting to see that she was more competent than me. Typical woman, you might say. Then just to prove the point, I wondered off in a dressing gown several miles to a bank, not the one nearby, only to discover that I had neglected to bring my debit card.

I can rarely think of anything to confess but I will bow my head and who knows, a blessing may be heading my way.

I can almost forgive you Bernie, old mate.

Well almost, I can’t edit out that almost.

 

(Some words have been borrowed from Juan Rulfo and Geoffrey Hill. They are scattered somewhat haphazardly)

Feb 012013
 

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‘Memory is not exactly the site of freedom, but the layering of identity and memory is the only basis for moving forward through time.’ (Jacqueline Rose On Not Being Able to Sleep)

 

The zone is that place behind the barbed wire.

 

Proposition 1

 

The first step of the journey is away from and towards home.

 

Proposition 2

 

On the journey the place (zone, if you like) of transformation has to be opened up, entered, embraced and the work completed.

 

Is this distasteful to you?

The volume of the music stayed the same although I expected it to get louder. Much louder.

Do you always behave like this? Is this what you do?

The path of transformation is littered with wrecks. Twisted metal. And rats. Scavengers. And as always the promises of politicians.

 

I have to say, I just wanted a quiet life. Nothing special. But then. But then other things intervened. I suppose what I mean is other people intervened. Or should that be other, extraneous ideas or if you like, thoughts. Because.

 

Well because boundaries can be fluid – people and ideas interpenetrate.

 

Just because there are 6 billion of us, doesn’t let any of us off the hook. And when the hook pulls it hurts and when it hurts we have to do something about it. I have little tolerance for pain. It pulls me towards action of some sort. Is this pain sufficient for me to take an aspirin? Or even to go along to my local GP surgery demanding surgery?

 

Or get back on the road?

 

Shivering, apparently, is allowed, even encouraged. On the other hand death is frowned upon. Though there is a time and a place for everything. Endings are generally held to be difficult. A cessation of consciousness is rarely helpful.

 

Stay mindful the Buddha of the road had a habit of saying. So why didn’t we nail him to the cross?

 

‘If we can say that language is circumscribed by doubt, is there a way of placing that insight at the heart of our politics?’ (Jacqueline Rose On Not Being Able to Sleep).