Is that Orpheus calling? Almost recognisable. On the edge of understanding; condensed sense impressions and a mere blink of interpretation. How much time do you have? Enough time to poach the fish on a sluggish heat.
Well, Bernie, it’s like this, we are due to meet tomorrow in the dust of that valley. Fred Orpheus will be miles away; safely tucked up in bed with his third wife. It seems that so many women never could resist those eyes of his even before he opened his mouth to allow those words, those articulations of flora and fauna that change the world, reorder the cosmos.
No, Fred will be busy elsewhere. Meanwhile we will meet in that dusty valley, no props, no alcohol, no drugs. And our old friend, more elegant than ever, truth will be watching, listening for the flails of violence that seek to uncover her hiding place.
How much money will I need to bring? I try not to think about that question, put it in the distant pockets of the bankers. But the question becomes pressing the closer we get. Truth will need her cut. Let me rephrase that, truth will demand her cut. Flesh transformed into a currency of pretend: cleverly printed paper.
No metaphors this time. The rich iron blood has to splash on to the parched earth. There is never enough. The earth is never satiated.
We’ll need a fast car to get away. Do you know a good driver? You don’t mean Bepe Grillo? Can he even drive? I don’t think we need somebody who is so self obsessed, somebody who shouts from the sidelines but never gets his hands into the dirt of it all, the dirty business of politics.
Power and death. Power and death hidden by the airbrush of the advertising industry. Power and death is the theme. Do you have the agenda for tomorrow? And, don’t forget, you must come unarmed.