Does she even notice that I’m making love to her?

 Posted by at 11:18 am  Atelier, Fundamental Perversions  Comments Off
Mar 302012
 

Have we arrived? Are we here? The place we are meant to be? In the place to which some god or fate intended us to reach? An intention that was in place from the very dawn of eternity, not that eternity can have a dawn, or a sunset come to that. A sort of enlightenment without the fireworks? Surely fireworks were on the menu! A patch of boggy Dartmoor, a gentle rain, a mist, Schubert on the little wind-up radio and we have to squat because it is too wet to sit down. In the midst of a would-be heated male companionship but so exhausted that our chilly fingers can no longer grasp the weapons that now lie unused glistening in the tussocks. Clever weapons that I should have been trained in many decades ago when my mind was still supple enough, in the sunshine, not down here in the labyrinthine depths full of strange snortings, a dark world in which it’s certainly better not to trust any living thing. Or dead thing. Or even things that claim to be alive but actually exist in some dimension unknown to our current state of knowledge.

 

    Priest-king or war-lord? Excuse me, I just need to go to the lavatory. That’s better, now what was that you were saying? The thing with foreign names is that they are so mysteriously attractive. Take Smith as a for instance, take it in your left hand and then in your right take Dumézil. Chalk and cheese, I think you’ll agree. But we do have to move on, we can’t squat around here all day. Pinky Dave Cameron, of course, is a fully paid up lizard dressed up as a castrated war-lord. The fact of it is, is that somebody or other got the bags mixed up, the contents spilt all over the Piazza del Popolo during a benefit concert for that poor beggar Berlusconi. We did our best to pick up the pieces, but many were stolen or were washed into the sewers. And we’ve never been able to properly sort out the ones we were able to collect. There’s no time. I know it sounds like an excuse but . . . please be reasonable. Time is money. And you know how while I’m dreaming of what to have for supper some other guys are busy hoarding all the available cash. I must add that it is also in part a question of categories. It seems to me to be a good thing that we can begin to see the complexity of it all but it does make simple decision making almost impossible unless we shut our eyes and stab wildly with a pin. Can we really call that decision making?

 

    I’m not convinced that she realises I’m making love to her. Not like the old days when the heat was undeniable. Jenny Diski, who I believe to be a woman, (LRB 22 March 2012) quotes Roger Ebert: ‘One of the reasons that America inspires so many road movies that we have so many roads. One of the reasons we have so many buddy movies is that Hollywood doesn’t understand female characters (there are so many hookers in the movies because, as characters, they share the convenience of their real-life counterparts: they’re easy to find and easy to get rid of).’

 

    Of course we like to pretend that we have roads here in jolly old England but essentially we only have rather damp patches of Dartmoor on which to squat and shout at each other, occasionally managing to strike a blow that’s got enough umph behind it to cause a darkening of the flesh. Where are you Michelle? And is this Michelle playing the part of a hooker? In this Movie?

 

Distant Eastern Skies

 Posted by at 9:06 pm  Atelier, Fundamental Perversions, Old Men Travelling  Comments Off
Mar 092012
 

Entre nous, you know how it is, spread-eagled as you are, by the gently lapping waves of the Arabian Sea, while Scheherazade is busy with her elegant pruning shears, somewhere out of sight beneath your heaving belly, severing what you intriguingly call your wifi connection. You are stuffed, as they say. But you don’t tell us with what. Where are the details of this gargantuan feast that you so greedily lunched upon with your bourgeois entrepreneurial mates, stuck in the environs of an anonymous oriental entrepôt.

    The little englanders are getting ready to fight, proudly washing and polishing their 1956 grey jet bombers, though like much else the years have had a seriously emasculating effect on them – both the little englanders and the bombers – though, they (the little englanders) are more interested in battling with their fellow citizens. Their short-sighted eyes can only peer into the next street which they can see is full of strangers. Although under the misty nostalgia for the iron lady when 900 dead was a small price to pay for holding on to some dots in the South Atlantic they are turning to Rupie Murdoch to await further instructions.

    Entre nous, we know what we like.

    Is Pinky Cameron allowed to talk to his old friend Rupie and if so what do they talk about. It must be in the manner of secret negotiations – that mutual back scratching, in the belief that nothing is remembered for long. They seem to believe that we will have little recall of the NHS in a short while. And will Blair hand over his responsibilities as god-father (in the mafia sense?) to one of Rupie’s grandchildren to Pinky? These questions must be just the stuff for endless rumination of UBU’s offspring whilst lying on the pebbles of Brighton beach. Is your Ubi the great-grand-son of Ubu or is the connection more distant. A mere wish of distant intimate coupling under eastern skies – somewhere near Lowestoft, I suppose.

    And whilst I think about it, please grab me a transcript, or better a You Tube video of the Pinky/Rupie chat next time you’re in Downing Street.

    And another thing . . .  I went to see A Dangerous Method, the movie by David Cronenberg with a screenplay by Christopher Hampton setting up a nice triangular arrangement between Freud, Jung and Sabina Spielrein. Everybody apart from Spielrein speaking in impeccable English, whilst she adopted a Russian (I assume) accent, resulting in a rather odd feeling that Zurich and Vienna had been transported to some English home counties setting only with the addition of Keira Knightley adopting the Russian accent together with the bodily contortions of a famous hysteric patient. After all, I suppose, the British are far too full of phlegm to stand for any of that hysterical nonsense – surely the hysterics are all foreigners. Mind you Jung, played by Michael Fassbender, had a good try at spanking and indeed beating his patient. And Freud played by Viggo Mortensen endeavouring to maintain (and failing) his authority. For me it was a rather disappointing experience, especially as I’ve been reading the rather more serious Darian Leader’s What is Madness? And consequently was rather looking forward to more psychoanalytic stuff. Mind you, the settings were rather lovely and wasn’t Jung lucky to have such a wealthy wife who tolerated his affairs and bought him a rather swish yacht.

 

UBU awaits

 Posted by at 2:41 pm  Atelier, Fundamental Perversions, Old Men Travelling, OUT in the WILDERNESS  Comments Off
Feb 232012
 

If you like, the staircase is always a series of mythological Gnostic steps, and, if you are lucky, a troubadouring Bob Dylan will be waiting for you in the minstrels’ gallery, to sing you through five hundred verses of Desolation Row, though whether or not you find the minstrels’ gallery is another question. Something to do with fate or history or alternatively, to be more personal, who were your people? Did your people clear the thorn entangled path so that you might steal a march on the opposition and your own inveterate laziness. Without further ado I think I should mention that Ubu awaits you in the throne room. And it’s not for me say whether the throne room is up the stairs or down in the extensive cellars. Though one might hazard a guess that as the cellars are where the wine is (was) kept – that might be the place to begin your search.

    Ubu is much bigger than he used to be: a gargantuan waistline, little short legs, a face apoplectically red and purple and his arms waving in rage. It will soon be apparent that all you have to do is follow the noise; a thin weaselling sort of noise, plus explosions of hoarse, enraged grief. Madame Ubu has long since abandoned him and taken most of the staff with her, leaving him only a couple of weasels to hose him down once or twice a day.

    An audience with le Roi is a pressing necessity; better not delay it too long before you set off for the cellars. Ignore, for now, those inviting stairs and don’t forget to drink a couple of bottles on your through the early stages of the labyrinth. Don’t worry I know you are no Theseus – no gorgonzola awaits you. Only the demented Ubi. By the way, he likes to be called Ubi. Ubu is more formal, so I would advise you to stick to Ubi. And do bow low as you enter the throne room. It will be dark, so you might not spot him right away but he will spot you. In fact he will have sniffed your approach two days ago. He is ready. His little red eyes almost bursting with excited anticipation. And do take along your collected works of Walter Benjamin. I can assure you that Uncle Wally is one of his favourite authors. He is very fond of quoting huge chunks to any who come within spitting difference. And that’s something else of course – better to keep beyond spitting difference if you know what’s good for you. And do try to resist his siren calls to divest yourself of your protective clothing.

    Once you find your way out of there (hopefully not needing too much in the way of medical intervention) you will be more than (psychologically, speaking) ready to mount the famous staircase. And hopefully with the physical prowess to lift one foot up on to the next tread.

    To really and truly find out where it leads.

 

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