Monday, October 24, 2005


Just thought of some terms of dissonant symbolic abuse from the Bitter Exile (not you or me but a mythic one, like John Bunyon or Quixote or my favorite: Rimbaud come home fat and liquored up from Africa and burned out from slaving). And thought of a context for them.

The poor guy comes home after 20 years to prove to himself that with the local, or anything else based on imagination, you can't really leave it let alone get back again. He meets people and has adventures, discusses old times and writes back to Africa, say to a friend there, perhaps some mad Canadian general in some tent somewhere in the Bush who is trying to make sense of a genocide, he writes to that friend explain things at home.

How about that he writes about how the aging, nearly dead, 'archbitchup of cantslurry' sent from abroad so long ago to ensure the faith sends curses the general with his far from last dying breath or how the 'the rump parrottment of poets' is still blocking the senses after so many decades of sloth or how the 'local academy of extreme faux' only hires golems or that 'The Church Of What Really Happened Yesterday in the Assembly of The Exclusive Pentecost' has been formed on a government grant. The returnee will explain that authenticity has become a misdemeanor and there is a secret language based on babbles in bubbles. The old gang have been possessed by posses of demons of the banal kingdom and everything golden is missing.

The series that covers this, a poetic series or a novel is called 'Missing in Action' (Return of The Exile From Dementia). Just a thought.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005


In the book I will send you if you so request I am trying to demonstrate that plot is a very stupid and poisinous thing when it is associated with genre and worse, stereotype. Worse yet with judgement or dictate. I am having fun with this.

The other thing I am playing with is the structure of imaginations, that is one imagination unfolding into another. In some places it is ancient, to religious, to more religious, to political, to images, to mind, to something entirely different...

The thing I think about locality is that you can't get out of it. You can't get outside although you may see outside. Even with natural sciences or medicine you have the outside of your own place inside. A double hermetic. You are back when you go away wherever or whenever you are.

All images lie, all visions are incomplete, all connections are imperfect because of this something else that you have seen, that appears. In this case even when the words are over.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

literary conflict

I am advised that Brecht said beauty was something like the resolution of contradictions. There might be something else to it -- some sort of catharsis. Something happening with input from somewhere. And connected to higher or lower truth somehow. Maybe with glue.

But what is more interesting is DNA 'spellings'. There are different ones for determining intrinsic and extrinsic experiencing of beauty. Or of the associative rest as joy, exhilaration, peace, anxietylessness and divinity.

The intrinsic individuals as ecstatic, asperger poets, prophets, martyrs, daffodil loonies have one DNA 'spelling.'

The extrinsic people as paedophile priests, home wreckers, cannibals, Trotskyites, department heads and people with narcissistic personality disorders have another.

The reason for these differences is evolutionary experience. One 'spelling' evolved in people with allocentric experiences (as walking with Gods, Legged Dolphins and Aliens). They needed to experience divinity to engender community solidarity. They needed hard wiring to be able to cohere as a group to face life both efficiently and gloriously on mountains, grassy savannahs and open water singing songs and seeing heaven. This gets into the DNA place for soul to conduct the body and senses and into the DNA receptor for spirit which comes from outside (in language, art, nature) to kick start those souls. Body, soul and spirit connect. Like in a snake or a cheetah. Here every group member has a way. They share a spirit.

The other bunch, the extrinsic, the autocentric, evolved in tepid swamps and stony deserts eating one another and fighting over who would be the new priest and so get the juiciest pieces of the last one. This sense meant a hard wiring was necessary in the group to engender sloppy and sentimental response in rote to slogans, clichés, genres and manifestos in order to mesmerize the slowest to march smiling into the cooking pot after kneeling for you know what. In this group the most rancid DNA does the eating, the pallid DNA does the kneeling and singing of Hosannas. Body is eaten, soul is swampy, spirit is disconnected. Like in fruit mold. Mmmm. Looks good, tastes good, feels good.

excerpt from someone else's novel

I am Hope. You can call me Hope. Hope is my name for all the registrations. But I also have my birth name and my small name for the village. There is also my tribal name and the name I will have when I will say my new faith at my marriage. The secret birth name is from my mother to fool the evil spirit who is envious of the beauty of a child. It is in the language of women from the time we had queens. It means “To die in the quiet of the storm”. “Hope” is what my mother and father wanted to give me, as a gift, and is their feeling for me. I am writing this for Mister Jack. It is a gift to him. I write on the paper my father bought me.

My nickname is “Storyteller”. It was mine as a small girl. My sister, Chastity, was given the name “Mangoes” but that was when she went to school. She is my twin. I had that name too. When she was small Chastity was “Knife”. She was then thin and bony like me. When I marry I will have the name of a wife of the Prophet and Redeemer and so will Chastity.

Chastity is my holy twin. She is gifted to me by fate. She is my dearest womb friend. I will be forever true to her. Because she is so much to me I can write her story for the world to see her true character despite all her temptations and all the gossip. I hope my story can be a poem, a song, a movie. It will be like the novels read by Mister Jack about family and love. This will show all how we women are and how we suffer. We suffer more than Oliver Twist or King Lear or Madame Heathcliffe or our great nation and Governor suffer which things we learn of in school. I will show that Chastity is a clever tall girl and proud. She is the tree of fruit of her father and grandfather, of her mother and grandmother.

I am writing this novel book also for my teacher Mister Jack. It is his present. He said to write a holiday story so I would not forget. By doing so I know shall praise him. His language is pure as the purest of tongues and his skin is as soft as this paper. He knows all the foreigners but he is their tallest and smartest. Some are as pigs but he is as a king. He is visited by new vehicles. He will return to his land of green hills and strong music and the best markets. He should take this with him to his country. It is a land of constant water where many get rich as my mother’s brother’s wife’s cousin on the other side of my family. I long to see it. Although some say she is a witch. My mother says she is a doctor.

I want him to know of our ways and to love us and I want to show him he has taught me well. Also he must know how we are, for none of us is what we seem. Mister Jack teaches me Methodology about teaching aids for lessons, theatre arts and English. He teaches us the sentence. It is like a magic. He is fixing our school. We all love him. He is our master and lord. Our duty is to please him. He has explained to us how to teach the making of a novel book and about journals. He has taught us about plays and writing in the voices of others. He says my sister and I are remarkable and smart. When I told him after that class that I will go to the hostel and write a novel book he marvelled. He said it is not what he intended but more. But, why not? Our lives are like the great stories. It is then what I am doing on this the very paper my father bought me.

The first man to call Chastity friend, ally and pal was John. She gave him her permission. He said that he loved her and that her eyes killed. He told her that the hair on her smooth body magnets all boys around her. She was cream and butter. Chastity did not heed him on this type of word. She knew it was hard to know what boys mean and she would not be confused. She sang her own song to herself that God would send her suitor and she would hope in God.

Piccolo and John would walk to the primary school with Chastity and me. We were still small enough to have to carry our sitting stones on our heads and our piece of sugar canes in a hidden plastic. Piccolo would call my sister lovely and his ally too. But John would say that she was not Piccolo’s wife, or even practice wife and that Piccolo should go away or he would give him a heavy blow. Men are as jealous as women.

My sister told them that they should shut their marathon talk. They were wasting their time as only God knows her true suitor. Piccolo always had money in his pocket from his father’s coat. He said that if Chastity would befriend him he would give her the money.

Chastity said that she was finished with small, silly boys since a long time in her heart. She danced on the road and sang that she did not care for those who need her love. The head of Piccolo was down in shame. John laughed at him. Piccolo was a soft and funny boy. He died with a fever.

John then said to Chastity that she had a bad behaviour. He said to Piccolo that he should forgive Chastity because she was young. But later I know he agreed with Piccolo for a plan to share her. This was even before our breasts and menses had arrived. John is now in the customs.

John asked me what kind of girl my sister is to refuse to befriend a good looking boy like Piccolo. Later I know that the boys went to the bush doctor with Piccolo’s money to get medicine to rub on Chastity’s body to make her follow them. On the way to the doctor the toe of John hit on a stone and began to bleed. He said to his friend Piccolo not to look and that the blood was like water on a mountain. Piccolo said to his friend that this is a great pity and is the result of beauty which is a magic. There are terrible things the result of beauty.

Monday, October 10, 2005

a small posting for friends in Kansas from the Himalayas

Don’t say I am cold Mother.
I built the schools that fell on the children
I removed the cataracts from grandma’s eyes
Who saw the bodies
After hearing the cries
Die in the cold

So I wonder
That capacity for conversion
Of one hundred thousand living
Is not reversed when earth cracks
To convert the dead

Hoping a stone fell on Osama
And carrying prayers.
The recovery teams, well dressed
Helicopters fantastic, fresh
From chasing nightmares
Now in the world

Monday, October 03, 2005

do you believe that of all the kingdoms He created yours would last forever?

Do you believe that of all the kingdoms He created yours would last forever?

And who is He?

Never mind that for a moment.

What I wish to describe is an epidemic that is coming. Like the flu it started off with a few cases. With me I heard a voice that clearly said ‘Behold the divine slapper.’ I was sleeping on the fourteenth floor of a low income tower block with the window open despite the frequency of condoms blowing in. The sound did not come from the window; it came from the TV which was off. I turned it on and a border at the bottom of a cartoon elf read ‘Princess Dianna has been reported to be in an automobile crash.’

'No she hasn’t,' I said. 'She is dead.' All the previous week she had been in the news and in my office we had been slagging her off. For months in that same office you couldn’t say a thing against her or the government would fire you. And they did. The People’s Princess.

The next time I was in a basement near a river. I was pumped through with drugs to confuse my immune system into thinking I would live. A voice said “Everything holy is trashed.” It came from the TV. I turned it on and a banner read that a light plane had crashed in New York. The banner was under a cookery show with prawns with large capillaries. I said, ‘No it isn’t. It is jumbos’ just before that shot came on with the second plane going through like knife and butter. I had by then left the first office. It was months before I was well enough to go to the second where it became impossible to get money for schools for Afghanistan and Iraq and not just because Halliburton had it all. And a world of interlocked myth darkened us all.

I realised later that I had caught prophecy. It is going around. Have you had it? Now worse strains are developing. Like the flu it begans with a few cases. Then it spread. Like flu it goes from animals to people, those ducks and ferrets that fuss about earthquakes and tsunanis. It spreads from people to spiritual beings and back again. A friend suddenly heard in his sleep during an eclipse that ‘America is building up Hubris faster than shit in the cat lady’s house.’ Then came the hurricanes. He said to me that’s them! That’s them! When they were only red things of the coast of Africa.

I knew about the superdome in advance, I knew about the corruption, I knew about what will happen in Iraq yesterday.

This isn’t your fairground fortune-telling about your love life and your budget travel bullshit. It has mutated. And I can’t turn it on and off like a keg tap for my friends. So don’t ask. It is industrial strength prophecy, multi mutated prophecy, multi-causal prophecy for which there is no vaccine. It is a voice that comes from distant language and images and memory. Oh yes it does. That is, mother, it comes from way outside and from the broadcasting center of the spirit.

And it is about things that are so fucking obvious. Of course those things are now concealed by the history mystery but they are happening, going to happen. Yes there she goes! Wasn’t that fucking obvious. I knew it!

Like the onset of flu. Like malaria.

This prophecy doesn’t come from my own private soul, oh no not from that little IPOD which is all too busy misdirecting my body into its perennial fatal stupidities, which unsuccessfully fight off, as usual, all the clichés and useless life skills injected into its soul’s DNA to try to live forever.

No, it is from the colourless spirit. From way outside. It is from my soul’s infinate boss saying ‘This is the time of the great Satan, you little wanker, watch out what you are doing.’

Then it says ‘Take a look at this. And I see an avalaunche on a thousand little feet skating silently down the mountain, tress snapping before it, snow billowing. It is half the mountain and it is leaving behind a grey and silver flecked emptiness on the remains. The avalanche goes down into the lake, without a wave it disappears but a wave does come up the other side of the valley freezing into cream all the tress there and connecting them with filaments of gold in a setting sun. And a voice says: "of all the kingdoms of the world…"’

I turn on the TV. Someone is saying that we are fighting against those who hate freedom and our way of life.