Melbourne Phallusies

The Wise Old Man

It was with some relief that the heroes spied a tavern set up above an old tannery just off the main street. The road had been hard, and they were in need of a revitalising meal. Ori the Dwarf was demanding a tankard of ale, Lieren the Elf wanted to comb his hair, and Jogmoth the Barbarian needed to polish her armour.

The rain was pouring now, so they climbed the stairs with some haste, and were delighted to see a cosy room within: largely empty, a fire crackling in the hearth, and a smiling barman.

'What'll it be?' he said, and Ori ordered a round of ale.

And old man was propped against the wall near the fire, observing the heroes and stroking his beard. He was immensely tall and painfully skinny, and he rested himself on a worn wooden staff.

'Who is that?' Ori whispered to the barman.

'Wise Old Man,' the barman replied. 'Best not to mess with him.'

And Jogmoth bellowed with laughter and said: 'A wise old man, eh? Well, come on then, wise old man - let's have some of your wisdom'.

She tossed him a coin and the heroes arranged themselves around the table with their ale and took their ease.

And the wise old man stepped in front of the fire and drew himself up even higher - so high they couldn't possibly have thought a man could be so tall - and so skinny he looked as if he'd snap in half with the blink of an eyelid.

And the Wise Old Man said:

'Ah geez. Another day, another seven hours gone and three hours to go in this shit tavern doing a shit job in a shit town with shithouse weather and full of dickheads, when my footy team's 0-8 and I don't get to see me woman for another couple of days and there's idiots on the roads and pedophiles everywhere and Evil Lord J-Ho's STILL running the place for god's sake and I can't even complain about the winter fucken blues cos it's not even fucken winter yet and I'm bored shitless and the only thing I can do to console myself is drink YET ANOTHER cup of fucken tea and I'm sick of all the taverns in this town and the fact that I don't have enough time to write my own manuscripts let alone read all the shit manuscripts that other dickheads write and don't even know what I'm gonna eat for tea tonight and I don't wanna do nothing this weekend but I can't be fucked do anything this weekend and I'd get a new job but they're all shit and if this was another city far away I'd get me a drink and smoke a cigarette but this is Here, yay good old rockin Here so I guess I'll just drink YET ANOTHER cup of fucken tea.'

And he said:

'And why can't I just be paid to research and write history all day? Why do people insist that I do stupid boring shit that's vaguely useful - unlike history which is fascinating but totally useless - and how exactly did that come about? Why wasn't I born fascinated by boring but useful shit like maths? And why is everyone such a pig ignorant fool, going round talking up Evil Lord J-Ho like he was the man when clearly he's far far from it? And how did this whole world get all fucked up in the first place? How tiresome that I should have to go round fixing everyone else's mistakes. I don't mind if I LIKE the people, but what about all those idiots who supported Evil Lord J-Ho, screwed everything up, and now run around going "wah wah wah, I don't like Evil Lord J-Ho anymore and I'm not content with being fabulously wealthy, and I don't know what to do about it except to support Evil Lord J-Ho Mk II, ie. the Krudd Monster". Idiots. These are the people who stop me from researching and writing history all day - let alone making important decisions like NO BIG FIRES AROUND HERE, der! Der der der! How tricky can it be: BIG FIRES BAD, WIND POWER GOOD. But no. Oh no, that'd be too easy wouldn't it, you sons and daughters of bitches?'

And he said:

'And it's not like it's better anywhere else anyway - it's just as bad far away, in fact it's far far worse, it's just doesn't feel so bad cos I'm not from there so it's not my fault and it's not my responsibility and besides public drunkenness is slightly more acceptable over there. It's just one fucken soul-shattering day after another round here, each hour that passes is one more hour in which we've earned money to buy some petty piece of useless crap to distract ourselves from the fact we're doing NOTHING USEFUL and NOTHING FUN just sleeping, eating and breeding, and it may all be far more worthwhile, this whole caper, if we lived on boats, BUT NO. No, nobody's going to try that, are they? Instead we'll all go live in this town or the next one or the one after that and indulge our depravities on one another when we should really just KEEP THEM TO OURSELVES. It wouldn't be that hard.'

And he said:

'Remember all them poor bastards living in prison camps in the middle of the desert? We bunged em in there a couple of years ago cos they weren't from Here and had the temerity to come from Somewhere Else when we were busy bombing the fuck outta the place and so had to look for a new place to live so we generously threw them into prison camps Here in our very own desert and they didn't like the fact that the guards in these camps sexually abused them, so they sewed their lips together to protest and tried to break out and committed suicide? Remember these people? Where are they now? What happened to them? That's what gets my goat - it's rubbish to the horizon around Here, but at least most of us arent being ritually abused or feeling the need to sew our lips together. I mean, come on - why would we perpetrate that shit on people? Why would choose to put anyone through that, when enough of us go through it without our say-so?'

And he said:

'It's the weather, man - that's what's gettin to me. I cannot comprehend the fact that for the next five months it's going to be overcast and grey with a chance of showers, at least far away it fucken snows and I'm not from there so I don't have to actually LIVE there, I can run around in the snow thinking it's wonderful and pristine and so forth, but here it's one grinding day after the next: drag the old bones home and throw them into bed, just to drag them back to work again in the morning, and all FOR WHAT? To buy a house? I will NEVER have enough for that, and even if I did, I'd do what all the pricks who came before us have done after buying a house - buy another one, then another one, then another one, and all FOR WHAT? To have a zillion houses? Yay, it's a houseathon! I'll get to end of my dreary whimper of a life and look back and say: 'See what I did? I owned houses - not just one, mind, but SOME'. Get that shit engraved on my tombstone: 'Wise Old Man - Worked His Whole Life in a Shit Job So He Could Own More Than One House (But Failed)'.

And he said:

'Where has all the god damned COMPASSION gone? This is what happens when ya listen to too much news: ya start thinking "Why is everyone such a god damned prick? What kind of a bastard runs somebody over in their horse and cart then drives off to leave em lying at the roadside for four hours before somebody else finds em and they die anyway? What kind of animals surge like a pack out of a tavern down the docks and converge on some lonesome bloke going home and kick his skull in? What kind of pervert can't comprehend "no" as an answer? What sort of jackal hangs around in the hope that he'll get a whiff of stale pussy and finally, after all these years, can make his move, shoot his seed, then disappear? What's the point? Where's the victory? How hollow an existence is that, and why bother desecrating somebody else's? Have you seen these crazies in the refugee camp in the forest over the way? By day they fight the army, by night they shoot RPGs into the next forest - and for what? So that when the army and the people from the next forest inevitably retaliate, a few sick kids in the camp get killed by stray volleys? Who wins? Then they shoot at healers going into the camp - for what? What the hell happened to their compassion?"'

And he said:

'Right, I'm off to find some compassion, or failing that, a cup of tea.'

And he turned decisively on his heel and stormed out of the tavern, leaving the heroes speechless behind him.

tonight in my enormous grief

tonight in my enormous grief

so many wrists on the street

rooftops to look down from

the wind doesn't care how old you are at night

in my hands, so many things

a bottle a knife

compassion for everyone

a purple flower

listen - give up all the truths!

there's no need for people everywhere!

let me tell you tenderly and with sadness –

there's no need for people everywhere

Les personnages de mon roman

Une vieille dame regarde par la fenêtre d’une imposante clinique d’autres bâtiments aussi démesurément grands.

Plus grand que le monde lui-même.

Leurs extrémités semblent inaccessibles et disparaissent quand elle essaye de les regarder dans les épais nuages jaunes et argileux qui recouvrent Moscou. Les contrastes sont affaiblis et la luminosité ainsi augmentée au-dessus du seuil habituel ne fait qu’accroître la suspension du temps et l’angoisse qu’elle diffuse en elle.

Comme dans un songe, les arbres sont morts, et c’est peut-être ce qui compte le moins dans cette ville ; la nature y est figée dans des emplacements stériles et abandonnés.
Les rares végétaux survivants sont soit de mauvaises herbes soit des arbres rongés par les vapeurs toxiques. les peupliers Brejnéviens peinent à déployer leurs branches recroquevillées et succombent un par un inexorablement, laissant ici et là des troncs pourrissant remplis d’insectes aux épaisses carapaces.

Dans le parc à coté de la polyclinique n°123, il y a deux bancs en bois fraîchement repeints en rouge et jaune par les administrateurs aux yeux bridés, les-mêmes qui jour après jour balayent le trottoir : en hiver ils déblayent la neige, au printemps ils enlèvent les pollinies des peupliers, en été la poussière, et en automne les feuilles, inlassablement. Ils enlèvent les traces du cycle de la nature consciencieusement, sans remords, pour une centaine de dollars par mois.

De la fenêtre de la vieille dame, on voit très bien la terre, du sol dans le parc, une terre brune et dure, tassée par les cents pas des condamnés qui viennent s’y promener. Il n’y pas d’herbe, elle est arrachée et bouillie pour faire de la soupe qui aide à dormir.
La terre est brune et foncée et ne se creuse pas à cet endroit, il faut la creuser plus loin, derrière les bâtiments, au delà des routes, exactement dans la direction de son regard, à l’ouest, vers le soleil qui se lève et qui fait mal aux yeux. Créature sombre, lointaine ennuyeuse qui s’applique à avaler les morts en silence, la terre brune et tassée de la campagne.

The meaning of 'Dostoevsky' in Japanese

Japanese man says:
'"Dostoevsky" means to me
Whatever you want'

MAN ON A BIKE

7:50

whats the diameter of a pencil in long black tresses?
wheres the calling card they used during the war to call for peace?
was that really your house to sell?
i know you said it was a part of the neighbourhood,
but does that mean you were a part of the neighbourhood?

7:35

I got a mate who lives in Lara
And his back porch looks out over Avalon
So you can sit on the couch and sink piss
And see everything at the air show for free.

...And So Does Sharik!

Pharmakon 3: The Father and the Good

Spoken wisdom – the created organism – has a father. But what is a father?

Do we know? If we know, should we classify spoken wisdom as belonging to a father? Does this not confuse the matter? Does it not grant spoken wisdom attributes beyond reasonability?

But the father is not the real father of spoken wisdom. How can we distinguish a father/son relationship from a cause/effect, if not through spoken wisdom? Only speech can have a father. A father is always a father to a living being. What I am trying to say is that it is impossible to understand fatherhood without spoken wisdom. The term ‘father’ receives greater meaning from the term ‘spoken wisdom’ than vice versa. A father and a son are presented to us and relate to one another within the domain of spoken wisdom. Although we may think it, one cannot escape from this domain even when transported – via metaphor – to a place where one can meet fathers, sons, and other creatures which help explain what spoken wisdom is. ‘Father of spoken wisdom’ is by no means a simple metaphor. To make a simple metaphor, one would need to believe that a creature which cannot speak nonetheless has a father. This is, of course, attempting to reverse metaphorical directions so that we no longer ask whether spoken wisdom can have a father, but understand that what the father says he is the father of cannot exist without spoken wisdom.

What does it mean to say that spoken wisdom is indebted to a father?

Fathers, at least insofar as we are discussing them here, are good. A father is a leader, capital, resources. This is what is meant by the term ‘father’, and it provides considerable and unexpected complexity to our understanding. This is why Socrates suggests replacing good with good’s son:

‘Let us dismiss the notion of good,’ he says, ‘for I will not speak of it. But I will speak of its son, if you wish, or else we can drop the matter.’

To which we all replied: ‘Speak on, you can pay us with the story of good another time.’

‘I wish I could give you the payment,’ Socrates replied, ‘and not the interest. But anyway, take the interest and the son of good.’

Interest (here associated with the son of good) signifies both production and product, or to put it another way, birth and child. The term ‘son of good’ operates within the domain of agriculture, family, business. None of these domains – as we shall see – lie outside the domain of spoken wisdom.

Interest is a child, the brood, the fruits of seed sewn in a field, and the interest on an investment. Interest is a return.

It is impossible to speak simply or directly of a father, of good, of the origin of value and of living beings. To attempt to do so is like attempting to look directly at the sun – one will be bedazzled by the face one is directed towards. Says Socrates, who evokes the visible sun, the son who resembles his father: ‘When I spoke earlier of the son of good, of the being created in the image of good, I meant the sun. The visible sun has the same relation to vision and visible things as intelligent good does to intelligence and intelligible things.’

But how does spoken wisdom intercede between the father and the son?

The good is the origin of all entities, responsible for their creation and their relations with spoken wisdom, which both assembles and distinguishes them. As Socrates points out: ‘We say that beautiful things or good things are, and define them thus in our speech.’

Hence, the good – by which we mean father, sun, and capital – is the hidden, illuminating, bedazzling source of spoken wisdom. And because one cannot speak of that which permits us to speak (as we are forbidden to speak of it or to it) one will speak only of that which speaks and of that which one is speaking of. And further, because it is impossible to explain what spoken wisdom is accountable to, because capital cannot be counted and the chief cannot be looked directly in the eye, it is necessary to count up all interests, all returns, all products, all offspring. Remember, Socrates said: ‘I wish I could give you payment,’ he said, ‘and not the interest. But anyway, take the interest and the son of good.’

But we should also remember that he added: ‘Be careful, lest I deceive you with a false reckoning.’ Yes, we should remember that with all the good, Socrates also introduces the possibility of that which is falsified, adulterated, corrupted, deceptive, mendacious. ‘Be careful,’ he says, ‘lest I deceive you with a false reckoning.’

This recourse to spoken wisdom – which is brought about through fear of the face of the father, good, capital, the origin of being, the form of forms, and so forth – is a recourse to protection. Socrates proposes: ‘I thought that because I failed to understand true existence, I should be careful not to lose the eye of my soul. You know it is possible to injure your bodily eyes looking at the sun during an eclipse – so in my own case, I was afraid that my soul would be blinded if I looked at certain things. I figured it better to have recourse to the world of spoken wisdom and then seek the truth of things. In each case, I based myself on the spoken wisdom which I judged strongest…’

Hence, spoken wisdom is a resource. One must not only turn to it when the sun shines and threatens to burn out our eyes, one must turn away from the sun during an eclipse, when the star – dead, extinguished, or hidden – is more dangerous than ever.

Now it is time to let these yarns of suns and sons spin. We have moved from spoken wisdom to the father. We have beheld the master, the lord, the good-sun-capital-father. Later, within this same tissue, we will pull on the same strings, and witness the weaving or unravelling of other designs.

Pharmakon 2: Socrates and Phaedrus

Socrates and Phaedrus were in conversation.

‘I agree,’ said Socrates, ‘only so long as an argument which endorses speech is based on the appreciation of speech as an art. Here and there I’ve heard some saying that speech leads to spoken falsehoods – lies, if you prefer – and rather than being an art, speech is considered artless. I have a Spartan friend fond of saying: “Without truth, there can never be an art of speaking.”’

And Phaedrus replied: ‘We need this argument. Let us bring some to hear what they have to say about this.’

Thereupon Socrates stood and hailed his noble brood, and called upon them to convince Phaedrus that he would never become a competent speaker unless he paid closer attention to philosophy. And he called upon Phaedrus to respond.

************

For the sake of convenience, we have been working in metaphor. But we can see that the metaphor belongs to a system. If spoken wisdom has a father, this is because it is a living being, an animal born, growing, and belonging to our emerging, abiding, swaying existence. This understanding permits us to regard the spoken word as a living being which conforms to the needs of the immediate situation, to the questions and demands of its interlocutors, capable of adapting in order to maximise persuasiveness and control.

Spoken wisdom is not merely a living creature, it is a created organism. It requires a head and a tail, and neither heads nor tails can be written down. This can be seen in the continuation of Socrates’ and Phaedrus’ dialogue.

************

‘Well Phaedrus,’ said Socrates, ‘I am ignorant of how to write. It seems to me that the writer simply writes down whatever springs to mind. Do you know how the writer arranges thoughts into some kind of order? What is the structural principle behind composition?’

Phaedrus blushed.

‘Really,’ he said, ‘it’s very kind of you to think me capable of such an accurate insight into the method of writing.’

‘True enough,’ said Socrates, ‘though surely you will agree that spoken wisdom requires a head and a tail, as well as all other parts which comprise a created organism?’

************

Here we can see that Socrates insists that a speech must have a beginning and an end, and it must begin at the beginning and end at the end. He was clearly dissatisfied with Lysias, who had attempted to swim on his back upstream through the current of his own speech. He began with a lover’s speech, which should have been delivered at the end. The significance of this is enormous, but as it is obvious, we will not belabour it. Hence, spoken wisdom behaves like a person, who is at once present and has an origin.

Pharmakon 1: Yamanu and Djeheuty

Yamanu received his old acquaintance Djeheuty, who had come all the way from Naucratis to show Yamanu his latest discoveries. Among these was a concoction derived of various herbs and fluids which had the curious property of improving memory and wisdom. And he pulled out a flask and offered Yamanu an appraising swig.

Yamanu looked sceptically at the flask, and said: ‘Why should I? There’s nothing wrong with my memory, and I should think nobody would question my wisdom.’

‘True enough, on the face of it,’ replied Djeheuty. ‘But this will improve your ability to write down your instructions.’

‘Instructions?’ said Yamanu. ‘What instructions? What writing? I need no writing. My word is Law.’

‘No,’ said Djeheuty. ‘My master’s word is Law. Your words are merely an interpretation of the Law. You must write them down, or you are liable to forget them.’

And Yamanu figured that this was probably true, after all. He nonetheless regarded Djeheuty with some suspicion.

‘Is it poisonous?’ he asked, gesturing at the flask.

‘Very possibly,’ replied Djeheuty. ‘It is not just a concoction, it is both artwork and artefact.’

‘Well, that may be,’ replied Yamanu, ‘but I am receiver of this gift, and it will be I who decides the value of your discovery.’

‘You speak like my father,’ said Djeheuty. ‘I did not like him. All he did was reject, belittle, abandon, disparage. He, like you, was suspicious of writing.’

************

From the tale of Yamanu and Djeheuty, it should be obvious to all that the articulation of wisdom belongs to a father, much like a son belongs to a father. This is no metaphor. A father speaks; writing is only necessary in his absence.

Let us note some of the ways a father can be absent: he can die of cancer or be hit by a car while riding his bicycle. He can be stabbed several times in the lungs by a stranger and lie in the street watching his lifeblood bubble from his chest, his child can take revenge and push him unsuspecting from a cliff. And then from whence will we find our wisdom? Or must we get by without it?

It was Socrates who pointed out that the writing down of wisdom is misery, whether pitiful or arrogant. But I will add that this is born both of the distress of the orphan who has no father to speak wisdom, and of the perfidy of the orphan who sought wisdom beyond the father in the first place.

Hence Yamanu’s suspicion was legitimate: the gift of writing is poison.

But really, it behooves us to acknowledge that the orphan, whose welfare cannot be assured, is the same as a letter of the alphabet: this letter, once it is inscribed on paper, is no longer a son. It has no origins. But the same letter when spoken has a father. It lives through this father, while the letter written down is half-dead. The spoken letter has no thoughts of murder or revenge.

The tale of Yamanu and Djeheuty proves that the responsibility for wisdom belongs to those who accompany the father; that is, the letters he speaks. They protest, they answer questions and – unlike wisdom written down – they respond when their father is present.

And then there was max...

Would You Believe Me If I Said:

'This is My Love'?

An Ode to Canadian Love

My love, when I first saw you,
You wore a crumpled jacket over a spine like a koleso,
You wore a baseball cap and scowled at the world from beneath it,
You smoked too many cigarettes and sang songs to yourself
From a dank Aeroportian room.

O my love, I didn’t like you then:
You were too fearsome and spoke in cant,
But one day you did a funny little dance for me,
And then another one, and you sang a song,
And smiled like a child and almost charmed my pants off.

My love, my pravoslavnyi Jewfuck,
Do you remember that strange orange day last summer?
When you called me ‘sexy-legs’ because my legs were sexy
And I called you ‘hot-haunches’
Even though your haunches weren’t particularly hot?
I loved you that day; you bought me a beer
But refused to drink one yourself:
You said it felt wrong for your body
To be corrupted with toxin
When your soul was filled with
A pure, clean
Love.

Then you lit a cigarette and winked at me.

My love, can you forgive me?
When I said I came to Russia to study weather patterns I lied,
I came looking for you and a good shaverma
I found one of them, my love.
Now I’m ready to go home
To where the snow is much whiter.

your turn pal, we had an agreement, eh?

bunny boy, to be illustrated by max

Bunny was very sad.
He did not like being a bunny.
His mother made him eat cooked carrots every day.
He had far too many brothers and sisters.
And his ears were very big.
"I don't want to be a bunny anymore," bunny boy said to his folks.
And Bunny left home.
The first place he went was to a family of Turkish crocodiles who had just moved into the neighbourhood.
“I’m sick of being a bunny,” he said to them. “Do you think I could be a crocodile with you guys?”
“Yeah, of course, anyone can be a crocodile,’ papa crocodile said. “All you have to do is eat little girls and smoke.”
Bunny thought about it for a while and then decided to give it a try.
“I don’t like girls,” he said, “and I’ve never tried smoking, but I’ll give it a try.”
He didn’t like it. He couldn’t bring himself to eat little girls, even if he didn’t like them, and smoking made him feel sick and uncool.
So he hopped away.
After a while he came to a family of sloths who were having a nap in the afternoon shade.
“I’m sick and tired of being a bunny and a crocodile, can I try being a sloth?”
He waited for a response for a long time but never got one.
So he hopped away.
Next he came to the elephants. They squirted Bunny with water and laughed. It was fun for a while, but at night he got cold and shivered. And he just wasn’t strong enough. And he wasn’t tall enough. Basically it just didn’t work at all. So he left.
The bear family was very nice, very nice indeed. Mother bear went to loads of trouble trying to teach him what to do. She showed him how to find berries, and how to catch fish in the river, and how to climb trees properly, and nagged him constantly about picking up his socks and putting away his toys and kissing her good night and eventually Bunny got pretty sick of that too. So he left.
The camels were cool, but he didn’t like when people got onto his back.
The birds were friendly enough, but Bunny didn’t like they way they were always pushing him out of the nest. He was covered in bruises.
At the end of the block there was only one more family. He was afraid to go there. His father had always warned him that they weren’t reputable. Bunny didn’t know what that meant, but his father looked serious when he said it.
“Disreputable,” he said, squeezing up his eyes.
It was the family of rats.
They lived in the dump where all the city animals threw their garbage.
“Hey you disreputable rats!” Bunny said. “I’m sick of being a bunny and a crocodile and a sloth and an elephant and a bear and a camel and a bird! Especially a bird! I think the rat life is probably pretty exciting in a dirty way, can I give it a try?”
“Yeah dude!” All the rats squealed and screeched.
Bunny loved it. You never had to wash. And you could eat garbage all day long.
It was all a bad little boy bunny could want.
But after a while even eating garbage stopped being cool. Not to mention the rats being rude all the time. Being rude was ok if you knew it was wrong, but the rats didn’t seem to know that.
So Bunny didn’t know what to do. He’d been everywhere – where else could he go!?
All the other animals were strange! And they didn’t seem to understand his specific needs.
Bunny spent the next years wandering through the countryside alone.
He searched for something to make him happy but he couldn’t find it.
He climbed mountains and trees. He swam in mountain rivers and waterfalls. He hunted for food and when he didn’t catch anything he ate leaves. But nothing satisfied him.
Nothing, until one day there it was on the side of the road.
It was a girl bunny, and a carrot!
“Mama Mia!” he cried. “That’s it, that’s what I need!”
And they lived happily ever after and had lots of little bunnies, and ate carrots every day.
It was perfect. Just what Bunny needed.

Smolny sobor

Next morning, I brave the cold air and board a bus that takes a group of students to Smolny Cathedral. It’s a massive blue and white building, badly deteriorated, which would have been truly lovely were it not for the scaffolding that covers it. I’m sure it’ll look even better once the restoration is finished, but I don’t think that will happen while I’m in Russia. We circuit the cathedral, and enter the ex-monastery behind it.
An abrupt, business-like Russian woman gives me an evaluation test and places me in a class. She turns back to her desk, evidently expecting me to leave. Foolish woman. After twenty seconds passes and she realises I haven’t moved, she snaps:
‘That is all!’
‘No,’ I reply, with a wistful sigh. ‘No, I don’t think it is.’
She looks half puzzled and half pissed-off.
‘What? What?’
‘Well, y’see, me old mucker,’ I say in English, ‘I’m not taking group classes. I’m taking individual tuition. So, I think you’ll have to make a few changes here and there. Sorry to be a bore.’
Of course, she can’t understand most of what I said, but she does understand the vital bits. She makes a flustered phonecall downstairs, then tells me that I’ll have to wait until 2 o’clock – two and a half hours away. I ask her if she wants to play cards. She looks confused, and I explain it a bit more simply. Good lord, the woman actually smiles. She tells me she has work to do. I tell her I was only joking.
I leave Smolny and make my way west a few blocks to the statue of Dzerzhinsky, who set up what would eventually become the KGB. The statue has become known in recent years as a rallying point for some of the more nostalgic authoritarians such as the neo-nazis, but it’s deserted today, apart from a lone Russian feller, who slips up on the ice and takes a spectular fall onto his arse. I offer a hand, but he is embarassed, and hurries away. I continue on to the yellow Tauride Palace, built by Catherine the Great for Potemkin, but better known to me as the place where the Provisional Government and Petrograd Soviet unwittingly plotted each other’s deaths. I guess you could say the Petrograd Soviet won by remaining influential longer, but while most members of the Provisional Government fled to Western Europe, many original members of the Petrograd Soviet were executed for ‘treason’ or committed suicide to avoid this fate.
I eat a cheese and berry pastry, drink a strong and mildly disgusting black coffee at the Karavay bakery, and watch the people hurry past. There are people walking everywhere in this city. I have yet to walk much further than twenty metres without passing someone, even when it’s snowing.
Back to Smolny through through the Institute gardens where a bust of Engels angrily glares across the way at a bust of Marx, who scowls back with equal ferocity.
I finally corner the administrator, who confesses that she has lost the correspondence where I claimed to want individual tuition, and has also lost my HIV test. She rewrites the contracts, then rewrites them again after I point out several fundamental mistakes, and having signed them, I depart for home.
Emerging from Primorskaya, I see a pack of twenty dogs idling about in the middle of the intersection. All the traffic patiently waits for them while they sniff, yip, and snap at each other. I realise they are literally a pack of stray dogs, wandering the streets looking for food. One of them barks loudly, and they all trot off down towards the Smolenka river. They’re having a great old time. Dogs love dogs.

The snow and the beard

In university girls didn't take to me immediately so I started using the pages I had written my stories on to roll cigarettes or for toilet paper. It didn't change the way girls acted towards me right away. But I would say that in the end it did. It definitely did.

I wanted to eat every day, but only once a day. Sometimes I didn't eat at all. I was busy smoking my stories. I spent all my money on tobacco and sometimes people bought me lunch. Lunch is the meal you need if you plan to eat only once a day, because, obviously, it is strategically located. Though, of course, it's even better if it's a late lunch.

So what else does a person need besides a late lunch, tobacco, and stories to smoke the tobacco in?

Not a lot, really, though perhaps love?

Life is possible without love. Life is infinitely more complicated without tobacco.

For a while I went without a beard. If you had asked me a month ago about what happened you would have been asking for trouble and tears. Now I can talk about it with some measure of calmness.

One day as I was walking on campus I attempted to light one of my stories, which I had rolled very poorly (as poorly, you could say, as the stories had been written!), and the flame went running up the paper and onto my beard. When I finally did make it to class that day, with my beard shaved away, the girls all started noticing me. I don't know if it was the absence of the beard, or the bravado of my new beardless attitude: now that the beard had disappeared nothing seemed to matter. I suppose it was a bit of both.

Anyway, it was snowing nearly everyday, and I found myself beardless. And not only that, but with very promising amorous prospects as well.

The day after I lost my beard a girl looked at me while I was settling into a seat in the back corner of the library. And the look was playful.

That night the wind blew so hard outside my window I thought it was going to break the glass and fill my room with snow. So I slept on the floor in the kitchen.

The next day when I sat down in my spot with the bad kids at the back of my Russian class, another girl looked at me and smiled outright.

If you always get food caught in your beard, then it becomes a reflex to wipe it away when someone smiles and points at a spot – you don't even think about it.

'I don't have a beard,' I said. 'What could you possibly want?'

She looked away in confusion.

The next day it was the same thing.

So much confusion.

Eventually, I grew accustomed to the attention and adapted. I started chatting to people in public and giving high fives. I stopped reading books, and started dancing.

I danced in clubs and in my kitchen after dark, and left the books in my back pocket for everyone else to see.

On a good day it was 'Faust.' On a lesser day it was 'Notes from the Underground.'

But that was purely accidental, and I hadn't thought of it purposely. I had long since stopped thinking of things. Thinking was a thing of the past. Now we danced.

But I still had no money, and actually, while on the outside everything seemed all wonderful and interesting and universitylike, dancing just made everything worse. When I had a beard I could stay at home and read and I felt no compunction about it. Now I absolutely pined after the nightlife.

At first I started hanging out and letting other people pay, but all the people who had previously supported me because I fit their image of the starving bearded artist now despised me. And the people who danced, though it's certainly not my place to judge, didn't care that much about others, though again, it's not my place to judge, I really just didn't understand their culture.

So I wound up staying at home in the end.

And that was just dreadful. And I started to lose my marbles.

I wore my scarf at home because it was so cold, and that wasn't the same as the time I wore my jeans to bed just to see what it would be like. I thought – I wonder what it would be like to go to bed in my jeans. And so I did it. I must say didn't like it.

I did, however, enjoy the scarf. I enjoyed it thoroughly, though, as they say, it was done for necessity. It was really cold.

My socks all had holes in them, 'though I don't mind in the least. It lends me a Victorian dignity,' I thought.

At this time I started elbowing people in crowds. And if people were looking in the other direction I would make faces when they coughed. One time I was walking through the fruit section just looking and smelling, and a kid cut me off and grazed me with his basket. So I lost it and in my rage smacked him and he went flying into the avocadoes. Someone saw me do it and grabbed me by the jacket and a crowd gathered. I started to cry and got really mixed up and said it was an accident and that I had just wanted to scare him. And then I said that he was a common thief and that I had seen him here many times stealing fruit and that I could no longer bear the thought of fruit being stolen and that I was no nark so I took justice into my own hands. I said a lot of other things which I won't repeat because they might make you uncomfortable. The people became so uncomfortable and embarrassed they let me go and gave me a lot of free food. Which was a godsend actually, because I had very little money and was surviving on mustard and bread. And tobacco, of course.

This incident changed things and for a while I didn't act out because I was too afraid of punishment. I retired to my cave and gnawed at my wounds in privacy.

One night I broke down and bought a bottle of Gin and drank it straight. My roommate kicked me out because he was bigger than me and teetotal. It was snowing outside and the flakes were coming down big and light.

'Look at the snow,' he said. And threw me out.

I walked around in the darkness and breathed deeply, it was very beautiful, and ended up passing out somewhere along the way under a bush.

I seemed to have dropped my cigarettes there so the next day I went back to get them but I couldn't find the bush.

I had all these memories from the night, standing looking in windows, walking along in the wet snow making up poems that were very beautiful, reciting them aloud.

It occurred to me that if I could find the spot again not only would I be able to smoke but I would also be able to remember some of the poems and they'd win her over, whoever she was. But I never did. Which is a mystery to me. Where had I gone? And more importantly, where were my cigarettes?

When I went home my roommate threatened to break my rib bones if I ever got in his face about Gandhi again. He said he didn't like it because he could smell the alcohol on my breath.

I said the whole thing was a mystery to me, but that's why alcohol was in such demand, because it put a little bit of the mystery back into life which modern science has stolen; but I would respect his personal space nonetheless.

I said the thing about science because he was a biology major and I never missed a chance to remind him that science didn't scare me at all. His nostrils flared, and I walked slowly but surely towards my room. And I stayed there for quite a long time after moving all my furniture and belongings in front of the door.

After a couple of days I left my room and my home for what seemed to be the first time in years! But for what was in reality only the first time in a couple of days. There was snow on the ground, it was wet – man, it's always wet! – and I thought: yes, it is possible, I'll never accept that it is not, I'll just bet that some people live in this world and are happy, and the season changes for them every single day, and the snow is always wet or dry, and I wonder, what other wonderful things do they see…..? What a life!

And I walked over to the supermarket, having forgotten about the incident a few days before, which was extremely unlike me, to take a walk through the fruit section.

But when I got there I was unpleasantly shocked. There was someone really beautiful in the fruit section. She was just walking around and not even looking at the fruit. What could she possibly need there!? She was just walking around in the fruit section. 'Move on!' I wanted to say. 'Get a move on out of the fruit section,' but I couldn't, I didn't have the guts, I was a chicken. And the real reason I wanted her to move on was – she was so beautiful. I know it sounds stupid and not witty at all, but it's the truth. She was that beautiful.

I wondered to myself - could it be, could she be, waiting for me?

It seemed unlikely.

And then the store manager, who had asked me never to come back, walked by.

And saw me.

And started to walk over to me.

And she sensed that something was wrong and stopped just walking around and looked over at me. 'Move on,' I wanted to say, 'get going.' She was that beautiful. Geez.

'What are you doing here?' The manager had every right to ask me that. 'Go on, get out of here. What do you want?'

She looked over at me and I don't know if it was a smile of pity, or if it was a smile at a scene, or a smile of understanding because she had also behaved badly in this very fruit section, or a smile that was pleased to find something to alleviate the boredom of strolling around in the fruit section; whatever it was she smiled so wonderfully that I filled up with spirit and looked straight at the manager and said, very proudly, 'I am leaving. There is nothing here that I want.' And I walked out into the snow.

From the parking lot I walked to the street where I had been the night I got lost and slept under a bush. I walked up and down it, back and forth, for maybe an hour or two. Though all the events seemed very random, though they seemed to be just one little insignificant thing after another I thought about them for an hour or two on that street, I had plenty of time to think over what had happened and I decided that they were all - can I say it? - very important.

From there I went back to the parking lot, it was already dark, and I tried to see in through the window to the fruit section, I wanted to get another look at that smile. Was she there? Was the smile? Not as far as I could see. As it was dark and the snow was coming down I didn't mind. Until I turned around and she was standing there looking at me.

'What are you doing in the parking lot?' I asked.

'What are you doing in the parking lot?' She asked back.

'That's a fair question but I happen to have an easy answer – they won't let me in so I have to stand out here.'

'They kicked me out too,' she said, 'so now we share something.'(It was so improbable! But that's what she said!)

And then she looked at me and smiled the same smile again!

But I need to ask - can I be forgiven if I try to wax eloquent about a girls smile? Is there at least one other person out there who will understand me and won't say, 'oh, come on, enough with the smiles already; maybe you wanna talk about your dreams and kisses and babies too? So maybe give us a break, eh?' Is there at least one other person out there who understands, maybe a person who has a beard or crooked teeth and who gets smiles like that from girls so rarely that when they do they are willing to write a whole story about it, and not only that!? Because the story is the least of it, the story is nothing at all compared to the nights you go to bed with a smile on your own face remembering it; the story is nothing at all compared to the way it stops you from elbowing people in the crowd, and grimacing at people who cough, and just going to class and work and not feeling bad about life at all. The smile is beautiful, man, she was beautiful.

We didn't say anything else to each other but we both smiled and went on our ways. It was a great night, and if I can be forgiven for writing about a smile perhaps I can be forgiven for one more ridiculous remark, maybe I can get away with saying just one more silly thing – I think that smile saved my life(oh, I know, it sounds so silly, how could it save a life? Smiles don't save lives, firemen save lives. Next thing I'm going to say beauty will save the world and smiles can put out fires. But it's true! Smiles can save the world! Smile at people! Especially you girls! And especially at people with beards! All you girls out there smile at people with beards!)

Manchester comes to Moscow

Hier soir, comme prévu on s'est pointé complètement rébou au concert organisé par l'équipe du film paragraph 78 (un film de guerre russe à gros budget dont la bande originale a été composé par les tenants de la scène rock mancunienne des années 90). A l'entrée, on nous dit que le bar est gratos à l'étage. Bon point. s'en suit donc une consommation éhontée et c'est en aucun scrupule que nous jetons nos gobelets à moitié vide sur Dan.

La bière, déjà en masse dans mon organisme, n'a pas pu me permettre de trop bouger pendant le set electro-rock de Richard Fearless.

Ce n'est qu'en tapant dans les boissons à forte valeur ajoutée (b52, vodka-red bull) que j'ai pu me remettre sur le devant pour assister au spectacle navrant de Bez des Happy mondays qui descendait sur scene une bouteille de vodka en échouant sur le sol toutes les cinq secondes.

Une bonne heure après, Ian Brown rentre en scène et là : blackout total. Aucun souvenir, mais ce matin tout va bien.

Tout à l'heure, je reçois un sms d'un de mes acolytes d'hier qui disparut étrangement lui aussi :

"What the fuck happened last night ? got a very vague memory of getting thrown out... got back in somehow. Lost, drunk or had stolen 4000r. Headbutted David. No idea how i got home"


Voilà, un vendredi normal donc..






Stone Roses_I wanna be adored from funtimeok.com

nirvana, bukowski

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to
somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.

he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.

the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher,
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.

the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.

he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.

the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.

then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.

the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.

but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.

he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.

the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.

they had not
noticed
the
magic.

the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do--
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.

A Star is Born

a winter collage

i typed in dancing frenchmen, and this is what i got , eh?
this is what the world thinks of when they think of frenchmen dancing?
on behalf of monkeys who eat cheese and soldiers who have swords, and little
girls and rats and all that i think we need a better to get along, i think we've all seen what the world can get up to when it hasnt got some kind of idea about something else, and if this is all that can work out for a way, i think that, hey, whatever, you know, but i dont think thats the best maybe

well buddy, huh? eh?

you cant squeeze juice out of a rock breaking hammer! you cant expect rivers and loads of tears from a dried up canon. i screamed but you did not hear the trees, and when i pulled over to the side of the road to roll down my window i had a breath of wind SO fresh, i had to hurl my cookies all over the shoulder. if i could have figured out the first time what shoulder i wouldnt have had to get down on my knees and look around, but as it was i was crawling, feeling around, groping in the dark - and there she was. to be perfectly honest i always knew it would work out that way - in the worst moment of tears, covered in a vomit filled parka, searching at the side of my youth for a key that didnt exist - there she would be, and you know what - there she was. holding a bag of peaches and asking me which i prefered - do you prefer peaches or pears? she asked. i couldnt answer her at first and then she tossed her hair over her shoulder, said she was finished with waiting around, her ride had arrived, and she got into a black mercedes with florida plates and drove off into the night of my first youth.

the bird or the barber

we want any one reading this blog, probably by mistake, or because of a bad link, to vote now, leave your comments, to this question:
will this blog still exist in two weeks time
or in other words,
will dostoyevsky still be trapped in outer space or can he at last return to earth?

Scanner Darkly

{108321}{108386}What does a scanner see?
{108390}{108439}Into the head?
{108449}{108505}Down into the heart?
{108516}{108599}Does it see into me, into us?
{108603}{108655}Clearly or darkly?
{108691}{108801}I hope it sees clearly, because|I can 't any longer see into myself.
{108811}{108861}I see only murk.
{108881}{108965}I hope for everyone's sake|the scanners do better.
{108976}{109071}Because if the scanner sees only darkly,|the way I do
{109075}{109175} then I'm cursed and cursed again.
{109179}{109249}And we'll only wind up dead this way
{109253}{109398}knowing very little and getting|that little fragment wrong too.

All Acknowledge the Superiority of Unchangeable Wisdom to that Which is Variable

Now, no one is so egregiously silly as to ask, "-->How do you know that a life of unchangeable wisdom is preferable to one of change?"--> For that very truth about which he asks, how I know it? is unchangeably fixed in the minds of all men, and presented to their common contemplation. And the man who does not see it is like a blind man in the sun, whom it profits nothing that the splendor of its light, so clear and so near, is poured into his very eye-balls. The man, on the other hand, who sees, but shrinks from this truth, is weak in his mental vision from dwelling long among the shadows of the flesh. And thus men are driven back from their native land by the contrary blasts of evil habits, and pursue lower and less valuable objects in preference to that which they own to be more excellent and more worthy.

Under the tower

I was under the tower, didn't get ontop of it. It was raining and I was drenched to the bones. I looked at the barpapa sellers and thought it's so sweet. She's made of candy and I have a sweet-tooth. 3 hours later it was the new year with a sip of smokey irish whisky, french champagne and seventies fashion everywhere. My name : Paco Rabanne and my wife is the most extraordinary thing I can think about. I failed to be honest, I failed to be a monster, I failed to be myself, I failed to be alone. There will be a time I'll be alone and it would be six feet under, in a box with red-silk walls and a huge non-revolving door the size of a man.

alas, poor max, its come to this

how many men have gone down in action trying to bring this man in? how many lives destroyed by the wicked grin? who taught you to give me the kitchen knife for the sun? who taught you to feed me haggis at the point of a gun? why max? why?
i warned you, didnt i?
i told to - stay away from that tall tower, didnt i?
but you said - i like the cheese, i like the breeze at the top of the tower; i like the view, i like the people falling, one and two...
then i said - those words are meaningless, you sayd them to rhyme, but only because
and you said - thats a good reason, thats a way and a was
oh max, you silly old shoe
if only you knew...
but its too late
as all can see - max has his glasses on, and he's armed with the grin - look out, here comes max! hes ready for the next round of atrocities!

the legend lives on down under

yes, once again, the incontainable fire sparked, the lights glaring, the crowd gone wild - hot and furious seth faces the fact. hot and incontainable he lights the hearts of too many teenage girls, lost forever in the stadium of delirium on the edge of the australian shelf, on the brink of the australian night. will they ever recover? will he never learn? when we will he grow weary of these little escapades he calls ultimate wisdom? what does he know about wisdom?! he forgets to see himself in his true light, he forgets what he truly is - the rock start of wisdom, and the grocer of despair.

Oasis - 'The Masterplan'

sensual seth

heres another one of the wild crew - mad max's right hand man, or should i say: nemesis. as is evident from these, our latest pictures of the culprit, many years wandering in the desert have left him very little respect for those around him: dont be fooled by words and caresses, they are only the by-products of many lonely nights listening to the wayward howl of the dingo. do not approach but with care, and then be certain to carry a large stick - it is the stick he fears above all else.

mad max

if anyone finds this man please report back to us immediately, his name is max and he is extrememly dangerous to himself. last he was seen eating cheese on top of the tower, the name of which i forget, in the city i also cant remember right now off the top of my head. do not try to approach him - he is very dangerous and armed to seduce: with melting cheese and wicked rhymes - all who have approached him in the past have also disappeared.

Slideshow finland - france - russia

Bowled him! With the last ball of the day...

Chocoreve

Doris: You have no values. Your whole life: it's nihilism, it's cynicism, it's sarcasm, and orgasm.
Harry: You know, in France, I could run on that slogan and win.



Chocoreve

Guided By Voices - I Am A Scientist

Tete de noeud

Why the world should speak french ?

Because it's good,
good for me
good for everybody
and moreover it's good
for business
and relationship
so i could deteach me english
and speak in french
with people
and then i would say

"Le pain c'est bon"

and people would answer

"oui"

ou des fois "non" mais c'est comme tout, pour avoir bon gout, il faut etre tolerant

Mon amy le gwayn

il ay tres fort au ping-pong
il mange des chapos
mais il est rigoleau

Well, there is something more important

than news and fornication :








CHEESE
















AND

BREAD



































oh yeah

welcome, welcome this is the end

welcome to the end of the blog
welcome
it has come to this
it was a long way down
but the others will come
the others have to come
cause these ones have left
and theyre gone,
they dont even care
they even dont want to care
cause theyre somewhere else
theyre somewhere there
eating cheese and living it up with their own little imaginations of what it should be like to be born on the eiffel tower.
well i got news for everyone
youre not born on the eiffel tower
and cheese can not replace the blood in your veins
there is no cheese
there is no vein
there is only the eiffel tower
there is only today
the last day
of the blog
of our friendship
of our peace of mind
and of our cheese
i repeat
there is no cheese
there is only pain
there is only memory of pain
there is only aloneness and pain
and the memory of this aloneness and pain
what a memory!
what a pain

maxccccc

max me naime pas
mais c'est pas grave
cest pas tout le temps
que max
aime les amies
cest pas tout le temps
que je crois
quesque faire avec les enfants
cest pas grave
cest pas grave
cest pas vrais

je m'appelle...

je m'appelle pas Zeus
je ne suis pas un des immortelles
je ma'ppelle pas maxime
je ne suis pas un des mec loyale
je ma'ppelle pas fidel
je ne suis un revolutionaire des temps probable
je m'appelle Jordi!
est je veus te dires se que je sais -
je m'appelle jordi, est je vues...
dans le rue
avec mes mec
dans les tetes
dans les arbres
est dans les fetes
bonne fetes!
bonne ane!
bonne tetes
est bon soires!

the festival of poetry francaise

avec mon coeur
dans la poubelle
avec ma soeur
dans les etoile du mere
je suis
invincible!
est toi...
je ne sais pas
est tu...
je ne sais pas
est ton...
je ne sais pas
est ta...

je ne sais pas
je ne sais pas
je ne sais
tu crois?

we're all of us a bit of the pidgeon, each one of us a little bit of the bird.
some more of one than the other; but in general no one can say they have never been fed, or that no one has ever kicked in their general direction, or that theyve never flipped out for no reason when someone walked by and flown up into the sky. i personally get in peoples ways, thats my thing, but i do the other things too. max personally walks around bobbing his head. thats his thing. everybody has his thing on top of all the other pidgeon things he does.

Excitation

Je me suis excité, longtemps, a l'idée de refouler un jour le sol de la Russie. Sans aucune raison. Juste parce qu'un jour, en mars 2004, sur le quai de la gare de Finlande, a Leningrad, j'ai senti mon coeur s'arracher d'une mélancole blanche et glaciale, porté par d'enormes chapeaux en fourrure comme dans les films d'animations japonais. Des totoros sur la tete, la neige qui tombent par gros copeaux, sur les ponts, sur les blocs de béton pensés comme des allées simples vers le centre, vers les idoles communistes et tout le folklore d'une vie agitée par les coups d'états, les malversations généralisées et les rudes nuits d'hiver a tiser de la vodka.Il neige aussi sur les lieux, immenses et colonisés par le vide, juste ce qu'il y a de néant pour parcourir l'horizon avec une fierté imbécile, un Christophe Collomb de mes couilles..
Au nord, l'agitation, garantie de rechauffement, est diversement appréciée selon les pays; En Russie, je pensais qu'elle serait legerement plus psychotique et théatrale que ce que j'avais connu ailleurs. Et effectivement maintenant que j'y suis je reconsidere tout ce beau merdier en terrible farandole que j'aimerais retranscrire, si je pouvais en un mot, mais je n'y arrive jamais.
C'est toujours le meme resultat, une excitation. Sans aucune raison.