One night Peter drank so much that he farted in the car port. Standing in the Fettercairned remains of his once sober world .... holding the bottle by the neck .... and swaying in the shit-marracked ruin of his one time holy body .... he shouted out that he was syruped to bits .... at which he took his self back to bed, to finish what of the drink was left.
In bed Peter imagined all sorts of pish-caked beings who came at him from the alcoholic contents of the glass. These were snotty alkys and heavy breathing gyno-doctors, pod swallowers and several dog-headed male and female nurses.
A leading figure in Peter's imaginings however was the brewer Mr Jack Daniels who came to Peter through the covers, threatening to force yet more poison into the poor boy's mouth. "Go to Vegas," said Jack Daniels, "and there I will punish you by making wolves ride you til you are sick."
But Peter refused to go to Vegas and so Jack Daniels got larger and loomed over the bed and filled the Peter's view.
Jack Daniels was a big beardy American with a black bush frothing from his face and Peter quavered when Jack Daniels breathed on him. Smelling Jack's breath, Peter wished then truly that he'd opted for the Vegas option.
"You will drink of me and vomit spangled root parts," said Jack as his frontier style beard waved in the moonlight. "You are not fit for any more of my brew tonight, and so you must finish it in the morning."
And so Peter rose the next day and trailed through the cigarette ash remains of his ruined life, tripping on broken and smashed items as he did so. And reclaiming the bottle from the trash can, Peter sat at his barrels and relished once more, the wooden-mouthed flavour of the garse broth that had killed his daughter.
And it was little wonder that Peter himself died two days later after his final vision, which was of a rusted steel tank … and this was an image of the brewery itself from where steamed the mince like brew which had got him so pot-nastied in the first place. And it had Jack's name on it.
Palinarus stands for a certain will-to-failure, perhaps a repugnance to success, a desire to give up at the last moment, an urge towards loneliness, isolation and obscurity. Palinarus, in spite of his great ability and his conspicuous public position, deserted his post at the moment of victory, and opted for the unknown share …
Subsequent to Vladimar Umanets’ Yellowist deface of Mark Rothko’s painting Black on Maroon an excerpt from The Studio Game from Fledgling Press.
■ People destroy works of art for a variety of reasons. Sometimes they believe that a work of art is valued by other people more than they are. Others have had political motives.
cf. Paul Kelleher : The Destruction of the Statue of Margaret Thatcher Abortively with a Cricket Bat and then with a Metal Pole (2002) Criminal Damage on marble, three month sentence.
Sometimes a mania is a personal fixation that carries itself to a violent conclusion, much like a murder — and sometimes it’s an accident — as in the case of Heery the Hippie of Multiple Solitude who built a twenty foot driftwood Ossian, which blew away into the porridge of the North Sea.
It has been raining for five days - The Aberdeen Eveing Express claims worst February in the recorded meteorological history of the city - and everyone in the town is depressed about the true picture of things terrestrial. The rain stopped but Newmachar was cut off and the road to Milltimber flooded, Dyce flooded &c... so Donald and I stepped out to relieve our spirits. We rose this morning, in beautiful sunshine, and it seemed to us spring was here, and so we smoked a pipe and a reefer and exited the flat for to view the architecture of Aberdeen in the radiant glory of the sun, before grubbing around stoned in the second hand bookshops. It is later in the day, and Donald has gone and I have calmed down. These are my spring days, repeated annually now...
The Trials of Oz by Tony Palmer is as much history as it is literary curiosity. In fact until such time as we return to upholding prejudicial and Victorian attitudes to print and sexual culture, it will only get funnier.
That the judge in particular is prone to question the meaning and relevance of so many things and labels homosexuality for example as a perversion, is simply antiquated. In the teeth of so much evidence, much hypocrisy is revealed.
The character list includes John Mortimer of course, and witnesses such as John Peel, George Melly and Marty Feldman, called to testify upon Oz's artistic merits ('if any').
This is my favourite photograph of Marcel Duchamp. It sometimes goes under the title of 'Marchel Duchamp's Departure for America'. An artist like Duchamp is unique in everything, and sometimes that comes down to the pure ephemera such as this photograph represents.
Let us look at it in detail.
There are no difficult books just difficult authors, all bunged up to Hegel with systematic, deliberate obfuscation, intent on a Freemasonry of Fictive Arts, or much more likely, an exegesis of Fictive Frameworks so covert as to be ciphered for a public the size of a Seminar.
What dynamism in our forebears!
Why, then, have we inherited so little of their pep, their defiant, demonic propulsion?
Have we been short-changed genetically, a gamete short of a character?
Not only could our grandparents out-stroll, out-write and out-work us, but they did it with such animal virility that it pales even our pasty, anaemic countenances that little bit more to think of trying to equal them in action.
What did they have that we lack?
What escaped transmission to us, or was it lost in the translation?
I have an idea, but only that.
A tentative, undogmatic notion that I am scarecly strong enough humbly to propose.
I get so tired you see ....
I thought of signing you up for a new sporting digest I would create called "Aiyya My Knee."
There is purpose, there is direction, there were two reasons.
1. My present unhealthy fascination with a group of tricolour-waving Vatican Storm-troopers masquerading as a football team in the East End of Glasgow.
2. The joys of reading echt-Anglo-Scots as purveyed by a genuine Sub-polar crazed sportswriter, and not that of irredeemably fey Cambridge educated fictionalists and allied poetasters.
However, I have taken pity on you and have decided to keep football as a solitary vice - which is after all, the way I like my vice - like the cattle prod and the two female iguanas I haven't got round to telling you about. It is a very gross tableau. Once more you are spared.
At the head of King Street, at the Mercat Cross on Union Street, where several co-extensive granite buildings were built tomatch the grey tone, there is space to consider the forward thinking of our Enlightened C18th forebears, whose work we prize so much that it is still in daily use.
The greatest of these buildings, at the head of Union Street, is the Town House, which is shored to the sky, to be without doubt, the grandest sight for miles. It's here in the Townhouse where the knobs and spangles meet to celebrate whatever's new in Administrative Aberdeen, and most weeks there will be some event or other in the upper chambers which as the Provost's own showcase for his town, is without doubt, the nicest place in The City.
The City Chambers are likely the nicest place in all the North of Scotland and are civic red and plush, because it's here the Councillors receive the best of their public duties. It stands to reason that the Townhouse should be so grand, and so, from the soft corona of light about the chandelier, to the red pile carpet, the City Chambers as they are known, are the height of excellence …. and not just in décor, for there are Council waiters standing by, non-resistive with the treats, all of which have come from the Council kitchens don ih stair.
In between the basement and the City Chambers there is a food lift, a dumb-waiter, an ever open windpipe shooting skyward all that is ejected from the kitchen. Monster plates of pastries ascend from the kitchen in twenty seconds on the dumb-waiter, so upward is the food.
Behind the walls of the lower floors in the Town House pass these putties, and so the puffs and soft cake cases, wallowing in the upward rush of air, are transported from wall to wall, arrive still warm and at the relative density intended by the chefs.
It happens each week. The clerks on the lower floors are sat close to their computers, making coherence of the accounting, and knocking out a touch of desk-top publishing .... while shoots past, metres from their desks, the levitational foods for those using the best room in town: the Aberdeen City Chambers.
- Written by Peter Burnett Peter Burnett
“The exchange between what one / puts on view [the whole / setting up to put on view (all areas)] / and the glacial regard of the public (which sees / and forgets immediately) / Very often / this exchange has the value / of an infra thin separation / (meaning that the more / a thing is admired / and looked at the less there is an inf. T. / sep)."
Marcel Duchamp, Notes, note 10A
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Friday 21st June, Henderson's at St John's, Edinburgh
I'll be (was) reading at this free evening event in Edinburgh at 7.30PM on 21st June (not this year), with DICKSON TELFER, VICKI JARRETT, PIPPA GOLDSCHMIDT, SANDY CHRISTIE, SAMUEL BEST and EDDIE GIBBONS all on the bill.
My favourite passage from Robert Louis Stevenson's writing is a day in the life of one who believes himself castaway on Erraid.
A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only what they call a tidal islet, and except in the bottom of the neaps, can be entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod, or at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get my shellfish—even I (I say) if I had sat down to think, instead of raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones there, in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat.
As a subscribed "Friend of Unst" you are entitled to a regular digest of all the Local Doings on the island as well as a quarterly "fry" of chops (or saucermeat) and all for $59.99 a year.
Since your last visit to Unst we have seen the forced departure of Malcolm and Cassandra Pepys from the 'Bide Awa' in Baltasound, due to a disagreement over boundaries with the North Sea. The eviction of Mr and Mrs Pepys saw scenes of unprecedented English lunacy from Malcolm as he tried, unavailingly, to reform the tidal nature of the oceans with an ornamental arch of Huddersfield Brick. It is believed that the Pepys' have emigrated to Bangladesh "to see how they fu**ing like it". We hope his butchery experience serves him well.
This left a sad hole in the tourism infrastructure and of course in the wife-fighting team of the island, so we were glad that the 'Bide Awa' quickly attracted New Owners (and who wouldn't want to own this gorgeous guest outlet?) Johnnie and Babs Dalrymple, originally of Callander in Mozambique, have brought a great deal of unwonted energy and colour to the island, and indeed the whole place is buzzing with expectation at the thought of having such rhythmic people in our midst.
Elsie Johnson at the Cooked Meats and Frost Fish dealership said that this should give us the edge on Yell in all the sprint finals in this years' Shetland Sports, and we were surprised indeed to find that the Dalrymples are Full Christians and have very few 'extra' dietary needs, though the Special Constabulary are still on Red Alert, just in case.
This is Downcome, a font designed by Eduardo Recife. In the spirit of the age and in line with other open source software, Eduardo Recife allows anybody to use his font, and all he asks is that he be acknowledged. As a bonus, if anyone can be bothered, Eduardo asks politely to be gifted any books, CDs etc that may make use of his font. That is the idea, but the practice is sadly lacking.
Far ere's slurry ere's sillar? Nae here. Boyndlie is an estate as opposed to a village, or you might like to picture it as a scattered community of farms and other houses.
Boyndlie House lies about six miles SW of Faserburgh, and is a seat of a branch of the Forbes family - although I know the family as being called Ogilvie-Forbes, as have been for at least a century.