copy and paste

of course the concept of digitally downloading oneself across the airwaves to perform teleportation travel is wonderful...

yet terrifying - what with all the potential mishaps on the way...

you just have to observe a couple of episodes of star trek to understand the scope for disaster...

particularly if you're kited out in red...

but it just goes to show how ill advanced computers were at the time of conception of these scripts...

since any administrative operators golden rule is to copy something before sending it off...

mind you this concept has been set in place long before email...

and wot would you do with the copy left back on planet zaptoo 7?

leave your own self to die slowly of starvation...?

no! of course not... you'd simply arrange to place yourself in an archive box with a suitable destroy by date in the planets nearest deep storage facility...

no wander administrators rule the earth...

we've got all the best procedures.

so this is blogging...?

if only it didn't feel so....

essentially futile...

though ultimately -

all linked up...

god - tears for fears could of been so much cooler!

watch out though!

i've fallen into wandering around the flat singing about everything I'm doing...

the effect lasts until your voice dries out...

egregious dozing digitigrade

wot do i do?

well... mostly i cycle to this warehouse where i ride the lift to the top floor and then sit at a desk and stare out the window... for cover i turn on the computer and every now and then i get intrigued and look at it... at this point i usually get sucked in and find myself spending most of the day trying to get out again! i've found that trying to communicate with my friends helps kill the time while i'm stuck inside....(like now!) occasionally the computer gives me tasks (which i know are tests! ...kinda weird puzzles) which i have to complete if i'm to be released by the end of the day... i really dunno why i turn up every day for this torture... i guess it's become a habit... and you gotta do something eh? well don't ya?

but christ i've totally oversimplified it! occasionally (when i'm not stuck inside the computer) other people try and talk to me... sometimes someone hands me this small chunk of plastic with metal bits inside and a voice comes out! usually the voice gives me more tasks (just like the computer) i really feel like a lab rat! all these tasks! (which like i've already said - i know are tests really!) sometimes a bunch of people i hardly ever see or have never ever seen before turn up and sit down with me at a big table... they usually try and convince me of something or other and generally scare me quite alot...

come to think of it... what the hell am i doing! i could be sitting in the park looking at the clouds.... it's all very strange... i guess it reassures me though cos otherwise i'd have to come up with some way of passing the time by myself... and that could be risky...

another lill' snippit...

what is it about the mid west hicksville that works so nice in videos and films...?

some recherché wriggles here too...

you taking notes Charlie?

actually this looks like LA.?

musicously daft punk and videonically radiohead... but maybe better than most?

The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster

An impromptu critique...

Auster writes of the emancipation of a man using the detective novel as an allegory for this struggle of life without god. He uses epistemology as a leitmotif and his literary musing pertain further to the classic philosophical search for meaning through the understanding of language. His characters are not real in the sense of individual. They are tropes for the various aspects of the concept that he investigates through his inevitably narcissistic cogitations. His meta-fictional manipulations allude to the ineluctability of each and every life. A visage he deliberately coins in order to heighten the trepidation that he builds with each thwarted moment of the amaranthine yet iniquitous plots. As with Kafka, the concepts are all too well known. They spawn from the seemingly utterly exhausted detritus left by a wealth of literary minds over the past few millennia. Yet, again as with Kafka, they are hidden somewhere in amongst the pervading tedium and unless otherwise prompted, only revealed half way through the second story. Fortuitously, Auster has chosen the short story and not a novel to toy with these extraneous and dangerous motifs - as all young authors apparently feel they must. My admonition can only be to read this work as one would listen to bewitching yet aureate pop music, i.e. from some distance and with due distain for the denotation. Better still read more Calvino! (his catalogue is apparently endless) or Dirk Gently (Adams) if you’re particularly into the detective genre ~ that is if you prefer Conn to Cohen. Although City of Glass has been adapted as a graphic novel, perhaps through this medium we at least might find something worthy of the aspired notion of entertainment.

blogged... well, used to be?

how'd you link this?

where's the instruction manual?

why aren't computers more like Lego?

still... a quiescent little song and video here about a quidnunc... perhaps quietus masquerading as a car salesman? amongst other nonsense...

is this a good blog? (their's not mine)

i, after all, being a beginner blogger...

but anyway, it seems that my brain has outgrown lego since i have linked!

Lever Files & Ring Binders

Is it my administration?
Or have I finally found something worth living for?
I was looking for some action
But all I found was lever files and ring binders...

You could wait for a lifetime
To spend your days in the sunshine
You might as well do the filing
Cos when it stapled and punched . . .

You got a filing system!

Yeah,

you got a filing system....

'N is it worth the aggravation?
To find yourself a life when you could spend yer time working in an office?
It’s a crazy situation
But all I need are lever files and ring binders...

You could wait for a lifetime
To spend your days in the sunshine
You might as well do the filing
Cos when it stapled and punched . . .

You got a filing system!

Yeah,

you got a filing system....

Yeah, you got a filing system....!

'Literacy'

“In exordium ave atque vale,” he said, so I shrink back to the street and scrawl to a booth. On the receiver a post-it reads ‘PHONE ME’. Below, a number . . . I was going to call my mother, after all it was her name on the book; Etheldreth Molly - though of course we always used to call her ‘Ety’ for short. But now this note . . . I call it instead and as it rings a car smoothes by, windows open, Beatles creeping from within, “. . . You say goodbye and I say hello, hello . . .” “Hello,” a voice rings out. I say “hello,” and the line crackles with anticipation. Finally, “I’ll p-pay you,” is spoken, stuttering. I’m not disjointed, though everything is still not what it seems. “How much?” I offer, surprising myself with my audacity. “All you n-n-need,” is placed back. Maybe he knows something . . . “Meet m-me at the Inn Volute,” is continued. “Ok,” I say, and the line goes dead.

*

My name is Philip Oliver O’Gist. I’m looking for something. I first succumbed to this when, standing in scapes of Doric, I once again began to puzzle over the origin of my name. The choice of my forenames was easily demonstrated but no one could explain my last - not why I had it. Many had speculated as to its meaning but no one could say when it was first coined and by whom. It meant that I had no idea why I was called what I was called and suddenly it became obvious that that was ridiculous! My thoughts picnicked . . . What about all the other names? Of things not just people . . . Who conjured them up? Who plucked them from wherever they sprang from? Where did they all spring from? And how is it that no-one knows where they all actually sprung from? - And why doesn’t anyone have a problem with that? After all, everything that’s known is formulated with the words that describe our knowledge and yet our knowledge of the words themselves seems paramount to nothing. So there I stood, quaking on my illustrious tower - built page by page, conversation by conversation, thought by thought - sick in the knowledge that I’d overlooked to query the nature of the soil in which my foundations did now dig into so deep. The tower leant, swayed and then buckled as my knees too gave way. I collapsed, realising that actually I knew nothing, nothing about anything, anything at all . . . And it was there, deep within my unconscious that I felt the presence of the god whose house I’d uninvitedly entered. I shuddered, and without a second thought swore to her that I would relentlessly strive to find out . . . to just find out . . . something.

*

The Inn Volute eventually procures itself from the streetscape like a witty comeback finally coagulates in your head hours after it was needed. Inside the air shakes, thick with dysphemism. I find the bar, order, and as I begin to drink, sense a wisp sleuth up next to me. I hear it solicit a shot of Pid Gin and a whisper develops on my ear. “The C-C-Creoles have wind of you.” I cherry-cola my dram and turn. The wisp is a man, but he’s hardly there. Dust waves off him like a royal’s hand at a parade. “Who are you?” I ask, ignoring his gambit. “I’m Me . . . Phone Me,” he replies, staring into his drink. “What?” I rebuke, “Did you not hear my question?” In answer he whirls round, locking my eyes with his as if trying to pull something from them into his own, then arcs away and says slowly, “My n-name is Me . . . Phone Me. That is my n-name. That’s who I am”. Without thought I snigger but, remembering the book, stop abruptly and so play along. “Ok Mr. Me” – “call me Phone,” he cuts in. “But I’m sat right next to ya mate” I quip . . . Nothing. He just swirls his drink, complementing the emptiness that rolls inside him . . . So I give in. I need this. This is all I have. “Sorry . . . look, ok, Phone, what do you want from me exactly?” “Me?” he mocks, and this time it’s he who chuckles “I, d-don’t want anything from you,” he asserts. “The C-Creoles want something from you . . . As I said. I have m-money – it’s theirs – for you. All you n-need, for something. D-D-Do you have it?” - “Have what?” I submit and again he rotates, this time with eyes wild as a storm on Pacific waves that tumble within him. “Why ‘something’ of course, m-mister O’Gist . . . something.”

*

At first I thought I’d lost it, for no one else seemed at all bothered. Even after I explained it through to them I just couldn’t sink it into their heads - the great implication of it! But, people did eventually appear. Most I dismissed at first as actual crack pots. But my further investigations soon took me into solid academia, though as much as I questioned and sought out their answers, I discovered nothing of any real substance. Until finally, working at home early one morning, it struck me - a veritable Doomsday bomb of a strike. It was obvious why I was getting nowhere - for of course! I was pursuing this tincture of real reality using the very same knowledge and know-how and, without doubt, the very same words that I had dismissed as unknown, unproven and unreliable at the very beginning of this whole spin around. And yet there I was, still wallowing in their mire, sloshing about for clues! . . . I panicked. I considered learning Japanese. . . Then dismissed the thought, and then just plain panicked. The world was opening up a chasm beneath my feet. What could I do? I didn’t even trust the thoughts in my own head! So out the door I ran, and ran and ran and ran . . .

*

I answer him. “I don’t have anything, let alone something. All I have is a hunger for just an inkling as to what’s real in this world – so tell me, Mr. Phone Me, are you Creole? . . . No wait . . . you’re using a euphemism aren’t you? You’re Syntagmatic!” Phone Me doesn’t so much as flinch at my outburst. He is beginning to frighten me. I should leave but notice eyes more than glancing over at us and I realize the joint is full of Pejoratives. I could be in trouble. Then Phone Me speaks. “Mr O’Gist, seeing as you d-don’t appear to be offering me anything, I’d like to remind you that as well as the likes of P-P-Pleonasm and Taut-t-tology, Teleology is also a crime in Literacy - punishable by b-b-banishment from the city . . . And by the way,” he continues, “please d-do, if you will, make acquaintance with two good friends of m-mine.” I sense figures arrive either side of me. “This here is ‘Diss O’Nance’ and ‘Caco Phony’, they’ll be helping you while I administer the soma.” I’m held and a spike hits my arm “A combination of Morpheme and Phonaestheme Mr O’Gist. Goodbye.”

*

I live in the city of ‘Literacy’, it’s all I know, I was born here - I’ve never left. I love this place, I know it intimately. I’ve paced its every street and scrutinized its art and architecture. Its people are a mystery to me but I still love them. Their depth and breadth feels infinite yet this city has walls, has limits. It’s run by two factions: the Paradigmatic and the Syntagmatic. Everyone affords their comfort from one or the other or both. Save those who belong to the Creoles – a group who flaunt the status quo, rebelling against it. They’re rumoured to be deformed victims of a process called creolisation, hence their name. The Paradigmatic guide the ‘literati’ - the people of literacy - in matters of spirituality. Their cathedrals tower over and dominate the city’s skyline. The Syntagmatic are secular and run the affairs of state. They debate the laws of the city, litigate and dispense justice to the literati. Ministers of the Syntagmatic engage in all manner of necessity for the continuation of the city. Their vast offices and chambers cover huge tracts of the city’s centre and it was through these great avenues and boulevards that I ended up staggering, having lost all energy for running. Finally I found myself beside a stony copse. I grimaced, for I had ended up back at the temple where all this begun. An inscription I hadn’t previously noticed was carved below the main frieze. It said simply ‘Bibliotheca’. And so once more, and with no little trepidation, I slipped into the forest . . . Beyond it, the naos appeared before me. Inside a small congregation was beginning to gather beneath a stupendous statue of the goddess Athene. I squirmed in her gaze, lit by rays of the morning sun that had begun to kink through the clouds, flashing sparks of dazzling light from the ivory and semi-precious stones that covered her. Mesmerized, I was once again removed of my corporeal control and Athene’s painted face lolled in my last conscious thoughts.

*

My eyes opened to a man’s face that immediately pulled back, allowing a display of his ceremonial robes. “I am the Diegesis . . . I remember you from your youth, you fainted in the portico - caused quite a stir. And now here you are today, rendering yourself unconscious yet again.” I struggled to sit up. “You recognise me? I have no recollection of you,” I proffered . . . He began to move around the room, which was lined in shelves, deep with books. “You wouldn’t. Your parents collected you whilst you were still estranged to your cerebral sensitivity.” He stopped moving and ran his fingers along spine after spine. “They’re stored here, in full view. Best place for them. If you locked them up and guarded them from the city, it would arouse curiosity. But here, on these simple shelves, in the treasury with all the other dusty old books, no one cares . . . except you.” He pulled out a book, large and heavy, laying it down on a reading rest and opening it up so that its pages flicked up dust as they settled back down. “This is just one volume of course but . . . well, see for yourself. After all, I understand you’ve been looking a long time now for . . . something.”

**

I extracted myself from the cold floor and, shivering suddenly, address the tome. In ornate calligraphy, I looked down upon a list. On closer inspection it revealed itself as a list of names . . . all beginning with the letter ‘P’. There was mine, ‘Philip Oliver O’Gist’ - but written as an adjunct to a larger section headed in bold letters by another version of my name, much as I’d been called by different friends during my youth; ‘Phil-ol-o-gist’. I turned the page. There was a colleague of mine! ‘Philip Anthony Robert O’Pist’. We’d met in a matriculation queue and remarked at the similarity of our names. I turned more pages and more faces came to light, then streets, then buildings, then I lunged at the shelves and pulled out volume after volume, veritably tearing them open on the floor beside me, ignoring the Diegesis who looked on silently . . . It was all there . . . in this great book! All our names, all the streets, all the buildings, all of Literacy - listed! Literally all of us . . . Everyone . . . Everything . . . I gaped up at the Diegesis. His eyes punctured mine with a steely gaze as he purposefully strode over to the first volume he’d shown me, took it by its cover, and closed it with a thump causing dust to spiral in the sun beams like ghosts in the wind. He motioned me to come and look and as I did he spoke the phrase “In exordium ave atque vale.” My sight spun through the dust and lingered on the frail words written on the book’s cover. ‘The Etymologist’s Dictionary’. I had to make a phone call.

***

Blogging blues begin

Here comes the blog, a bulbous brash bog, of fecund fresh fog.