Tuesday, 2 February 2010

p or p?

I’ve just realised
You know that Russian woman who’s always on Skype every time you’re in an internet cafe anywhere?
Talking extra loud and making all thought rather too hard?
Well you don’t, cos you ain’t here
But you can imagine there is one
Well you know what i realised?
Its the same one
Always the same one
There’s only been one big-voiced Russian woman all along
And she’s there everywhere i go
Because someone is paying her to be my internet harpie
To be always barrelling away in my ear

Filling the four walled spaces with her loud voice
Mucking up my peace-seeking head

i remember fifteen years ago
Gerry Adams was surprised his car was bugged
Displaying, as someone said,
An almost clinically remarkable lack of paranoia
Seeing how he was number two in a very serious terrorist organisation
So he might have suspected, don’t you think? his car might just be, errr, a bit bugged?
Just a bit?

So me, yeah?
once again in my life
I have not been paranoid enough
When will i learn... More paranoia Jem, more paranoia!
More! More!!

...But yeah

That human megaphone of a Russian woman in Goa, in Mysore, in Ooty, in Fort Cochi, in Trichy, Tanjore, Kumbakonam and Chidambaram, in Pondy and now here in Hampi...

Its the same woman


some dark force,

is paying her to be a bellowing familiar on my cybershoulders

A volume eleven monkey on my back

A cacophonating harpie at At AT my lugholes...Is paying her......


There`s that line of Woody Allen`s
Just cos you`re paranoid doesn`t mean they`re not out to get you
Well my reply is
I`m not paranoid, i`m not, ok?... lots of people are trying to make me paranoid, but i`m not OK?
Well its not a reply, its my attempt at a gag half as good as Woody`s

Oh look
There she is again
Maybe she doesn`t know how it works
Maybe she thinks you have to shout
Cos Russia’s a long way off
And as for paranoia well, personally, being a classic liberal type
With anarchist pretensions
... just cos you’re hopelessly disorganised doesn’t make you an anarchist?
[are you sure it doesn’t?
I’d’ve thought it automatically qualified me]
Excuse me, where was i?... personally, being a classic liberal type i, of course, vacillate eternally between paranoia and pronoia
You know what pronoia is?
Its the misguided belief everyone likes you
And me i veer steer and blunder from P to P
They like me, they like me not
They like me, they like me not
And when life gets hectic, like during the fringes, i vacillate five times a day
Vacillation? C’est moi
Ad infinitonauseam
So, yes, frequently i ask myself
Am i an anarchist?
Well i’ve never had a job
Except poetry,
Which i thought would be a safe bet for not providing me with a job,
But turned into a job
It was never the plan
And i instinctively mistrust all forms of power
And i have a very disorganised head
Quick but slapdash
Which makes me great at boggle
But no good at punctuation
Or holding a train of thought
And I used to have an idea, maybe more of an ideal, of
a permanent revolution of the head
And i had a good go at that ideal
For decades
But i’m not sure its possible
A permanent permanent revolution of the head
Cos you’re always dismantling your own processes of thinking
Endlessly introspecting
Always starting again from not much more than scratch
Which rather inhibits both thought and action
At least it did with me
And i never confused anarchism with tribalism, which is what lots of anarchists become
A gang, a tribe of anarchists
And some anarchists seem to be career anarchists
I think i’ll shut up,
no-one takes me seriously when i say i’m an anarchist
Did i ever tell you about the time i hired a stall at the Anarchists Bookfair at Conway Hall in London
and sold pieces of writing at 20p for 3
And by the ounce
... In retrospect this was very funny
Kind of conceptual art
Especially seeing how it had, for me, a very intellectual basis
Except all the anarchists, being not terribly anarchistic, thought i was a nutcase
Well it was a strange thing to do
But you’d think anarchists would be more receptive than most to an unusual idea...
Well they weren’t
It was rather a disillusion
Only the very stoned hippie types got the joke
It was a great day though, selling them at 20p for 3, despite all the funny looks, and i did make money... but it involved an awful lot of talking
An awful lot of talking
And you know what, every now and again i actually finish the same sentence i started, yes the same sentence, remarkable I know, and when it does happen I think I should be lead home in garland upon garland on top of an African elephant with an entire fully-fledged Bollywood song’n’dance troupe, plus sedate strolling orchestra, flinging themselves gracefully before me about scattering curlicues of rose lily and tulip petals … cos yes I do, it has genuinely been known that the sentence I finish is the same one I started, remarkable yes, but I do have to say that far rarer do I finish the same conversation I started...[i finish plenty of conversations that other people have started]... in fact I generally go the entire summer without finishing a single conversation i started, like not one, never, at all, simply not, how do other people? I don’t know, not me, like how do they… rhododendrons? … Why?... well I like the soft earth beneath them… I’m cool with rhododendrons… and cotoniasters, I like cotoniasters, great, and most of my sentences have become a different sentence by the time I get to what should be but almost certainly isn’t the middle, in fact its probably not even the end of Churchill’s beginning, whatever, by the time I’m there I’m already somewhere else cos that idea was ok but then I had a better one because that maybe wasn’t such a good idea... rhododendrons? Who cares? Why care?… but maybe this one is, or that one, cos you know the sentence has no end, the definition is death the encapsulation is crap the term is terminal the noun is no-un and life is one long death sentence, in fact that’s just about the only thing you for certain about life, its a fatal disease and many die screaming, whatever, but in the meantime I enjoy going around the houses, lighting out for the territory, going for a good gallivanting canter around the estate, love it… it … o yes, a good gallop around and about and up and down... and up down and around … love it, a nice charabanc along the head, nice to meet you, what awful people … its usually better to travel than it is to arrive, don’t you find?... like now…
What next, well I was on my way from life to death but right now I’m at, one piece jigsaw, dry mouth sour thirst, soap on a rope, votive offerings of dyed cabbage, canned me, how come Stalin trusted Hitler?... it makes no sense, its bonkers, sign on the door of today says don’t bother... where is the out door?... who are you in rigged quiz show?...
And next, well,
So, I looked at her, And she looked at me, And said,
“Well I had this train of thought, But it clean went out my head,
It was something to do with, Something I read,
An untrodden path , Where the treading now led,
I remember now, It was something you said…
“How did it go?” …
”I know”, I said, “Well I was on my way from A to B, But right now I’m at Zed”…
So I looked at her, And she looked at me, And said,
“Well I had this train of thought , But it clean went out my head,
It was something to do with, Something I read,
An untrodden path, Where the treading now led,
I remember now, It was something you said,
How did it go?...”I know”, I said
“Well I was on my way from A to B, But right now I’m at Zed …
So I looked at her, and she looked at me, and said…
Ad nauseoinfinitum
O look, that Russian woman on skype, she’s learnt German and had her hair dyed.

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