Everybody has to answer to somebody…Ms. China Bell, the telephone enthusiast, has several lines open 24/7, and several clocks on her wall displaying all possible timezones of this universe and others. She will gladly receive your attention, after the beep.
My point is this, if I have one – every once in a Moon, The Hare must meet with the Powers that Be, and they may indeed be bees. One can pretty much pick and choose who to report to, or choose to suprise oneself by letting The Great Hallucinomus decide. The Great Hallucinomus is a machine whose actual name is George B. Gatsby, and it is a machine, designed to co-ordinate and dis-co-ordinate all the worlds suprises. George is the reason some days pass slower than others, or your Birthday, which should be next year, is acctually next weekend.
Anyway, this is beside the point in my posession. Whomever one chooses, it all comes back to the same Source. The Source is a small, clammy hole in which all things are crammed and out of which the Gooey Essence of Humanity trickles. Its just easier to respond to a face or a voice sometimes.
The Hare’s Profound Meeting, which becomes less and less profound every time, is coming up soon, and he is preparing his speech. What is he to say? He’s never done good things, he’s never done bad things… Recently he has just enjoyed a glass of port and descussed the Classics with René, Oxford University’s Byronic-Junkie-in-Residence. And he has often enjoyed tasteful Middle-Class pornography in conjuncion with the simple joys of a Liquorice Pipe.
Perhaps he might distract them with a Vision, copy-and-pasted from youtube, until he comes up with something truly show-worthy.
There was a Young Person whose history,
was always considered a mystery,
she sat in a ditch,
although no one knew which,
and composed a small treatise on history.
I know you remarked once that you’d like your veigns replaced by strawberry candy laces. But I am human; at least half-human…I’ld like to be. Its ok for you, you are your own anarchist state. I have to live here and make sense of the locals. This is a letter I wrote last night, that seemed deadly serious then, but now has precious little relevance. Several Peters are chiming in with the same sentiments, I think. It is your choice to listen, but you grow tired very quickly. SO, I’m watching television most of the time and I find it obnoxious and dull. One might wonder, channel-hopping quite darkly, what the purpose of these reports is. With all this trauma and war relayed, as if it were a campfire story, and perhaps last night I reacted inappropriately.
Please find enclosed one (1) Dream(s):
I was in a gallery, and all the works where attributed to other people, though when I woke up I realised I had devised them and I felt quite pleased with myself. There was a huge classically painted oil painting thing…you know those old ones of banquets or primative surgeons or important people debating? The ones that are so dark that you just wanna put an electric lightbulb in there?
Three fat but smiling nude ladies, I only paid attention to the left one really. Such a beautiful painting. And they where all frozen-looking, happy but theatrically so, tiny little smiles, so with a modesty to boot, you know? little mouths in a moth-brown room with hints of green. I’m not an art critic.
And below it a thinner woman – not on the canvas but actually lying on the gallery floor, lifeless, presumed to be be a dead, art object. Made out of wheat or straw, tightly bound. Then unexpectidly she would walk around creeping up on the gallery visitiers, crawling walking and alien kinda.
The wheat/basket/straw woman and the dark pre-electricity painting were one single work, both attributed to one Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Fair enough, I suppose, noone knows what Magic Realism is anyway.
A newspaper report from Marquez said that the painting was called many things – feminist or whatever – but the French had decided to enterpret it cinematically, as a chorus of nuns singing about Noah’s Ark.
Out of respect for Marquez, and to aid many a confused student, this is surrealisme, not the same as the ol’ MR. That is I think it is, but definitions are problematic here. I dunno, it’s just a dream of little consequence I suppose, but dear Hare, things take on extra significance come nightfall. Perhaps you can negotiate with some of your contacts, inter-dimensionally, and wrangle some sense out of this, as you always seem to. I am grateful to have you, to flop on your shoulder whenever things get silly. Lets not get academic about it.
Hello. When I woke up on the first day I all i knew was my name is Peter and I like Coffee. I took a leaflet from a protester soon to be escorted off the premises by airport po-lice. The world is getting worse and I wasn’t helping it. I’m used to having serveral crimes under my belt, thanks to the Hare. Hugging a piller in an an airport louynge i began to feel better about myself. Airports are oddly purifing – they have no right to be of course, all that dirty air. But planes are so beautiful.
I’m reading phillip pullman’s Northern Lights. I’m not using capitals where I should. Ireland is nice, the Book of Kells is psychedellic, the Hare is still fond of his handywork, and walked around Trinity College with a Wildean Smugness. In the long room, which is a huge library with ancient books piled high to the ceiling, The Hare proudly updated me on which texts he wrote and/supervised. The main library is closed today, I shall return tomorrow to study.
I trust you know youyr way around Wikipedia, you may have to find some bones to flesh this out.
The Bee and Bee, with whom were were to stay, had exactly the same names as another pair of Bees, offering beds for lodging several miles yonder- that-a-way.
A kindly stranger pittied us and drove us there, and there were many cars, horses and jams and the road so it was very late and silly when we turned up at the Bee’s door.
Nothing mucjh has happened yet, and might not…that might be the only peep you hear from me here. I hope it shall sate you, like a thimble of honey.
“Huzzah” to you all, to-be-sure-to-be-sure, Leprechauns and their henchmen, to you all.
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The child is eating oranges.
(From my balcony I see him.)
The harvester scythes the wheat.
(From my balcony I hear him.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
A vaguely transcribed telephone conversation, taking place as we all speak and/or listen or neither or both, translated back and forth across several languages and dimensions
PETER: Hello? Hare? Where art thou, my Brother?
HARE: Hey, I’m kicking back with Maggie, we’re in a field watching a pastel-coloured sunrise of our own design, there’s an autumnal leaf in mid-air that doesn’t intend to fall, a spider is embroidering patterns on it.
PETER: Oh right…could you get back here? because you are kinda my imaginary friend
HARE: You bore me sometimes!
PETER: You bore me sometimes! Sometimes you’re just a pretty cool name for a blog
HARE: Your one-horse town, your one horse mind. You never update! what am i supposed to do?
PETER: I dunno, anticipation is underrated. I have a selection of magazines in the waiting room. You can catch a disease while your at it.
HARE: You think me a fool, just like the world is a fool. Say an honest thing.
PETER: I am not myself today.
PETER: You see it is all honest.
HARE: Hmph…In any case I don’t think the deconstruction should start yet.
PETER: Before we build anything, you mean?
HARE: Ach, conniving sod, you have me over a barrel, tipping a cow!
PETER: You’ll come back, then?
HARE: Lordy, no. Not on your whiskers. Why don’t you come here?
PETER: Oh Hare, you are always the dominant one. You have a deal, of sorts.
HARE: I have to go, boy. Maggie is gouging out a large melon with Rita, it’s hot now we have the sun in our room, there’s cherry bakewells, baskets atop our heads, and we’re going to set the controls for the Heart of Something!
PETER: That *does* sound fun. I’ll be there in 5.
IN WHICH A PIGEON ALSO SEES VISIONS; CRASHES HARE’S “SCENE”.
“Pigeon can teach us how to find our way back to the security of home. It can help you remember and find the love of home that was lost. If a Pigeon totem comes to you, ask yourself if you have forgotten your foundation, your heritage. Return to your home, your foundation, and draw upon the loving energies surrounding them. In times of strife, huddle together with your family and draw upon its strength. Pigeon reminds us of the possibility of a loving and safe home.”
As I explained to a dear friend, much to his amusement – tipping my cap to the statue of the smiling prince who looks over the city – the pidgeon is the people’s bird. Comfortable in its humbleness, it does not want for much, but perhaps a slice of bread to be tossed in his direction…with love and grace, if you can muster it. I met a pigeon once. At my father’s request, I removed my feet from off the table and when in search of my fortune in the capital. The pigeon was perched on top of a discarded apple; pecking and pecking at it while all the while rolling around, trying to find the brakes. I watched for a moment as the pigeon skillfully circumventilated pedestrians and bicycles, before colliding with a rubbish bin.
I went to ask if he was hurt. “Just a few scratches!” he said
“Oh that’s okay then” I replied with relief!
“HA!” he exclaimed, arrogantly “Of course it’s not. How exactly do you scratch a feather! Can you believe this guy?!? Listen, fleshboy, gimme some bread and get out your annoying nose-beak out of my face”
I was quite taken aback. There was a large group of identically-besuited lawyers with bowler hats wanting to get into the office behind me, and they weren’t going to wait around. I eventually managed to clear the grunting mass of ties, and found myselfable to talk to the pigeon once again, without the need to shout.
“I haven’t got any bread”, I explained.
“AWHAT?” he shouted, boorishly. “No bread! This is a crying shame my friend. I use the term loosely – I hate your face – but listen to me, kid, you gotta get yourself some bread…”
“I’m going in search of my fortune”, I said.
“And so you should boy…a boy like you, all pale faced and English-looking, fresh out of mothers nest, dreams yet to be broken, heart yet to go sour…I pity you, I really do, but theres nothing I can do to help…”
“Acctually I didn’t…”
“This is a journey you must make alone. It will be a magnificent danger, frought with adventure! and opportunities for sin! untold pleasure! Japanese schoolgirls! But mind how you go. For mice will nibble at your lips, bats will suck out your eyes! Bats or leeches! It hardly matters! the pain is equal in both cases!”
“OH OKAY THEN! I WILL ASSIST YOU!”
The pigeon then instructed me to close my eyes and, behind closed eyes, to close my eyes again. He explained that, believe it or not, there is a patron Saint of Television, who saw visions projected on the ceiling above her. It was Clare who taught the pigeon, by means of a quirky, achingly postmodern vision-within-a-vision thing, to viddy the old Mind-TV himself. Now, said the pigeon, I’ve attached some pictures.
I began to feel nautuos, yet strangely aroused. My heart grew slower, and my tonsils stopped. Things became brighter, more animated and talkative. Then it felt as if my brain was downloading. Although I had never experienced such a ‘direct download’ before, I knew what it was instantly. And because pigeons are generally quite harmless – even those who slip in and out of bad New-Yawk-or-something accents – I had no reason to be afraid.
Downloading Copy of DSC02847.JPEG – 100% complete
Downloading Copy of DSC02855.JPEG – 100% complete
“Oh my.” I said, unconvincingly. “That was a very pretty vision, indeed. But what does it mean?”
“What am I some kinda mystic potsy? getouttahere! whatsamatterwityou?getmea CAWFEE!”
“Toodelo. Mind how you go.”
“You really are a strange bird”
“Yea, anddon’tyoozefogetit asshole!…goodfurnothing punk! getouttahere!”