Tag Archive | silliness

Yes, no and pomo…

Last Sunday I picked up a book by Edward deBono. I was in town trying to find a farmers market that had been on the previous week and ended up browsing for books. It was called ‘Po: Beyond yes and no‘ it argues that thought can become stuck between linear patterns that are prescribed by our position in society etc, etc… leading to inevitable, stale thought. He suggests an alternative answer such questions might be ‘po’; a kind of neither nor response rather than some kind of synthetic compromise. Po (as I understand it) represents the opportunity to be creative, lateral or down right silly. It is the transparent, to what colour should I paint the house colour? The banjo quartet in the metal anthem. The grow more legs, to how can I run faster on snow. Po doesn’t have to make sense, it isn’t governed by the structures of right or wrong, success or failure; its from the 70s and I love it.

I stumbled upon Po by accident, whilst looking for something displaced by time and distracting myself for a few minutes before walking home. The product of random chance, another area of creative brilliance. Douglas Adams speculated on the ‘fundamental interconnectedness of all things’ in DGHDA far better than I could, his detective relied on this methodology and was probably my first introduction to the hard-boiled egg of noirish, PI fiction. I will write another time about the hell of unconscious plagiarism / tribute / inspiration into which I inevitably descended.

{I just saw a mother pulling her child along a train station on a three wheel scooter, a happy little suitcase, experiencing the safety of his mothers hand and the thrill of fair ground speed, surely a bit of ‘po’ in that arrangement.}

This all leaves me in a terrible, post modern mess. Discussing the post modern interview, Mats Alvesson rejects ideas of objectivity and positivistic certainties, in favour of context and relationship, trying to give the subject voice rather than worrying about any bias or partiality on part of the researcher. The interview is the product of two people meeting and talking about some stuff. It represents that meeting, between those individuals and what they said. So far so wonderful, the critics naturally question its scientific usefulness, but hey, that’s the game. Bloody science fascists, with their quests for the twin dragons of reliability and validity; I hope they find them in the forest of facts. One bit I think I understand about post modernism (a shaky claim at best) relates to an aim to sever ties between language and meaning, meaning and object. That somehow, the oppressive naming of things binds us in rigid ways of thinking that keep us in our place, nicely. That by subverting prescribed meaning and allowing for the many truths, we can escape the shackles of definition. (A recent dalliance with George Bataille’s Encyclopaedia Acephalica, by way of the ME4 writers and CitAEcephale, allowed some fun with this.) Unaware of all this nonsense, Chavelle was of this world. A non-tective, he was a PI in actions rather than job. His investigation accidental, pulling at a string and hoping to find something useful at the other end, perhaps obscuring more facts than uncovered with ‘pomo’ self indulgence.

***

A man lies dead surrounded by roses. The detective walks in and points at the butler.

‘Why him?’ Asks the bumbling representative of authority.

‘Because he’s wearing red trousers.’. Mutters the man in the dirty mac as he chews the remains of his stogie.

damned 44

Dear sir

 

This is my third attempt to pen this missive, I fear the technology is infected by some impish mischief.  I write with greatest respect for your work and magnificent efforts.  Please, before reading this letter, I ask only that you consider my words as those of kindness sent deeply to a person I hold in uppermost esteem and want only for the advancement of your glorious self.  When I first sat by my fireplace on that cold November evening, it was with a sense of awe and amazement that I perused the pages and was filled with joy at having received such a timely contribution to our cannon.  The subtlety of your prose, your elegant use of  superfluous adjectives, the way you underlined whole passages in bold for emphasis, all produced an atmosphere I cannot compare.  I was particularly fond of your repeated references to Hollywood movies that showed your engagement with culture in a way that could never be accused of plagiarism.  Yet sadly we must say no, as on this occasion we have been sent such a bounty of such literary adventures that we have decided to keep none of it.  Correct, this leaves us without a publication for December, but I fear it is the only way to make a fair selection.  We wish you the best in all your future endeavours and hope you understand why we leave our pages blank for now.

 

Yours sincerely

DHJ

 

(commissioned by his satanic majesties department for the quality assurance of torturous fandangoes. ” Transporto nos vestri consilium quod nos mos eat vestri liberi.”)

42 – The answer and a challenge

Idiot,

I have been quiet until this point less from respect than the silence of malice.  I reject this blog.  This tedious and hackneyed vanity.  What foolishness persuaded you that this scheme would do any more than annoy your friends and supply you with more excuses to avoid submitting the sorry crap you produce to any real publishers?  The past 41 entries in this diabolical treatise have shown moments of amusement, buried deep amongst lines of predictable babble and overly wordy, repetitive drivel.  Your descent into patterns of over trod garbage infuriates me beyond belief, leaving me more than a little bemused.  I realise you labour in some deluded hope of redemption and laugh at the sure knowledge in a 1000 years the pulp from Jordan’s 12 volume autobiography will be worshiped as of greater literary merit than anything you are capable of producing in your pathetic lifetime.

So, prepare for the final indignity.  I have taken the liberty of assuming full editorial control of the final phase of this project.  You shall write the last 10 rejections under conditions entirely beyond your control.  Those who read this, please inflict by twitter, facebook or comment direct the exact specification for this author’s hell.  Each week he will attempt to satisfy your whims through a requested rejection, tailored to your desire.  It is clear he lacks his own inspiration, so provide it him with a little kick.  Maybe he’ll rise to the challenge, but I suspect not and think that by the first week of January he will bother you no more.  I will complete the damnation in the 53rd week ending this charade for good.

 

yours finally

Mr D

forty

There are so many way I could say no to this submission.  I could point out the stupidity of your plot devices or perhaps ridicule your jarring dialogue, but in no way would that communicate the true depth of my displeasure.  There is no system of measurement to illustrate how bad you are and even if a I am called to account for these feelings, my words would undermine the bitterness you provoke.   They say that some stand on the shoulders of giants, I fear you have fallen down a hole.

I.N.

39 – bending the rules slightly, but hey…Dear Phil

Dear Phil

You destroyed my life. I hold you personally responsible for the spiral of crap that it has become. I’ll admit that I live in a reasonable level of comfort, with a nice home, a loving partner and steady job I quite enjoy, but still, you have caused me a level of suffering that I can only to compare medieval torture. Ten years ago, I wrote to you humbly requesting a minor contribution to fund my future ambition of a bohemian lifestyle fuelled by booze and coffee, writing some kind of novel and hanging around cafes. I didn’t expect to get anything. I didn’t even expect a reply. But thats not the point. My letter was a result of damage you had already committed. A year earlier I was working in a well known high street music outlet in Canterbury. I joined the staff team on the busy run up to Christmas, having recently fled a hellish part time position at Chatham Tescos. Filled with dreams of rock and roll and laconic discourse on bad jazz; I donned my black t-shirt, marked only by a small red badge to signify its purpose as a uniform. I felt free and entered work with a spring in my step and a smile on my lips, little did I know the horror that awaited me inside said store. For three months I was subjected to a punishing ritual of repetition, an aggravated assault on my ear drums; your catalogue of ‘hits’ played in relentless cycles of unpitying evil rattling around my skull. Those drum beats killed me. Furthermore, to complete the damage, on Christmas Eve the store manager handed me a fifty pound note and a signed copy of Richard Branson’s autobiography. He glibly announced this prize was for my part in making our store number one in the south east for selling your CD. As I kicked ‘Virgin’ along the wintery street, I was consumed by feelings of filth and violation; of disgust and self loathing at my whorish part in your happy xmas. When I sent you that letter, with its insincere demands, self deprecating humour and mock hope of a decadent existence, I hoped to exercise my demons and move on from this irrational vendetta. But, as I said earlier, I did not expect a reply. In my final days of hope and laziness, it landed on my doormat like a defecating elephant. The letter poured into my hands and ignited the shimmering pool of meths in my stomach. It explained your appreciation of my situation and that with respect that you would be unable to help me on this occasion. It informed me of your myriad of charitable activities and wished me well with my endeavours. I would like you to imagine the steel that formed in my eyes as I read these words and that remains to this day. It wasn’t the refusal, I didn’t care about the money. It was a joke you self entitled, pompous shit!  Now come on, give me some money and let me have a bit of fun.  Please?

R

thurtieceferne

A lion, in a hat, on the motorway.  Gerbils crafting elysium.  Stones of grateful scorn.  Championship mud .  The comfort of a cobbled bed.  Infinite compassion, peaceful negotiation and an endless summer.  Holiness.  Wisdom.  Altruistic behaviour.  Winning everything and losing nothing.  Seeing it all.  Understanding.  All more likely than your success.

R

thirtysixed

I was in a pleasant mood this morning; I awoke refreshed and serene.  It seemed as if the day was ready to give me a pass, but then a knock, the dog barking and a rush from my coffee and toast.  Half opening the door with the dog in one hand and a mug in the other, I see  a bedraggled postman thrusting his electronic device in my face along with your soggy package.  Signing it carelessly I grab the package, slam the door and drop the piece of toast I’d been holding in my mouth.  The dog eats it and I kick the arm chair and swear.  After this your manuscript should have  landed straight in the bin or been thrown out my flat window to the top deck of a passing bus for the pigeons to enjoy, but I was feeling generous.  Nothing could have prepared me for the gargantuan heap of excrement you had left me.  You had the nerve to disturb my Saturday for this?  It read like the passionless confessional of a bored traffic warden, justifying his existence to a world that doesn’t care, with a few light hearted anecdotes about his hobby of collecting toenails.  It was not good!  Besides, how did you get my home address?

R