things move around

or is he?

It’s a question well worth asking, and as such, it’s been asked by my Wall. Essentially, we can break it down into two conundra:

1. David Mamet is living, and;
2. David Mamet is a god.

Let us deal with the propositia in order of their posteriority. Is David Mamet living? Yes, say the Mahmetists - a sect which has become fecund in recent years, putting down roots in locales as far flung as Hammersmith and Ealing. Yes, Mamhamet lives. He walketh among us, even now. He strideth forth, and loth of other worth ending in ‘th.’ But they would say that. Mamamamaetithits - what would you expect? There is, however, no evidence that David Mamet is not living. Let us then assume that he liveth, yet he liveth not, as hith followerth would have it, or, in ordinary speak, he is Elvis.

Is David Mamet a god? This depends on how we define the concept of  ”David Mamet.” There are certain characteristics of a “god” which we may take as standard - omnipotence, omniscience, long beard - but the idea of “David Mamet” can have wildly differing connotations, depending on whether one was raised in one place - Yorkshire, Shropshire, or anywhere normal that ends in -shire - or London. So - what is David Mamet? I suppose the first thing Mamet is is a pseudophone for Yahweh. He does actually sound like god, let’s agree on that. And that’s leaving aside the whole ordinary-bloke hero worship of “David” - I mean, as if the midget with the sling is going to have such a mundane name. Come on. He’d be called Brahmaputra or Doctor Doom, or Ishtar, or such. Somebody give Christianity a clue! But to return to David Mamet - what is he? Is he man, is he mam, is he may, is he a goatee with screenplay ability? I fear I must leave this for the Fates to decree.

And so fare thee well, what man what met.

focus on my lip, close-up:

1. Cracked, scored, fissured; like a geriatric face, and;
2. Crusty, soft and yielding, like a creme brulee, and;
3. A ginger marinade and last night’s futile balm, and;
4. The popping, bopping, sound of 1985, and;
5. The vinegary taste of whiskey, spit and wine.

The phrase “world of pain” is, like every phrase, over-used. Lots of things that aren’t worlds of pain by any stretch are described as such. The psychological trauma of warfare? A subcontinent of pain, perhaps. A tedious job, a toothache? Mere islets of pain. My lower lip, however, is a world of pain. Chapped by wind and rain and sun. Soaked in cheap, tannic burgundy. Torn by a stray toothbrush. Incinerated in fine Szechuan cuisine. Bitten down upon. It’s a World of Pain.

Headline in the Vancouver Sun today.

“Hello children, let me introduce myself. I’m Miss X and I’ll be teaching you covert ops this semester.”

Password, racehorse name, headline.

my bowels are the bowels of the earth

I cup it in my hand like a puppy. Its tanned, supple skin is faintly shiny, soft.

I put it back in the brown paper bag and push the bag to the further edge of my desk. A scent of it escapes and coils through the air towards my nose.

Secret longing, sweet, secret lust.

I think his name is Inspector Goat

It’s not uncommon for bands to be named after books - The Fall, The Doors, Google Hacking for Penetration Testers*, Paradise Lost, Steppenwolf, &c &c. Interestingly, in all of these cases, the book is boring and pretentious, and the band laughable. But now I find out that Steppenwolf is also “a highly respected US theatre company” whose “production of ‘Pacific Overtures’ was seen at the Donmar a couple of years ago.” Two Steppenwolves are baffling, but three are disturbing. Not having any influence in these matters, I feel free to speculate without harm as to which Steppenwolf I would see erased from existence. So, which Steppenwolf is the worst?

Born to be wild.

Boards to be trod.

Boring, to be read.

I can’t speak for the thespians, but the more I think about it I’m convinced that all the world’s Steppenwolves ought to be consigned to the steppes and left at the slavering, sharp-fanged mercy of the wolves. There are probably more out there that we don’t even know about. There’s probably a Steppenwolf mime artiste eking out a living in Hawaii, and a small-town German mayor called Steppen Wolf, whose mind-bending moustache was the inspiration for book, band and troupe alike.

*a made-up band.

A man gets on the bus ahead of me. He pays for two zones with a handful of silver and bronze coins, and seats himself in the lower latitudes. His eyelids are heavy like burlap, his hands elderly, sclerotic, heavily scored. From his inside pocket he removes what could be a city plan, and, as the bus jolts forth, refolds it, and reads. I can’t tell whether it’s our city. He mumbles inaudibly and bends the laminated paper so that it doesn’t reflect the light from the street, or the image of his own face. I surmise that the man is Mapman, man of maps, map of man. Last time I ran into him was in the Crimea.