Breakfast At Epiphanies.
“A surrealist must create his own logic. Then be totally inconsistent with it.” Salvador Dali, Surealissimo. Beware of falling busses. Mind Your head please, thank you very much.
When I was a child I was always impressed when certain individuals from the local WI turned up to take assembly at school. These were co-ordinated multimedia experiences with poetry, readings, and music synchronised usually with a slide show. This is what I am now attempting here. Obviously without the music, or the slide show. Having the retentive facilities of the average dead halibut I have scripted this little collection. So, you will have to excuse the carefully rehearsed, and pre prepared, adlibs. I have entitled this collection Breakfast At Epiphanies.
Purely by coincidence I discovered Mr Ivor Cutler. I happened to have the television on the background about three o’clock this morning, whilst up to no good elsewhere in the room. It explained to me much about his life, his loves, and actions. Without me really looking for such information. I make the point of calling him Mr Cutler as we have not yet been formally introduced. It came to me as something of a shock to realise he was quiet as famous as he was without me knowing of him. Maybe I had heard of him and forgotten, or perhaps he was not as famous now as the programme claimed he was. I have to admit that I was much impressed. He reminded me to continue to look with the eyes of a child (I will collect some later), and that everything does not have to make sense. In fact nothing really does make sense until someone comes along and makes sense of it. A tree in a forest does not care if when it falls it makes no noise. Only worried people care about such things.
That night I dreamt I played table tennis against daemons from darkest hell. We used rats. Skinned and dried with their tails and heads left on. Stretched to make good surface area to hit the ball. Rats rather than bats, because bats are smaller, and rats have the tail with which to make the handle. We of course used proper ping-pong balls.
To the best of my information Mr Cutler didn’t re-marry after his initial divorce but has been associated with someone for a large period of his life. Not actually living together, they had separate flats, but they visited each other on a regular basis. A fine arrangement in my point of view, that reduces many of the inherent complications involved.
In deference to Mr Cutler, and unfortunately not having his singing voice, you will have to suffer the following in my own particular version of plainchant. When I originally heard him perform this I was reduced to tears. I think it is particularly indicative of his relationship with .
Beautiful Cosmos
When I was a child I was always impressed when certain individuals from the local WI turned up to take assembly at school. These were co-ordinated multimedia experiences with poetry, readings, and music synchronised usually with a slide show. This is what I am now attempting here. Obviously without the music, or the slide show. Having the retentive facilities of the average dead halibut I have scripted this little collection. So, you will have to excuse the carefully rehearsed, and pre prepared, adlibs. I have entitled this collection Breakfast At Epiphanies.
Purely by coincidence I discovered Mr Ivor Cutler. I happened to have the television on the background about three o’clock this morning, whilst up to no good elsewhere in the room. It explained to me much about his life, his loves, and actions. Without me really looking for such information. I make the point of calling him Mr Cutler as we have not yet been formally introduced. It came to me as something of a shock to realise he was quiet as famous as he was without me knowing of him. Maybe I had heard of him and forgotten, or perhaps he was not as famous now as the programme claimed he was. I have to admit that I was much impressed. He reminded me to continue to look with the eyes of a child (I will collect some later), and that everything does not have to make sense. In fact nothing really does make sense until someone comes along and makes sense of it. A tree in a forest does not care if when it falls it makes no noise. Only worried people care about such things.
That night I dreamt I played table tennis against daemons from darkest hell. We used rats. Skinned and dried with their tails and heads left on. Stretched to make good surface area to hit the ball. Rats rather than bats, because bats are smaller, and rats have the tail with which to make the handle. We of course used proper ping-pong balls.
To the best of my information Mr Cutler didn’t re-marry after his initial divorce but has been associated with someone for a large period of his life. Not actually living together, they had separate flats, but they visited each other on a regular basis. A fine arrangement in my point of view, that reduces many of the inherent complications involved.
In deference to Mr Cutler, and unfortunately not having his singing voice, you will have to suffer the following in my own particular version of plainchant. When I originally heard him perform this I was reduced to tears. I think it is particularly indicative of his relationship with .
Beautiful Cosmos
(by Ivor Cutler)
You are the centre of your little world and I am of mine.
Now and again we meet for tea, we’re two of a kind.
This is our universe, cups of tea.
We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me.
We have a beautiful cosmos.
What do we talk of whenever we meet? Nothing at all!
You sit with a sandwich I look at a roll.
Sometimes I open my mouth, and shut it.
We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me.
We have a beautiful cosmos.
You are the centre of your little world and I am of mine.
We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me.
We have a beautiful cosmos.
I still surprise myself occasionally when digging through old poetry books. I am attempting to transcribe as much of my previous poetry into digital format in the hope of actually keeping it. Whilst doing so I found this untitled piece the other day:
My smiling is a secret thing,
Left to the private places,
The gentle times,
Passed between you and I.
Simon Kennedy 16/09/2004.
The other day I found God. He was in a shoe box under my stairs. And boy was he pissed off. Loki the god of mischief had left him there. Tricking him into a game of hide and seek. Loki unkindly had not seeked. Being a pagan myself I of course had not noticed him there. So I released him from my front door. Much like liberating a trapped bumble bee, he went forth to correct all the things the Christians had got wrong.
At the risk of giving the impression that I live a life of complete whimsy. Finally a piece that wrote itself after the programme on Mr Cutler finished.
My House.
I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
I had especially liked the way all my toys,
And books,
And things,
Had come to a rest in the same place,
At the same time,
As me.
I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
Maybe I had been too previous,
In putting up pictures,
And curtains,
As though I really lived there.
The nomad finally come to rest.
I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
I’ve had less,
Avoiding damp bed sits,
Hiding from the wrath of my ex-wife.
Frightened nights in others spare rooms,
Space stolen from close friends,
Or family.
Dark corners of lofts of pubs.
Whilst I mal-adjusted in my own particular way.
I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
Even though I thought I’d stopped moving.
Just when I thought I was getting it right.
Illness put paid to that.
And the bank will be paid.
I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
Which is a shame.
Simon Kennedy 16/04/2005.
***
Salvador Dali’s moustache is alive and well and living in Peckham.
posted by meekon5 at 08:42
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