Delirifacient, p.26
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       Delirifacient, p.26

           Trist Black
 
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and on and off he walked his sigh hungry for the other’s face, his shaggy mouth acunt, and on he stumbled into the lamppost, tripping, blinded, rising, drifting, gazing cuntward, but his surcunted orientation failed him, and his whole body tried to shake itself off, shake him off and gyrating cuntwise, and after he had mastered his cunticular movements he decided he would no longer obey the dicta of cuntum physics no he would not decunt himself further before all those serenely dogmatic non-cuntists and he would burn their gardens and from their ashes would rise a pure clean precuntic globe a globe of generous bulk goldsculpted into eternity each mourning and no of course he would do no such thing it wasn’t worth a cuntlick to him regardless regardless i say of paracuntular historicist implications and he refused to encunt the crumbs of his mind with the paintsplashes from the postcuntal blasts and the onslaying births of cuntlets myriad and varied left him cold histrionic he was crashing outside the street painting and dripping and the raining himself outside his lines as if mocked by a malevolent demiurge with a remote cuntroll and his antennæ picked it up insect being squashed by pure will head contra lamppost there was no burn from the weak light and all this was molten autumnal metaphor and it was the time of languid cuntfall.

  and the browncoat regained his drowsy self after some moments of this and cheerfully recalled that across his remaining years he didn’t have much living to do after all no not living surviving enduring lasting in time – durating and so it went and so it slipped out of his control and control was like the spectral dust on a moth’s wings no use to anyone except the sadist. and the browncoat walked back across the evening and dreamed he was back in paris and on this occasion definitively in paris to stay and the thought of this made him so happy he mocked himself roundly even from within the dream.

  and the streets of peterburg were empty as per their solemn custom and the brownback paraded the mangled tesseræ of his phantasms and projected them against the placid walls of the houses aligned on either side of brownback’s stroll and it was after hours of course the brownback never came out when there was work around him for he could always be blinded by splinters from its buzz saw but this night as he crawled onto a little house’s welcome mat for a nap and just as he was fishing out what precious comforts the mat could afford to part with he was accosted by a policeman a tall grasshopper of a policeman and the policeman said that what the browncoat was doing was unnatural.

  and the browncoat sniffed and attempted a cackle but renounced it midway and said natural natural was what no one wanted everyone hated it natural is the little wife thinking on her groceries and the child’s kindergarten timetable while the smallish husband rains down transpiration and halitosis an exquisite few centimetres above. and the policeman challenged the relevance and potency of the browncoat’s equivocation and was desirous of knowing what the browncoat was looking for on an empty street alone in the boredom of the night. and the browncoat avowed to the policeman that he the browncoat was merely walking and recuperating and the policeman expressed doubts as to the sufficiency of such explanations and the browncoat averred that the policeman was the most paranoid policeman the browncoat had as of yet been harassed by and the policeman said that he the policeman might be paranoid but was he paranoid enough.

  and the browncoat saw no immediate possibility of pacifying the policeman and merely yawned and the policeman raced on about suspicion and potentiality of erring and tenuous liminal illegality in that the browncoat had not factually perpetrated any coloring outside the proper contours but the rankling stench of exception persisted in the proper corridors and in this there was no doubting and who was the browncoat anyway and could he please furnish some identification and justification of purpose. and the brownback yoyo’d a jovial hullo up to the policeman’s nose and said that he was he and that he the browncoat was working diligently towards a Third in Mediocrity from cambridge and himself the policeman what of him and at this the policeman grew taut and revealed that he the policeman was don at oxford and horse sneeze elsewhere and all souls professor of symmetry and etiquette and the browncoat said that etiquette was a poor man’s understanding of labelling.

  and the browncoat sang a song that called on the policeman and the city to swallow sperm, swallow system, swallow system of sperm. and the policeman warned him to temper his tongue fledgling lest he the fledgling so-called browncoat wish to learn a slew of new and interesting facts pertaining to his the browncoat’s grandmother and at this the browncoat could not abstain and told the policeman that talking to him - or rather, being talked at by him the policeman – was akin to taking a freeform dive into a pool of sandpaper, a cheap schoolplayproductionsimulatingtheseasbyagitatinglongblueslidesofcardboardortextile sandpaper. and this the tall thundergod could forgive no longer and he confiscated the brownback and the brownback’s person and dragged him to the nearest police station and no dogs barked in the night’s distance and this was a powerful strange omen indeed but no categorical loss for brownback absolutely loathed dogs most days of the year.

  and in the police station the brownback was taken to a bored man who owned a desk and who probably wasn’t even a detective and made to sit down and the detective manqué asked browncoat what his browncoat’s problem was and the browncoat said the main issue he had been tangling with was how to exterminate all rational thought and that he the browncoat thought he’d start by stealing an opium suppository out of his the bored man’s grandmother’s ass and the bored man insisted on specifying that that in itself would constitute an eminently rational action and not irrational at all for an agent addicted to the artificial overload of subjectivation facilitated by opium and the browncoat had no answer to this and that was that and now what he the bored man suggested the browncoat do if he the browncoat was serious about this exterminating all rational thought and so it went was was the browncoat listening he should this was helpful was the browncoat should steal an opium suppository out of his own grandmother’s ass and then not use it throw it away give it to charity but that of course wasn’t an ideal solution either and he the bored man was afraid irrationalism wasn’t much of a career option for a young man such as the browncoat. and the bored man asked the browncoat what he did for a living how he supported himself and the browncoat said masturbation and the bored man shook his head and warned that using only pornography is surviving one’s entire life on cheeseburgers alone.

  and two generously built policemen busculated a young man past the bored man’s desk and the young man’s long handcuffs scratched the wood of the desk lightly and the browncoat asked the bored man what the person shoved had perpetrated and the bored man assumed a serious expression and said that that was a young man who had declined to be buggar’d and from one such an hundred easily sprung and such insolence would lead ultimately to a debilitating demographic crisis and the great might of the russian cadaver would dust itself into the great away and what use would this powerfully vascularised bureaucratic instrument they had been perfecting for centuries be if there were nothing to administer and no one to bore into submission.

  and the bored man finally asked the brownback what he had done wrong and the brownback told him he had done no wrong and he had seen no evil but the bored man shook his head and assured the browncoat that it couldn’t be so for otherwise he the browncoat would not be there in the police station and so why hold out and not confess that something that he the browncoat had done wrong and should that something just chance to be a something that the bureaucratic equation had no employ for in their sums and multipliers then the browncoat would be allowed to move on and persist in his maladroit futility and why not it was a fair chance he the browncoat was given no matter what anyone said and that the browncoat in his corde of cordum knew he had committed a wrong and the browncoat told him that his own heart could never be used as a witness contra and that it would abjure its guilty beating for clean chiselled silence should they even try to make it speak or sign their bulleting of him the lord browncoat.

  and the bored man
refused to believe the browncoat was clean of wrongdoing and finally the browncoat said that indeed he was not clean holistically for he had gone to a public aquarium and had seen and learned much and towards the end of his journey he came across an open tank populated by some delectably dull fish and one of the many species in the tank was elongated, bulbous-headed, had its eyes as far apart from one another as was anatomically feasible and seemed particularly fond of emerging to the surface and jabbing its head out of the nominally protective film of water and staring at visitors out of one eye of course, the one on the other side of the fishhead couldn't possibly have been used to cast gazes at anything within the first eye's reach and while waiting for the area to be cleared of other people who were few but a steady crawl none the less the browncoat accumulated a respectable amalgamate of spit just behind his front teeth and as soon as he was left alone near the tank the browncoat took aim at the closest fish and unleashed the foamy contents of his impatient buccal apparatus but unfortunately the projectile spit was far too abundant and all it did was cataract straight downwards no forward drive whatever, a long vertical trail of dribble following the initial cannonball in a straightfall manœuvre and the spit was slow and still stuck to his mouth and he had to spit twice more and wipe his lips and chin to persuade it to fall into the tank and having missed the fish by at least twenty centimetres, he hastily wiped his mouth clean of failure and moved on and shamed himself home and there he found a fly stuck on the wrong side of his window and uselessly trying to get out and heard and saw the fly when he came back to his room and he quickly trapped it inside a napkin, nimbled on to the communal kitchen, found a random mostly full milk bottle in the frigidaire and deposited the still struggling fly inside and the critter made a respectable dash to escape but the browncoat’s bottle cap handling skills fatally established their superiority with great alacrity and efficacy and the fly was trapped inside the bottle of milk and the browncoat left the kitchen and the day had been seized after all.

  the bored man contemplated this but ultimately relinquished his right to expectorate a claim of arthropod abuse and pollution of public non-potable water and its barely vertebrated inhabitants and knew or suspected that the brownback knew the mysteries of the bored man’s work and the bored man told him not to live by his the bored one’s magic for there was truly nothing to be gained by draining a bored man of his automatisms. and the browncoat told him that the bored man could kill all the giants in the browncoat’s head if he wanted but he the browncoat would still die in new york.

  and the bored man felt at that time the many blessings of impotence in active homosexuals and decided he could not simply release the browncoat for there had been enough trampling on his the bored man’s dignity by strings of men united under horse costumes and he decided to employ the abysses of recessed psychology to worm a confession out of his interlocutor or perhaps he didn’t perhaps he simply was curious and had nothing better to do and the bored man asked the brownback what his the brownback’s absolutest most recurring phantasm was, the most obsessive mytheme of his ever so irascible consciousness, and the browncoat said that he would write it down for him and that it was a story of his dying away without any natural cause and being reborn with his former, adult cerebral self, complete with knowledge and americana speech patterns and emotional self-withering, intact and safely lodged within the newborn monster and that he the babe of browncoat instantaneously after maculation should think and talk and will and speak french and idealist german and read dostoevskii and write horrorpictureshow shortstories and grotesque novels of surrealist blood and get into harvard at the age of three months and bully and alienate his parents and make them hate him and slip brandy in his milk and as soon as his hands could slap he would draw an intellectual beard on his flawless fat face with a permanent marker or perhaps scratch it on using the sharper thin end of his rattler for his parents would have bought the new browncoat a rattler before he would even bore on this new earth and then of course he should age and age and his writing would gradually come to be described as adolescent and self-indulging and unpolished and far too generous to himself but indifferent of others and his intellectual prowess should not grow and he should loathe the mere phrasal proximity of the words 'child' and 'star' or ‘prodigy’ and should become an alcoholic and/or a junkie by age three or four and cultivate wrinkles [through some artificial method yet to be determined, preferably and ironically to be given moderate scientific plausibility] and his biological family should avoid him around the house and he has not determined whether he should be reborn into his old family his present family immediately after the death of his twenty eight year old self, into a new family, or into the old one as himself, in 1840, with his 1868 intellect and the ending of course – if any – he had left to be written later, save a chapter for blacker days what’s right was only right.

  and the bored man renounced his dialogue with the brownback and told brownback he was tolerated to take leave and the brownback stood up and for the first time looked around the police station and was not reminded of the hundreds of homes no not homes residences and trashroutes he had lost and of course he had nowhere to shelter the night and that welcome mat will probably have been claimed by a vagrant dog yes probably and dogs of all iterations and persuasions repugned the brownback absolutely so he told the bored man he had acquired a new mind now and it said that he the browncoat indeed was guilty and the bored man did not quite outskin his boredom but nevertheless exclaimed in unhealthily vital tones that he knew it and that something of the wrong had truly been done otherwise why should the system have made him meet the browncoat who was not the most collaborative of conversationalists and his confidence in the well-greased conduits had once again been repaid not that it mattered much and would the brownback be so kind as to follow him the bored but suddenly mobile man to the holding cells the nominal jail in the back of the police station.

  but the browncoat bade the bored man stay and not perturb himself for he the browncoat was certain he could locate the gaoler’s westlands on his own and the bored man had no objection to this and he sat back onto the left side of his desk and doodled on the margins of some arguably important reports and filled in the cavities of the fat capitalised letters of the titles and the subheadings and when his doodling pen had spilt itself exhausted the bored man used it to prick his finger the very belly button of his finger and he kept on doodling and the next day his supervisor lauded his creative mindset and ability to channel his unconscious via mediation.

  and the browncoat lost his way and made time by poking under various employees’ desks with his searching feet but it was rather a linear construct the local police station so he could not fail to end up at the entrance to the jail and there were two guards there and they found him suspicious and detained him but he told them to make way for he knew them and he knew their names and his purpose was his own but his knowledge he gave them gratis and in the adoration and the shrug of the shrewd and the powerless before the myth of the thundergods. and one of the two police guards told the browncoat that when he the guard grows up he would have liked to be a mummy and at this the browncoat retreated to the nearest desk and extracted from it the nearest bored person working the nearest desk and brought the bored person by his hand to the jail entrance and the guards nodded and the browncoat sliced off the bored person’s inner thigh and his calf and threw them as well as the babbling leftover to the guards’ imbalanced and immobile obese dog and the dog caught the calf and the inner thigh in his elongated jaws but produced no audible signal of either satisfaction or lack of satiation and the taller guard placed himself just behind the shorter guard and the guards both spread their legs and the browncoat crawled under the two guards and entered the holding cells.

  and once there implanted the brownback had the pick of the cells for they were on the whole empty and sparsely populated and the few men that did fog the air between the thin bars had congregated in the three leftmost cells and two of the cells h
ad three inhabitants apiece and the last held at least twenty men although there were only four beds and these latter were but thin blades of compressed hardness encrusted by a volatile sheet of lies. And the browncoat chose of course to enter the cell holding the twenty men and the twenty men declined to notice or react to the browncoat’s arrival and merely continued the turbulent fluxes of the inner economy of their undifferentiated mass speech.

  and the brownback turned around and walked his steps backward and raised the torn sleeve of his gray shirt to his eyes so his face was hidden and stopped in the center of the cell and he had left the door open but again none of the men noticed or spoke to him or interfered with his steps. and most of the men were given a long time ago and they had all been given to the only man among them who was standing and not seated on the beds or the jail floor, and the standing man was speaking at length and the browncoat leaned against the bars of the cell and the standing man was not even looking anywhere or at anyone his eyes were milked and he chewed on his words and harassed and flattened his words for a long time before loosening the cage of his mouth and as his words sped across the cell they were imbibed in blood riches and intoxication and guilty mouthfeel and all could feel it even the brownback whose organs responsible long unused were not quite attuned to such insolent hints of phlogistic deliquescence.

  and the standing man was actively deploring the coiled humble state of his nation and the present was merely an endless attempt to evade the trophied glories of the past and this his Russia had been majestic and mythical once and even the variegated oddities and fairy tale deformities of their elders stood for will and character, for something humanly achieved, in comparison with the obsessive, pathic health of modern Russians, infantilism raised to the norm and holified, the cuntry baptised in translucent streams of pure weakness, and the entire system was whipped into undead locomotion by sleepless bureaucrats with false benevolence and empty liberty tattooed onto their tongues, and the bureaucrat, however, was tolerant, that ravenous predator, his acceptance of the administered people as they are only stemmed from his hatred of what they might be, a powerful nation swift in its purity and merciless in its life appetite, their impolite hunger, and the raging potencies of ancient Russia, the fatal equanimity of the nomadic Slavs bred with the screaming blood and clean iron of their warlike children, a power that had been slipped into catatonic obsolescence by the comfortable lies of the chinovnik state and the peaceful requirements of modern life and coexistence such an absurd notion was inimical to the Russian heart for theirs was the vehicle, the hardened sacred vehicle, the chariot of affirmation, the machine of absolution, and which driver is not tempted, merely by all the power of his engine, to wipe out the vermin of the street, pedestrians, children and cyclist pederasts, the rationalistic impurities of the new continent, now so old, its vision blinded by all the godless illuminations of centuries past, and this was spreading, other peoples were falling, such diseases recognized no borders, even in the forests of Russia for many men it is already an impertinence to say ‘I’, no sacred ‘I’ granted in safeguard by god and ancestral right, for cherish and worship, only microbial manifestations and hypostases of goddess reason, the individual a guise of the total, united under the social blanket to further progress and spread their sterile light, and this was to move forward and bring prosperity and advances and mendacious liberty and social health but in this all the movements of health resembled the reflex movements of beings whose hearts have stopped beating and Russia could not exist without its hearts one could not take away the mujik’s heart and offer him a clean new brain in return, such was not the path, no not the desire of the land and its god, and to-day’s youth refused to think in the old tongue and would not look at any issue but in the whole and assault the problems fearlessly, frontally, and do away with the whole of the problem, but the whole was the false, and the thinkers and the travellers sought to draw Russia under the emblem of the whole, to render all its magics and stories thinkable and fully knowable and free in form, desiccate them into single-faceted trifles, and charting flourished systems of connection and similarity and everything was to become thinkable under the same terms and tools, but to perceive resemblances everywhere, making everything alike, is a sign of weak eyesight, the blindness that was eternal sister to illumination, but this was suicide and the impotent rust of such fallow minds would be razored off by the sharp laugh of any holy fool, but this was the weak-minded protest of minds that could not contend with the plurality of greatness, the unthinkableness of transcendent power, and Russia was allowing its power to hibernate in distant caves while the greatest and most vulnerable siècle unfolded and thought itself to death mere minutes away, all the mother cuntry need do was rouse itself from the torpor of logicked knowledge and take it, take the century, teach corrupted impuissant reason and its withered little men the purity of will the sacred rightness of timeous plenteous victory but alas Russia did not have ears for him and the standing man stood alone while others sat down to western plays in westernised theatres or in western homes to read western newspapers and ruminate western thoughts, and that which to him was most wonderful, eyes on his eyes, Russian eyes on his Russian eyes, Russian ears on his Russian words, these were not to be found, the hypnotised masses were beaten into wasting soporation by the fata morgana of comfort and complacency, the people had been tricked by the wails of liberty into stopping atop one single point in history and resting there and as its rest extended for the head lacked the will to bid the body stand once more the sands of history grew to like the resting people’s form and kissed it and came to rest on the people and the sands swallowed more and more of the people and if the will did not expurgate the cowardly instinct for rest from the story of the people, Russia itself would soon become merely another sand hill in history’s desert futile and forgotten but the will to move would not let itself be roused by the screams of the standing man and he had been fighting his cuntry’s morbid stasis for years and would drown out this corruption like a rat in Russian blood if need be but so far the standing man was merely rediscovering in revolution all the platitudes of conformism and few would listen and when the standing man spoke up where more could hear the bureaucratic response was impeccable in expedition but it was all a diverting game for them for the standing man was only taken in sufficient seriousness to be warehoused in jail from time to time and allowed to marinate in the prickly frustrations of his own unmated fervour and such was the reach of the intellectuals and the semitic elements and the office dwellers and the lesser bloods such as the merchant poles or the trickster armenians whose vegetal interests were well watered by Russia’s lapse into irrelevance and namelessness and were but a few men of worth and heart to lend him the standing man their soulwindows and let in let inside the spring of his voice the parasitic elements and the rationalists and the profiteers and the nihilists and the liberals would all be erased from the history of Russia and Her greatness in the plenitude of its dulcet irrefragability would be written in their blood on white walls, their wasted brains would paint Russia’s visceral triumph against the white walls and the borderless maps of Russia’s supernal hereafter.

  and as the standing man’s winds were failing his will and both his boom and he ended in the timors of giving up and growing old and silent and watching his cuntry fade into a mere clausal afterthought worlds and dreams away from the immediacy of the subject or the majestic cruelty of the acting predicate and the twenty men started to disperse and their disbanding appeared imminent the browncoat spoke up and asked the standing man why he the standing man was renouncing his holy prerogative of rightness and clarity of vision, his prophetic honesty, when all around him yelled wrongness in garish letters and whore’s promises and the standing man looked at the brownback and saw nobility and belief in brownback’s heart and replied that he the standing man had been trying to awaken the cuntry to his truth for years and years but their the people’s commodious stability was not to be broken by one man’s truth even if
that man jumped and wanted the sky while the rest were content with the peace of an oligophrenic fœtus. and the browncoat told the standing man that he the browncoat would not hear of such despond in a man with the destiny and the drama nay the tragedy of agamemnon mythmaker and uniter etched across his lifeline and it was his the standing man’s unshruggable responsibility to take his cuntry by its broken bridle and sing to it on the fragility of the instinct of liberty in mankind and he must remember human beings both aspire to liberty in their sleep and exult each time they lose it to the mourning and only visionaries and ordained emperors can reconcile the dreams with the lively passion of the wake the waking and with due belief in the greatness of the cause from the standing man he the brownback one man saw with ruinous limpidity how the russians would raise their hands toward a willing leader and demand impatiently to be enslaved by the story of their own destiny and to be led into the sunset of their collective greatness by a man whose keen eyes saw the greatness as it was in its violent form and whose boom voice materialised the amaranth greatness of a bridge of victors’ steel under the penitent feet of his willing but untrained believers who thought they had been walking on air but their march was sacred but their march was true. and of what import was it ultimately that the standing man’s own eyes might be cut by the savage discharge of russia’s power and destiny when the splinter in one’s eye is the best magnifying glass and to be blinded by truth was no more a paradox than the echo and the slap of immortality and of what import was it ultimately that attempting to teach westernised comfortable narcoleptic russia to think on and in itself and to sing its thoughts was at present nothing less than the sentimental education of a zombie, lesser men than he the standing man had braved it and history had not forgotten the weight of their shadows. and the browncoat said to the standing man that if the truth the nation’s higher truth was too large and too untamed for their soft spirits then just give them the people just use a substitute for truth and they shall swallow it like bait greedy and the truth inside the bait will gestate and feed on their weakness and burst forth rupturing the past and their soft beings and refashioning them into the russia that russia’s truth had always wanted. and the brownback who could not stop speaking now told the standing man that finally who would remember all his the standing man’s failures, and even if the standing man had failed and would fail again no matter just try again fail again and fail better. and if the meretricious sleepers who tolerated no speech louder or more meaningful than a snore sought to make the standing man lie down with them in the softness of the mud then he the standing man should tell them they could swing all the bomb-spilt horseguts they liked and remonstrate and spray the horseguts’ loud blood all around their dance of guilt and declare transgression but he the standing man would still just string them and their horseguts both onto his harp and bleed beautiful music that would force the name of russia to rise tall in all but the most handicapped of its throats and the weak would choke on the holy name and cowardice was burning and the flags would meet their wind in honor wind for their flags and his the standing man’s was the sacred thought the only logic the logic of triumph and power and should his thought span beyond the people’s legibility and should their weakened margins their shrivelled persons prove insufficient scroll for the magnitude of the curls and scintillating pirouettes of this thought and its sheer mass should the people prove unable to contain the writing of his thought within them then the standing man in his love of the people should use instead speeches and screams to pierce the walls of russia vulgar yes cheap of course and certainly to the standing man speech-and-scream may be all thorn but still cousin to his rose the rose of his love and of his noble thought.

  and the standing man opened his generous heart he truly did to the browncoat’s advice and the other nineteen or twenty men were clapping and the men in the adjacent cells were looking up and their ears pricked up in interest and the policemen and the guards who had come to bring the detainees their warm meals had borne witness to the entire exchange between the standing man and the browncoat and clapped also dropping the metal plates of soup and gammon and from the exchange with the browncoat the standing man stood taller and breathed deeper and thought purer and the standing man gazed upon the policemen and the policemen opened the cell tho’ none had locked it and the other cells open also and the standing man and the nineteen or twenty men and the other prisoners and the policemen all walked out of the local and they walked out of the police station and the brownback did not see it but quite possibly the bored men who owned desks too had walked with the standing man who walked above the others and later on as the browncoat awoke from his sleep in his vacant cell he thought he heard the standing man speak to the people outside the police station and from what was discernible to the browncoat it was the standing man’s generosity to spare his listener the embarrassment of believing himself cleverer than the speaker and it was mourning or it appeared to be mourning and the browncoat left the station through the back exit and he languished on his first pages awhile but beginnings were never any fun and the best way to work a page to work up or down a page, as its writer or not, is of course to tear it out and burn it and watch it darken the flames, and such at least would have been the advice extended by the standing man. but in the end crowds and plurals were not much to the browncoat’s liking for coition is after all only an inadequate surrogate for onanism no not orgies either and certainly too much agreement and synchronised nodding had been known to exert an impolitely dyspeptic effect on the browncoat’s imaginative faculties so he walked off in the away flushes of the noise and he looked up and poured young cement around all the stars in the net of his gaze yet it was only mourning and he thought of how in the standing man and his believers the pure unreflexive act of their forceful indicatives is violation projected on to the starry sky above and at this the brownback laughed at least he almost laughed but stopped in time and this time walked off from the intoxicated reach of the noise and into the amused distance. 

  preface

  i never say hello. i refused to. i find greeting others demeaning and

  can't explain why. my name is darling bahgerlaas and i'm a 35 year old

  sales clerk at waitrose. i pre-emptively strike the suggestion that

  you abstain from pitying, judging or empathising with me. i strike it to the face. i have many things to say to you throughout these next pages, though i myself

  failed to find any of the events or thoughts contained therein either

  interesting or relevant. i will come to explain my obsession with the

  interesting in due time. i say these things to you, i say these things to you now not because i particularly want to but because they are already printed out and inevitably accessible to you and at will you can read them and my saying them to you at this point

  depends not on me but on your willingness to pursue the course of

  things in this book. but just now i shall dispense with these

  introductory formalities, for they irk me and hopefully you as well.

  before i go on to abandon you to the book proper, i wish to extend a

  friendly salvific hand to the few readers i expect this book may

  scavenge in the bookshops, like a vagabond may rescue moderately

  usable junk purloined from the city dump. if these readers be anything

  akin to how i envision them, they will think themselves pathetic for

  displaying at any time any interest or emotional involvement in the

  story, the fate of the characters or their spiritual and psychological

  states of turmoil. turn oil, turn to the oil. if they do manifest such preoccupations it will probably be

  despite themselves. i will therefore attenuate the decibels of their

  inner 'you sad fucking lame cunt' (note the lack of an exclamation

  mark – i never use exclamation marks. i find them unbecoming) by

  informing th
em right now that i am the main character and the

  endodiegetic narrator, that i begin this book as an ultra-

  ratiocinating overeducated loser eking out a sad pathetic living in a

  sad pathetic chain store in a sad pathetic suburb of sad pathetic

  london, that i end it in much the same state and that i proceed to

  detach myself across this book's expanse from the few personal and

  societal connections left me (these connections too are sad and

  pathetic). in terms of narrative, [provides cruel, short summary of

  entire book, wherein nothing much happens anyway]. and that would be

  about it. and the old woman dies. that's all that happens in the following pages. the reader

  now knows everything about the book plotwise, and can see there is not

  much to know anyway: i should like to be believed when i tell the

  reader that nothing really happens at all in this book.

  these have still the being of introductory formalities. i am annoyed.

  and hopefully you also.

  i am now satisfied that i have nothing else to say to the reader

  directly and can let him kick down my sand fortress and build his own

  raincastle. i in fact, i would find it amusing if the reader would

  pretend to be in on the joke by crossing out any passages that elicit

  within him a desire to do so and would write in alternative takes or

  curse words unframed by civil dialogue or the day's weather and

  insipid comments and blather about the day's weather or racist flickers or anything at

  all. i venture to speculate that the resultant book should be much

  improved æsthetically and would make what i myself wrote down look

  like a timid and hamfisted first draft [not that this my effortless book isn't a timid and hamfisted first draft anyway].

  i didn't really write anything anyway. i just jotted down some

  cerebral coprolites, that would be all. and i certainly won't be coming back

  to reread my uninspired graffiti or edit them or place them critically

  within the scope of my life and œuvre [i have none of either life or

  œuvre, if or in case you were being curious] and remark how i've

  matured since or how those were the best of times, how those were the

  worst of times. i am saying this book is nothing. and was meant to be

  taken as such. not that i mean, ever.

  i thought at first to alienate the reader from this book by adopting

  for its entirety a voice similar to that of the first of the two peter

  stillman characters in the ny trilogy. perhaps there were more than

  two peter stillmans but im referring only to those that had speaking

  parts, so to speak. haha sometimes when i speak i am so funny.

  however, this would have excised a significant part of the

  sophisticated vocabulary i planned to employ in this book, and since

  my vocabulary is one of the few things i occasionally exhibit anything

  resembling pride towards i dropped this idea for this book i had not

  yet written when i was having this idea. brechtian absolute (textual)

  nudity was another alternative, though it would have been harder to

  employ as this is a prosaic text and not theatre or film; im certain

  an interesting brechtian novel could be written (and probably has been

  already) but im not a good writer anyway so i couldnt brave it. the

  last option i considered for the purpose of alienating my hopefully

  alienation-pre-saturated readers was joycean clamour to the tune of

  god's deathscreams but i didnt feel like fertilising a finnegans wake

  pastiche. this is why i settled on writing down the book in my own

  personal voice, for worse or for worse, and ruining.vacuuming up

  whatsoever romantic bookish stardust may have settled onto the

  readers creaky brain by boring him to death and revealing everything

  about the book and myself who wrote it down before the book even

  startled. that way i wouldnt have to stretch a kidney acting my lungs

  dry without letting the reader grow soft-comfortable in this book i

  wrote down.

  i change my voice very often. one second i shall speak like an english

  barrister (within five seconds i will say english barristers are worser than retards, haha i am funny.) and the next year i talk like im retarded and then i get worse and thus regress to the english barrister accordingly. of mine own

  accord. this is your knowledge now. to your knowledge, i mean. my

  voice is inconsistent and i hope it breaks someday. i should love ever

  so much to put it back together again and glue it back together again.

  hopefully my reader understands this and he was patient with me for i

  am a dear dear boygirl. haha i am just being silly. i am not insane i am

  just playing with something i do not understand.

  i always say him when i say reader because no woman in his right mind

  would read this book. no woman would read this book in his right mind.

  or left mind. or any mind.or no mind at all. no woman would read this

  book i wrote down. no woman could. no woman could, can or will can.

  had you forgotten (the case of if), it is useful for me to know i'm a 35 year old sales

  clerk at waitrose. useful for me and for me and for me. me+me+me= you.

  i learned that in economics 101. darling baagerlahs sounds like a male

  name (of vaguely german or polish import – i use the brackets because

  this information is not axial to this book or the rest of this sentence i am in the writing of) but i do not know sometimes. again, i'm a 35 year old sales clerk at waitrose.no im not. i'm a 27 year old student at ucl. or the college of bard. i am short and i'm hirsute. i like cowboy and mafia films. i play video games and dislike my

  cellphone. i go to musicals and cry at weddings. i do not like buying

  clothes but i shave my legs and my anus. i'm a 28 year old student at

  ucl and/or bard. but i'd prefer being a 35 year old sales clerk at waitrose. i

  shop at waitrose sometimes. from there i buy some things. i would like also to be a janitor. better than being a student. even if i were just a short and hirsute janitor. when i said i was the narrator and this book i wrote i wrote in my own

  personal voice i meant it was written in the third person singular [i

  dislike plurals and avoid them wherever anatomically feasible.which is

  why i am a virgin and bad at grammar]. i hope the narrator's third

  person voice is as cold and not-with-the-speechobjects as kafka.

  kafka was a pervert (relative to his times) and you know this.

  i am done talking and writing down in this book (the prebook, the

  prepuce of prepuscular proportions you may be reading now) the thoughts i am having after-outside

  the thoughts i wrote down when i wrote the book proper. my proper

  book. i speak of the book left after this page right here.

  someone outside my uncomfortable window is deflating a bouncy castle.

  it is a purple bouncy castle and it is very loud. the deflation is

  very lond and loug and the people deflating the purple bouncy castle

  are very also lond and loug. i will now jump down from my fourth storey

  window to yell at them rude words. goodbye.

  chapter vii

 
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