Through The Muck Of Life...

My sickness finally seems at its last vestige. Took its time, though, and that’s not illin’, man. It is/was, rather, some kind of viral infection, I guess, and I did not like it, Sam-I-Am. I threw up the other morning – greenish eggs and ham and I am not joking. Errgh! Plus, as a special offer or some shite, this vile bout came with a bonus infliction of insomnia, which I still have (and may try selling on eBay – after all, someone was trying to sell a photograph of a ‘curiously vagina-shaped pothole’ and that is the truth). I’ve been up since 4AM and I’d only gotten about two-and-an-half hours’ sleep. ’Tis ridiculous.

I am glad that the virus seems to be dying. Yes, that’s right, all you vegans out there, “glad,” I said! The reason why I catch so many of the 'bugs' that go around is because of my annoying fatty liver condition, which I am working towards remedying; it's not a severe problem and will go away when I become somewhat fitter and healthier. For me, possibly the worst thing about being sick is that I tend to become confused; focus blurs regarding art and humanism and comforts and other eclectic mainstays of my life and this is, needless to say, unplea... - in fact, if it's needless to say, then I won't bother saying it! I have lines to learn, dawg-nabbit!, over the coming weeks for a film rôle I’ve procured; it’s a short film but mine is the lead rôle and I’m looking forward to it, so this virus must now completey abdicate the buffeted ottoman of my innards!

There’ll be more about this current cinematic foray as it draws nearer, incidentally, but what d’ya mean, “Big fuckin’ whoopee”? (Hee-hee.)

I am currently listening to Swiss band Yello’s 'Eccentrix Remixes’ album. Boris Blank and Dieter Meier – granddandies of techno. Yet, unlike so much of the bland electronica with repetitive beat thumps to have unfortunately evolved from their blueprints, these originals have actual, definite character and, more importantly, the talent to transmute that throughout their art. Quirky, yes, but also epic, moody and intricately imaginative, and, not to forget, fun. Their latest album, 'The Eye’, is being received, it seems, as one of their very best and so I excitedly await a hearken. The work of Yello is dumbly difficult to come by and hear in John Howard’s Chunderland; I’ll probably order it from Europe as I did recently with 'Flag', oh, yeah, chika-chikaaa.

Interestingly, I am finding this blog to have developed more of a personal-journal aspect than I thought it would, and I’m fine with that so long as I do not neglect representation of (my view of) the poetry of existence. I don’t mean that in any pretentious way but if it comes across like that then just call me Don Juan’s Lord and let’s be done with it! Seriously though, the way I see it, through the muck of life we need to try to keep an eye upon the glimmering shards of white-magical amenity to be kenned in life from this corner, from that abscess, from this grey cloud and this gutter. Hmm, that’s hard to explain well, especially when I’m not totally, but hopefully you get the gist of what I mean.

Here is an exemplification from French libertine, Paul Verlaine, from his 1870 poem, 'The Good Song':

‘… the sidewalk’s mire,
sycamores shedding leaves in the black air;
the omnibus, ill-hung on four wheels, rattles
and creaks, a storm of mud and old scrap-metal …
roofs drip, walls sweat, the broken asphalt creeps,
in heaps along the gutter sewage lies:
that is my route – at the end is paradise.’

(from 'Selected Poems' by Paul Verlaine, translated by C. F. MacIntyre, p.99 1948, 1976 University of California Press, U.S.A.)

I hope you have enjoyed my latest rambling idyll of sorts,
and here comes a full-stop > .