excerpt
(The producer has turned down faders and pulled out patch-leads at random.
He is under panic attack—what will Mr. Chamberlain say? A staff
announcer dashes to an adjacent studio. “. . . owing to technical difficulties, we
cannot bring you the conclusion of our interval talk by Colonel Arthur
Parker-Byrd . . .” The Colonel’s lips still move soundlessly behind the double
glazed partition, he continues his spiritual de-briefing and barely looks up as
the producer blusters in mouthing excuses . . .)
HOW DID I LOSE TRANSMISSION? BEDDOWES GOING TO
THE BOG IN THE MIDST OF DARKNESS TURNING ON ALL THE
LIGHTS I COULD SCREAM…
Afterwards I was never quite awake. Just the old rapid eye movements. Under
the woofly blanket. Under the flaky ceiling. Under the drip of the moon.
Waiting in vain for the next installment of my Teachings . . .
These memoirs confuse me. Why, why, do they insist on blocking my
neurotransmissions with chlorpromazine? Do they think my neurotransmitters
can beep out through my skull? As if I were the old Soviet transmitter
“Woodpecker”, bombarding the West on shortwave at forty million
watts?
It is closing time in the Gardens of the West, I know that for sure. Even
with my Rabbinical hat on, even in this sweltering noon, I feel a chill, a demon
of cold with long claws, and I feel that evil feeling crawling around my hatband.
My metal-framed glasses produce a curious stinging current behind the
bridge of my nose. The black jacket and the black books must protect me.
Jago was obviously exasperated when I first adopted this Hasidic style of
dress—domed hat, long beard and black suit. “I don’t see the point of it,” he
grumbled, “You’re not Jewish. According to our records, you’re not even circumcised.
Supposing we had some Jewish clients! What would they think of this
Hippy-Brigade intellectual in his fancy dress parade of stolen knowledges? I think
you are trying, are you not, to make fun of the Father of Psychoanalysis. Perhaps
in this way you hope to mock I, Jago, a surrogate father. Perhaps you act out your
metaphysical frustrations? Perhaps you read too many of the paper-bound books
on therapy, I don’t know. Better to take your lithium carbonate.”
But my brain ticks relentlessly. Every strand of each synapse is numbered.
Numbered are all the hairs of my beard. And mighty are the powers thereof.
It is overcast in the West, towards the sea. Perhaps it is already raining on
the holiday chalets, the weapon dumps, the garden tourist traps. I hear thunder,
distant megatons of it. All around the Western world…
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 