tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75767943834784021442024-03-13T03:56:20.538-07:00EcclusiasticsPost-Apocalyptic Jazz GastromicaTheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-28045338407609379322012-03-30T11:26:00.000-07:002012-03-30T11:26:10.208-07:00Better Wash Your Lab Coat...It's Time For Science!<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Q4mTdOn5DzQ?rel=0" width="480"></iframe>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-5413875806191410272012-03-26T10:32:00.000-07:002012-03-26T10:32:56.097-07:00That Wild Music (Just a fragment of a draft)<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"><i>For the youth of the world is passed and the strength of creation is already exhausted...and the pitcher is near to the cistern and the ship to the port, and the course of the journey to the city and life to its consummation". (2 Bar. 85:10)</i></span></span><!--EndFragment--> <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">The city was extremely hot that summer -- hotter even than it ever was in Montgomery - - and this caused a distinctive stink to rise up from the already stinking city sewers, engendering a sort of highly-distilled foecalurine perfume that followed you around town, as if the city had its finger held under your nose. Like the French Opera, which becomes a container for the all the varieties of perfumes and powders which those ladies apply in an effort to combat what I’m told are their menstrual odours, causing the various scents, purchased separately and at great expense, to congeal into an indistinguishable brown of oriental flowers and spice (haunted by the ghost of their body’s original scent, radiating from the armpits and the groin); so the city became a sort of vapourbox for its own effluence, wafting up from the treatment plant, the beef farms outside the city, and more lately, from the houses in the Western suburbs, which had been most severely visited by what was then being called the fever - but which was not a fever, really, at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">***</span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.0in; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">It was always beef fat and never lard, even if we had any lard available. There is a special enzyme present in the meat of the former, <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">I’m told</span>, which makes it useful. I used to stand out on the ridge, my hands and lower arms covered in tallow, watching them move across the fields outside the city, scattering and reforming like flocks of sparrows. All we could do was to apply pressure as evenly as possible, going out sometimes weekly, sometimes twice a week, making sure no one <i>got too comfortable</i></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">. And really, I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty sometimes, and some of the boys even went so far as to warn them ahead of time, so that when we swept through, there was hardly anything left. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">Always a great big bonfire after though, which could be fun sometimes, and served both as a means of disposing of the trash, and as a sort of primitive communication to anyone who might be watching from deeper in the fields. Always beef fat to the exclusion of lard. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14.0pt;">I used to think about Nebuchadnezzar, set outside the Lion’s gates, </span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">talking to and eating with cattle, going around naked and, presumably, shitting in the fields, pissing in the fields; letting his hair grow long, letting his beard grow long, letting his nails grow long; wearing no shoes, and letting his feet get filthy and black; picking through bones and guts left by larger animals; scaring away birds and foxes; going <i><u>not</u></i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"> to the feasts, going <i><u>not</u></i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"> to the dances, going <i><u>not</u></i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"> to the opera, or to the recital or the theatre, but sitting in a cave, smearing his neck and face with shit, taking something from every category of filth, covering himself with all hues of brown, so that nothing showed but the golden earring which he passed over when stripping himself of everything else, shining out like a <i>jewel in an Ethiope’s ear</i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">; <i>hung in ghastly night</i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">, visible by those within the city walls only in hallucinatory, deformed echoes, streaking across the night in his mad runnings across the grass. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">And it’s true. I walked around most days in a dirty shirt. But so did almost everyone else. And so everyone was lousy and scratching their shoulders and scalps, and didn’t even bother changing their clothes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">“I’m not exaggerating boys – the whole damn town smells like a boiling pot of the deepest, yellowist piss I ever took.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">“He’s right, it does.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">Going back and forth between both ends of the city, there was an increasingly noticeable contrast in the amounts of foot-traffic. It was almost only exclusively police who passed between neighborhoods, as there was an emerging popular conception that it was dangerous, that the west end was becoming what they called a <i>no-go zone. </i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">They were basically right, but I made the trip routinely, locked in a kind of unstable magnetic suspension between the two poles.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">Ethel the hard-titted, the scrupulously clean; Jenny the bow-legged, the absolutely filthy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">In fact, that’s almost all I did for several weeks, starting in May. Trudging back and forth, coming and going, sleeping now East in the tower, now West in the attic; now uptown Henry, now downtown Mr. Roebuck – sometimes nights at the one with blood still flowing from the morning at the other - with fingers still pinching and stroking themselves habitually, like the Norse god whose head still bites the dust after falling from the body. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">By that time, Ethel was getting less and less eager to put her mouth on any part of me, and went so far as to insist that I dip my nether regions in a bowl of vinegar which she hat set up near the sink for that purpose. You couldn’t argue with the fact that the fumes did seem to cut through the thickness of the air, forming a pocket of sterility that Ethel would breathe in greedily, as if surfacing unexpectedly in some underwater oxygen reservoir. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;">And when you’re elbow deep in <i>manmuck</i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"> and <i>womanflesh,</i></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"> any squeamishness about dipping your genitals in vinegar soon vanishes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EDB0xrguCpw/T3CoEcPcCCI/AAAAAAAAAFo/kcQ88cP2fWg/s1600/chicago1940tenements.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EDB0xrguCpw/T3CoEcPcCCI/AAAAAAAAAFo/kcQ88cP2fWg/s400/chicago1940tenements.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
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</span></span></div><!--EndFragment-->TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-32332597739702770182011-03-20T08:11:00.000-07:002011-04-13T07:28:30.881-07:00I Tried to Picture the Pillar of Cloud Going Before the People on Their Wanderings<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-LFF_Bu36few/TYtIkZn0QPI/AAAAAAAAAFE/cZS6NKf5Dw8/s1600/IMG_0015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-LFF_Bu36few/TYtIkZn0QPI/AAAAAAAAAFE/cZS6NKf5Dw8/s400/IMG_0015.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nRhsuu7dNtI/TYtJL7d4JII/AAAAAAAAAFQ/gVxuXhIv3pI/s1600/IMG_0013_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nRhsuu7dNtI/TYtJL7d4JII/AAAAAAAAAFQ/gVxuXhIv3pI/s400/IMG_0013_2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-MyYst9iKm54/TYtJByDuzYI/AAAAAAAAAFM/n3I-0anUi7E/s1600/IMG_0011_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-MyYst9iKm54/TYtJByDuzYI/AAAAAAAAAFM/n3I-0anUi7E/s400/IMG_0011_2.JPG" width="400" /></a><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-bPi5lMGXGD8/TYtI8WxFZXI/AAAAAAAAAFI/Nyuo0Yv6GiA/s1600/IMG_0014_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-bPi5lMGXGD8/TYtI8WxFZXI/AAAAAAAAAFI/Nyuo0Yv6GiA/s400/IMG_0014_2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-RKYETW_7YZQ/TYtKBqvsMZI/AAAAAAAAAFc/7eO-X89KID8/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-RKYETW_7YZQ/TYtKBqvsMZI/AAAAAAAAAFc/7eO-X89KID8/s400/IMG_0014.JPG" width="342" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-JsX6tUwXg2U/TYtJpTDtx_I/AAAAAAAAAFU/sZos3RF9OFQ/s1600/IMG_0013_3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-JsX6tUwXg2U/TYtJpTDtx_I/AAAAAAAAAFU/sZos3RF9OFQ/s400/IMG_0013_3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>'To lead them the way', as the Bible puts it.</td></tr>
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</span></div>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-29137759546096436052011-02-24T14:41:00.000-08:002011-02-24T14:41:37.756-08:00Detective Englissh and the Case of the House of Grass: Epigraph<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2tPBrtf_sA/TWbZCw_mkII/AAAAAAAAAEk/cM0d5p9BbSo/s1600/fall-of-rebel-angels-granger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2tPBrtf_sA/TWbZCw_mkII/AAAAAAAAAEk/cM0d5p9BbSo/s400/fall-of-rebel-angels-granger.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><i>"It is taught: R. Johanan b. Zakkai said: What answer did the Bath Kol give to that wicked one, when he said: I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the Most High</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><i>?</i></span><i> A Bath Kol went forth and said to him: O wicked man, son of a wicked man, grandson of Nimrod, the wicked, who stirred the whole world to rebellion against Me by his rule. How many are the years of man</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><i>?</i></span><i> Seventy, for it is said: The days of our years are threescore years and ten, or even by reason of strength fourscore years. But the distance from earth to the firmament is a journey of five hundred years, and thickness of the firmament is a journey of five hundred years, and likewise the distance between one firmament and the other. Above them are the holy living creatures: the feet of the living creatures are equal to all of them together; the ankles of the living creatures are equal to all of them; the legs oft the living creatures are equal to all of them; the knees of the living creatures are equal to all of them; the thighs of the living creatures are equal to all of them; the bodies of the living creatures are equal to all of them; the necks of the living creatures are equal to all of them; the heads of the living creatures are equal to all of them; the horns of the living creatures are equal to all of them. Above them is the throne of glory; the feet of the throne of glory are equal to all of them; the throne of glory is equal to all of them. The King, the Living and Eternal God, High and Exalted, dwelleth above them. <b>Yet thou didst say, I will ascend above the heights of the clouds, I will be like the Most High! Nay, thou shalt be brought down to the nether-world, to the uttermost parts of the pit.</b>"</i><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/djBKQNVj5Cc?rel=0" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-84362595881042230902010-12-29T08:00:00.000-08:002010-12-29T08:30:05.896-08:00Unsquare Dance<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_yExwkQYcp0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_yExwkQYcp0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Unsquare Dance implodes into a black hole of total squareness.<br />
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As far as I can tell, this is from an Australian variety program called the Digby Wolfe Show; probably filmed in 1961.TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-3536884766807714432010-12-19T09:25:00.000-08:002010-12-19T13:53:28.288-08:00Martial Solal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQ4_kUqRt0I/AAAAAAAAAEE/Ab3lt66tViY/s1600/solaspan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQ4_kUqRt0I/AAAAAAAAAEE/Ab3lt66tViY/s400/solaspan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KLdcBqzjDVw?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KLdcBqzjDVw?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-23190214123980798202010-12-17T11:34:00.000-08:002010-12-19T13:54:09.181-08:00Blake/Aubudon<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQu6qdmxrwI/AAAAAAAAAD8/PRf8x7K8Yzk/s1600/williamblake_nebuchadnezzar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQu6qdmxrwI/AAAAAAAAAD8/PRf8x7K8Yzk/s400/williamblake_nebuchadnezzar.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nebuchadnezzar's Wisdom</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQu6sxsOX6I/AAAAAAAAAEA/RS-eMtDiOjk/s1600/Audubon-CanadaGoose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQu6sxsOX6I/AAAAAAAAAEA/RS-eMtDiOjk/s400/Audubon-CanadaGoose.jpg" width="350" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a goose engaged in some mystical contemplation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-62521239615200221202010-12-16T12:14:00.000-08:002010-12-19T13:55:21.787-08:00Joyeux Noel!It's that Christmassy time of year, and there's no better season for hallucinatory biblical ecstasies. <br />
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I think back to that night. It must have been twelve years ago today that I saw the thing.<br />
<br />
I looked from my window to see the falling snow and I saw two dogs there, standing on two legs (I thought) - - ashpit black, with their purple tongues sagging lazily out of their mouths - - emitting what, regrettably, can only be described as a 'doggish-hum' - - growling bass on the bottom and whimpering tenor on top, united by a monkish timbre and focus. And the more I listened, the more the hum began to resemble words taking on form and falling out through the whirlwind of sound.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQpz-bdithI/AAAAAAAAAD4/WQMN9b0wuFo/s1600/dog-dtl1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="335" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TQpz-bdithI/AAAAAAAAAD4/WQMN9b0wuFo/s400/dog-dtl1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It's a little cheesey, but I can't help but reproduce them here:<br />
<br />
"Oh! Jerusalem! Oh, Nebuchadnezzar's wisdom<br />
Failed him utterly. He broke the bone inside his head<br />
And bled for days, and his face turned black and purple.<br />
Oh, we saw him then. We saw, on Christmas Day,<br />
He died by sharp, sharp teeth. Oh, what red meat God makes us."<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><i>To be continued...</i></div>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-24275804013695397782010-12-14T17:02:00.000-08:002010-12-14T17:02:35.898-08:00Ch-Ch-Charlie Rouse Th-Th-Thelonious Monk Rhy-Rhy-Rhythm-a-ning<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GpBpadJhVcM?fs=1&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GpBpadJhVcM?fs=1&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-53385811672027808312010-12-05T11:13:00.000-08:002010-12-05T11:14:26.353-08:00Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin on the Figpecker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPvf6qjwRpI/AAAAAAAAADw/NVGHbFNmIrY/s1600/420px-Sylvia_nisoria_hortensis_naumann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPvf6qjwRpI/AAAAAAAAADw/NVGHbFNmIrY/s400/420px-Sylvia_nisoria_hortensis_naumann.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><i>"By far the most important of the small birds, because of its excellence, is the figpecker.</i><br />
<i>It grows at least as fat as the redbreast or the ortolan, and nature has moreover given it a slight bitterness and a unique flavor so exquisite that they seize upon, flood, and beautify every possible avenue of taste. If a figpecker could grow as big as a pheasant, it would be worth the price of an acre of land.</i><br />
<i>It is a great pity that this remarkable bird is found so seldom in Paris; true, a few arrive now and then, but they are completely lacking in the fat which constitutes their especial merit, and it can truthfully be said that they resemble but faintly those which are found in the east or southern parts of France.</i><br />
<i>Few people know how to eat small feathered game; here is the best way, as it was told me confidentially by Canon Charcot, a born gourmand, and a true gastronomer thirty years before the word was known:</i><br />
<i>Take by the beak a fine fat little bird, salt him lightly, pull out his gizzard, stuff him deftly into your mouth, bite him off sharply close to your fingertips, and chew with vigor: there will flow from him enough juice to fill your whole mouth, and you will enjoy a taste experience unknown to the common herd."</i>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-686238443135635052010-12-05T09:13:00.000-08:002011-01-01T11:25:30.399-08:00Metempsychosis Or, A Neanderthal SuicideThis is a bit of tricky subject, so let's not broach it hastily.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPlupCi7mVI/AAAAAAAAADg/MSjVN0FYZN0/s1600/Image23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPlupCi7mVI/AAAAAAAAADg/MSjVN0FYZN0/s320/Image23.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><br />
<br />
So, at some point or another, I left the aviary. I had made up my mind to return to the library and get to the bottom of the matter. If it all turned out to be a joke, then fine. At least I would know for sure. <br />
<br />
Now, we'll have to go a little further back - - Charlie Parker's grandfather's father's master's grandson - - purveying the beaches of Provence circa 1900 - - admiring the women with their bare arms and legs - - laying on their bellies by the shore like so many recently mutated polyps, wriggling their way onto land. <br />
<br />
"Je suis encore tres enuie," they coo, and sigh in unison, turning their heads to the side, stretching out their fine white necks and adjusting their extremely fashionable hats. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Allan smirks with gentlemanly moderation, and coughs into his handkerchief in the same manner. He makes a remark on the climate to his associate, Mr. Oswald, who gives a subtle nod of agreement.<br />
<br />
"Very excellent, indeed. An entirely different air altogether from Alabama."<br />
<br />
Well, straight to the cafe - - The Pestiferous Fog - - and Allan sits staring out the window at a tree full of sparrows, or nuthatches, or starlings, while Mr. Oswald bares down with all possible delicacy on a platter of two dozen oysters, tilting his head back and encouraging them down his throat.<br />
<br />
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<br />
"Hmpf," Mr. Oswald clears his pipes, wipes his mouth with the napkin tucked into his collar, "Well then. How do you feel? Better I hope."<br />
<br />
Allan gives a small nod, not averting his gaze from the window.<br />
<br />
Mr. Oswald smiles and takes up the last oyster in the air of a joyous ritual offering, closing his eyes and falling back into his seat; blushing like a baby after feeding. <br />
<br />
"So, you're taking the plunge? No chance of turning you around - - making this whole thing into a vacation, rather than an exile?"<br />
<br />
Allan does not reply at first but stares at the birds as they shake themselves from the tree, rising like a cloud of aggravated dust into the greying sky, which recieves and disperses them somewhere beyond his vision.<br />
<br />
"No, Richard, I don't think so," Allan sighs, and smiles politely, turning his face towards his companion. "It's out of my control now."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPvE9IRa4dI/AAAAAAAAADo/MRLwwVw6LRw/s1600/400px-Imrei_Emes_entourage1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPvE9IRa4dI/AAAAAAAAADo/MRLwwVw6LRw/s400/400px-Imrei_Emes_entourage1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It's possible I should I have called this "A Wealthy Alabama Landowner Travels to Provence to Convert To Hasidism" or, "Two Feather'd Guests From Alabama, Two Together" - - but that might have given too much away. However, now I'm faced with the awkward situation of getting both Allan and Mr. Oswald to the mysterious blue brick house on the outskirts of the town in order to make the startling revelation ("If this is your choice Allan, so be it. I'm back to Alabama to keep your secret."), while at the same time making sure I leave enough space to get back to our neanderthal friend. So in the interest of everyone involved, I'll omit most of the story in order to get at the meat of the issue.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPlyTXIrIjI/AAAAAAAAADk/_RFza3u4pPs/s1600/Neanderthal-Cro-Magnon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPlyTXIrIjI/AAAAAAAAADk/_RFza3u4pPs/s320/Neanderthal-Cro-Magnon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
There, by the stump of one of the first felled trees; the boney headed neanderthal - - pacing back and forth, clumsily cradling his head, his body swinging awkwardly under its weight - - in all his hideous nudity, followed by all his noxious odours, leaving a trail of all his greasy liqueurs. He sits down on a large stone, hiding his not-yet-perfect face in his malformed arms.<br />
<br />
What are you crying about? Come on, for Godsakes. You're a homo erectus - - be erect! Hold your head up high! It's really very early on yet. Things are bound get a little better. We're depending on you, pri-mordial man - - really and truly. Don't give it up!<br />
<br />
Oh, you're nothing but a child. <br />
<br />
And so he stands up (in all his hideous nudity, with all his noxious odours), and looks down at the stone on which he was sitting. He kneels down and lays his ugly hands around it, heaving it into the air above his head.<br />
<br />
I find it difficult to describe what happens next - - it's really very hard. It's a stain on human history - - it really is.<br />
<br />
But I'll have to press on - - you demand it of me, I know. You'll want to know, that as this pitiable creature bludgeoned himself to death with this stone - -that his poor, lamentable, child-like neanderthal soul, imperfect though it may be, ascended to the tree of souls, up to the inverted root of divinity and then back through the leaves of the divine manifestation, floating like a single sparrow (like from the Gospel) among the limbs and twigs of the sacred foilage, where it was fed by the infinite worm, plucked from the infinite bounty of the eternal soil by the boundless beak of the very first motherbird - - the celestial bride whose song is the endless repitition of the very first words (in the Hebrew, in the Aramaic, in the King James English): "In the beggining, created God - - Bereshith bara Elohim", in an endless divine melody with no resolution; with naked simplicity and yet containing boundless contrapuntal complexity - - a thousand million voiced fugue. <br />
<br />
The primordial man has destroyed his head! And now the whole structure falls flat like an empty sack. But, flowing over our heads, he manifests himself continually - - at one point conversing with Rossini (who eventually became a stone) - - most often coming back as some doomed suicide - - but most importantly as Oppenheimer, and as Einstein simultaneously. Which brings us back to the original story.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPvGw6EnUoI/AAAAAAAAADs/6Qc3G0z9F9E/s1600/nuclear-bomb-test.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TPvGw6EnUoI/AAAAAAAAADs/6Qc3G0z9F9E/s320/nuclear-bomb-test.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<i>Qual misfatto! qual eccesso!</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">To Be Continued...</div>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-54480528560200502732010-11-13T12:26:00.001-08:002010-11-13T12:26:55.377-08:00There's No Kneeling In The Land Where I'm Bound<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/d1ZZ5zmteUk?fs=1&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/d1ZZ5zmteUk?fs=1&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-57545084409793371072010-11-11T08:45:00.000-08:002010-11-11T08:54:18.680-08:00I Die, Alas, In My Suffering<u>Catalogue of Some Notable Lake Superior Shipwrecks</u><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>1680</i></span> - French Jesuit Renee de le Carre and a crew of fifty or so men, embark on an ill fated journey across Superior. Le Carre loses his mind after seeing a crew member accidently step on a hairless mouse. He sets fire to the ship and most of the crew perishes in the freezing waters.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>1750</i></span> - A crew of seventy-five men -- along with another Jesuit, Guy Montaigne -- dissapear while crossing Superior. The wreck is discovered in 1968 by an amateur diver. Among the belongings of Montaigne is a shrunken head, thought to have originated in New Caledonia. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>1810</i><span style="font-size: small;"> - </span></span>Independently wealthy, Franco-English painter Emile Rose sets up camp along Lake Superior, near what is now Terrace Bay, in order to paint landscapes. Somehow, a quasi-religious order springs up around Rose, attracting an estimated one hundred followers from neighbouring communities in a little over a year. By 1815, this number has nearly doubled and the order have started work on a large ship, which they intend to sail out to an unknown island to start an independent colony. They set out some time in May of 1818 and capsized within the same day. Miraculously, it appears that Rose was the sole survivor.<br />
<br />
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<br />
That reminds me.<br />
<br />
Last weekend I was hanging out with George under the International Bridge, which spans the St. Mary's River, which links Lake Huron to Lake Superior - - and we were throwing rocks at the water. <br />
<br />
"Oh shit, do you see that," George asked, gesturing towards the shore.<br />
<br />
I looked over to the water and saw that it had worked itself up into an extremely vigorous boil - - bubbling with quite a bit of violence - - working itself up into an exploding white net.<br />
<br />
"Hm," I said, and approached the shore.<br />
<br />
As I peered into the water, the bubbling calmed down almost entirely, and I could see my reflection on the surface. I squinted and turned my head in an attempt to see past my image and, like when you suddenly see the faces in the image of the vase, I became aware of an enormous mass of lamprey - - thousands of them - - tangled in eachother, churning the water around them - - intermittently tightening and loosening the muscles in their disgusting mouths. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TNwSlbKtcVI/AAAAAAAAADM/Wl4paTUYzs8/s1600/lamprey-closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TNwSlbKtcVI/AAAAAAAAADM/Wl4paTUYzs8/s320/lamprey-closeup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TNwSrBJ4SyI/AAAAAAAAADQ/FyKBaoIfDZc/s1600/lamprey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TNwSrBJ4SyI/AAAAAAAAADQ/FyKBaoIfDZc/s320/lamprey.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br />
"That's strange," I said.<br />
<br />
At this, the lampreys suddenly resumed their previous vigour, splashing water into the air. <br />
<br />
"What the fuck is it," asked George.<br />
<br />
"Lamprey," I said, taking several steps backwards away from the shore. "A shit ton of them." <br />
<br />
George laughed and put his hands on his head.<br />
<br />
"What the hell is a lamprey?"<br />
<br />
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<br />
Then, like a small atomic bomb, or like a solar flare the water splashed up and a black-grey shape rocketed out of the spout and tumbled, or really rolled up the rocks and settled at our feet. George and I looked down.<br />
<br />
"That's fucking disgusting," said George.<br />
<br />
Now this might seem a bit farfetched. This might be pushing it - - but I will have to push it, as the principles of Truth demand that I reveal that there before us, by our feet was a lamprey - - bent backwards, latching his parasitic mouth onto his own tail. <br />
<br />
"He's killing himself," I said, stupefied.<br />
<br />
"No," said George, delicately lifting its stiff, looped body up with a stick. "It's dead. Way fucking dead." <br />
<br />
He dropped it back to the ground and it wobbled around like a coin before somehow putting itself right and gaining momentum. George and I followed it with our eyes as it rolled back into the water.<br />
<br />
"Hm," I said, suddenly feeling very weak, easing myself down to the ground. "George, I think I have just had a vision of the grotesque regions of my true self. I really fucking think I have."<br />
<br />
"Hm?" asked George, not seeming to hear me; feeling around in his coat pockets. "Should I roll us a doob?" <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">To Be Continued...</div>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-12970090001296798072010-10-21T11:27:00.000-07:002010-10-26T07:34:10.194-07:00Cool, Clear WaterOkay, so. It's the year 3020 CE.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Mankind has largley destroyed itself through nuclear war and etc. Gangs of roving bandits- - or roving gangs of bandits wander the deserts of North America, the last of the human colonies, robbing and murdering in a Dionysian orgy-celebration of the apocalypse. Only scattered communities resembling the former human society still exist and so on, etc. Water has become more valuable then gold etc. etc.<br />
<br />
Earth, after millions of years, has reached it's most trying - - it's most horrifying era...<br />
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">The Roaring Twenties</div><br />
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<br />
If we only had water, cries the populace -- The blind could see and the deaf could hear!<br />
<br />
One of the largest sources of fresh water, the remains of Lake Superior, is guarded by a hideous mutant - - his name unspeakable to the many small villages who depend on his grace for their supplies: The Rat King, Scourge of the Inner Crater.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TMbm0vLwfhI/AAAAAAAAADE/fO_EQkqtCh8/s1600/Rat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TMbm0vLwfhI/AAAAAAAAADE/fO_EQkqtCh8/s320/Rat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
He stands at over 16 cubits tall. In the first hundred years of his life, he spent his time fabricating an enormous coat out of the abundant population of rats that started to thrive after the first bombs dropped. Out of their tails he fashioned his mighty sling, from which he hurls boulders and garbage at unwanted visitors. The communities that surround his territory are distinguished by the smell (like rotting wood) that wafts up from the his open mouth. <br />
<br />
Bring me - - he groaned at one of his many human servants- -My Piiyanoman.<br />
<br />
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<br />
And the Piiyanoman was brought, as usual - - wheeled in on a wooden cart, his ancient fingers hovering inches over the controls, his gaunt, dried up face tilted upwards with his eyes closed tightly.<br />
<br />
Fanfare for the Rat King!<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
The Rat King smiled broadly, his toothless mouth brimming with saliva.<br />
<br />
You remember - -he wheezed, bringing his momentous, boil-laden face close to the old Piiyanoman - -You remember water, don't you?<br />
<br />
The old man did not speak or move. The Rat King rubbed his chin.<br />
<br />
Play for me...water.<br />
<br />
If he had anything left in his body, he might have started to sweat. Instead, he gathered what remained up into his hands and prepared to play.<br />
<br />
He began, as usual, to shake - - slowly at first - - really just barely trembling - - but steadily building to a full-body vibration; a shivering spasm; a spasmatic undulation - - a tremendous undulatory spasmatic boil. The Rat King brought his hands up to his cheeks and squeeled in anticipation. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I'm getting ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">To be continued...</div>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-45216439545156443162010-10-19T10:25:00.000-07:002010-10-19T13:49:47.478-07:00Reading Charlie Parker's Liver<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u>Ornithilogical Horuspicy</u></div><br />
<br />
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<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, I'm in the library - -the medical library - -and I'm purusing a tome on obstetrics by the very late Sir Richard Manningham; enjoying it very much, learning a great deal about such and such and etc., stimulating and so on, just beggining to really start nodding in agreement when something slips out from between the pages and lands in my lap. </div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hm. What's this? </div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">A neatly folded piece of yellowed paper. Hm. That doesn't seem very professional - -this is a medical library, not a post office. Well, I thought, I'd better take a look. </div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Now, try and imagine my surprise at what I saw as I unfolded the note.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In big, sterile looking letters:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<u><b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Autopsy Report of Charles Parker, Jr. </span></b></u><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sex: M</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Age: 34</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><u> Contents of Body</u></span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-One brain</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-Two eyes</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-One gallbladder</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-One heart</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-One jet black liver, abnormally, almost supernaturaly heavy. Unsuitable for prophetic uses.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-Two kidneys</span></div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-One stomach</span></div><br />
It goes on like that for quite some time, and I'm afraid I have to cut it short in consideration of space. But, for some reason the contents of the report sparked my interest. Was this Charles Parker Jr. the Charles Parker Jr. I thought he was - - Charles 'Yardbird' Parker Jr.? And if so, what was his autopsy report doing in an old medical textbook in Toronto? Why the somewhat unusual attention to the individual properties of the liver? <br />
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Hm, I muttered to myself, my brain seething and foaming.<br />
<br />
Could it be that the New York coroner's department was engaging in the age old practice of haruspicy - - the prophetic reading of the entrails of poultry? That seemed like a bit of a stretch. It was definately unlikely. But even so, a good scholar follows an hypothesis till its end.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TL2-BsMLscI/AAAAAAAAACI/0jxvnbCNYMs/s1600/iii_b_314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TL2-BsMLscI/AAAAAAAAACI/0jxvnbCNYMs/s320/iii_b_314.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>Now, I knew absolutely nothing about haruspicy, augury or any other form of divination, and so the question for me was: Why was Charlie Parker's liver deemed to be "unsuitable for prophetic uses"? The answer seemed to be related to its blackness, which suggested some sort of progressive colour scale of liver readability, with jet-black being at one extreme, marked unreadable.<br />
<br />
But why?<br />
<br />
Now we can start to connect the dots. Charlie Parker's liver was unreadable. Does this derive from its supersaturation (with heroin, alcohol) in conjuction with (or totally unrelated to) a sort of over determination of meaning? Is the text so densely written, sentences overlayed on eachother over and over again so that that the individual words have become obscure? <br />
<br />
Hm, well it was very heavy, wasn't it?<br />
<br />
Hm. <br />
<br />
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Yes, I definately was. I did not, and still don't believe in prophecy, and even less then that in conspiracy. The more I studied it the more certain I became that it was a fake, and a very bad one - - designed to lead some innocent medical student astray.<br />
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I closed Dr. Manningham briskly and decided I had better move on to other, less controversial areas of study. With the thought of birds still throbbing lightly in my head, I made my way to the Aviary. <br />
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I remembered something Carlin told me, about a man living in Greenwich Village in the 50's who claimed to be able to speak pigeon. There was maybe some truth in that, I thought. That I could believe a little better than that garbage about entrails. That was too violent. It seemed like if you were to sacrafice a bird to learn something about the future, you would get a similar answer every time: An answer fortelling violence. But if you just listened to them sing - - that was a little more neutral. A little more friendly. <br />
<br />
A warm, farily overtly romantic feeling swept or washed or slipped over me, and I rested my head in my hands and leaned over the gate.<br />
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If only we could all speak bird, I thought, totally unaware of how nauseating I was being. <br />
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Well, damn, I thought. Maybe I should go find some foie gras. Get all of this out of my system.<br />
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I reached into my back pocket to check my wallet, and to my surprise I found the old yellow autopsy report, folded up just as neatly as I had found it. <br />
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Hm, I don't remember bringing this along, I thought - -unfolding the paper almost unconsciously. What's this? Somehow I've missed something.<br />
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At the bottom of the page there was a handwritten (highly accurate) transcription of the theme for Ko-Ko, and below that, in very tiny, delicate script:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Examine further: Parker and the A-Bomb.</span></span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TL3Rk2c3tqI/AAAAAAAAACM/w9gZI83_Gd0/s1600/atomic_bomb_explosion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ffITzsy9clE/TL3Rk2c3tqI/AAAAAAAAACM/w9gZI83_Gd0/s320/atomic_bomb_explosion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Va, pensiero, sull'ali dorate!<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">To Be Continued... </div>TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576794383478402144.post-61587234059643957322010-10-08T07:43:00.000-07:002010-10-08T11:56:58.914-07:00Autumn<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/f11G-I5icpw?fs=1&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/f11G-I5icpw?fs=1&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
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Not sure who is responsible for this arrangement. Go Gidon.TheBeardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05968783598707587029noreply@blogger.com0