Wednesday, September 30, 2020
Sunday, September 27, 2020
If you had smelled my father’s fingers, they smelled of ash, but also a hint of musty sweetness. I smelled his fingers when he pinned me down and tried to squeeze blackheads from my cheek or nose. But long before that I was aware of this smell on his fingers and on his breath. I smelled his breath when he gave me a “chin pie”, which is when he rubbed his stubbly chin on my face and laughed. This smell was the smell of the world of Men. It was not simply a human smell but a smell of dirt, matter, compost, smoke, metal as well. Men in general and my father in particular are characterised by their commerce with such things. Harsh substances, I might call them. Men have ingested or besmeared themselves with such harsh substances in order to harden themselves. To ally themselves with what is harsh. They themselves become amalgams, party made from tobacco smoke, wood shavings, nails, oil and so forth. As they ingest more, as they smoke more, hammer more, as they place nails or tacks in their mouth whilst fitting a cupboard, or chew a match, so do they assume more and more the carapace of harshness. As grey blue smoke exits their mouth and nostrils, as they scrub the dried paint off their arms, as the movements of chiselling and shovelling - brute, precise, relentless - become second nature, so are their bodies remade. So do they advertise their alliance with matter and poison. You must understand that each of these gestures has an affective lining, as I call it. A low-level brutal enjoyment, an indifferent violence, in hammering a nail, in splitting the earth with a spade, even if the earth or the wood are not sentient of course. There is still a cold pleasure in subduing, splitting, compressing, which potentially can be carried over onto flesh, so that these actions are always preparations for brutality.
All of this was true of my father. One thing I do remember though is the smell of tobacco in the tobacco tin, dark and soft and loamy and almost edible, a smell that bore no resemblance to the smell of a cigarette, a smell that I would steal every now and then when he wasn’t looking even though he wouldn’t have minded perhaps.
My father placed maggots under his tongue to warm them up before using them as bait. Or I remember him placing a brandling worm on a fishhook and the worm writhing as yellow fluid came out of its side. Then he invited me to do it. I pricked my finger and it bled. “Never mind that”. This is how it’s passed on. Your body becomes a body capable of such gestures, and the indifference to pain, one’s own or the pain of others. A kind of discipline whereby the boy’s body with its softness and sensitivities is subdued and silenced and remade as an instrument, an accessory to hammers and chisels and spanners, honed or reduced to the mechanics of bone and muscle.
It is true I have refused all these things and more: cigarettes, nails, paint and plaster, fishhooks and WD40, pint glasses and greenhouses, beading and spirit levels. I have refused DIY and car engines, nor do I have a dank hut at the garden’s end full of tools and rust and an ashtray full of buts.
I stay with my glass of wine. I stay with the aroma of coffee that forever quells and suppresses the smell of strong tea and the sight of wet tea bags and tab-ends.
But I have in my pocket his unremarkable silver lighter. Which I always carry with me. There are still a few orange sparks left in it. It is the sole surviving remnant of him. The hard metal implacable remnant. And which I cannot throw away.
Tuesday, September 22, 2020
One day I had the impulse to write but every time I tried to put pen to paper (for me it is always this first scratch, this moment of contact, and to type is not writing) there was nothing. For me, I cannot speak for others, there is always this lag, that is to say that the impulse to write precedes the so-called subject matter. The impulse - which I prefer to call appetency, a word undeservedly sunk these days, fallen into disuse, but essential to understanding creation - this impulse seizes on the so-called subject matter as Picasso seized a bicycle seat and made it a bull.
The appetency is not a desire to externalise what is inside, to find appropriate flesh for what already exists in ghostly outline. It is a desire certainly but a desire to become something Other. An enlargement, but also a qualitative transformation into something else. And not just one but many something elses. A One becoming Multiple, a Simple becoming Complex..
This appetency is not an intention with a Telos, a telos which only has to find its appropriate instrument. No. This appetency will enlarge and transform itself in several unanticipated directions. It will sprout and develop according to its own several momentums, and these momentums themselves arise only in contact with the so-called subject matter, and – if one is a writer- with the roots and branches of language. So for example, with Picasso, it was not that the intention to create a bull alighted on the bicycle seat. Rather did the intention to create encounter the bicycle seat and give birth to the bull.
Monday, September 21, 2020
Saturday, September 19, 2020
A long evening at P’s flat. Exactly as he was at Oxford 15 years ago. Over-eager to display his knowledge. I tried to communicate my experience of Prague, the sepulchral gravity and dark magic of the buildings above and behind the tourist chatter, but he countered with various facts about Prague, the Czech Republic, the Velvet Revolution and so on. “Why do men always know things?” Alice once said to me. It’s true, although I have always prided myself on knowing very little in this sense. These men, who know things, always want to refer any disagreements to the judicial body of Facts, and thus close down interpretation. They want to shut down debate and also ally themselves with the cold indifference of the factual, as they perceive it. They are like the facts, they identify with the facts. This is their fantasy. P was precisely such a man. Weighing me down with endless facts and statistics, until I could take no more and was bent forward, like some pale and crooked caryatid, under the countless units of information. I tried to put forward my theory about Men and Knowledge, as briefly adumbrated above, but he of course was not interested in Theories, or in Theory with a big T. It was futile. All this was exactly as it had been at Oxford. As was his face. His face had not developed and matured, only cracked a little, and greyed at the sides, as if done by a make-up artist. There had been no deep aging, which is to say living, precisely because he had sought refuge in facts and information in retreat from the riddles and ambiguities of existence. That at least was my thought. Anyway, I wondered how he felt, at the end of the evening, P, after performing this role as dispenser of facts, as spokesperson for the Facts, but then remaining behind empty handed, starved of human contact. I was looking forward to thinking about this on the way home.
In order to facilitate this thinking, I decided to get a cab. For sometimes there is nothing better than giving oneself the unexpected gift of a cab ride home, and a prime box seat from which to watch the city and its nocturnal personality. This, I imagine, is what Iggy Pop did when he wrote The Passenger, which is exactly the soundtrack to be played whilst travelling by cab through the city late at night, somehow both a spectator of the city but also its very essence. He is right, Mr Iggy Pop, that the sky above the city is derealised or made “hollow” by the cupola of orange and red and silver lights from cars and buildings. You contemplate this great cupola from under glass, or of course you can slide the window down and hear the rush of the wind and the drunken voices it catches and discards like litter. None of this of course would mean anything to P, who would doubtless know Iggy Pop’s real name, and when and where the song was written.
In any case, I had prepared to contemplate P and the role of “facts” in the Male imagination. But as the cab journey began, all I could think of, suddenly, was that time in Prague, walking home along Karlova, after going to the Jazz club, when I was nearly knocked down by a man on a bicycle, skinny with a black cap and goggles. What he was doing, racing late at night along that bone-shaking cobbled street I have no idea. I hardly had time to register the near collision than he’d disappeared, and the receding whirr of the wheels died in the whorl of my ear. Silence closed in once more. I took this, at the time, this cyclist, to be some kind of herald of Death, some kind of minatory herald sent by bony and nocturnal Death. For our imagination seizes on phenomenon and turns them into metaphors almost before we have time to perceive them in their literal state. This was all I could think about for the cab journey home, and in fact I asked the driver to stop early, about half a mile from the flat, so that I could walk and get some cool air and clear my head of this demon from Prague.
Sunday, September 13, 2020
Monday, I joined hands with a lost habit, afternoon coffee at Gastro’s. It must
be two or three years. Parking the bike in Sainsbury’s car park, nodding to the
old clock at Clapham station, 4.40pm. The same as before. The habit was there waiting
for me and I too was suddenly the same as before. The table inside right by the
window of course, as if slipping back into the contours of myself, when I used
to be myself so perfectly and without thinking.
I catch my reflection in the window and, surprisingly, I look exactly as I would want myself to look. Dark and saturnine, curls falling over my face, the brow creased; the eyes downcast, serious but long-lashed and therefore almost boyish, innocent, protecting themselves. Like a little allegory of Contemplation, I think to myself, then laughing at the phrase.
A woman comes in with her girlfriend. The sunlight streams in through the open door, silhouetting her in brilliance at the same time as it darkens her already dark hair. She has eyes only for the girlfriend. She suggests the table outside, and so they sit together on the other side of the glass, right under my nose. The thick arc of her eyebrows. But then the sun goes behind a cloud and the face is suddenly different, scarcely the same person.
An hour later and I’m still there. There’s now a man on the next table. Completely bald, short, with a large grey hat that he’s placed in front of him. His small blue eyes animated and vigilant behind round thick rimmed glasses. His voice is too loud, insensitive to context, and he himself, in his whole body, is awkward and keen to assert himself. “It’s a non-sequitur!” he’s yelling, “a complete non sequitur”! He’s with a younger nodding man. A few drinks later they’re laughing. They too leave in time.
This was always my little corner of France, right here in London. That was my fantasy, that I stepped through the magic portal into France, and drank café au lait and ate the sweet pain au raisin, and looked at my face in the window, with a stripe of sunlight running down it. And Cooka the waitress bringing me a second coffee without my asking. And the old snow-haired man always sat at the bar as he might do in Paris, and morning coffee served in bowls and the French onion soup and soft baguettes.Everything real that we are most attached to, the reflected face in the window, the small French café, is simultaneously the furniture and habiliments of our inmost fantasies. Fantasies to which we are fastened even as - and because - time carries us off elsewhere