Visions (First Movement)Hierophany Heresiarch Scientific method Interface Dryad Fusion Gaia Magic bullet Scientific method – 2 Puzzle Prayer Parent Pierce Entropy E Personal Jardin public à Bellac (Haute-Vienne) Disposition Vista
Theme and variations - Mirror (2nd Movement)La déesse des blés et des maïs Variation on a theme of Baudelaire White lilac La fille aux cheveux de lin Essence Snake Dance Ille mi par esse deo videtur Her jewels Image Come away with me Daisy chain Kyalyuvat
Rondo (3rd Movement)
Andante (4th Movement)
Finale - Goddess (5th Movement)Zeitgeist All of creation Ballad of the Golden Cow Countdown Requiem for the late tragic events Spectator sport Bushmeat Letter to a chimpanzee
Che dir nol posson con parola integra. Dante here in my all home comforts punishment camp, brutalized, allergic to memory in the body, penned in the muscles, concentrated in tensors, inter-scapulars, trapezius and deltoid, guaranteed to last a lifetime of headache depression despair memories in the head: the child that I was studying the maps, arrows on newsprint, armies marching. I was twelve and a half when the Daily Express referred to a photo too foul to be printed: I studied it later that week in the News of the World: memories on a screen, stills for the most part, frozen callous in those drained and senseless shades, as if the horrors had burnt through the negative, leached out the print: the terrible return of the repressed. anti-semitism is something I never got. it was around, of course, when I was a child, but so British: we had a lodger once, during the war, oh him, they said, he’s a Jew, but not at all as if the poor fellow could help it. the only one I’d ever met, --of course I knew what else they said, they stick together, jew you down, they’d skin a turd to save a farthing (this from my mother, notably expert at shovelling shit), I scarcely remember him, pale and quiet, much younger than the other lodgers, no better off, he used to take me to a workmen’s café for a cheese roll and the strong sweet tea in heavy china cups. we would eat and drink contentedly in a warm bubble of mingled voices, while the radio said, Orel, Tula, Kursk: so I would have been ten, and that’s all I remember of Alf, may he have survived; so that when later, many maps later, the radio said those other names, the ones you dare not say for fear, for fear, when the newspapers filled in all the details, captioned all the photographs, lengthy footage on the newsreels in ashpit greys, skeletons barely moving, propped by tumbled bones with no escape, I must have seen in those gruesome rags a private nightmare: to be a Jew, to have the right to hate, to hate their tormentors. religion is the tender art of handling guilt with the ultimate aim of getting God off the hook: these images gave a licence to loathe God the father and all his clones. images on a screen: here today in real time and living colour history’s compulsive repetition with minimal variation, another name, medieval tableaux, strikingly posed, straight out of Bosch: background, the town, compact and prosperous, foreground, the fields and the people that live there: it could be any old camcorderland: it isn’t Hollywood you see, the dead stay dead the wounded scream then (formatted neatly between the commercials) the stumbling feet of refugee hordes surging monotonously past drab uniforms. Well at least these days you see a better class of refugee Oh change the channel change the channel: the Muselmann, Medusa’s prey frozen in time, stands entranced: the sirens in the naked wire still hum their sweet electric air for him, for him, in a landscape inhuman as the city of Dis, hideous, not in black and white but vicious grit and bonedust greys: the cinderblock sounds, place names from Hell, history suffering chronic collective post-traumatic stress disorder, old tapes replaying, acting out, futureless, mislaid in time, --stands the camp clock still at three?— a bureaucratic horror show roll call of central European names, dull provincial railway station names, places where what remains of endless lists of names and forenames in all the tongues of the continent indistinguishably mingled cinders the path underfoot I never thought death could be so dull until you long for an unknown name, some hamlet, some inaccessible village where nothing happened all the time, where people lived and died, no-one invaded, no more of these atrocious scenes of future dread, flashpoints and brinkmanship, where massacres, all too boringly similar are brought to you here in your home in newsreelcolour courtesy of CNN. What else is on? ‘Disasters of the Century’, or ‘Bushmeat’, but that seems to be a nature programme. What about a travelogue, ‘Battlefields of future wars’? images on a screen as history telescopes, twists and dilates under our eyes, spiralling toward some strange attractor, the apparent motion accelerating asymptotically, giving rise to distortion multiplying indistinguishable doubles at a high level of logical paradox, quasi-symmetrical variations of greatly increased complexity on the routine themes of twentieth century slaughter, murder and torture, with one hundred per cent blanket exposure on numerous channels all around the global village. What about the Catastrophe channel? the Muselmann lies in his bunk picking his scabs. call it self-pity.