Lost Amongst Feranjis

(Feranjis : Amharic for foreigners)

It's no secret that the stars are falling from the sky
its no secret that our world is in darkness tonight
they say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon
you know I don't see you when you walk in the room




So imagine this:
To go seamlessly, like air, unnoticed, invincible, floating, across borders and crashing into lives. With only Nietzsche, John Steinbeck, Paul Theroux and your blank journals to keep you company. Not skulk on the surface and merely scratch it. To sneak in, take off your shoes, and your socks, hey have an ice-cold drink, play at peek-a-boo with the littluns (Lord of the Flies), and then to sit there. For as long as it takes. Days - Weeks - Months. Who knows? To watch, smell, taste and feel and touch. To prod, to question, to provoke, and to listen - Attentively. To imbibe, to jot down, to put to paper, in those blank journals; for blank spaces, to render visceral landscapes not in waterpaints but in wordpaints. To hear words. Spoken. They're sounds you know. Have you ever listened? Timbres? Nuances? Subtleties in meaning? To record dialogue. With wordpaint. Using a fine wordbrush. The chatter of the night. Can you hear it? Precisely. Scribble-scribble. To transport, to transport you my darling, my sweetheart, as if by magic carpet to where I sit; the choking dust, the toxic sun, the verdant bitter harvests; to where I am, to what I feel, what I am thinking, the taste of my fears and the bitterness etched on my tongue. To hold your hand and to take you gently, to take you by your dove white wrists, to take you to partake in me, in being me, at that moment, in time, somewhere. Scribble-scribble. To render a person - to describe the 'essence' of a thing without wallowing in cliche or affectation or pretension to artistic merit. To quite simply see the world through my eyes fogged by my tears and the stink of my sweat. Scribble-scribble.

To feel. To feel the oneness of being alone, in a forest of foreign signs, foreign words and feranji faces. To feel at one with Betelgeuse; up there struggling to be heard through the din of a galaxy of faces, bad faces, unscrutable, malicious faces, burnished and regal; they're all evil-doers you know. Have you ever felt that? That aloneness? Just you. That feeling of primitive man. Ancient cave man. Course you haven't. Nothing but you and the stars. Scribble-scribble.

Love...we shine like a burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight.

To feel the listless torpor of waiting. That 'in-between' place weighing heavy on your temples and squeezing your brain through your ears. Waiting. Waiting for the moment of departure at bus depots, at the airport, at the train station. At the airport - where neon is blinding and scratches. You scratch yourself red in boredom. All of life is here. Not going anywhere. Where all is still and nothing much happens and time is on vacation and fear is king; and then the sigh and release of final departure. Your shackles slither away. Is it the journey or the destination I wonder? What matters? Journey or destination?Here's a thought: Can one travel without destination thus emancipating oneself from the banality of travel? Deep stuff. That'e me. That's my experiment. Yes. How so?

Freedom from destination. When there's no destination the mythical destination becomes everything. Here - now - then. The present is everything. No worries. Scribble-scribble

Freedom from time. There! There goes my watch, in the river, down the ravine, down the latrine. Fuck off watch! Hope you drown shitty little watch!

Freedom from luggage. What luggage?

The contents of my luggage

pair of jeans

couple of t-shirts

a poncho

a years supply of contact lenses

compass ;-)

detailed maps (but not so detailed to raise eyebrows with the military authorities)

2-3 books (travel lit. incl 'Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck - who could make the surface of the moon sound mesmerising)

Journals for jotting. For rendering landscapes. For wordpaint. For wordart. My art (excuse the pretension)
passport

funds

camera

What about inspiration? Inspiration comes free. Pick it up on the road.

Departure date: July 27th.
You ready?
Sure?

Do join me. It's free. Just like life!

Love...we shine like a
burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight

A man will rise
A man will fall
From the sheer face of love
Like a fly from a wall
It's no secret at all

Yes the sheer face of love
There's no secret to life at all...

Coming soon...Asian trip Itinerary

The plan is to begin with er pukka-style in Mirpur, Azad Kashmir. Why? Well, I spent 2 years there in the mid 1990's and seem to have developed an unfathomable desire to see how much this charmless city, built from British Asian wealth (that I cruelly detested at the time and was really miserable in; as if in purgatory) has changed with the tide of time. It's not a huge city by any means and I'm looking forward to exploring the chowks. A couple of days should do it. I actually went to a school here for about a year 'Chinnar Public School' where I learnt the importance of 'rote' learning, severe discipline, the ignorance of the science teachers and was introduced to the ignoble pleasures of 'Urdu for 4 year olds'. From there I'll be heading into deepest Himalaya; with base camp being in 'Gilgit', where I plan to acquire lodgings with a 'desi' (local) family and their litter of animals, root vegetables and wobbly-toothed grand Daddies. Again, family life affords you a more rewarding experience and a chance to get to know people more intimately. Gilgit will be a good base from which to make forays into the Himalayan heartlands. Later there's the Karakoram Highway into China to look forward to and then farther on, Mongolia, Tibet et al. But more on that later.

Currently reading...The Enchantress of Florence

A sumptuous feast of a book. I spent two whole days devouring this treat and feel pretty full up. The bibliography at the back alludes to the extensive research the author conducted, and as you flick through the rich tapestry between the pages, it shows. It takes some chutzpah to create an Akbar who intones: 'is there a god?' 'are we not members of the religion of our forebears passed down from generation to generation like a family heirloom?' - God forbid an atheistic Akbar?! - Moghul King gone haywire; but you can see Salman had huge fun creating this larger than life personality and giving him a totally unexpected quirk; imbibing him with his own sense of whimsy and the absurdity of creation. To the chagrin of the other female princesses Akbar even goes as far as to magically 'create' an imaginary princess of princesses. Most beautiful, most sexed, and not at all sycophantic like the others; this perfect female creation of his mind is disdainful and rebukes him for his puppy love sickness, teasing him with vicious sex games and clawing at his skin with finger nails. The novel traipses between the Indian city of Sikri and the Florence of Machiavelli (who even manages to make an entrance) - the two cities connected by the magical filigrees of a dainty story about a beautiful princess and a yellow haired charlatan. There is much here to like. Such as the sexual habits of the Moghul court replete with scheming concubines, lecherous wenches, love potions, performance enhancing 'horse testes' rubs, sodomy, sado-masochistic sex, debauchery, and Akbars retinue of advisers; all characters themselves. One thing you come out of this book appreciating, if anything, is how sexed the Moghuls were. No wonder Akbar is believed to have sired hundreds if not thousands of spawns. A virtuoso performance indeed. No, not Akbar, I meant Salman.

A song for a departure

Coming soon...Algeria - The city of Oran

The setting for Albert Camus's classic 'The Plague'

Coming soon...Part VI - Levantine Intrigues

Part V - Slipstream Divine

'To see a world in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour'

(William Blake)

Madness Divine

Let me just say that I am not mad. I've thought about it, as one inadvertently does during such long journeys, and I have reached the conclusion that I am thoroughly sane. So with that I'd like to begin: It is only when you really truly understand what lies between suns that you become a god.

It’s the distances; those epic, unforgiving, and magisterial stretches that forge memory blankness that do it you know. How can a mortal mind take it?

Equations you say? But that is not comprehension. That is management. That is you attempting to manage, to fit the unassailable into a little box marked ‘mystery’, so that you don’t have to think about it. But comprehension, comprehension is something well, something else.

When I was little my father used to play a game. We’d be cruising above the desert of our home planet and suddenly he’d throw open the hatch and deposit us (gently) onto the sand dunes (me and my sister). Two seconds flight-time later he’d cut the engines and then it would begin. The idea of the game was that we were to make our way to him - on foot. Two seconds – we couldn’t even see him! It’d take us the best part of the day to travel the distance and even then we could only make out the fuzzy blip on the horizon. What he was giving us was a vital lesson in cosmic empathy.

But that was many years gone past,

Many years have eluded me as I traipse between suns. I can now say that I really truly understand cosmic empathy. I wonder sometimes, sometimes aloud how time tastes to you? Does it taste the same as it does to me? For me time feels like something that accumulates, something that is constantly depositing a fine layer on me. And as we move farther and farther through time this layer thickens and thickens. And the same applies to distance too because time and distance are brother and sister. I understand from others that you probably see time as something different; something that is lost and never to be recovered. That the passing of time is something not good?

Do you not think that how we feel time colours how we see? I think so. I can’t go back. Not because I feel terror at the enormity of the task but because I have no desire to shed the layers of time and distance I have accumulated in my journey. These are precious. And also, there’s the psychological impact of the interminability of the return journey. That would be bad, not good. But full steam ahead as they say; who knows the same interminability may greet me but it will be a different interminability. Not the same.

But where was I?

Yes, I was talking about distances and time – the mere fact of having traversed them leaves a mark on you. Like a visit to a place of poverty, a brush with death or a meet with someone you admire. It leaves an indelible mark.

What kind of a mark you ask?

Well, an intimate empathy of the scale of nothingness, and an even greater empathy for the nothingness of everything.

Everything and nothing

Life and death

Infinity,

I can see it you know. I really do understand it. It sits there in my mind looking at me; smiling. Sneering at me with its black rotten teeth. The realisation.

The moment of realisation – ha!

It creeps up on you at first, insinuates its way through you and then without warning the realisation strikes you between the temples. Whack! Stunned.

Then follows a sort of giddy excitement. Your mind races around. You want to tell someone what you realise. But, why are you so excited? You have nobody to tell. It’s only you here and your toys in the cargo hold! Why then the excitement? Just imagine you’re the only one in the world. Just imagine. What would excite you? Would anything excite you at all? Exactly.

After the excitement there’s a deep understanding. Yes, that becomes part of you; permeates you, until it soaks through your bones and you become this understanding and realisation.

You realise what it means to hold infinity,

Touch it, and in your hand look at it,

Like a god.


Slipstream Divine

The object (for that is what the inhabitants of the planet would have thought if they could see it) hung motionless above the atmosphere. It was a gross violation of nature the way it just hung there, as below it churned the verdant blue planet swathed in white shawls. The curvature of the planet was gilded; it defined itself against the starry void beyond. The sun carved a huge arc across it; slicing it in half – night and day.

I want to kill them people on the planet

Why?

Because I can…And because nobody will know about it. Nobody will find out because they’ll all be dead and there’s nobody to watch me do it.

But why?

I don’t know. Because I don’t know any of them so I won’t be paying a currency of grief.

What do you mean?

I have not seen them. My eyes have not touched them. My heart has not reached out to them. I don’t know them so I have no emotional attachment to them. So I can kill them.

But just say if I had spent even five minutes with them. Watching their children running around and playing games (which I’m sure they do), watching the mothers doting after them and bossing over them, then I would perhaps think differently. But I am 20 miles above and I don’t have these feelings.

But you could?

Yes, I could but I don’t. That is a fact.

Isn’t that evil?

I don’t know. I suppose it is. But I don’t feel like it is evil. Ok admittedly it’s a bad thing to do, but that is outweighed by the fact that it will make me feel good.

Why?

Because it is act of doing something that most people would say is wrong or evil. And knowing that you will never be found out gives it a thrill like taking a sly shit in somebody's garden or in a field when there’s no one around to watch you. Or deliberately smacking a little kid knowing you won't be caught – because the kids too small to speak and to have a memory.

That’s sick?

Is it?

Yes.

Look, you can’t kill them.

Why?

Because it is not your right to take life. You didn’t give them life so why should you take it?

But who gave them life?

I don’t know. That’s beside the point. The point is you should give them a chance to live. They’ll only get one chance at living. They’ll die eventually anyway. Let them experience it.

Experience what? Life or death?

Life!

Doesn’t the nothingness you have travelled though make them seem amazing or special? Like brilliant crystals in a dull solution?

No. It makes them look pathetic and puny in the shadow of the vastness of everything. And I am that vastness. It has absorbed me into it. I understand true distance, true vastness, true scale – these people are, you can’t imagine. They’re just nothings.

Look, don’t kill them there’s no fun in that. Interfere a little,
play with them…

You’re mad! And you are supposed to be me my conscience?

And you are I?

And we are one.

Coming soon...Part V - Slipstream Divine

'To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour'

(William Blake)

Part IV - The Enchantment of Father Eduardo Conspiratorez

'I am enchanted,
By the light you bring to me
I listen to your ears,
Through your eyes I can see'

(Scene 1)

On Tuesday, 27th November AD 1095, Pope Urban II made a speech that would change the course of history. He’d summoned a great Council to Clermont in France to make a major announcement. There was tremendous excitement, the air was buzzing and the cathedral that was to host the event was not nearly big enough. Hence the papal throne had to be moved to a nearby boggy field where atop the pulpit looking every bit the regal viceroy he was, the Pope revealed what was on his mind: He had received an embassy from the emperor of Byzantium seeking help in driving back the Moslems; to protect the righteous Christians from the barbarian Moslem Seljuk Turks who were advancing towards the Bosporus to Byzantium. Thus under the banner of the Cross the Pope’s speech was a call to arms. He summoned all Christian warriors to aid their brothers in the East. This was to fire the imagination of Europe for the next 400 years. Thus the Crusades were born.

But like all such endeavours there was a hidden agenda that the Pope failed to mention that day. Historians today acknowledge that there was another kind of fire burning at the heart of this revolutionary papacy; by summoning an army under the banner of the Cross the Pope was extending the Church’s mantle over the whole of Christendom. Pope Urban’s army would rescue Jerusalem, the physical and spiritual centre of the universe, and the Pope would in turn become ruler of Jerusalem and de-facto Arch Monarch of the World. And what did the Pope offer in return to would be Crusaders? Paradise. Those who took part had all their sins forgiven. Thus a purely political enterprise was cleverly worked into a righteous religious endeavour. For the believers the Crusades were a religious and moral obligation.

That is the official origin of the Crusades believed by many scholars to be true.
But this too is spurious and not totally accurate…

‘There is no greater fear for the Papal elite, then the fear of becoming at one with God’s heaving masses’

(21st century poet)

(Scene 2)

The candle caught a draught and flickered tremulously in the corner. Its halo hemmed in by the walls of the cloistered rectangular side chapel. It was a smallish chamber, situated to the left of the main vessel. It had a domed ribbed-roof decorated with arches of formeret beams that began at shoulder height from semicircular decorative corbels. The tiny opaque windows at the front were set in triangular liernes and foliated motifs. A solitary shape sat scribbling away under the single candle flame. The hunched shadow was wearing the habit and cowl of a monk with a long bony hand that thrust out from it and from whose end dangled a quill. The sound of furious scribbling parted the darkness. The bony hand finally grabbed the wax and christened the note with the papal seal of Pope Urban II. The shadow gestured to the darkness and the darkness responded; a messenger who had been hiding in the shadow all along approached the sinewy hand, and upon receipt of the letter, bowed, stepped backwards and headed out in solemn but assured hurriedness.

The letter he was carrying was bound for Venice, under personnel protection of the Pope’s personal courier system. The couriers were hand picked and amongst the most trusted. They were trained in warfare, deception, hand to hand combat and protected by Papal decree to boot. They travelled alone, under cover of darkness, in disguise and were instructed to do whatever necessary to ensure delivery. Pope Urban II had just dictated the letter.

It read as follows:

From the office of Pope Pious Urban II
To: Father Montezuma Obispo
Venetian Seminary of Priesthood.
Casa Combrecci,
Venice.

Friday 30th, November AD 1095

Dearest brother,

How is Ma? Please convey her my blessings.

These are difficult times. A tempest brews in the East bringing tidings of woe. The Holy lands are besieged by heathen Moslems who dare to desecrate the Holy Chapel in Jerusalem – such insolence! The Temple Mount is stricken by their filthy type. They laugh at us! They jeer at our impotence and celebrate our bickering and quarrelling. And now to add fat to their already ripe bellies they dare to shame us further. Yes, our ears have received tidings that a band of Moslem brigands have conspired to exhume the tomb of Saint Mark, Venice’s patron Saint, who as you know is buried in Alexandria, and are carrying it to the East as we speak! Such daring!

To where?

Who knows? But word has reached us of a possible final resting place beyond Mesopotamia and across the Euphrates in the land of the Dravidians (a brutish people who practice idolatry). But information from these parts being so scarce and poor we have no further tidings. Hence, I come to you my brother for assistance. Can you dispatch one of your most trusted companions on a fact-finding mission? I enclose a Papal Passport that obliges all citizens of our lands to assist the bearer in whatever form necessary – a personnel guarantee from me. And instructions. This must be kept secret. If news of this were leaked I fear the whole of Venice would become a mob baying for blood.

Pope Pious Urban II
Official Seal
[Encl]

(Scene 3)

‘Has the letter been dispatched?’

‘It has your most Holiness’

‘Good, Good’

‘And your brother your Holiness?’

‘Montezuma has always been faithful. He is too trusting and that is his weakness. I dare he will not raise suspicion. As God’s vessel on earth one is entitled to take liberties, for His exaltation. If this means lying to my own brother then He understands. We must protect His authority. Without His guidance there will be nothing but chaos and infirmary’

‘Yes, of course your Holiness’

‘Any further news from the prisoner?’

‘No your Holiness. I fear we have squeezed this one dry’

‘I see. I think it is time we prayed for his soul departed’

‘Yes – your Holiness’

‘And what of the rumours you’re Holiness?’

‘If they do bare fruit then dark times lay ahead. But pray we will be prepared’

‘How so your Holiness?’

‘As we speak thousands of good Christians have dropped their hoes and are marching towards the Holy Land. The sacking of Jerusalem from the Moslems is a mere pretext for what is to come. The Lord works in mysterious ways’

‘Yes your holiness. The Lords omniscience knows no bounds’

‘Indeed. The Lord is all knowing and all powerful’

And so the two retired to their chambers, one bowing as he left.

(Scene 4)

There were two loves in the life of Eduardo Conspiratorez:
The Holy Church and the Madonna Countessa – languorous eyes, sensuous smile. Seductively alluring. He still hadn’t decided which one he’d choose. They’d meet in secret. Venice seemed perfect for such amorous adventures. Damp, dark, cloistered, and crowded Venice perched. She was secretive, opaque and rife with superstitions and blind alleys and sinister inhabitants. The narrow streets barely wide enough for a person were twisted with bewildering turns. You’d crawl though one of these only at the end to be greeted by the expanse of the Grand Canal, and beyond the Adriatic Sea – enchanting you. Cobwebs of mist rose from the canals, veiling the lanterns. Rats were in abundance – disembarking off the ships, scurrying along the wharves, gnawing off the wood-beams, and bringing with them the dreaded plague.

Throughout Europe travel was supremely hazardous and not to be taken lightly. But in Venice, small in size, compact, with a merchant aristocracy, fiercely independent, commercial, with a global outlook; travel was the norm. Everyone in Venice was either a traveller or a merchant. The variety of goods that poured in from the ports where a veritable feast for the senses. Minerals, sandalwood, cinnamon, nutmeg, figs, pomegranates, hides, ostrich feathers, pearls, ivory, copper, silk, gums and Asian slaves. But underneath this cupola of a global bazaar, Venice could be cruel. Women were treated as chattel. Slavery was common and abuse rampant. A popular piece of advice to prospective Venetian husbands urged:

‘The wife, who has not sound judgement, must not guide the husband. Her weak constitution borne by the excess of bile humours propensities her to capricious rumbustiousness’

Yet, amidst this chauvinism Father Eduardo Conspiratorez was more enlightened then most. Blessed with a strong mother he had developed a deep respect for the female kind. Which was why the beautiful Madonna Countessa loved him so.
They’d meet secretly under the roof of the Casa Barone, a building belonging to one of Eduardo’s merchant uncles who was away. His heart would soar like a bird in anticipation. His joy knew no bounds. A little bird would start flitting in his heart and would not stop until he’d held her tightly in his arms and nibbled on her ears and devoured her lips. Those were frivolous times. But more then anything it was the way she looked at him that did it. A look of brilliant, radiant and carefree happiness – a look that said anything is possible with you darling.

But Eduardo also wanted to love Him. A women’s love was for now but God’s love was forever and what better way to show that love then to give up this frail carnal love, a love of the flesh, for an immutable love of the infinite soul.
For the love of God is something real to the 11th century mind. In-fact, there is no question of its existence; it is taken as real, has form as substantial as the things you see with your own eyes.
Thus the tempest raged in Eduardo’s heart. But for the meantime as he lay in Madonna Countessa’s arms, it was becalmed. Bestricken by shame:

‘I love you’

‘I know’

‘But what do you know of my love?’

‘I know it exists’

‘Exists. What a funny word that is eh? Exists. My love exists. But it says nothing of what it means to exist. What it involves. What it feels like. Does it say anything of the knots in my stomach? The joy of the heart? The dissolving away of my troubles. How it feels when I touch your skin. To feel your sweet breath on my breastbone. The smell of your hair. The warmth of your body. Exists. Hah! What an impoverished word it is!’

‘What would you have me say then darling?’

‘It breathes. It soars and it swoops. It gets angry and it gets jealous. It rages. It belittles. It hates. It…

‘Exists?’

‘Ha ha ha!’ and so they kissed

(Scene 5)

The Venetian Seminary of Priesthood is situated on the eastern flanks of Venice. It is the oldest and most respected seminary in the land and specialises in the training of priests. Many of its members would one day be ordained as cardinals, acolytes in the courts of the Holy Roman Emperor and ambassadors to countless others. It was like a modern day university and taught many subjects that nowadays would be called scientific disciplines all under the guise of ‘Natural Philosophies’. One of its many trainees was Eduardo Conspiratorez.

‘Eduardo we must talk’ said Montezuma

‘As you wish’

‘Perhaps you’d care to come to my chamber?’ Montezuma said holding out his hand gesturing the way in. This gesture was more an acknowledgment of the rarity of this event. For none of the trainees had ever seen Father Montezuma’s office before. Eduardo senses this was a portent for what was to come.

The chamber was large and smelled of sandalwood mingled with incense. It had a high ceiling with a cornice but was otherwise, in keeping with tradition, rather austere. The shelves were lined with little niches that held scrolls and on one side the entire wall was devoted to books. The look was finished off with a large painting of Pope Urban II with the Papal emblem affixed to the wall above it. He was after all his brother. This was another reason why this was such a good seminary; it had connections right to the top. Montezuma gestured towards a chair but he himself remained standing with his back towards Eduardo staring at his brothers portrait.

‘Eduardo, allow me to be frank. But none of this leaves this room. I feel comfortable that I can speak to you like this, with candidness. We’re a training college. We, as you are aware, train priests who will one day be awarded desirable positions in the greatest cities and monasteries throughout Christendom. But lets be clear on one thing: We may preach the word of God but as people of flesh and blood we are subject to the vagaries of the flesh. Look, many here are here because of who they are. We are a coterie. That is the way the world works and one must be pragmatic about such matters. We require funding, and as you know, the fees we get from the Venetian treasury are trifling. It is the alumni, our powerful alumni that really support us. But that is another matter. My point is, and I will make it in the form of a rhetorical question – how many of your colleagues are here for the right reasons?’

Eduardo sat silently not wanting to answer

‘I’d hazard a guess and say not many. Look I’m sure they will make great priests and cardinals but, but what is in the deepest recesses of their hearts – who knows. Apart from Him. But your heart Eduardo! Your heart Eduardo I can see. You wear your heart on your face, not hide it like the others. Look, the Pope has sought my help in a certain matter of utmost exigency. Take a look at this letter. Take your time. Read it here. There is no hurry. But remember everything you have heard and are about to read stays in these four walls.

(Scene 6)

Father Eduardo Conspiratorez watched from the deck as the ship sailed out from the Venetian morning. It was too-ing and fro-ing from the swell and the wind was lashing at the stern and flecking the sapphire sea with white. He watched this city that had been his home with a curious detachment that gave it an otherworldly spectre. Viewed from a distance, this bustling centre of the universe now looked strangely dethroned and debunked of all its mystery. The spires shrunk until they were no more then rude interruptions in the monotonous horizon. He drew a deep breath and sighed. Not because he needed to but rather to draw a line under a new beginning. This would be an arduous journey. He was heading for the Levant and from there it had been arranged that he would join an overland camel train to take him into the interior of Asia Minor. He’d be travelling under the guise of a lunatic monk, the only Christian in a sea of churning Heathens. Instinctively he felt for the Passport in his inner pocket. There it was snugly resting against his breast. His breast. And then he remembered the Madonna Countessa and began to cry.

(Scene 7)

‘Have we received tidings from my brother?’

‘Yes, your Holiness’

‘And?’

‘A certain Father Eduardo Conspiratorez has been despatched your Holiness’

‘I see. Is he any good?’

‘My people say he is a good man. Honest. Steady. A rock. The type who would do anything for His holiness’

‘Anything? those are exactly the type I should fear'

‘Anyway, any news from the source?’

‘There is much rumour and speculation your Holiness and if…’

‘Spare me the details. What at least can we be sure of?’

‘The Turks too are getting nervous and jittery - that we are sure of. We’ve intercepted some of their emissaries and they speak of a great power in the East your Holiness’

‘This is a portent. I see dark clouds ahead. We must not let such intrigues beset us. Tread carefully’

‘Yes, your holiness’

And so the master and his acolyte, the latter bowing in deference, retired to their chambers.

Coming soon...Part IV - The Enchantment of Father Eduardo Conspiratorez

'I am enchanted by the light you bring to me
I listen through your ears, through your eyes I can see'

(21st century poet)

Coming soon...ilovebeingme.com

Part III - The Vaults of the Museum of Modern-Antiquities

‘Bet yer can’t guess wot I do?’

I looked him over.
He looked pitiable; like an emasculated door mouse. He was in his dotage. Small of stature. Fidgety. Skin wrapped in centuries of folds that held god knows what secrets. He had a hooked nose, large furry ears, and bushy eyebrows. His face had a sulphury complexion under the light bulb that hung above us; its feeble glow our only source of light. His eyes were like diamond cutters – two magnetic bright blue beams that shone out from amongst the folds of flesh and pierced the smudgy blackness.
‘No you’re right, I can’t’
He looked up at me. His eyebrows reproaching me with their bushiness.
‘Garn!’ he cried with a playful shove. ‘Wot’s yer bleedin’ game, eh? Can yer not take a guess matey!’
‘Alright, alright’ I said.
‘Let me see. You’re the esteemed curator of the museum, right?’
I waited for another exasperated look of indignation.
Instead he smiled and nodded approvingly.
‘That my friend is coweckt-a-mundo’
‘You, you are?!’ I stuttered, surprised.
‘You? Me? Yes me, who else can yer see with us laddy?’

The poor man had been summoned up to the surface to fetch me - to be my guide. And he seemed rather pleased about it too. I suspected he was nocturnal and didn’t get out much. The two of us were crammed in an elevator heading downwards; the ancient winch and pulley mechanism variety; its cogwheels moaning and complaining to each other. I got the impression that the elevator wasn’t used often. There wasn’t much to see in the elevator apart from the patch of yellow below me that identified the man' bold head. There was a fusty odour too; an old-fashioned mustiness and the distinct smell of bread crumbs. I suspected this was coming from the man’s lunch stashed in his pockets.

‘Sorry I didn’t quite catch your name, what was it again?’ I asked
‘Again?’ he replied ‘I’ve not given yer my name laddy so there’s no again about it! but as you ask so kindly you can go callin’ me Kenny’
‘Ok, so tell me Mr Kenny, do you get many visitors down here?’ It was pretty obvious they didn’t. The elevator itself would scare them away.
‘V’zeetors? V’zeetors! Wot wud we wont v’zeetors down ere’ for? Wen der’s plenty of em’ ponces crawling up der!’ he shrilled.

We continued to descend and then the lift gave a sudden thud and stopped.
‘Ahh the bo-em’ Kenny sighed. He’d reached home. The bottom.

What surprised me was that we hadn’t so much stopped at the bottom but landed on it. Before I could add anything further we we’re off. It was dark below. The air was dank and draughty. We walked through a warren of corridors and tunnels lined with vaults. The floor was stony and it echoed with our footsteps. All sounds were amplified down here; like mortars tearing through the air. You could hear your laboured breathing, the steady drip-drip of distant leaking pipes, and the furtive scurrying of a large portion of London’s rodent population and all this to the backdrop of looming shadows that lunged at you with vengeance. You could hear the constant drone of the overhead light bulbs; amberesque balls of grimy-yellow that ran along the ceiling in single file like soldiers and disappeared into the depths as far as the eye could see. How long the tunnels were!

‘How big is this place?!’ I asked
Kenny went into his (little used) tour-guide routine:
‘Four miles of corridors serving 153 individual coffered domed vaults. We have 3,567 light bulbs, each of which I have personally changed at-least 5 times…’
Suddenly there was a deep rumbling under our feet followed by the sound of grinding gears. It sounded suspiciously like a train.
‘and that is the Piccadilly Line westbound train to’ he paused, ‘to Russell Square’ – Kenny was on a roll.

‘When were these tunnels and vaults built?’ I asked.

‘Ooh, ages ago mate. Yonks before the fire n’way’
‘The great fire of London in 1666?’
‘Yus, dats wight. If yer look up T’ ceilin’ he said pointing ‘In them corners yer can still see the blackened stumps of the wood beams that wer burnt. The inferno must ‘ave raged ‘ell above, but the roof is made of stone so the vaults wer saved. Them vaults r’ old laddy. They wer around well before the Great Sewage Works Building Program of the 1500s. I know this cos me mate who works in the sewers and he say’s to me one day the sewers go around these vaults. There wer som arch‘ologists that came round er last year; pokin n’ peepin’ and wot av yer with der fancy E’kwipment n’ all. Dunno wot they found tho’ – if anyfink dat is’

‘Have they always housed the collection here?’

‘Oh no, the current building above was built in the 1600s. It first belonged to some o’ganization or suffink and then they turned it to a museum. Before all that there was a church ere on this sight. The museum building was built on the foundations of the old church building yer see. The underground vaults however ave always been ere’. Even before the church. I’m not sure if anybody knows wen tho. Maybe those archi ‘ologists know. Who knows?
‘But you’ve been here for years right? Do you not have any ideas?’
‘Wot I fink don't matter. But I fink these vaults go back years, as far back as the Crusades’

Then he paused

‘Look there’s suffink ere’ I wanna show yer. I think those arch’ologists missed this. Yer game?’
‘Er, Yeah. Sure’ I said.

Secret Vault

We headed into a vault in the corner. There was nothing especial about it. It had a coffered-domed ceiling just like the others. On the far side there was a rectangular niche built into the wall. This too was not unfamiliar but on closer inspection, when you poked your head into it, you noticed that one of the sides of the niche had a narrow passage that a single person could pass through sideways. When you went through to the other-side, you was in another vault. A vault onto another!

But this second vault was different. It had a ribbed-ceiling not coffered like the others and patterned cornice running around its knees. It was much older -12^th century Romanesque style I'd guess. But what was really startling was what adorned the wall on the far side. I walked towards it. It was a large arch structure, containing a ‘Jali’ or latticework screen with geometrical patterns. There were two panels on either side of the bottom with fret patternage. The outer rim of the arch itself had further layers of herring bone patterns, floral undulations, carved stone and finally a series of inscriptions. The design had arabesque motifs. It looked like a ‘Mihrab’ found in mosques indicating the direction to Mecca but the inscriptions at the top and those surrounding the arch were not Arabic at all. On closer inspection they looked liked 'Sanskrit'. It was wholly inexplicable - an Arabic design but Sanskrit calligraphy? I had never seen anything like it before! I would have liked to have studied it further but Kenny was growing impatient. So we headed back out.

The Diary

We entered the vault that housed the Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin collection. The air was gristled with the unmistakable smell of old paper. The vault was lined with sheaves and sheaves of it. Floor to ceiling; buff and yellowed and dog eared by age and covered in a thin patina of dust. The paper lined the walls and it seemed to buttress the ceilings; our only protection from the roof caving in. Kenny had to leave.
'jus press the buzzer if yer need me - yeah?’ and then he was off

Soon I was rummaging through the paperwork. I found a diary belonging to the doctor and began reading...

Extracts from Dr Nutterboffin's Diary:

May 14^th, 1963 – Happy at last! Excavation officially commenced today after many weeks delay wrangling with the Kashmiri authorities over permits, fees, taxes, and baksheesh. The officials! My god! Had heard about them but never for the life of me thought they’d be this bad. The worst is a particularly disingenuous rascal and petulant man called Mr Ghulam Backander, the Area Commissioner for Geological Surveys (as he keeps trying to remind me). Mr GB has a bushy mustache. The mustache has a habit of involuntary twitching whenever Mr Ghulam has something on his mind and what he has on his mind is ‘greasing’ or the desire to be greased. So I handed him 100 rupees ‘grease tax’ and his mustache stopped twitching – can’t even fart here without someone wanting to see a permit. Hopefully this will be the last of the authorities – fingers crossed!

May 15^th, 1963 - I started digging at sight A1 (see map). Location: North East of Mangla Dam - twenty metres from the water line on an incline. Sight secluded and relatively undisturbed. Managed to set up the survey equipment, tent, stove and provisions. Some villagers came round to see what I was doing. Somebody must have told them about me. They sat squatting some distance from the camp on a slight rise, shielding their eyes from the midday sun, their salwar kameezs flapping in the wind. From the distance they looked like desert nomads. ‘Assalam’o’alaikum!’ I shouted - we exchanged pleasantries. They were more interested in the equipment. They left promising to come back again soon. Just being nosy I suppose.

May 16^th, 1963 – Digging going well. Nothing so far. Mainly ruddy dust. It’s hot!

May 17^th, 1963 – Soil mainly sandstone with occasional Syenite crystals indicating igneous rock history. Nothing extraordinary there. It’s lovely to sit here at sunset under the shade of the cool elongated shadows, especially after the furnace of the day. The scene is landscaped by the Karakoram Range in the far distance under whose feet the gentle undulating curves of the Pamir foothills ripple like satin sheets. Beautiful!

May 19^th, 1963 – Had lunch today on the top of a bluff not far from the excavation site. Great vantage point! Could see the entire sweep of the east and north shores of the dam. Noticed something peculiar: The vegetation. Or lack thereof; no vegetation or tree/shrub line for about 40 metres from the waters edge. Will send soil samples for mass spectrometry analysis.

May 25^th, 1963 – Finally! Mass spectrometry results! See below:

Silicon – normal
Carbon – normal
Sodium – normal
Sulphur – normal
Helium – less than normal (due to reduced biomass – living organisms)
Cadmium – abnormally high concentrations
Potassium – abnormally high concentrations
Unknown – traces of unidentified element (further analysis required)

May 29^th, 1963 - Have dug through the main soil substrata level. Nothing so far. Hard chalky layer next. Took the afternoon off to pay a visit to the nearby village of ‘Nanga Ghandu’. As I entered, the village shamen jumped out from under a tree where he had been masticating some betel leaves. His eyes were vacuous as if he were stoned. He performed a little ritual on me; reciting some incantations all the while jigging his arms from side to side. He made me drink some philtre, and then put a talisman round my neck – presumably to ward of evil spirits.

Thought: Who are they protecting? Me or themselves!
Anthropological note: animalistic nature of ritual at odds with Islamic teaching, yet somehow the locals have fused it into their beliefs – ritual practiced in many other villages bordering the dam. Found no evidence of its existence in farther afield/outlying villages.

Village elders were very kind and hospitable. We had chai. Told them I wanted to know more about the history of the area. So was taken to a hovel that belonged to the oldest person in the village. A women whose birth certificate claimed she was 147 years old (unable to vouch accuracy but record keeping 147 years ago would have been lacking!) – but she did look very old. Her name was Masi Jaan Jalebi. There she stood in front of me. All 4ft 8 inches of her and rather sprightly for her age too! A wizened creature; shrivelled by the heat, her teeth having long departed her, and her husband an even more ancient memory. Looking at her eyes was like looking through layers of tree rings. She lived alone with her chickens, which could be heard clucking and cooing under her bed. The inside of her hut was cool, the walls covered in baked mud and blackened by the soot from the indoor brazier.

I told her about the excavation. Then pointing her calloused hands in the air she croaked:

‘It is cursed! That area is cursed with the dreaded scourge of the Djinns! – Don’t go there if you value your life! Stay away son! Stay away my son for it is cursed! Cursed with the Djinns from the stars!’

Slept badly that night. The witches croaky imploring kept me awake. There was a genuine dread in the old crows voice. The full moon was out and as I lay supine on the mattress I could make out its outline through the gauz of my tent. It was hanging in the velvety blackness like a silvery calabash tossed into the sky. I stared at its fuzziness and slowly and gradually let my shutters close in on it.

June 2^nd, 1963 – The height of summer! Have been paying visits to the outlying villages. Same story always: a paganistic tinge flavours their beliefs and a dread of the area – where does this pernicious dread come from? Why are the villagers universally afraid of the dam? The dam was only built three years ago in 1960? Am I missing something here?

June 4^th, 1963 – Finally dug through chalky layer. Hard work! Found something puzzling; underneath the chalk was a black viscous oily layer of approx 1mm thickness. Definitely not an artifact. Will send sample for carbon dating. Not sure if anybody else has mentioned this in the scientific literature.

June 8^th, 1963 – Day off! - Still waiting for results from the carbon dating analysis. Took a break and went to the history museum in the city of Mirpur – largest settlement on the shores of the dam. Museum was small dusty affair; stuffy but cool – a relief from the merciless heat. Nothing of note. Mainly fragments of broken pottery, earthenware pots and terracotta jugs. In the photographic section a grainy black and white photograph caught my attention. It was spottled and crinkly with age. It showed a group of villagers posing, decked in their newest clothes with plasticine smiles (for the camera) squinting in the midday sun. In the background the Himalayan Karakoram mountain range and a goat shuffling in the corner, and behind the familiar low-lying depression of the dam. And the date: 1834.

1834! But the dam was not built until 1960? Conclusion: The dam must have been built on a natural depression. Will make a note of this.

June 15^th, 1963 – Finally! See below for excerpt from carbon dating analysis of substrata:

Carbon 14 isotopic analysis (carbon dating) on the sample in question has dated it to 14,000 BC. Error margin 5% (+/-) – hence the viscous oily layer was formed around 14,000 BC. What happened in 14,000 BC? Sent letter to Dr Jeffry’s at Oxford; was there a global wide geological event of significance that occurred around 14,000 BC - ???

June 18^th, 1963 – Was in my tent last night and heard some rustling sounds. Went outside with the kerosene lamp to take a look. It was a moon lit night with the silky moon reflecting off the waters surface, the ripples shedding it to ribbons, then in the foreground, between the silhouette of the nearby bluff and the faint blue of the sky I saw something stir. It looked like an animal but its movement was more purposeful, and then it stopped. There was no movement after that – probably a fox or something.

June 19^th, 1963 – The bastards! Woke up this morning to find that someone’s been tampering with the equipment. But the strange thing is that this is not the work of some bumbling villagers. The settings on my Ochiometer have been changed. Cogito: the work of intelligence - there was purposefulness in this.

June 20^th, 1963 – Just heard back from Dr Jeffry’s. There was no global geological event that occurred around 14,000 BC that can account for the soil layer. Whatever caused it happened locally.

Prologue to part III - Father Eduardo Conspiratorez

‘Here lies the darkest mystery known to man, enter thy crypts and be damned!’ (Father Eduardo Conspiratorez)

The Venetian monk 'Father Eduardo Conspiratorez' is a little known figure in history preferring to remain in the shadows rather then hugging the limelight. It was not Venetian merchants but Father Eduardo who first travelled eastwards in the 11th century to:

‘Those sun-baked heathen lands of the Indus plain’

Perhaps it was a heightened sense of religious duty that drew him eastwards beyond the Fertile Crescent where the sun rages fiercely and scowls on those that live under it. Who knows what it is that rages in the hearts of such men, but this much is certain: -

At some point in Father Eduardo's journey, scholars still puzzle over exactly where, but contemporary thinking suggests somewhere north-east of Mohenjodaro (the oldest city in the world), Father Eduardo found something that startled and disturbed his pious countenance. He hastily dispatched a messenger to retrace his footsteps back to Venice with this very message:

‘Here lies the darkest mystery known to man, enter thy crypts and be damned!’

The Venetian monk was never heard of again; fading into history like dust, his scoured bones lying undiscovered under a sun-baked earth. But his name lives on in the English word conspiracy.

Chapter II - The Inimitable Dr Nutterboffin

When Alexander was little he had an epiphany that would stick with him for the rest of his days. It was summertime in Bavaria. The world was shot through in a rave of whipped colours, whites and pinks and yellows and ultra-violets. Winter had finally released its ascetic grip to give way to spring and now the first signs of a bountiful summer. Compared to the joyless blues of earlier months, life was now a flourishing bonanza. The bonanza sprouted from the black earth carpeting the hilltops and dells in waves and waves of tussocky grass. The bonanza seethed below the soil toiling away with quiet industry - fortifying and recycling. It bloomed Brilliant White atop decomposing bodies and on dead tree trunks that looked like twisted wreckage. It flew through the skyways; its droning and buzzing barely audible above the swish and swash of leaves twinkling on and off like light bulbs. The wheat fronds were nodding piously towards the sun their benefactor as the wind rattled their chubby stalks and enraged the aphids that sat on them. The buttercups were out chasing the bees, and the bees in turn were gorging and stupefying themselves on the sweet nectarines; after which they'd slumber in the sun exhausted, and if they felt particularly wicked or mischievous they’d go bother some humans.

There was however one bee that was particularly troublesome. Not troublesome to humans mind you, but to his fellow worker bees. He was a pariah, an outcast and didn’t fit in. The reason for this lay inside his head – literally. Embryology had gifted him with much to be proud of. Like a shapely abdomen, fantastic yellow stripes that we’re cool and little bee-wings that we’re nifty. They were small and agile but made up for size in their whirring speed. He could use them to fly up oh high, and he did. He strayed from the regular bee routes that were choked with bee-traffic. He’d go as high as he could, beyond the forbidden cloud line (where no bee dared) just to see what it was like. Just to see what it was like.

But there was something else too, something unforeseen that embryology had given him in addition to his wings and stripy bottom. Something grotesque and unnatural - self awareness. What was wrong with him? Well, there was nothing ‘wrong’ with him it was just that, unlike the other bees who mindlessly, automatically, did what bees do; which is chase after flowers and get drunk on nectar, this bee who we can call ‘Alex’ stopped in its tracks one day and asked itself a question. Yes, a question. Which was:

‘Why?’

Now lets make it absolutely clear right away that this is something that bees don’t usually do. Bees don’t normally ask questions, especially ‘why?’ questions. But this was Alex. And he was odd.

It just so happens that at this moment of exalted lucidity, at the moment when the ‘Why?’ question popped into Alex’s brain, he was in mid-flight returning from one of his cryptic jaunts. The shock (and it was a shock) of the thought sprouting was profound. Brain power that was normally used for controlling flight muscles, making minute adjustments to pitch and tilt, basically precious brain capacity that was used to keep him up in the air was now being siphoned off and diverted – to feed existential musings.

Poor Alex tumbled out of the sky until finally squishing himself onto the lens of a binoculars, the last neuron that fired before his untimely death had one thing on its mind: ‘Why?’

However, as so happens in a universe that is enmeshed with the fibres of cause and effect, faith and destiny, the binoculars belonged to a young Alexander who had been watching the bee in mid flight all along. Watching the little thing coursing across the brilliant blue canvass, its yellow stripy bottom in the throes of turbulence, before it suddenly lost control, fell out of the sky and smashed into his binoculars - Just like that. Curiously, (and many would suggest grander forces at play here), Alexander was so moved by this, for it affected him so deeply; the whole pointlessness of it all, that he too stopped in his tracks and wiping the green splattered smudge of Alex from his lens, he too uttered the cryptic words:

‘Why?’

Unlike Alex, whose life had ended at the moment of lucid discovery, young Alexander went on to not only answer the ‘Why?’ question, but also farther to answer the ‘How?’ question and when he’d dispensed with that he moved onto the next logical question which was the most important of all ‘where?’ question - as in ‘now that I’m done with all this philosophising, where shall I go for lunch? - All this by the age of thirteen no less and still fresh in his teens. This was remarkable going.

So the young Alexander Von Nutterboffin, of Bavarian parentage had considered and surveyed all. His gaze had entered the crypts of histories great Philosophers from Aristotle to Bertrand Russell, and with a petulant sniff of the nose he had dismissed them all in one insouciant breath: ‘theoretical tourists’ was his dismissive remark at the time. So he invented his own ‘Philosophies’ to rival and surpass those of the greats. These he wrote down in the form of a ‘Principia de Sum’ (principles of Existence). Which were as follows:

1) The vast majority of people are inherently stupid. There is nobody more stupid then a man who thinks that he has nothing else to learn
2) The vast majority of people are amazingly boring. That is because they are stupid and think they have nothing else to learn
3) It is rare to find a person who is not boring. If you ever meet this person you will instantly know, because you will fall in love with them
4) Love is blind

So it was that the young and brilliant Alexander Von Nutterboffin completed his transformation into an arrogant, insolent and brutish misanthrope who dismissed the company of people:

‘There tireless whinings, their stupid questions, their irksomeness…these non-entities, these so called men of Cain, these sanctimonious schmucks!’

The religious order too we’re not spared the wrath of his fiery tongue:

‘Pious busybodies, these exalted sexually oppressed old men with their lurid fantasies of bondage to the sky god, their false perdition, their false guilt’

As for women:

‘These coquettes with their profligations and their sluttings, and the besotted rabble that chase them in a paroxysm of nympholepsy…I have no time for this tediousness’

So it was that Alexander grew to wince whenever he suffered the humiliation of the company of men, the sanctimony of the church and the flirtatiousness of women. But that is not to say that he didn’t get noticed. He did. He was rather handsome, in the guise of a modern-Greek Adonis. Women flocked to him like pigeons, intrigued by his aloofness, his rebuttals, his disparagings and his rapt and brilliant mind. But he just swept them aside, like flies getting in the way of the grander stuff of life.

After his monumental Principia de Sum (which he characteristically kept to himself), Alexander moved onto his next project. He began spending inordinate amounts of time staring at things. He’d stare at the most bizarre things; objects you’d never bother looking at like rusted copper coins, or whirlpools on wall-paper, crinkles in napkins, goose-bumps, crusted faeces, peoples bottoms and he’d spend hours and hours doing it. Of course, this was not just fanciful idleness. There was a great discovery lurking, as always, behind this studious gawping.

The idea was that if you stare at something hard enough, which usually meant for long enough, than it no longer looked familiar. It morphed into something new and terrifyingly strange and alien. And then you could discover it all over again as you did for the first time as a child! But unlike a child you could now put to use an array of sophisticated mental equipment to unearth it, to snuff it out, to tinker and play with it. Just imagine discovering a bottom for the very first time! You can apply the same idea to words; look at them long enough and they start deforming and melting into unfamiliar shapes that you no longer recognise.

Alexander coined this phenomenon cognitive dissonance and then in a stroke of genius took it into a wholly new direction – the realm of the Human Condition. Look at humans long enough, stare at them long enough, marvel at them long enough, and they will unravel themselves before you. Untwine like threads. All there complexities thus reduced to a few bullet points.

And so we have the inimitable genius of Alexander Von Nutterboffin.


Coming soon...Part III – The vaults of the museum of modern-antiquities

Coming soon... Chapter II - Meet the funky and inimitable Dr Nutterboffin (deceased)

Homo Kashmiri...Chapter 1 - The British Museum of Modern-Antiquities

The 'British Museum of Modern-Antiquities' (an oxymoron if you ever needed one) lies on Gower Street in London's bustling tourist-land. It is mid-February and under a heavy leaden sky shredded by a squinting sun, the streets are thronged with the patter of the hordes; giggling Japanese with their digital cameras, Germans in full hiking regalia, Indians with their bored boisterous children and the students and academics from the nearby university in a variety of guises: goth, nerds, the clinically self-conscious, and the antediluvian professors; tweedy, dusty and anachronistic in a world of automobiles and cell-phones.

As you approach the museum from the Euston Road end of Gower Street, you’ll pass the new hospital building on the right; its shiny-polished surfaces covered in protective bubble wrap and its jade matt windows bragging: ‘I am a hospital’ and ‘I am brand new!’ Behind it is the old hospital building it replaces; brooding under a shadow from its bigger brother. It is encased in a latticework of red ochre and has a head that is a jumble of spires and steeples like a Gaudi inspired mausoleum. When viewed under a swirling mass of angry February sky it looks terrifyingly sepulchral - a place for the living or for the dying; you wonder.

Farther on, beyond the university gates, is the ‘Centre for Tropical Diseases’ standing in an explosion of 50’s Art Deco. Supremely designed architecture is always timeless; not seduced by fads, always ‘La Mode’, never ‘out’ always ‘in’. The centre for tropical diseases was out of date the day it was unveiled to a horrified squirming audience.

As you approach the Museum of Modern-Antiquities from the side, you’ll notice the large white limestone wash dating back to the 1600s; now faded and mossy in the cracks. The building is constructed from large rectangular granite slabs, slammed together with Pyramid like precision. The building itself when viewed from the front is square, squat, rising three storeys, and wears an aspect of smug repose. A portico with columns and marble balustrades covers the entrance. The styling is simple; neat clean lines, classically shaped windows, and healthy proportions that please the eye. It’s highly likely that there is an element of deliberate contrivance in this as the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, was known to have been a patron of the ‘Golden Ratio’ – a mathematical theory stating that beauty is found in proportions that are multiples of Pi. The golden ratio can be found hidden in many of the buildings designed by the celebrated architect.

Surprisingly and perhaps curiously, there’s no signage at the front or anywhere near the building that announces to the casual viewer that this is a museum of modern antiquities. The only inkling of its importance is a vague washed-out frieze above the entrance; the ashen-faced Latin inscription severely blunted by weathering; but still legible. It reads (in English): “Here lies the darkest mysteries known to man, enter thy crypts and be damned!” The huge front door is made from tropical Rosewood. The grains and knots clearly visible and the whole thing is covered in a layer of gloss that emphasize its organic-ness and earthly provenance - so that it looks almost alive. The ornate brass fittings add to the sense of authority and permanence. A permanence at odds with the shape-shifting world outside. The world changes, people come and go; like seasons, like lovers, but amidst this transience, this bulwark door remains unflinching.

As you approach it, you feel as if you are about to leave this particular rabbit-hole and enter another rabbit-hole. Which in a way you are because inside this building lies the largest collection of modern artifacts and documents in the whole world. You wonder whether the absence of any self-promotion arises, in part, from a hyper-awareness of the Trustees to the ignominious history of the artifacts – you see many of the items kept in the museum were purloined during the Empire days when the British went on a ransack and therefore have a chequered past.

When you enter the building you’re relieved to find it is not overrun by grimy tourists or twitchy students. In-fact, to your delight and amusement, you discover that you are the sole patron. The three floors hold a sizeable collection, but that is not the reason you are here. So with haste you head for the man sitting in the reception area. He looks up at you wearily when you approach; his face slightly pudgy and dyspeptic. But he has keen eyes that hover around your face for a while searching for something before landing on one spot. You speak:

“Hello there, I was wondering whether I could see the ‘Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin Collection’ please” and then you smile - for emphasis.

This is obviously an uncommon request and he is somewhat taken aback. You can hear the software in his brain whirring.

And you don’t let go of his eyes. The words rolling out of your tongue are precise, carefully measured with a slight weight on the ‘Co’ of collection. Your voice is smoky, rich and with texture; in short the voice of a tobacco smoking academic used to lecturing in large lecture halls. You continue staring at the man your eyes not wavering. There is a short-lived (and one might say furtive) glint of recognition in his eyes; as if he is in on the secret. He picks up the telephone and dials a buzzer. Then gesturing at the dusty leather sofa he says ‘If you would just care to take a seat sir, someone will be up to collect you shortly’.

So you sit and wait.

This is perhaps as good as any time to explain what you are doing here. Not many people know this but the collection held by the British Museum of Modern-Antiquities is divided into two sub-sections. That which is above ground, on public display for all to see, over three magnificent shiny floors. There is also that which is of much greater academic importance and therefore kept hidden away in dank underground catacombs deep within the bowels of the museum building. Some statistics: The items on display constitute 5% of the total collection held in trust by the museum. Thus 95% of what the museum holds is underground, largely unstudied and a potential goldmine. And here’s the best bit. The collection was bequeathed to the Museum in the 1800s when, the then owner, Sir Henry Waldport (a megalomaniac and empire builder) passed away. The Thatcher government in the 1980’s nationalized the Museum and the collection passed into public ownership. So, although nobody will tell you about the underground collection; for there are no signs in the lobby that point towards it, it is not mentioned in the literature or on the museum circuit tours, there is no mention of it on the museum website either, but if you ask, if you swagger into the museum and with a petulant wave of the hand ask to be shown it, the Museum has no choice but to oblige you. The ‘Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin Collection’ is one of many veritable collections held in the underground vaults; a teeming warren of stifling chambers and tunnels deep below the London trafficscape.

But who is Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin and why are you interested in him?

Coming soon...'Homo Kashmiri' (a novella)

Birthday Boy

Yes, it's that glorious time of year again I celebrate my slow ignominious crawl towards senility, dementia, dentures, the dreaded winter fuel bill and the grave.
But I for one won't be celebrating.
(I hear sighs of disbelief)
Well, why should I celebrate another milestone towards certain death?

An anal, toad-picking, moany-pants bore.

Oh, go on then:

'Happy B'day to Me
Happy B'day to Me
Happy B'day to Meee
Happy B'day tooooo Me'
(clapping and whooping)

All right, that's quite enough of that.

P.S: Horse and Hound ale house tonight if anybody would like to join us.

The Vagabond Photo Agency

The vagabond photo agency is a not for profit wedding photography organization (charity Reg No: 11345) service that charges absolutely no fees. Yes no fees. It especially caters for hard-up, poor and poverty stricken chartered accountants from the Cayman Islands who have minimum disposable income; a symptom rife in tax free offshore locations.

The charity organization is run by one sole individual; head strong, tough, a hopeless romantic, soft at heart, and inspirational person who instills fears in the hearts of the competition – who have no chance of competing with not only a free wedding photographer but a fucking world-class one at that.

It is a lonely world; the world of the free wedding photographer. A dying breed. Not many of us around now-a-days. Most perished in starvation states in the 80’s. Those that survived the “starvation’ we’re killed off during the Nikon – Canon War of the 90’s. And the few rugged hardy types that weathered that storm finally perished with the onset of the camera mobile phone. Now any twat on the street can take a picture and call it art.

But the wedding photographer (especially the free one) is an obstinate breed. He can make friends easily, he can win praise, he can win plaudits, but he can never afford a good decent meal. For his pockets are lined not with the welcome sound of jangling cash but with bread crumbs stolen from the local bakery. It is a world not for weaklings. It’s tough out there. Dog eat dog. Man eat man eat dog. Man eat man eat dog eat rat eat KFC McChicken

Yes, I had rat last night actually. Braised on a smokey pyre of burning tyres from the ghetto kids. But that’s another story all together.

Photographypaysfuckall.com

Chasing Photons - Galleria de South Africa / Namibia

Planet Dulux - Galleria de South Africa (click on image to walk closer to the gallery)

Coming soon...Ross and Angie freakshow slideshow (featuring music by Queen)

Ross & Angie - music slide-show

(Music: Snow Patrol)

'if i lay here
if i just lay here
would you lie with me and just forget the world?'

Confessions of a serial digressor

Planet Earth to planet 'My Dear Reader' do you copy?

I repeat do you copy?

Clarification: by 'copy' i do not mean do you reproduce. Of course you copy as in reproduce, although you probably haven't yet. Although, a few little 'My Dear Reader' sprogs may germinate in the not too distant future...but i digress.....

as always...

i always digress...

in-fact digression is my birth right.

do you have a problem with my digressions? do you punk?

if you do, then please honour me with a duel.

i will win. i will beat you.

i will make you scream and squirm and make you wish you had never been born...

(or if you are a clearer minded thinker) that i had never been born...

but i digress

....again.

now, where was i?

yes, do you copy?

...not as in reproduce but as in...

...ah fuck it.

life's too short...

...but i digress...

...as always.

but i also...

procrastinate...

yes, i do.

...do you have a problem with my procrastinations?

do you? do you freakshow?

but...that is for later...

much, much later...

because i procrastinate

but i digress...

again

...as always

The turd world - (memory byte)

The train didn’t go very fast. We we're ambling along and the engine kept breaking down. All the passengers we’re cursing in Tamil. A Tamil cursing is a treat for the chuckle muscles; a sound like a ripple of diarrhoea. But they had good reason to curse; the delay had thrown a spanner in their plans. But for one passenger; the man with no plan, the delay was an unexpected luxury - an opportune moment to see ‘track-life’ up close and personnel – with a magnifying glass. Train tracks attract colonies of people very much like shit attracts flies. These people (god knows where they come from) then proceed to build pokey little dwellings next to the tracks with ruddy walls and tarpaulin roofs. A whole economy subsists along the track – an economy fueled by the train passengers. When people travel they’re usually flushed with cash and more importantly, they're less frugal then normal. Almost as if travel releases them from some invisible force - we've all experienced it. A behavioural trait exploited by airport departure lounges and the dreaded Duty-Free cash blotters. For the families living along the track this is a blessing and their life-line; an artery.

It got me thinking about grander stuff. Life (you, me, bugs, aliens from Mars) will make a living wherever a living can be got. You can go to the most inhospitable deserts in the world and still find that you are not alone. Someone else got their first; like for example the obstinate weeds with tufts sprouting through a dune crack. There’s life eeking out an existence miles below our feet; feeding off nutrients from the rock surface and powered by the earths geothermal heat. Human life is no different. We're all trying to make a living and there is a living to be made off railway passengers.

I looked out the window and saw the strangest sight - children, girls and boys, the younger one's naked, the older one's wearing loin cloths with stubby noses, we're leaping off the train carriages carrying pitchers of water. On every station they'd rush in and grab water from the sink in the toilet compartment. Then there we’re the people crouched all along the railway line outside. At first I thought they we’re simply squatting and watching the train go by. But then I realized that they we’re shitting. All we’re facing the train, squatting, with their lungi’s covering their privy members, shitting unhurriedly, fouling the tracks. One curious group, a man, a boy and a pig we’re in a row – each shitting in his own way. There we’re some more dignified folk though: one fat man, clearly of professional high-brow stature, was squatted at a greater distance from the train, an umbrella was held up by his manservant and he had a newspaper on his knees – shitting.

There’s something fascinating about public shit holes. In Tibet, they have outdoor communal shit houses like pubs. These are nothing but a row of holes in the ground which you squat over (struggling to hold your balance) whilst your ass is whipped by the icy winds warmed by the Tibetan plateau. The experience is rendered more comic by the fact that you can chat to your neighbour (shit mate), perhaps discussing the price of bread, your favourite brand of toilet paper or the wind-chill factor.

I don’t know about you but for me toilet business is a deeply personnel ‘business’ – in fact if you think about it, it is the most personnel thing we do. Even more personnel then sex – which involves a willing partner. The anthropology of communal shitting is quite fascinating. Perhaps one day in Tibet, whilst straddling a shit hole, I’ll write a paper on the subject.

When I look back to that sultry train cabin though, I remember feeling mildly disconcerted and intimidated by the shit stirrers outside on the tracks all smiling at me; its not pleasant to be smiled at by serial defecators - or maybe they we’re grimacing? Bloody turd world.

Knob World News

Ladies and gentlemen, Knobs and Knobettes, Reverends, Archbishops, Dali-Lamas, Mullahs, cute furry creatures from planet Waxbucket and anybody else reading this that I have missed out…

Greetings fellow Knobbers!

It is with gushing spunks of pleasure that I present to you the latest irreverent news from Knob World:

1) Knob Grater and Knobette Angie have finally decided to embrace the adage that one Knob is better then two – one knob to rule them all and in the darkness bind them – yes, congrats on the wedding guys! – Oh, and less I forget: fantastic pics from their wedding will be posted here shortly.

2) The Oxford English Dictionary has decreed that the term ‘knob’ is in such regular usage that it deserves to be part of the English lexicon. Knob is now an official word and defined by the Oxford Dictionary as follows:

A Knob : Member of the ‘Chartered Knob Club’. The term ‘Knob’ can only be used to describe members of the original Chartered Knob Club of the Cayman Islands that was founded by two revolutionary knobs; Knob Che Lyndon and Knob Che Wasim. The term cannot be used by members of the countless other counterfeit, copy-cat and unofficial knob clubs that have sprung up in the wake of the original club. The others are imposters, charlatans, men of disrepute and questionable parsonage and not real knobs at all but wannabe knobs; a bunch of sad losers who have nothing better to do in their spare time then to plagiarize respectable folk and hard working creative Knobs.

3) For the first time ever the Knob Club will be bestowing annual ‘honorary knob’ status to a member of the human race who exhibits qualities indicative of Knobwiseness or engages in activities that promote the Knob brand. The following names have so far been put forward for this honour: Britney Spears, John Prescott, Grant Mitchell, and Buzz Lightyear.

4) The construction of Knob headquarters (Knob Tower) has finally been completed after much wrangling with the planning authorities, the religious lobby and the Chartered Knitting Club (which is next door). The Chartered Knitting Club has always claimed that we we’re blocking their view. Well, they can cotton-off the cardigan wearing cranberry juice sipping freakshows. Knob Tower is now fully erect. The state of the art building is located in George Town, Cayman Islands and features a ‘Knobamatic 2000’ in the spanking new shiny foyer for knob relief while you wait.

Not surprisingly the building has become a permanent fixture in many itineraries and a popular tourist attraction for single accountant men visiting the Cayman Islands and also features in the latest edition of the bestseller : ‘1,000 things to do before you die’. To commemorate this, our marketing department headed by Mr Wayne-Ker has released a limited edition ‘Nano-Knobamatic’ with diamond encrusted front – sure to be a favourite with bling bling Knobs from Hackney and Stoke Newington.

5) A member of the Knob Club has had their membership revoked due to unknobly behaviour:- the member in question was attempting to raise money for a children’s charity by dressing up in a knob costume – the knob court agreed that he was acting like a total dickhead.

6) Our beloved Master Knob will be venturing on a 6 month extended hippy trip across mountains, deserts, jungles, tundras, citiscapes and through hairy bushes where Knobs have not yet penetrated thus far. The trip will encompass Northern Pakistan, China, Mongolia, Tibet, Bhutan, Bangladesh, and Madagascar - where the bushes are known to be especially hairy and persistent. Master Knob hopes that the tour will be a wonderful experience, an opportunity to share ideals and ideas, promulgate the knob brand onto the natives, open up new markets for knob products, and not to mention consume foul tasting victuals and smoke a lot of stuff that does funny things to the brain – we all wish that Master Knob emerges relatively unscathed from this ordeal – especially after mud wrestling with the hairy bushes of Madagascar.

It is hoped that the tour will be as successful as his last official knob visit to Knob World in the Andromeda Galaxy; where he seems to have achieved near mythical status thanks in no part to his easy charm, effortless charisma, wry sense of humour and nobs of sex-appeal.

The Knobworld Population Department recently released figures that show that there was a 25% increase in baby birth rates exactly 9 months after Master Knobs visit. The head of the department Professor Haw-nee Scrow-Tums had this to say:

'It is most inexplicable! Either Master Knob gets around (!) or his mere presence has the affect of turning perfectly normal Knobettes into nymphomaniacs. Studies conducted in my lab under controlled conditions have conclusively shown that when knobettes (female Knobs) are exposed to photographs of Master Knob, skin conductivity increases by a whopping 20% - which is evidence of sexual arousal. Most inexplicable!'

7) Finally on a less frivolous note, a major Hollywood film studio has announced that filming will soon commence on the latest superhero flick titled: MightyKnob & MagicBush.
The movie has been billed as a sweeping love story, with epic vistas, huge sound stages, orchestral visions, a Pulitzer prize winning screenplay at its heart, and a huge phallus and bush at its poetic centre.

That is all for now from Knob World. For the latest updates on all things Knob related please visit : http://www.mightyknob&hairybush.com/.

Master Knob.