En Passage

I wish to make it clear that I have made no approches to anyone about publishing my precious, precious research. My research has an undeniable value and will be sensational when it is published. It will be Earth shattering. This is why publishers are queueing at my door (NB Research Note: This is a metaphor as I don't have a door at the moment. This is a temporary state of affairs due to a misguided judge under the influence of some malicious sabotueurs. I will soon get my door back. My solicitors are on the case. This case is going to be heard on Friday and I am demanding that I will not leave the court without the pride of carrying my own front door out in my own trembling hands.) to be the first to publish what will be Book of the Year. They were in the notion of the research itself. I will have my research published in twenty volumes all bound in gibbon skin.

There are so many tawdry tabloid trash publicity seekers very interested in their psycho-sexual dramaramas but they never really understand my research. Poor dears. They'll never understand an artist. A research artist. A serious research artist. I'm the most important thing that has ever happened to these unimportant insignificant bonkers baboons. I ignore them I pay them no heed. I never visit their blog - which I had deleted over two weeks ago. Ignore them, just like I do.

There are so many people trying to profit out of me and my gorgeous hunky research, but they are nothing. My publisher will see them off.

I am descended from royalty and above these worms. Don't get me wrong, my family are Celts, Irish based, one from Scotland, and we love the Scottish people. Put it this way: when the Scottish lose the plot and get caught up in pomposity and malicious behaviour they can be twice as dreadful, (and twice as funny in their misguided foolishness). The Hanoverian English, we Know they're ****** awful. But you expect better from the Celts and when you don't get it, it's doubly dreadful. I don't know why that should be. Obviously that's the sweeping statement of the year. ( I'm a Celt myself, so I permit myself the comment. I'm one of the poets I think....)

If you want to know where your persistent characteristics come from, such as, say, an innovative sense of humour, (Your grandpa was a French circus clown?) A flat out refusal to ‘kiss arse’ (your ancestor faithfully served the House of Stuart?) artistic or mathematical talent (you’re descended from Einstein’s second cousin twice removed?) natural writing talent (you’re related to the Bronté sisters?) natural empathy with other people (you’re one of the Spencers?) women fall at your feet ( your forefathers were in the bigamy Courts?) married men bother you ( the women in your family were often involved in several marriages?).... Or you want to understand why the things that happen to you persistently do, look at your ancestors’ lives. So they all keep saying, to the point of boring us to tears. It’s a truth that’s been so well commercialised we’re sick of hearing about it. We hate it that the BBC and pedantic archivists up and down the UK think they’ve got it taped. They thrust pictures of noble paupers and government authorised pictures of submissives in military uniforms under our faces and tell us to ‘find out who were are’.

It’s often the case that our ancestors were involved in a version of what we find ourselves doing in the present day. Many of the things that happened to them, happen to us, in a different format

I am the victim of mindless sexist abuse in the field of detective science. Yes, I suppose Special Branch were just as likely to have permitted a libellous scene about anyone wanting to disclose relevant unreleased material, male or female. There is only a little suggestion that these professionals have indulged in some of the screamingly obvious sexist and psycho-sexual abuse that you see going on everywhere on the web. This is why I wrote about it at length.

The merry band of saboteurs continue to dance the merry go round. Disgusting and pathetic. The expected mindless inane response. None of them are victims in any shape or form, just a bunch of harassing abusing justice perverts on a brief trip. Oh, belt up. I am not intimidated by you vicious creeps, and I am not going to be, either. The sooner you buy yourselves a nice pipe and stick it in it, the better.

I spent the last few days all at sea. With friends. Rich friends. Intellectual friends.

I met a young girl of today's 'anti-social generation'. We compared ASBOs (Guess who won. No prizes.) whilst I sobbed with shame for a lost generation, one blighted and ignored and abused by their parents. These children are as bright and as educated as anything that came out of London in the late 19th century whose instinct they're so keen to imitate. I suggested a career as a chimney sweep or matchstick girl, but was met with a defensive scowl that was only too understandable.

I blame the parents. When these disheveled individuals are loudly informed of their unfashionable status, that is; usually it's merely assumed.

Time ticked loudly, purposeless emails came and went. So it went on; I sojourned through disrupted, displaced wanderings that always begin with a cup of coffee at eight and end at around 3.00 am with a trip to Ted Bundy.

Ted Bundy moved beneath the veil of a harmonious society where there's room for a sophisticate to deploy respectability to discredit his targets. The empathy I felt for his shrouded dismantled women washed over me like some distant wave. It carries a voice. I felt touched and sorry for their predicament and terrible for being part of that veiled society that failed to protect them. A living falsification, he induces no false sentiment, (unlike his spiritual rescue team)...I'm not going to give him another minute's creative analysis. His ghost probably dug it. Saddest of all, (from the psych perspective) there's no point. He's a one off, a case study. That lost opportunity to prevent him will never come again.

I ought to install a simpleton's haunted hour alarm to set for every occasion that one of these nights is likely to happen. That'll mess his lavender plans.
There's a Grapevine Christian Fellowship up the road. The Shepherding Keens will have one.

I remember what I was doing on the day the world changed for some. I was supporting my science studies with some data processing in a Commerce centre on the outskirts where I spent all day analysing stats with other part timers. There was a little room close by at the end of a corridor where we could relax and get our coffee. Cold, impersonal and stuffy. Conveyor belt tea mugs and armless chairs: the TV stood out like a stranger. So did Kathleen, face like a goldfish, shouting 'they're bombing America!'
We stared at each other, too stupefied to comment. Somehow we tore out of our seats and rushed from the office to the coffee room. We were there before the Triton's collapsed; we saw them tumble like an unconfessed suspicion and fall to their feet like embittered old men, dying in their crime.
Completely unbelievable. This couldn't be happening to America.
After tower no. 1 collapsed I saw a young woman lean out the window of tower 2, waving to onlookers, flailing her arms with all her strength. She seemed to be leaning out to her waist and beating the window. Waving, calling and crying.
She'd been holding out in hope above a hundred floors of smouldering rubble. She'd looked out the window and seen a familiar , gentle gleaming tower of strength that used to twinkle like the tip of a promise, drop to its knees. She'd heard the deafening roar and realised that the floor she was standing on was in the position her neighbour's had been.

If we could hear her witness evidence today.
To be in that position for over ten minutes.

Nature abandons the useless, and quickly moves on.