The death of Henri Languille

This will come as quite a shock. A jolt to the system; a blow to the head.
I feel I ought to share with you, gentle friends, something of this terrible epiphany occasioned to me in the small hours of this morning.
I hadn’t previously realised how low the blade must fall before the crowd cheer a rolling head.
It starts its murderous descent and the crowd draw breath. Expectation grows and solidifies until it hangs in the air like an orb, swelling as the blade quickens its pace. With all the certainty that physics allows the blade consummates its intention - the quiet violence of a well-oiled machine.
Most of the crowd miss it. Or perhaps they ignore it.
At any rate it happens and its there for all to see if only they were looking for it. I’m talking about the lull. A tenth of a second, before the metal strikes the meat. A fifth at most. It slows as if meeting with some unexpected resistance. The fight is over almost before it started. The blade is reunited with the block and the body goes limp. But there was a moment. A moment when the machine appeared surprised. Machines don’t come across as surprised all that often, so when they do it is a startling thing. Startling. Even outrageous. The blade meets with resistance and comes across surprised.
What’s this!
But as this exclamation formulates in your mind and is articulated in a gasp or a frown or the raising of a sweat-laden eyebrow the inevitable occurs. The inevitable – that which cannot surprise. But then there was that moment.

"Here, then, is what I was able to note immediately after the decapitation: the eyelids and lips of the guillotined man worked in irregularly rhythmic contractions for about five or six seconds. This phenomenon has been remarked by all those finding themselves in the same conditions as myself for observing what happens after the severing of the neck...
"I waited for several seconds. The spasmodic movements ceased. [...] It was then that I called in a strong, sharp voice: 'Languille!' I saw the eyelids slowly lift up, without any spasmodic contractions – I insist advisedly on this peculiarity – but with an even movement, quite distinct and normal, such as happens in everyday life, with people awakened or torn from their thoughts.

"Next Languille's eyes very definitely fixed themselves on mine and the pupils focused themselves. I was not, then, dealing with the sort of vague dull look without any expression, that can be observed any day in dying people to whom one speaks: I was dealing with undeniably living eyes which were looking at me. After several seconds, the eyelids closed again, slowly and evenly, and the head took on the same appearance as it had had before I called out.

"It was at that point that I called out again and, once more, without any spasm, slowly, the eyelids lifted and undeniably living eyes fixed themselves on mine with perhaps even more penetration than the first time. Then there was a further closing of the eyelids, but now less complete. I attempted the effect of a third call; there was no further movement – and the eyes took on the glazed look which they have in the dead.''

The words of the good Dr. Beaurieux: witness to the execution of Henri Languille, on June 28, 1905

Saucisson

the days of the digital clock are numbered

Succession

Brain bludgeoned by striking madness agents.
Sanity suspended indefinitely.

"By hook or by crook the man will reach you. Find you (and catch you and break you and take you). Remember his name. For the name remains the same. " Bible of Bastardry; Verse XXVII; Line 6


It was just past three in the morning. The morning of his birth.
Here he is. Screaming purple headed madness at the doctor.
Purple headed, mind.

The electorate waited to find a voice.
Eventually they said HELLO [‘Mission to Mind: Issue 050640’]. That, at least, is what it is assumed they said.
As they spoke he stirred.
Quiet murmurings: a fist tightens, an eyelid flutters. A tongue stiffens into action. Telling of the future, age and glory.
A War, it seemed.
Then, of a sudden, silence.
Stillness and calm were the only exhibits of this subtle deceit.
Breakfast was resumed. An ocean of milk. A galaxy of cornflakes consumed in this ritual; honoured in this cathedral of mediocrity. In short, we were ready.
And so say all of us,
Long live the King.
And so say all of us.

Where to begin. Especially when it’s almost certainly the end. Words don't come cheap at 35 degrees; if I get the henry out of here I’ll write something a little more comprehensive.

Languid and slow in this sickly heat. A perpetual steam bath; I need to escape. I just spent my last six bucks on hot rum and now I’m wasting, melting, naked behind a keyboard. Balls stuck to the chair in more way than one. When I can, I walk down the street and loiter in shops with air conditioning.

Less than a year ago I was free, riding my bullet, up, high and away, over the cloudline… across vast snow planes, asperous summits, harsh serrated peaks, my poor tar soaked lungs gasping all the way...

…another wave of sickness pulses its way through my body. I’m an ill man. But there’s not a lot I can do about that. I’ve learnt to cope. I feel some better now anyway. It’ll be dark soon and the cool air and the cover of darkness will give my ailing body some reprieve. It’s probably comeuppance. I’m also a bad man, beyond the palliation of any Christian God. When I’m dead my flesh will burn implacably alongside Brutus and Cassius, my back forever skinned by the claws of Lucifer… It'll be a lot hotter then.

Things are reaching some kind of crescendo; I feel close to the central nerve, a revelation, shrouded in steam... here at the very hub of the wheel the most fantastic, the most improbable can be embraced without seeming the least bit strange. a heat induced delirium perhaps. but out here on the perimeter all boundaries fade and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughter house that it is... the treadmill stretches away to infinitude - tight, acute, logic runs rampant, the language apocalyptic - bloody and merciless - not an exit sign anywhere...

Hippy Hooliganism

Hippy Hooligans shat on my town.
I'm still reeling from the taste. See?
Can you see now?
Oh dear Chist can you now see?
see now.
now see.
seenowwonees@....

5:19

All aboard brethren. All aboard.

08457484950 etc

Miscellany P Jones

O.k
We're here.
No point targeting a demographic I guess. You're obviously here. As I can confirm I am. Here.
Given your presence and given my elected demographic and given the aspirational demographic or demographic intended I feel we should move to move.
This blog was born from necessity or something in its image.
The title I owe to Jona 'family man' Higgins who remains, despite his contrary and often conflictive public persona, sage and sound.
The point of this thing is, first and foremost, to resurrect me from the grave of terminal inertia, under the bridge, camden, NW1. The line of thought is that john, both joe's, alf, especially anders, bean, others, token lady and my own good self submit frequent postings. The rhyme and reason of these postings will be covered in chapter 2.

CHAPTER 2

Good. Piss on all quitters.
What I want is for all of us to put pen to paper and write.
What we write is up to us. Just write.
So, comedic musings, sketches, rants, raves and the crazed expression/articulation of a bad day are all welcome contributions to the Aleph.

Maybe we can beat this thing. I remain optimistic.
I look forward to your action.

a bientot and be pleased

Stuart A Forbes
Assistant to the Director
London Town

Under the step, toward the right, I saw a small irridescent sphere of almost unbearable brightness. At first I thought it was spinning; then I realized that the movement was an illusion produced by the dizzying spectacles inside it. The Aleph was probably two or three centimeters in diameter, but universal space was contained within it, with no diminution in size. Each thing (the glass surface of a mirror, let us say) was infinite things, because I could clearly see it from every point in the cosmos. I saw the populous sea, saw dawn and dusk, saw the multitudes of the Americas, saw a silvery spiderweb at the center of a black pyramid, saw a broken labyrinth (it was London), saw endless eyes, all very close, studying themselves in me as though in a mirror, saw all the mirrors on the planet (and none of them reflecting me), saw in a rear courtyard on Calle Soler the same tiles I'd seen twenty years before in the entryway of a house on Fray Bentos, saw clusters of grapes, snow, tobacco, veins of metal, water vapor, saw convex equatorial deserts and their every grain of sand....

Big it up for the blog.

Dante and the Brain

Chapter 1

Dante and the Brain
Chapter 1:
I was lying awake and contemplating greatness when it struck me, hard, somewhere near my solar-plexus. It hit me again at the bottom of my spine causing waves of panic to pulse up and down me instigating nasty madness agents of the highest severity to start beating on the back of my head. The little bastards must have found a chute or trapdoor or something because pretty soon I felt them dancing down the back of my neck to cause a ruckus in my stomach. Every night, Goddammit. Every fucking night.

Doctors don’t offer much in the way of sympathy. Relax they say. Turn off your brain they say. Jesus. Turn off my brain. That’s some fucking advice from a doctor of medicine. Anybody follows that bastard's advice isn’t going to have anything to say on the subject of relaxation. I never saw nothingness as being relaxing; saw it more as being nothing. Turn off your brain they say. Shit. Anybody who tries to turn off my brain is going to know about it. Damn thing’s got a mind of its own. Huh. I’ve got no say, no influence with regard to its plans or the application of its faculties. Puts me in mind of some people I heard some other people talking about. The ones who see a person as being nothing more than a brain, everything else being sort of extra or at least not exactly necessary. I suppose that means that every brain is a person. Seems to me that these people are right on the second score and way off on the first. I ought to introduce those dumb bastards to my brain, let them see the distinction first hand; teach them a thing or two about the facts of the matter. Dumb bastards. Turn off your brain. It isn’t so much a desire to turn off my brain as it is a desire to have some say in my thoughts. That is, have some say in what I think and when I think it. I don’t recall precisely the last time I chose a thought and pursued it of my own free will, although I have it on the highest authority, the authority of necessity, that I have historically achieved this feat. Recently i've been picking up on some serious amplification of the fucking situation. Incremental increases in the independence of my brain. The weirdness of my thoughts and the savagery of my nightly ambushes. Which brings us up to date. What with me lying naked and sweating and head stuck back on this pillow of goose feathers unable to move cause my goddam bastard brain’s taken over for a while and left me fighting to keep a place in my own head lest I get kicked back to a cavity behind my filthy lungs or greasy liver and don’t you think that can’t happen cause it almost happened once before with the madness agents laying the boot in like hell and kicking me down I think around by my tempomaxillary vein and then harder down so I was clawing onto the side of my trachea til I almost went crazy from the fight and they left me alone all clawed and entrenched into my trachea like some fucking parasite. I don’t know why they left me but they left me alright. Little bastards. Little bastards working for that cunt brain of mine. Thinking she can kick me down into only fuck knows where in my own goddam body that I and all the fucking prophets say I am rightfully master of. Shows what they know. Huh. I’m not going to get kicked around down to some place near my bellybutton amongst all the shit and piss and bile so that this cunt brain, what with her nefarious nature, can set to work on my prescious innards. I’ve got to work this out. I’ve got to think. Think. Huh. Turn off your brain brother. Jesus Christ.

Under the step, toward the right, I saw a small irridescent sphere of almost unbearable brightness. At first I thought it was spinning; then I realized that the movement was an illusion produced by the dizzying spectacles inside it. The Aleph was probably two or three centimeters in diameter, but universal space was contained within it, with no diminution in size. Each thing (the glass surface of a mirror, let us say) was infinite things, because I could clearly see it from every point in the cosmos. I saw the populous sea, saw dawn and dusk, saw the multitudes of the Americas, saw a silvery spiderweb at the center of a black pyramid, saw a broken labyrinth (it was London), saw endless eyes, all very close, studying themselves in me as though in a mirror, saw all the mirrors on the planet (and none of them reflecting me), saw in a rear courtyard on Calle Soler the same tiles I'd seen twenty years before in the entryway of a house on Fray Bentos, saw clusters of grapes, snow, tobacco, veins of metal, water vapor, saw convex equatorial deserts and their every grain of sand....