MY BLACK BOOK (66, 67): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ................" entitled poetry [both series whether or not textually used].


Cindy did so enjoy reading that other one. I had sent her a copy of it, later. I wish I could remember what I copied down of what I had written inside the first page; or, two; scribbling as though to say much else \ something else. Can writing actually picture what hieroglyphics could \ did as well? Surely, words do not create a masseuse who ups from the page, it being the suggestion, tractile the many, then, touches felt; felt not, though, the nib, but the messy dip-pen, enjoying spillage and daubs and unattempted prints of finger, hand(?); tracing, picturing (the true meaning of hieroglyphics must be to be able to leave a picture the touch is communicating) cartographing; contours, less important depicted than cited; sensitive as fingers pen: is writing, the brain not knowingly, absentmindedly tracing texture to remember, also, giving itself away, communicatively when hand movements with utensils that leave marks, can telltale.

Much more is alive, tells on you, simply i_s_ not an iceberg at all, not only not at all, sexually. I have noticed that the movies that they show on the SBS channel do not have sudden music like dropping pots and pans when actors demonstrate how clothes were doffed given the particularity of the scene. Just because The Lone Ranger took his mask off? flashed a few times as I wrote the previous. I had used that image when I had written once of a panty peeling off \ staying on! because between sun and culture, by methods of art or not, sun, panty and tan caused \ left_! that long observed, in silence! , non tanned, paler, skin shape of the panty, damning the girl exactly like _The Scarlet Letter, but with unspoken un tightlipped P_unseeing!_ inobservance. No need, zombi, come!

No, it looks more naked and not part of, more like the accentuated clown white mask with the long nose, not present, here, with her. You are right! : go dress the statue of David in off-white underpants!

Cindy was here for three weeks.

I had a telephone call from my brother.

A girl named Cindy telephoned and asked for you. I did not want to give her your address until I made sure that it is okay.

Such things also happened in movies. Younger, respectable lawyer of a brother, tactful; not to be the kind who unobtrusively lets his brother’s past catch up with him, he now with another. Some of the movies however make this innocent gesture then, an implanted idea.

Must be his profession, puts Paul in touch with people who actually need the protection of tact. Cindy was my pen pal, from whom I received the first letter on my mother’s birthday when I was fourteen. I had sent my name to a magazine that circulated through the schools. She must be a member of the family, then!, I whimsically told myself through the years.

She arrived quite unexpectedly. She searched the telephone book for Barton (not related) and reached my brother; he contacted me instead of passing any information on, as I stated. “Conspirator”, fits the now. But, then I did wonder whether I would have been so protective, had someone telephoned me.

He gave me her telephone number: I had stopped writing to Cindy for two years, and Baba.

I was on my way to work, cleaning; polishing, using a polyvac. Polishing is the easiest part of cleaning, because all it takes is the sense of balance. You never forget to ride a bicycle, best describes polishing with the polyvac, once learned.

I cycled each day to work through the university. A straight line of concrete slabs, grass and roads straight towards both subways under Stirling Highway and Winthrob Avenue, tunneling into St Catherine’s College; the back entrance, another straight line to the hospital I clean.

Cindy was staying with an old school friend, in Wembley. I could have cycled ten minutes more in the same direction from my flat, from the hospital – the university students study there, at QE II, after Elizabeth II; I would have reached Subiaco’s railway station. Wembley is across those railway lines; I used to work there at the Government Print building.

I was already feeling a certain fever, riding to my work at the QE II.

Why did I grow a fever? No one visited me, before. I am, delineated: Oh, he’s cleaning; spends most of his time in the pub. He just sits among his books, reads some; always claims he is going to write… Something marginal; unconsciously, something to rub off the board, maybe. No one who visited did come to see me, like many do not come to visit Perth. How many the times I’d heard they’d come, gone; asked for me!

I also had this feeling of apprehension. This one, you could say, came to see me than make a visitation. Almost a other me, counterpart in gender and sex, more than analyst, no doubt still in possession of the thirty, fourty more(?) page letters, those talking about yourself, instead, things. It was a long time since we wrote to each other. What was said in those last letters?

The two tunnels of subway I cycle toward going to work daily, were parallel to Fairway, one side road, of one side, of the university. There is a straight line from my daily path to work, my flat, passing across Fairway into the shopping centre underground parking, where is _Bill’s Bench Tavern.

Hello! A message says you have a Cindy,
waiting for an Andrew to telephone._

A shrill exclamations; squeals. Proportionately, the mercury should measure fever, instead.

_Hello! How are you going mate?

You’re a bloody Aussie!

You’re not! You still sound as in transit, in Singapore.

They keep telling me this. The time spent in the pub should have done it: I’ve never tried to fight it.

What? Do you drink all the time?

Not since I’ve moved to Nedlands. But I have five casks on a plank above what I call my writing table, all ready with their little+dickies+ sticking out. My own little tavern._

I suddenly remembered how our letters read.

_I see you still enjoy being whimsical.

Need a lot of practice; it’s not easy not not writing nonsense. Have you moved to Perth? Next, door, maybe?

Of the hole in the wall, between? God watching us, sleep together, with only a wall between? I came over to spend a few days with my ex school friend. I thought I’d check the phone book for your name. Is P. Barton, your brother?

Yes. Why?

He wanted to know all sorts of things about me. Like: interrogation?

I don’t know what they think I’ve been up to, but he is probably thinking maybe I don’t want to be reached. This is a new experience for me, too. Bit like a movie. Are you maybe sniffing around to see if you want to live in Perth?

Noo! I’ve got my job there. Big W. And my house, and things.

What things?


Are you here, long?

Actually I am going home tomorrow.


Yeah! Only a three-day, holiday.

Why didn’t you bring more time?

It’s just a quick stop; I didn’t really expect to see you: you weren’t at the last address, either.
You have been looking for me!


When are you leaving tomorrow?

One o’clock.

You don’t have much time to reach the airport.

Tomorrow!? What’s wrong with this evening? Don’t you know Wembley?

I work in the evenings until late. In the morning the clock almost moves faster than the taxi. I’m not tennis crazy.

Still too far to walk to anyway. Are you home early in the morning?


Am I allowed to come and see you around nine o’clock?

Of course! Why, “allowed”?

You know.

Very yes; I have just asked myself.

You are staying alone.

Only with myself, and he’s no damn good.

I’ll see you tomorrow, then.

Unit 4, 33 Cook St Nedlands; the taxi will find it. We get them here quite often.

I was just thinking of something funny.

So was I. But what if I didn’t think of it until I wondered why you were not turning up; it, then too late?

Oh god! Don’t think of things like that!

Such things wait to happen to me.

I refuse to allow such things to happen! It should be unlawful.

That is strange. The law actually can arrange things like that, legally, to leave someone stuck like that: diverted, then too late, because of the law.

It should not happen, that’s all!

Yes. Insist on it. Good karma! I better go to work.

See you tomorrow!

See you tomorrow!



You still there?

Are you?

I’m going to put the phone down.

Slowly!_ He whispered. He listened, then he heard the telephone click!

What do you mean “he”: that was me.

What does one call that kind of dryness in one’s mouth, while one’s yet feeling the saliva there?

I rode my bicycle very slowly through the university after that, thinking that tomorrow was as soon as waking up, that tomorrow then, was as soon keeping one’s eyes open for a while longer. My bicycle turned to the left as I approached the next pavement, which took me through a clump of trees all about an arranged sitting place, looking like an oasis, even though it was in the middle of a paddock. I sped on through the buildings, as soon as I could. Between Geography and Geology and along the two, long, newly built general purpose buildings to which Geology and Geography were moving in with Architecture, already there. There, was Fairway, where downhill my bicycle floated, P_almost,_ accelerating back until just past the street just before the shopping centre, to Bill’s Bench tavern.

I am not going to fucking well work! Only accidental irony.

The bar is roughly rectangular, around a refrigerated, serving area. There are bar stools, here and there, around the bar. As you go into the main door, there is a cigarette machine straight ahead. On the right is a piano; behind which, is a dining room. Before you reach the front door to enter, you are standing in a verandah area, where tables and chairs stand, arranged when the tavern is open. The toilets lead off from roughly behind the cigarette machine. You cannot see the kitchen. The serving area is made up of a low eight door fridge [4 on each of both sides], above which are stacked trays of chilled glasses of many sizes. Over this stands a high canopy of steel, on top of which stand all kinds of wine bottles and top shelf stuff. I did not mention that alongside the chilled glasses is a workbench, where there is a knife, and lemons and bitters and such, as aids to concocting anything as simple as squash, as intricate as cocktails. Three different beers, are dispensed at four separate outlets around the bar, when the place is crowded: EMU Bitter, EMU Export and Swan Gold. On the other end of the bar are two pool tables and a jukebox.

As you recall exactly how a place looks, you remember the kind of clothes a person usually wears, and the looks their faces register; even how much beer remains in the glass, usually, after that first lift to the mouth. You also remember that cloud like tumble weed of something seeming to come out of the mouth into the glass as Baden drinks. As everyone (just insisting on using Baden’s name as soon as possible: as the scout fella’s name; and the one who owns that eating-place, often loud, and, my friend, Baden, getting the complaining phone-calls).

Then you suddenly remember watching people walking, remember thinking that the clothes must have looked different on the catwalk… There is some kind of (mis) fit in the way the cloth rounds the arse ( underlines ‘arse’, red, does my computer with US English, our Macquarie, rescuing with nine entries: their intake/excretion is probably amoebic). The suits do not fit the men, either. Haven’t they found cloth that doesn’t crumple, so? I still think suits look better on… –What it is, is that clothes in no way look like measured to fit the body you see. What is more is that we parade clothes, as possessions, sized isclosebasedonascloselyaspossibleapproximately from a pre determined range of sizes, one of which, size, fits more than that preceding, or following. Thereby, categorizing us, before the fact, as accommodated by established statistics from Marketing Research: as though size incompatibility, were our deviation from normal ‘size’. Your size, sir, is outside our standard size range.

Every time you go to a grumpy waiter, serving, ask for a bottle of Hock. He will return saying he is sorry, but there is none in stock. Here, you say you did not think so, and sigh and say something outside proper evaluation of wines, but impossible to knowingly fault, like I was after something like Champaign, after it had lost it’s fizz, but without being flat. Discovered a slender, tall, green, bottle, one year, and bought the lot; then there was only the usual size, plus flagon or cask, their tastes not the same. That was farewell to a favourable Hock! There was hope that your cellars be helpful. I don’t think I even feel like eating, anymore. Here, take out your fifty-dollar note and wrist-manoeuver it as though a trump card onto the table, and say well, have a drink on me, instead. I am almost certain that you will also have saved much money.

They are wrong in all their catering for the masses. Nothing they sell fits any body as its measured size; everything fits as a prescribed fit; you, normal then, given the seller of trousers, like. A seven footer’s, more than likely, was my most comfortable clothing; the limbs all rolled up (incidentally, coincidentally, given my thinking: unless, I was dreaming, two overalls actually can button into each other as a walkabout sleeping-bag for two).

We need loose clothes that denote no promises.

I sat at the far, left portion of the bar; none there, unless someone came. Most come and sit diagonally opposite creating lines, across toward the toilet \ up the side further from me; I like my jug and book —you are wrong: I am there long before they arrive. My last morning-job is cleaning Bill’s Bench tavern; and, it is most enjoyable on weekends after the mess; just me, there, and the music. It’s a dance and if they do it they do it different, if they first so think of it.

It is not really, rectangular, but much like, the map of Ireland. The drunken Irishman, some have called me: I don’t know why I love you like I do, is more the case than I know why ‘Irishman’ (I wish man, I had sang and said when I first led on to sing When Irish Eyes Are…). An Irish accent, one said. Did I know he knew the accent?

I say I got it from reading Sean O’Casey.

I ordered my usual jug of beer with a midi glass. They think it an idiosyncrasy, but it is a habit grown with the impatience of waiting for service. It was my habit then, to enjoy my beer while reading my book. I’m sure I had the best conversation. I wonder, what I was reading? I remember dragging Diary of a Snail around for a long time. Usually it is not a novel I read but what has more depth; or biography; I don’t want to have to read too much before I get caught up in meanings and realities; consequences and subsequences. I find this quickest, when I menage to work out how the clues of the cryptic crosswords reached the answers.

My book lay open before me, that evening. I did not want to suck up any meaning from the text. I gawked instead at the shapes of the individual letters. This is a different kind of illiteracy. The communication is restricted to touch: to the sound, if not the words, themselves: to the proximity of breath. The book is but the completed written record of something that passed through the brain some time ago: the brain of Gunther Grass, instead: in no way pertaining to what had only been i_nterrupted_ by the telephone being put down. Now, abandoned, the still seething consciousness, divorced by the severed telecommunication, expectantly awaits the physical companionship of the visiting body of which that voice would have been the ambassador.

Imagine make-do bookshelves from the front door to the bathroom door, in the bedroom. Well, there is no real point in imagining that, because the books were everywhere, where I’d last left them or where they had fallen; even over most of my bed. There were also odd things around like a figurine of a nude made of plaster which kept falling of it, which I had saved from the bin in the architect students’ studio. There was also a discarded street sign hanging from a nail off the top of the bedroom doorframe.

The shelves and make-do’s were all against the walls, and windows and doors, except the front door. There was one large black plastic covered easy chair, with an attachment, looking like a short stool, for the legs to rest on. This, noticeable as soon as one came in the door, filled with shirts, pullovers, trousers, underwear, books, magazines, papers, typewriters…

Towards the left, leading to the bedroom, some stacks of boxes served as a table, on which was a huge typewriter, an ash tray, partly filled wine goblet, and a three-quarter full mug of black coffee. Balancin on top of the boxes, stood a table, giving the make do box elevated table, a kind of roof on which were a number of wine casks, all ready, with their taps sticking out.

Everywhere were figurines and cups and glasses; bottles with candles in them, empty candle holders; all sorts of posters and tear outs from magazines and newspapers, and slogans written on A4 sheets in thick black ink…

Inside the bedroom, it was the same; but because of the size, the bookshelves seemed around the bed, instead of around the room; blocking also the window.

The bathroom was entirely what it is supposed to be. –Unlike the one in my present flat, where some thousand books fill up maybe ten broad boxes which serve as tables (fully, plastic covered), one, right in front of the toilet. There is only a small table, holding books and ash trays, and mugs and things.

Catherine has chubby cheeks, a mischievous smile, dark eyes, thick, shoulder-length black hair. A short nubile version of Fergie, I say. I always associate people with other people, especially famous people, film stars and writers. Catherine is shorter than I am, and I can’t remember whether I am five foot six or four. I look like the longhaired, bearded fellow in The Goodies. The neighbourhood children called out to me each time while it was on television.
Catherine always wears tracksuits, always is as bundled up as the all but totally bandaged newborns. As enveloped as the banana, before munch time! Catherine has a lizard for a tongue, popping its head out of her thin lips just a little, a token of nakedness, skinned. We spent most of our correspondence talking about books and movies and film stars and religion and politics; and changing the world.

These few, things, I again see snaps of, the mind its own illustrator.

She was here, then.

INSERT cold hands…. POEM, HERE:

I was seventeen then. [If, at all, without direct action, now.] –And food, and cooking. She frequently mentions gobbling something up, puny as she is.

He fumbles with her body like a toddler with a ball. Like a blind person performing a perfunctory evaluation with an apparently indifferent once over. A soft cushion sensation registered as his hand moved downward over softness. Here he reached a boundary, a ridge, a bump to slow-down traffic; the rigid elastic holding up that piece of cloth. It is really only worn for the same reason, although not really! that they do make horses wear diapers in the streets of Sydney these days. Panties. You ever see them when they walk. You picture the mask of the lone ranger in the wrong place. The panties roll down like unfurling a larger foreskin… I wonder how often this enlightenment hits: how the naked woman, folded over, tits on knees, as it were, _(hm! yes, once too often have i mentioned this supposedly just thnking thereof) looks exactly like an overgrown penis. God would be witnessing a smaller penis penetrating a much larger one, looking down. It is no wonder the Greek, hetero means ‘strange’, and homo means ‘same’. (Think I’ll lewave it here and remove it t’other place[s]. ) The knickers did roll down as if it was moving off a much larger penis. As his hand went down and under and up again reaching just beneath her navel, his fingers moved in a ‘V’ shape. He thought suddenly of the mare standing up on her hind legs. He pulled his hand away, moving up the backbone to clutch at the back of her neck. He remembered reading that the art critic, John Ruskin, had avoided women for life, because on his wedding night he found his wife with hair, there. You seem to feel in control when your hand covers more than half her neck. He knows all about control: he also likes her to feel she is in control when she is doing what he wants.

I wonder whether I was awkward? It is almost, demanded by etiquette. It would have constituted a perverseness without fumbling. Do not the films so, portray? Aren’t we supposed to show stupidity before the fact? –Just the same, we interpret, with that later glazed look in our eyes, that it does make sense, all the sweat, and heavy breathing, and muscular exhilaration, and tingling pains, and, stink, it does make sense.

I will not use ‘pure’. It was she and I. I won’t say, sentimental. It was arithmetic. It could not have been any other’s body but her’s and mine. The only two, known quantities. The experience defines duel, delivering deliciousness instead of death as a constant effervescence. Through hindsight, you could say, were, it not us, were it not then, someone else than Meredith would be born; the experience would have been with an other, and something else instead.

I feel the soft moistness of her small mouth even as I write. The small soft moist dampness, no larger than the wafer of the Catholic Mass, put into your mouth at communion. The wafer also turns into flesh for us. Maybe it does for them, too, although one wonders: they always pronounce that very long word which describes the changing of the wafer to flesh and blood, as though it had to do with definition instead of taste, for them.

But, then, the church has never figured big in the Bible. God always had to pull at another commoner to make a prophet of him, and send him to the priests to tell them to pull their socks up. The Church calls that period of the Bible the Old Testament. That is because they want to call the period from the gospels, the New Testament. God’s period of nonintervention, meaning, conveniently, that God no longer sets upon common people to make prophets of them to tell the priests what to do, apart from also pulling up their socks. You see, I presume: the Church has banned God from communicating through prophets: no wonder they still only taste the wafer; they’re not tuned in: they think it like witchcraft; nothing but rituals and mutterings and defined truths; a : ‘weGOTaDICTIONARYtooISM’.

Like only one of us was there then, and the other was a robot, or, as good as. It is good they are celibate. They would soon betray their lack of essence…

“Hello!” he said. .…“How are you?” he asked….“What’s your name?” he asked.

“‘You making with witticisms’?”

“You saw the movie, too?

I thought you were a lot younger,” he said.

“The movie is on the video.

“That does not explain why you would see it?” he said.

“I heard that the whole movie is a waste of time over a question which should not have been asked.”

“Yes, people should not have to ask questions,” he said.

“Some questions should mind their own business.”

“Some unasked questions put people in their place,” he said.
“I could have made a point of not asking you your name,” he said.

“Do you think I’m making a point of not telling you mine?”

“Names don’t matter. It was something to say. Bit of irony,” he said.

It doesn’t matter whom he was; or she. Pretend, in fact, that it was you, with someone you had now passed on the way to where you are, the eleventh time. Except that it wasn’t. For a start, you would be talking about other things. Maybe, not. Maybe, you would have creeped out of bed and slipped away.

“No, there isn’t……a need…for names; you only tag things you want to itemize; you need names….to remember someone you might otherwise forget.”

“Does that mean we had a good time, last night?” he asked her.

“I didn’t hear myself complaining,” she said, “not that that has to mean what you asked.”

“Yes. That would be like, another way, of asking a name,” he said, “In that other movie he made the boys address the girls as ‘Miss___’: I was always sure that the Christian name was the most intimate, after the nickname. ‘Miss___’, was like declaring a knowledge of the name of the girl, after prodding her with a stick like a town on a map.”

“Isn’t it nice just to be able to lie together like this?” she said, “I didn’t like To Sir With Love very much. It was like, someone can guide the rebellion, each time. It’s like having to have some Marriage Councilor’s Sexual Manual, in bed together with us, each time we have sex. You wouldn’t want a manual, would you?”

“If they knew so much about marriage, they’d be bragging about their own, which they aren’t doing,” he said.

“Do you think that Sydney Portier should have required the parents’ approval before marrying the daughter, just because it would be a mixed marriage?” Catherine asked, totally enveloped…

“I think it is a joke at all of them except the daughter,” Peter said. “Approval, does not ask for research, or ask for a decision: it’s a ‘_Don’t ya know how yer feel?’_

“All possibilities can exist.”

_Maybe we should not have.

I don’t know why I did not expect such to be the case. That is exactly what you would sooner/later, do/say.

Is it not true that otherwise you would be with me instead of with her?

That’s what I mean.

Aren’t you even going to at least deny it for a little bit?

My comment was on the second part. The addition
That I would sooner or later…

You mean you knew I was going to say that? You mean you commented on what you knew I was soon going to say? You are the one who brought up ‘should not have!’

I am thinking of you alone with my nonpresence, knowing me to be with her, my feeling of abandonment clouding over you like a fog. As though I were issuing abandonment each time I went back to Megan, and left it, abandonment, with you here until whenever.

So you were regretting the situation you were gong to leave me in, full stop.

No. Without, regrets. Regrettably, nonetheless. Full of full stops. Seethings of milliards of pregnant teardrops, halfnesses, defeated by plastic.

I meditate Zeus eating his children. This is more than the holy mass. Body and blood. Sacrifice. ‘Take ye and eat of this, for this is my body.’ Sperms swallowed like argonauts by the Auger. As indiscriminately dispatched of as soldiery, as we noise our insistent attempts like we were creating the climes apt for their seedy adventure. Our groans ape, are mimetic of epileptic fits; like a storm to us, sound effects for the sperms thinking themselves braving the elements toward some god decreed onslaught. Our sexual activity, the climate the sperms and ova experience. Also ignorant. They are also ignorant of… Even in their tank-strong bubble encasements, the MoreFormidableThan TheRomanArmy corps of sperms, do not know/cannot see, this large plastic hindrance in their path, which they cannot get through to encounter the very Amazonian people of Ova. In another context, an other such hindrance is the very hymen. I suppose you do realize that the hindrance the sperm army encounters is what to us is simply that plastic piece of sexual contraception?

The correct way to describe it would be our being doused with cold water every time we get anywhere close to any kind of climax. No. –Worse! —Institutionalizing it that our ‘children’ endure that NonBerlinWall phenomenon for our convenience. Just imagine a plastic wall getting pilloried by the attempts of our limbs, each time trying like buggery to get around each other; us, automatically PlasticSuited from finger tip to toenail each time we do reach out and touch. I mean, instead of transferring that experience to the ova and sperms; by issuing them contraptions to withhold their touching each other, instead.

God forbid!

Let us forbid it!_


Both eyeballs, photograph each other’s. Mouths, mime words we can not yet hear. Do the closely observed sensual movements of the mouths slowly inquire

Shall we give them a chance?

A film-script is a documentary, an apparent as did occur.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxlatest installment
(of at least 365, daily)
and as well in the text

there also an earlier hemingway poem…..

Hemingway. 1.
Butterworth, Kennikworth, are the same
names on streets where we both used to live.
Mother wrote to write like Hemingway.
I read the books. –Room, high in attic.
Met Gertrude Stein. Boxed. Walked miles and miles.
Went to the races. Wrote. Dawn to noon.
It does not matter how much you drink;
You can always walk it off, next day.
I refused to accept H. as man.
Despite my mother’s best friend’s husband’s
Constant: They want them big[!]/ want them strong[!].
Covet a façade, and buy a mask.
Test all arguments against themselves,
And, all assertions, their opposites.
I was seriously writing down rules,
Reading philosophies and S. Freud.
At once, I coined ‘vagina envy’.
I had seen more envy of sisters
(not thinking ‘run down, to keep from me’).
They’d written cheap and easy-to-reads
just using the first two thousand words.
Who? ­Some American library group.
Fifteen cents, a book. ­In ’66.
Highlighted, masculinity’s too akin to masking.
The perennial story still making the man.
The Sargent-major does not bark anymore.
His stops and sleep always took more day.
Like she said. Look at the clowns two eyes.
When they asked her why she was crying.
We have pointed out what makes Romance
And crime detection, and what’s Horror…
Put them together and discover:
Bullets shot from the proscribed distance
Versus the choicest closeness of film…
True horror’s seeing we long took things wrong.

MY BLACK BOOK (66, 67): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ................" entitled poetry [both series whether or not textually used].


Joined June 2009

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