TALK TALK

Last night at the Symposium, I felt a bit like The Man Called X.

That is to say that they all knew each other, not me, and badge notwithstanding it was difficult to get a word in edgeways, which was insignificant because no one was listening to anyone anyway, just talking uncontrollably and without any discretion or intention to actually communicate. Speaking of which, and what about that 9/11 Memorial and Museum's gift shop (!) and inevitable Danny Meyer 'comfort food-seasonal farm products-local wine and craft beer restaurant' (!!) 'that's not being done for crass and commercial reasons' (!!!) ???  I ask you.

 

Talk Talk: Talk Talk (Link)

HOW SUNDRY GENTLEMEN PUT THEIR TRUST IN HORSES

The curricle with its oddly matched pair swung out of the inn-yard as the moon rose above the poplars.  Sir Turnour was in the best Four-in-Hand Club style, head erect, shoulders squared, hands well down, elbows close to his side; but though immobile as a Buddha, his delicate fingers were testing the mouths of the cattle. Beside him Harry Belses was buried in the folds of his great-coat, and in the narrow space at his feet, his head against Sir Turnour’s apron, lay the spaniel Benjamin.

They passed through a sleeping hamlet, and debouched from the narrow parish into the broader Lynn highway.  Here Sir Turnour gathered up the ribbons and proceeded to try the quality of his horses.  In a trot their paces did not match, and the curricle swayed unpleasantly, but when he sprung them into a short gallop, they went better together.

‘John was right,’ said Sir Turnour.  ‘There’s blood in both of them, and willing blood.  No need for fanning or towelling or chopping ‘em.  But they’re not a sweet pair to drive, and I don’t know how the chestnut will last the course.  He has come down too often over the sticks, I’ll swear, and his off fore-leg may give out before we’re done with him.  The bat-eyed bay is right enough.  As they say on the road, he’ll go through to hell or Hackney.’

Note:  “The Free Fishers,” one of John Buchan’s late novels, is another peculiar, particular example of what made this polymath genius's works exceptional and unique. 

We once had a good friend from Hackney.  (Sounds like the beginning of a limerick, but it isn't.)  

He spoke in the distinctive accent of that borough.  He sang like a tortured angel.

Talk Talk: Such A Shame (Link) 

From:  John Buchan, The Free Fishers, 1934.

IT'S MY LIFE (DON'T YOU FORGET)

Somewhere between dreams two nights ago, in space, I wondered where I was and reconsidered my first gyroscope sighting. Was it in primary school or on Mr. Wizard? 

No matter, the gyro’s twirling stirred me in unforgettable, indelible visions and sensations of balance and imbalance, order and chaos, nausea.

My dream field was black and cloudy.  Spots sparked resembling prick-light-flashes in the vision field tests I've been taking, reminding me of those Psych Dept. perception experiments I loved; they paid you cash on the spot for describing what you saw. 

Unfortunately, this time around I’m paying, and it’s all truth, consequences, diagnosis, prognosis.

I saw myself in a dream and I want to tell you everything was all right.

That is to say, I briefly caught a glimpse in the mirror of the back of my head and I looked better than I have in years. 

I’m beginning to see the light. (It's coming a little softer.)  

Flitting by, a false accusation of disloyalty from someone I care about disappears silently in a dark dust-cloud. 

It’s a hard world to get a break in. 

Over under sideways down. 

All the good things have been taken. 

We’ve got to get out of this place. 

It's My Life: Talk Talk (Link)

André Masson Images:  Top – Automatic Drawing (1924); Bottom – Automatic Drawing (1925).