(pictured above: Lionel Stander, he’s in this one)
You know the way birds eat worms? And do you know the way birds eat tiny little pebbles and so on as a kind of roughage to help break down and digest those worms? Well, they do. Now, did you know that if you, yourself, eat worms and tiny pebbles and then go to sleep you have bird dreams? It’s true. You have the dreams birds have. It’s all flying about and crapping on car windscreens. The same trick applies to any creature. If you eat a can of Pedigree Chum you dream the dreams of dogs.
I think this phenomenon might explain what happened in the last post when I thought I was dreaming a dream with you in it but it turned out to be you dreaming a dream with me in it. Do you remember that big pie you baked and left to cool on the windowsill and the way it vanished and then you blamed the local foxes? Well, it wasn’t the foxes, it was me. I pinched your pie and ate it and ever since I’ve been having your dreams and, to be honest, I really want them to stop.
I mean, take the one you keep having about the last days of Joseph and Magda Goebbels? Christ on a bike, what’s up with that? You know the one I mean. The one where Joseph and Magda Goebbels are played by giant 12 foot versions of Earnest Borgnine (him-AGAIN!) and Lionel Stander (who is dressed as Magda) and me and you and four friends of yours are their children, but adult sized and all dressed up in white nighties, and Earnest and Lionel are administering us with cyanide/morphine cocktails in mugs of warm milk and telling us to sleep and singing us German lullabies and gently stroking our hair. Fuckin Hell! What kind of person has a dream like that? What kind of person are you? It’s incredibly disturbing, us lying in our little cots and you looking at me and saying ‘don’t worry Hedwig soon we will be in Valhalla’.
What really bothers me about the dream though is where it goes from there. The bit where we die and they lay us in these weird little glass fronted coffins and put us on conveyer belts and we trundle off to some assembly line where blue and pink bows are attached to our caskets and then we’re loaded into the back of a van and delivered to a white supremacist version of Hamley’s where our corpses are sold as ‘Last Days in the Bunker’ commemorative dolls. . . Goodness be to Jaysus in Christ (as my own mother is fond of exclaiming) what can you say about that? Your subconscious should be ashamed of itself. I don’t think I’ll be able to look you in the eye next time we run into each other in Aldi or wherever. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch Hart to Hart the same way again either. Whenever Max picks up Freeway I’ll be worried he’s going to give the poor mutt a mercy killing and sell its dead body to a toyshop. You really want to get your head checked out. Or watch what you’re eating before you go bed. Perhaps you’ve been eating someone else’s supper and have been having their dreams and passing them on to me as part of some kind of psychic daisy chain. If that’s the case, I’d keep an eye on whoever it is whose supper you ate. They’re not right in the head. I hope it’s not someone you’re living with. Lock the doors if it is. Lock the doors.
That’s the last time I eat your pie and no mistake. And what is it with the gargoyleish yank character actors??? Holey fuckin’ Moley you’re strange one. OK, OK, we’ll leave it at that. I’ll say no more about it.
(pictured above: Earnest Borgnine, he was in the dream too)
I had a mad dream last night and you were in it. You. Yes you. We were in a small aircraft and you were the pilot and you were dressed up like a Chinaman for some reason, kind of like Fu Manchu or something with a fake droopy moustache, and you said, ‘it’s time to land’ and put us into a tailspin and we crashed in a forest but we were OK and got out of the aircraft and saw the house you grew up in in the middle of the forest and you said ‘it must be Christmas’ and then your mam came out to meet us but it was Earnest Borgnine dressed up as your mam with an apron on and he was acting weird and freaking me out a bit so I said I wanted to go home and Earnest/your mam said we’d have to use the raft.
Then we were in the raft going down the river Liffy and we saw plastic cider bottles floating by with tiny people inside them like submarine crews or the staff members of a strange hospital or something and they waved at us and then the river led out into an Amazonian expanse and shafts of dim golden sunlight spilled down on us from gaps in the lush vegetation above us and birds swooped silently in the dusky sky above the lush vegetation and there was this music in the air. . .
And you looked quite lovely in the Fu Manchu gear so I placed an arm around your waist but you wriggled out of my embrace and smiled at me and it was a sweet rejection and I thought you were right because the moment was perfect and didn’t need anything else and then we arrived at Bewley’s café and you were old and so was I and you wore a cardigan and a large Celtic broach and you were called Agnes and it was the late seventies and we went into Bewley’s and you had sausages, beans and chips and a pot of tea and when you were finished you sat back and lit up a cigarette because you could smoke in cafes back then and then you said we better get back because The Bionic Woman would be starting soon and I asked you if The Bionic Woman was a euphemism for sex and you just looked away and shook your head slightly and I knew you were right because the moment was perfect and didn’t need anything else and then I realised that I was growing tired of all these perfect moments and then we went and bought a pack of Fox’s Glacier Mints and shared them on the bus home and then I woke up in a stranger’s garden and a dog was barking and it was drizzling rain and a bewildered child was staring at me and I was very hung-over and asked the child for a glass of water and she screamed and then I woke up again and I was lying on a beach and I heard a buzzing and opened my eyes and they went cock-eyed because there was a huge wasp on my nose and I hissed at it to go away but it didn’t and the sun went down and came up again and went down again and came up again loads of times because days were passing and I knew winter would soon be here and the wasp would die and fall off my nose and I’d be free to go looking for you again.
Then I did wake up, I woke up properly, and I wasn’t even me, I was you and it was your dream and I was just in it and, you know, I reckon you’re a bit weird to be honest.
Language has gotten out of hand. The main purpose of vocabulary and grammar is to manipulate and deceive, to give the irrational the pretence of rationality, to justify questionable actions with verbose exorcisms of cognitive dissonance and to propagate ideologies and dogmas that justify the persecution of others. It’s all just spin. Language has become a nasty thing and it’s time it was reined in.
That is why I propose The Two Word Language, an international language that has only two words. One word is ‘Ooo’ and the other word is ‘Kah’. Ooo means ‘nice’, ‘like’ or ‘love’. You might say Ooo when contemplating a big bowl of custard or while getting your ears nibbled. Kah means ‘horrible’, ‘dislike’ or ‘hate’. You might say Kah when contemplating a big bowl of shite or while getting your ears nibbled by the parish priest. So, that’s it, now you can speak The Two Word Language. Two words. That is all. Ooo and Kah.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking a two word language will retard our progress as a species. You’re wrong. We will use diagrams to share complex instructions and therefore still be able to build machines and bake cakes etc. We don’t really need language for all that. ‘But Mr. Fugger, what about great works of literature and drama?’ I hear you plea. ‘Fuck em!’ is my response. What did great works of literature and drama ever give us? A heap of ‘to be or not to be’ angst and not much else. Forget all that stuff. That’s all part of the problem. Ooo and Kah are all we need. Them and the diagrams.
We may have to forget about literature and drama but we’ll still have music and images (but not films-the dialectic grammar of films is too emotive and propagandistic). We’ll even still have certain types of literature in the form of poems (but not the epic kind). Yes, there will still be poems. A love poem would go:
Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo Ooo
. . .and an anti-war poem or something would go:
Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah
The Two Word Language isn’t that limited at all really. Some intonation or volume variables in the annunciation of ‘Ooo’ and ‘Kah’ are also permitted, so as to express gradations in feeling (muttering Kah would not mean the same thing as roaring the word for example) or conveying uncertainty (saying Ooo with a questioning inflection at the end of the word). Actually, maybe we’ll have one more word. A phonetic word that means ‘OK’ or ‘whatever’. This word will be ‘Meh’. We already use it. You’re probably saying it to yourself right now.
So that’s it. Ooo, Kah and Meh. They are the only words we need. Anything more is just guff. We are fundamentally about likes and dislikes and that is all we need to express. We don’t have to explain ourselves to anybody, even if we did we’d just make up some bullshit anyway and others would probably only hear what they expected to hear. Language is so much wasted time. We just need to know if each other are happy or sad, pleased or displeased, and then we can get on with things. Ooo, Kah and Meh are all we need from now on. Yes, from now on, because I think we should get started right away. There’s no time like the present. THERE. IS. NO. TIME. LIKE. THE. PRESENT. That’s another good thing about The Two Word Language, it’ll stop us dragging up the past and disagreeing about the future. We’ll be forever in the present and the present is the only time that matters. The Two Word Language is a Zen tongue.
Don’t forget to return to Fugger later this week to see my next post. It should be easy enough to follow. Come to think of it, tagging posts is going to be a lot less hassle from now on too. OK, these are the last words I ever type in the old language. It’s all Ooos and Kahs from here on in. Ooo Ooo Ooo.
The spaces between places are where Fugger can be found on his psycho-geographic ramblings. Disused tram tracks, derelict train tracks, the grass verges by motorway lay-bys. Strange places that evoke that unnamed emotion, the one like melancholia but not sad. The one that probably remains unnamed in case people seek it out. An emotion that is obviously contrary to the compulsory hustle and bustle of life and ‘progress’.
Strange things can be found in the dappled light of spaces between places. Various existential anachronisms. Ignored ghosts. Clues to mysteries no one could be bothered solving. A baby’s shoe. A dropped choc-ice. Fox shite. A tattered holiday brochure. A lost polling card. A snorkel mask with a snapped strap. A broken badminton racket. The skeleton of a red setter that died with distemper. A taxi driver’s moustache. The tears of apprehended shop lifters. The regretful sighs of spinsters. The malign intentions of middle-aged teen-disco attendees. The bassist from Adam and the Ants. A mechanical drawing clip. A lost film clip. A paper clip. A hair clip. A harelip. A finger tip. An uneaten chip.
Have you ever noticed how maps look like nervous systems? Dendritic. Initially incomprehensible but, on close scrutiny, revealing of essential information. The spaces between places are on these maps too, just as they offshoot our nervous systems. They are not extraneous. They reveal the greatest secrets of all. These places are imbued with a strange magic, the Urban Arcane. The discarded objects found in the spaces between places can be flung into a cauldron and boiled. When you drink the concoction you gain the power to kill a man just by pointing at him. Yeah. I can do it. I haven’t yet. But I might.
International high finance is like that trick where you have to guess which cup the ball is under only there are about three million cups and even the crap magician performing the trick doesn’t know which cup the ball is under but he refuses to admit it. Can you see it in your mind’s eye? You watch the magician as he begins to perspire. He shoots you the odd nervous smile as he peeks under cups, forgetting which ones he has already checked as the search goes on. It’s a pitiful sight. The crowd become uncomfortable.
The only difference between international high finance and such a flawed cup and ball trick is that when the cup and ball trick goes wrong it doesn’t result in global instability the likes of which have not been seen since the last world war.
If the consequences of such a trick going wrong were so monumental, surely we’d have shot the magician by now.
I’ve written a new play. It’s a kind of Beckett meets Friel thing except every word of dialogue in it is a preposition. I needed a gimmick. Everyone loves a gimmick these days. Just telling a story or something, that’s a bit ‘meh’. Anyway, here’s an extract from my new play Until But Despite:
MAURA does the dishes, looking fatigued.
MAURA (wistfully): After beneath at around beside, onto during except. From inside, since above into beyond.
FATHER O’GORMAN is seated behind Maura, eating a slice of brack.
FATHER O’GORMAN: Like after near above off into of outside over past.
MAURA angrily turns to face Father O’Gorman.
MAURA: After along during beside, ‘till toward underneath. Since out throughout! Since out throughout!
FATHER O’GORMAN stands and takes Maura’s shoulders roughly.
FATHER O’GORMAN: Without like of past, among of upon, but down before of like inside. Toward! Toward!
MAURA shakes herself free of the priest.
MAURA: Around by after across between except for during. Except for during? Over during! Over during into amongst beneath but against.
FATHER O’GORMAN falls weeping to his knees.
FATHER O’GORMAN: Within inside toward but out of between, like near past outside over past. At behind! At beneath! At beyond in about of among in AROUND! In AROUND! In AROUND! . . .until, . . .until, . . .until but despite.
MAURA looks down at the priest in disgust. She tosses aside her dishcloth and exits the scene. FATHER O’GORMAN curls into a ball and rocks to and fro.
FATHER O’GORMAN: . . .until but despite. . . .until but despite . . .until but despite.
End of extract.
What do you think? Powerful stuff eh? I’m really looking forward to everyone pretending to enjoy it when it premiers at the next Dublin Theatre Festival. IN OTHER NEWS: Click the link to the RDC blog and see myself and an old pal being a bit xenophobic: LINK-KRAZY KRAUTS!
A controversial character, a contrarian, a ceaseless conversationalist. A possessor of one green eye and one blue eye . . .but no ears. Author of a series of dense novels charting the lives of 18th century whalers off the coast of Nantucket that won him the accolade of being the Herman Meliville of the feline world. A prolific shedder of white fur. The reason why I ended up in a physical confrontation with a bus driver after he escaped his box in transit.
Farewell Rupert McCloud, my cat, who passed away peacefully at his coastal retreat this morning. You will be sorely missed. The following song is a tribute to Mr. McCloud, who actually provided the sax solo that kicks in around halfway through.