'A History of the Earlham Pits' par Jozef O'Cinneide
With apologies to Hans Prinzhorn (sadly not late of these partes)
Holes are apt to open up on the Earlham Road, it is a limestone/chalk area; primal, cuniform, inviting holes into which buses sink at an average of (at least) one a decade, usually in the short stretch of tarmac that connects the so-called “Secret Gardens” with the dwelling-place of W.H., who is now incredibly old, but still a visible and extremely cantankerous local presence, and who has enjoyed something of a critical and commercial revival in the wake of recent appreciation of his work by sexy young writers from England, the Republic of Ireland, Germany and Mexico. If not enjoying the fame - he has been a recluse ever since his hand was maimed in a slapstick incident in the late thirties - W.H. has enjoyed the monetary rewards of his own rediscovery. His royalty payments have paid for a new digital camera, which he has recently used to photograph the disappearance of a number 26 bus below the surface of Earlham Road. Employing a very slow shutter speed, W.H. has created the illusion a white, pink and blue (some might say violet) blur emanating from a murky, gradual crevasse in the highway.
Of course, we can share in facts that W.H. is too obstinate (but he would be at his age) to recognise. Most of these require no further discussion, but is it not time that we acknowledged that this crack and its vaporous eminence have always been there. To W.H., and indeed to the few visitors who have been welcomed into his acquaintance, the translucent blur represents the potentialities opened up by modern photographic techniques. But the old sod can’t be right all the time. No, to tell a secret, he’d actually captured an image of what was actually taking place: he had only deduced that a bus was entering the hole because he had read the Kodak manual in rather a meticulous fashion.
What is this strange violet spirit? Well, in truth, it’s buying fags.
Even ill-defined and amorphous quasi-spiritual entities enjoy the lovely taste and effect of FAGS. Who doesn’t enjoy the relaxing effect of their first TAB after work. W.H. loves SMOKING and considers it a crucial element both in the successful undertaking of a literary life and his own superannuation. The pink ghost emerges from his crack and goes and buys twenty CIGARETTES from the shop. It does this several times a day but is ashamed of the stigma that comes with buying 4 packets of MARLBORO REDS all in one go.
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I have just related the above FACTS to W.H. and, while disappointed that his camera had not in fact captured the disappearance of a busload of scholars but a chronically addicted genius loci, he is well pleased that ghosts love BINES. And so am I.
Holes are apt to open up on the Earlham Road, it is a limestone/chalk area; primal, cuniform, inviting holes into which buses sink at an average of (at least) one a decade, usually in the short stretch of tarmac that connects the so-called “Secret Gardens” with the dwelling-place of W.H., who is now incredibly old, but still a visible and extremely cantankerous local presence, and who has enjoyed something of a critical and commercial revival in the wake of recent appreciation of his work by sexy young writers from England, the Republic of Ireland, Germany and Mexico. If not enjoying the fame - he has been a recluse ever since his hand was maimed in a slapstick incident in the late thirties - W.H. has enjoyed the monetary rewards of his own rediscovery. His royalty payments have paid for a new digital camera, which he has recently used to photograph the disappearance of a number 26 bus below the surface of Earlham Road. Employing a very slow shutter speed, W.H. has created the illusion a white, pink and blue (some might say violet) blur emanating from a murky, gradual crevasse in the highway.
Of course, we can share in facts that W.H. is too obstinate (but he would be at his age) to recognise. Most of these require no further discussion, but is it not time that we acknowledged that this crack and its vaporous eminence have always been there. To W.H., and indeed to the few visitors who have been welcomed into his acquaintance, the translucent blur represents the potentialities opened up by modern photographic techniques. But the old sod can’t be right all the time. No, to tell a secret, he’d actually captured an image of what was actually taking place: he had only deduced that a bus was entering the hole because he had read the Kodak manual in rather a meticulous fashion.
What is this strange violet spirit? Well, in truth, it’s buying fags.
Even ill-defined and amorphous quasi-spiritual entities enjoy the lovely taste and effect of FAGS. Who doesn’t enjoy the relaxing effect of their first TAB after work. W.H. loves SMOKING and considers it a crucial element both in the successful undertaking of a literary life and his own superannuation. The pink ghost emerges from his crack and goes and buys twenty CIGARETTES from the shop. It does this several times a day but is ashamed of the stigma that comes with buying 4 packets of MARLBORO REDS all in one go.
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I have just related the above FACTS to W.H. and, while disappointed that his camera had not in fact captured the disappearance of a busload of scholars but a chronically addicted genius loci, he is well pleased that ghosts love BINES. And so am I.
posted by Karl | 3:36 PM
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