Friday 24 July 2009

Poetry Competions: A Waste of Money, or the The Price of Art?

All fields of art are subjective and at the mercy of assessment and criticism. In fact the finer the art, the keener the adjudicators of it's practise are, to overlay their intellectualism onto it's perceived qualities. The debate on what is 'good' and 'bad' art is a perennial one; it has always gone on and will of course never be resolved. The criteria also change from age to age, to say nothing of from person to person in any one particular time of art.

The idea of 'art' competitions is in itself arguably a untenable one. Can such a subjective field of human expression be truly 'judged' by ones peers and, as it is in many judgmental situations, by appointed superiors? And in the arts, who appoints these superiors? There is a fair argument to be had, that many are essentially self appointed, or emergent from an [originally self-appointed] illuminati and so what true worth does their judgment hold?

Ben Brinkburn, poet and proud grump, has recently written an interesting treatese on this issue, in particular regard to those exotic and particularly fascinatingly corrupt beasts, Poetry Competitions. It is shown below.


I Hate Poetry Experts and Competitions.

Occasionally I weaken and enter a poetry competition then as soon as the envelope has been eaten by the bored post box outside the butcher's, I immediately regret the few quid I've just squandered musing ruefully that it would have been better spent in the pub.

However I always make sure I enclose an envelope for the results; this cost of a second class stamp is the most useful expenditure of the whole exercise. When you get the results list [which with 99.9% certainty you will not be on], check some of the names on the web. Goggle them. Anybody worth their poetic salt has a web presence these days [witness my own grumpy effort] and people who are well connected enough to win poetry competitions DEFINITELY have a web presence, because it takes a certain type of self-promotionalist to win poetry competitions.

So google the winners/almost rans. You will only have to scratch the surface to find connections between them, the organisers of the competition, and by default the judges.

The world of poetry is a small, intense, thoroughly corrupted world. I like to think of it as something akin to a group of aesthetes drunk on port, cavorting around a plush club room masturbating themselves and their friends in one orgy of self-congratulation, back-scratching, score keeping and artifice.

Poetry publishers, magazine editors, competition organizers and judges are the amongst some of the most dubious of taste arbitrators and literary ‘experts’ in the field of the arts- not just literature- and that’s saying something. Smug, aloof and self-promotional to the point of hollow narcissism are terms that spring readily to mind [they even beat literary agents in the relentless application of these qualities].

Other gross offenders are Creative Writer Tutors. If ever there was truism to the notion that those who can write, write and get paid for it, and those that can’t teach it and get paid for it, having 'Creative Writing Tutor' on your passport is one of them.

The world of words is now full of Experts. There are now in fact more people 'Expert' at assessing literature than practicing it. This is no more apparent than in the literary ghetto of Poetry than elsewhere in the spectrum of wordcraft. It embraces the cliquiest, clubbiest of paramours; it encourages it's members to be self-congratulatory, self-assessing, auto-masturbatory, and practise an unerring aloof confidence in the knowledge of their inherent skill in judgment and criticism of others work- to those outside of the club that is. But once within it's hallowed confines…

...therein, you may bask in the mutual appreciation society that is poetry clubs with their attendant [fixed] competitions and the small poetry presses that are the self appointed arbitrators of taste and practise in the fair art of poetry and prose.

But ask yourself this- look at the plethora of small poetry presses, magazines and their associated [fixed] competitions here and in the US. Can they all be populated with experts? Are they all, collectively, a reliable gold standard in their assessment of what is ‘good’ [and therefore publishable] poetry?

Of course not- many of it's owners/sponsors are stuck up self-anointed aesthetes who through an inherent inferiority complex- developed no doubt from bullying in the school canteen at an early age [no Boltsin-Naipe, I’m having your jam roly-poly today!]- some are well meaning poetry buffs, a few are talented outsiders who never made it into the club for a variety of reasons [each one no doubt more interesting in the tale than any Expert Poem about concrete seagulls and/or drinking tea in Cambodia wearing straw sandals] and operate blithely- usually with half a bottle of vodka in hand- at the margins, and many more again are self-inflated egotists who always fancied setting up a magazine- the kudos, the attention- and a poetry one is the simplest and most direct way to exercise critical power over their peers.

So: very few real experts, many chancers and carefully masked, low-esteem ridden self-appointed arbitrators of taste and talent who, particularly these days, know their way around website design.

These are the people who judge your poetry entries in their dubious ‘open’ competitions at 3-5 GBP a pop. The simple process of selecting a shortlist and eventual winner[s] of most competitions is this:

The organisers trouser the fee first then look at the entrant. This is the most important part, and the primary reason for running the competition in the first place. Then look at the entrant. Is he/she a subscriber to the magazine? No, so bin it. That usually halves the pile. Then there is the scanning over of names that are recognizable [forget about this not happening even if it’s assured to be an ‘anonymous entry' judgment. The short listing assessors still get to see the real names, all is fair in love and war after all].

Then the short list gets in front of the primary judge[s]. They look at the entrants, pull out the names they recognize [particularly ones they drink/email/blog/ with, tutor, or simply ‘owe one’]. This then gets down to the hardest of assessments for the judge[s], who need to trade off favours and repayments in an equitable but primarily self-serving way.

The result: one of the poetry world’s lovey’s is invariably selected. In essence, this is 9/10 a person who a] subscribes to the magazine [if a mag contest] b] is recognizable as a member of an on-line or real life poetry group c] has been or is in the process of being tutored by one of the judges in a Creative Writing course d] has previously won a prize or e] is a new writer who is a friend/lover/relation of one of the judges or by association, one of the magazine publishing board.

The chances of getting anywhere in a poetry competition are therefore very slim. Unless you have unlimited funds and can afford subscriptions to every poetry magazine in the land, that alone should be enough to convince you to save your money, only enter poetry competitions that are free [and certainly NOT Arts Council funded magazines and projects that charge a fee- THEY SHOULD OF ALL THE COMPETITION THROWERS BE FREE] and find other ways to promote your work.

And there is nowt wrong with as much self promotion as you can manage. After all in the world of poetry expert artifice, your opinion on the value of your work is as good as anybody else’s; poetry is a pure expression of one’s inner self, it is a defining, concentrated moment of your psyche beamed down on to a page. It is YOU. if other people like it, all well and good. If so called poetry ‘experts’ tell you it is rubbish, ignore them. If you look at it and think it is accomplished, then that is all to the good. It is all you need. You’re not going to make a fortune or a career out of poetry, so what does it matter if self-appointed assessors don’t like it? Just get it out there and into print anyway you can, and see what the great world public make of it, because at the end of the day, they are the only ones that matter [after yourself.]

Rant over. I'm off out now to buy some dog food for the cat.

'Ugly Ben' Brinkburn, Shildon UK

Monday 20 July 2009

R.Rev. H.R.H. Cheesespike and 'Electrycal Contraptions.'

Here's a snippet from the Right Rev's memoirs in the 'Wiltshire Days.' Seems to be struggling with the joys of Television and in particular his favourite soap opera viewing.

…aye the wonders of the modern Appliances of Science
doth mesmerize my ancient heart and it is BEFORE GOD
that I doth kneel and give thanks and praise for His Mercy
and the gifts of the ‘Electrytc’ and such devices to transmute
the labours of man.

Aye this wonderment indeed that I have oft pondered
and in partic. the terrifying yet sublime joyes of the
‘Electrytc Televisional Contraption’ which is a box of marvels
and of speculative awe. It is true Strange Phenomenon
that doth manifest itself within a plastyc box and it is as
One admits before the eremitical Wrath of God a Verye
Useful Appliance for the control of grandchildren whose
wealth fare I commend to You Our Father Above and
His Son, the Good Shepherd of all our offspring
OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST AND SAVIOUR
Amen.

Althougheth as of a cruel winters eve as I Struggle with the
contortions of a Verytable Sermon for Evensong it can be
annoying to have youngsters bouncing and whooping as if
whirling dervishes or at worste, possessed by the black
enamours of the Darke Prince himself so help us
Almighty God as One attempts to scribe whilst a programme
on the ‘Electrytc Televisional Contraption’ doth show ‘X-Factor’
and yet when after a toilsome day battling with the demons
of the mind in the local post office And Elsewhere, to then
try to sit down and release the shackles of tiredness whlst
watching a programme on the ‘Electrytc Televisional
Contraption’ about simple and at times violent folke
ensconced in the bear pit of the East End streets of our fair
Capital of The Empire tempers can snap and said children
are brayed and naresay cuffed out of the room so that silence
and contemplation on the plight of those less fortunate in
their urban morass may be enjoyed….

It's interesting to note that there are many notes scribbled on torn out pages from the bible stuffed into the last volume of his memoires relating to the perceived attributes of various tV models, their direct impact upon Christian worship, their ability to distort truth and human function by the 'verytable diabolical practyse of Adervizerment' and their ultimate value to The Godhead.

there were also some irate letters from pensioners over a specific 18 month period complaining about Cheesespike's anti-televisual activities and two bills from Radio Rentals for damage to said sets [all japanese brands] in their High Street shop.

Friday 17 July 2009

The Secret Life of Biro pt 2

A further extract from Edmundo Bagel's twilight years memoires, charting his keen fascination with pens, pencils and other writing instruments. in fact he had an extensive collection, all carefully catalogued and even some very valuable examples of German Art Nouveau fountain pens but alas the bulk was sold off to satisfy a blackmail demand from a clique of former close friends who were also- alas- chronic [bad] gamblers. The text as discovered by Lynx [with footnote] runs as follows:

Parker fountain pens are the most wonderful objects. True articles of the fusion of Function, Art and God.

Such wonders can issue from it's finely crafted nib; the greatest sketches, the finest words of love sent to a lost [and violently spiteful] former lover and, of course, words about anit-dysporian intellectual stand points where one argues that God is god but maybe not; god is Man or maybe man is man or maybe man is god or is there in fact more than one God there are in fact Gods: is there a three multiplicity or are there on reflection, many aspects of Man?

I ask myself these questions many times in the day and end up saying to myself: ' of course they are Bagel, all of your ideas are right!'

Then I feel stupid and slap myself across the face a number of times and find I quite enjoy it and so do the same again but then I realise I must centre myself. This is getting silly and so I make the shape of an Iris and slump into my favourite- if rather torn and stained- armchair.

But Spirits come from the nib of a Parker pen, I am convinced of it.

Spirits that chase rainbows; to a world where blue children live.

Oft have I dreamt of such sylvan skies and toast and jam served by small bears in little hats....

I am also oft called a dualist and I do not know why because there is only one me, there is, there is only one me and my pens. When I look in the mirror I see me- apart from God- the non-god, the Pencil Sharpener.

The me that would like to fire bomb the local University’s Philosophy Department and the Me, that Me, that had a chance to become a successful soul singer but was -cruelly- thwarted.

As such I assess this argument to be flawed because there may be me, but of course conversely there is not because it is all an illusion.

It's clearly obvious.

The mirror lies.

It is mere glass with a silvered wooden backing, probably from IKEA price 12 GBP but I prefer my Heal’s hall mirror 650 GBP because the quality of it's reflectiveness is so much more... pure.

I joined an embroidery circle recently.

A strange thing for a man to do I admit, but I am continually trying to push out the boundaries of my existence, to go beyond the God/human experience to push, no less, the cosmic envelope and so going cross gender in terms of the bourgeoisie's perception of recieved wisdom industrial activity seemed to be a logical starting point.

I did not of course dress as a woman. In all modesty my legs are quite good but the make up and wig just did not work so I went as a proud, equalitist man.

I did of course have my two pencils, three pens and my cherished pencil sharpener with me so I felt fortified and although at first nervous, I began to quickly enjoy it, embroidering pictures of cottages, anchors, eagles and only once did the word 'wank' emerge.

I was at first all fingers and thumbs and would frequently find myself explaining the dormant potent power of my pencil sharpener to the ladies but they were friendly and supportive until my fifth session when one of the ladies suddenly stood up and shouted: 'What have The Romans ever done for us!'

We were all quite stunned and I reached instinctively for the comfort of my pencil sharpener and found itin the left pocket of my Harris tweed jacket and felt its strength.

I was rather inclined to stand up and reply:

'Do you not mean God? Rather than the Romans, are you in fact not asking by a juxtaposition of historico-spiritual terminology what has God ever done for us?'

I am thus well fired up and prepared for a functionalist anti-reductionist debate but hold my tongue. Only to recover consciousness a few minutes later realising I was actually holding my tongue and rolling around on the floor salivating profusely.

Later on in the hospital I considered my predicament in relationship to God and The Lack of Reality.

I began to understand after seven days that the combination of Port, Vodka and Seroxat may have played a big part in The Illusion. However at some point I reached for my jacket and found my pencils, pens and most importantly my silver sharpener were still there so I felt as if Reality may really be here, but I equally realised that I had to keep writing the books becauseI needed the money...


Ed's note: Well that's enough for this installment I suppose. It's interesting to add though that Bagel, after the sexual and intellectual strictures of Latvia, the BDSM experiences of his University lectureships in Germany and then Brooklyn, ended up for some time in California in the seventies and, being musically inclined, fell in with a funk-soul crowd for a while. One of his best friends was in fact the legendary Lou Rawls and it is widely acknowledged [although of course entirely unprovable] that Bagel wrote the line 'you'll never find, another love like mine,' after many tequila's and a session in the tub.

Of course he was never credited for it, Rawls has always streniously denied it and so his steady decline into an alcohol and perscription drugs fuelled depression began that lasted for most of the eighties.

But such is life...or maybe not as the illusionists believe, eh ;-)


Thursday 16 July 2009

Edmundo Tomsk Bagel [1928-2005]- A Brief History pt 1: The Early Latvian Years




Edmundo 'Tommi' Bagel was born in the inter-war years of Latvian national freedom between the lifting of the shackles of Imperial Russia, and the imposition of them again in the different guise of Soviet communism in 1945. These were national freedoms and a state of ethnic self-determinism that would not be seen again until 'perestroika' and eventual Independence again in 1991.

His father was a baker who ran a small shop in the heart of the old city. Bagel- or 'Tommi' as he was exclusively, affectionately known by his family and friends- spent his formative years in this hot, yeast-laden environment under the stern but fair guidance of his father [who Bagel would describe as having a 'thundering velvet hand' in his early years but was generally 'a sycophantic, collaborating bastard' in later ones] where he would rise at 4am every morning to help feed the ovens, doing the best part of a days work from age seven every day until his late teens, before going to school and later, college and university.

Most of his pre-teens were experienced during the Great Patriotic War as Latvian pride was slain first by invading Russian Communists who were no better in their motives than the czarists, and then soon after by a sweeping invasion of German Nazis who, at first, Bagel's father welcomed [as in common with many Latvians, his family shared a German ancestry] but the welcome was soon tempered by the draconian control of the new Nazi governance and the disappearance of Jewish neighbours to the work camps at Salispils and what would in later years be revealed to be a concentration camp at Kaiserwald.

The Bagel family was largely left untouched however, particularly due to their vital bread making service, the shrewd opening of a cafe on the ground floor of a recently vacated Jewish neighbours townhouse that offered discounts to German military users, and more discreet services on the upper floors provided by willing young women recruited and organised by Mrs Bagel. This proved to be a life saving exercise for the Bagels- particularly as Jewish heritage lurked in the murk of the family gene pool if it was stirred enough- as well as being a decent little earner in such hard times.

Edmundo relieved the mental and physical stress and drudgery of this existence by immersing himself as a boy in an alternative world of sprites, spirits, woodland creatures and astronomy. He would often gaze at the stars from the rooftop of their townhouse in the heart of Riga [now in an area rightly so protected by UNESCO as an area of architectural excellence, particularly in the style of 'Jugenstil' [German Art Nouveau]] through a makeshift telescope of bottle bottoms, stained glass from a nearby shell wrecked church, bicycle wheel spokes [the abandoned Jewish house had had eight bicycles left in it's garden] and a hood made from wheat grain sacks from the bakery.

This was in time replaced by a real telescope provided by Edmundo's first mentor, Ubergruppenfurhrer Gustav Heinrich Aegerter-Shenkelberg VI, an SS officer who took a shine to the young boy and taking him under his wing particularly when discovering Edmundo's fascination with the cosmos, which mirrored that of Aegerter-Shenkelberg's, a complex man worthy of study in his own right he was an obsessive about the possibility of space travel and a key instigator in interesting the young Bagel in Rocket Science, Aeronautics, Ballooning, Alternative Theologies, the Cultivation of Cacti, the breeding of rare frogs and German Philosophers amongst many other things, such as providing the young Edmundo with many valuable copies of the American 'Astounding' magazine.

The German occupation war years were therefore halcyon days for the young Bagel, and in future memoires he was not embarrassed to say that he had 'a very good war.'

By 1944 though, the German occupiers were fleeing and stability in Bagel's life was coming to an end. He was sixteen years old and his elementary school days were nearing completion. The University of Latvia was calling but trauma was first to stalk the young man; he was to witness Aegerter-Shenkelberg- the man he had come to regard as another father- being put against a wall in the street, shot and, shortly afterwards, his father shaking hands in congratulation with the dishevelled rag-tag group of corrupt and boorish Russian soldiers who had done the deed. This was to have a profound effect on young Bagel's world view, as was the murder of his developing frog collection by his father in one of his baking ovens after he had drank two bottles of vodka with the representatives of their new Russian masters.

The future scientist-philosopher-theologian was finding his emotive and intellectual groundings. It was time to develop them in the wider world.

Wednesday 15 July 2009

A Welcome

We warmly welcome our first follower Bill Knott, an American writer and poet we greatly admire and it is a very pleasant surprise to see that he has dropped in here.

For anyone else passing this infant site, it is firmly recommended that you seek out his work, and enjoy.

Edmundo Bagel [1935-2005]

There is much archived material about this intriguing man. Below is an extract from his memoirs
to give a taster. It was found by Exeter as she trawled through a mass of information 'acquired' from a dumpster at the back of Leipzig University's Archives and Historical Records Department, whilst lying low in a Montana log cabin for a couple of months last year [file notes have been retained where salient]:

Came across this in my readings, written by some Edmundo Tomsk Bagel but thought it was worth sharing in a reductionist existential fashion. whatever see what you think [can't print it all because it goes on forever but, you know...]

What’s It Like to be a Pen? Bagel thinks…

The Secret life of Biro pt 1

I have this dream. One that needs to come to full realization. To design a pen in order to reach the divine. To grasp that almost unreachable goal of inky light....oh how I ponder.

I love pens. They are quite wonderful artifacts. Utilitarian but Spiritual at the same time. Disposable but still capable of reaching heights of enlightened bliss through their use as writing instruments. Disposable is of course used as an open ended word that is multi-faceted- some pens are blatantly more disposable than others, for example a rudimentary pencil purloined [accidentally of course] from IKEA is ultimately, as beautiful an artifact as it may be, of less value than an 18 carat gold plated Ronson the loss of which would cause much sufferance to oneself. The humble pen [and of course pencil, the much derided lesser sibling] nonetheless has its rightful place in the pantheon of writing utensils with as much validity- I would strongly argue- as the most finely crafted goose feather quill dipped in a chalice of a cherished one's blood in order to seal a Lover's Tryst. But I digress.

I have presently in my pocket two pencils, a sharpener, and three pens.

The first pencil is approximately four inches long, a good noble size, and is blue and very sharp. I use it to tick of my household chores list and sharpen it twice a day [the household chore list is updated on a daily basis but this is not the forum to discuss that at the moment]. My sharpener is about half of an inch long, silver, and a cherished memento from my school days where I was habitually bullied, but I always had my sharpener in hand to comfort me. It is on it's thirty-first blade, at the time of writing. I do not however keep this sharpener continually in my pocket now, but in a small brown coffee jar lid that sits on a radiator shelf in the hall of my house.

The second pencil is black with gold piping down it's sides and is about two and a half inches long. A little too small for my liking and it's a little blunt and not as sharp as the blue one but nonetheless it is perfectly serviceable for day-to-day use like scribbling down ideas about God and Death to oneself and the like. I keep it more for sentimental reasons than effective usage and call it Mr Stubby.

The first pen is yellow and plastic and has black ink and a fine nib. The end has however snapped off revealing the slim, inner see through plastic tube of ink which clearly supplies the nib but, more often than not, often slips out of the yellow plastic housing.

I rarely use this pen and do not know why i keep it in my pocket. I have occasionally scribbled about life and it all possibly being one big dream- an illusion no less- where what I think or do is of no consequence because there is a Greater Plan but I admit at times these thoughts have come after a few glasses of good Port and, I must confess, much Vodka.

The second pen is another 'disposable' type in clear plastic but the top inch of which bears the markings of pensive teeth and the blue stopper at the end is badly chewed. I use this this pen for crosswords, scribbling aide-memoires such as ‘Asda: more twiglets and sherry’ and filling out betting slips. I am on a good run at the moment and like to think of this as my Lucky Pen and am worried it will run out soon. I am also worried that I may even be starting to think of it as My Magic Pen and as such am prey to worries that my mental health may be deteriorating again.

The third pen is a Pilot drawing pen 0.35mm width nib. it has a nice detachable lid that, when the pen is in use, fits snugly on to the top of the pen’s very tactile and quite soothingly smooth shaft. I like to use this pen for bold gestures such as letters to the Radio Times, sketching out planting plans for my walled rear courtyard garden and writing hymns.

Pens are so much more than what at first greets the eye and I believe their spiritual dimension goes largely unacknowledged, their true purpose as a prime mechanism to reaching enlightenment sorely undersung….

[to be continued...just getting all of his stuff sorted out- This is an extract from memoires in his later years when he lived in semi-retirement in Liverpool, England- Lynx]



Sunday 12 July 2009

Fantasy Architecture

What joyful elegance can be found in the architectural visions of artists that never saw a single stone lain in their realisation.

To the right is an example. It is called 'An Aviary' by Felix Vionnois and can be seen in the Ecole Nationale Superieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris. It is one of a series which we will share with you in due course, gems lost in the mass of Parisian galleries and private collections. It is one man's vision of a purity in architecture; perfect form set in a parkland full of reflective, inspired calm, devoid of ennui and unbalance. It is a sophisticated statement of man's presence within Arcadia, of his oneness with the natural world, but at the same time an unashamed statement of man's dominance over the natural environment but it is not [or at should not] be one of overseeing control, like a master over his conquered slave concubine, more one of benign custodianship.

This is illustrated by the function of the building. An aviary, a beautiful structure dedicated to the nurture of birds. Space to be free of wing but safe from predictors and cared for by skilled avarians. A civilised statement of metropolitan environmental intent.

Saturday 11 July 2009

An Introduction To The Presidium

L’Épouvantail, whilst in it’s totality an amorphous, ever shifting alliance of minds, it has at it’s core four personalities who sit as the collective’s presidium. They are:

Anton Dubbelyou, of mixed French and Algerian blood, lives on a Paris-New York axis although maintains an office in Soho, London from which L’Épouvantail operations are based and a small mews house in Mayfair. He specializes in the study of Religious Records and Icons. His hobbies include compiling and researching a compendium of bizarre sex practices and unusual forms of human sexual expression. As the accepted chairman of the Presidium, he manages the overall direction and ethos of the L’Épouvantail Collective. When working, he lives alone [apart from a staff of thirteen] in a Burgundian château. When social networking and enjoying recreational pursuits such as sailing his yacht ‘Le Jeune Fleur,’ he is based in New York in a Greenwich Village brownstone, which he shares with the famous agony aunt Fiona McCluster who is twenty years his senior. This relationship began before and has continued after his wife and young family were mysteriously killed in the unexpected explosion of the car they were traveling in, in the French countryside, a mysterious ‘accident’ for many years a fascination of those intent on tracking down and exterminating the activities of Satanic Cults.

He is sanguine about reaching the end of his current four decade on the planet, and looks forward with resigned puzzlement to the next four.

Lynx Exeter resides in Hermosa Beach, LA during the summer months, her autumn in either an Icelandic Spa or a Nepalese temple retreat dependent on the form and level of recovery she requires from the type and intensity of the excesses she has enjoyed during the summer and spends her winters in a small, invariably damp cottage in the English Cotswolds. She is an accomplished thriller and chick-lit writer, basing most of her work on her experiences at an younger age in the Southern Californian porn industry. Without fail she spends every summer solstice in the woods outside of Ukiah CA celebrating with a Hindu sect, and every winter solstice chained for twenty four hours to a standing stone in Avebury, Wiltshire, England.

Whi is an accomplished alumni of the National University of Singapore where she studied medicine and was expected to become a leading neurosurgeon after her ground breaking Doctorate thesis. She however was intent on pursuing more esoteric areas of research and practice which has involved developing the world’s leading database of unexplainable phenomenon which has become a bible for Ufologists, a detailed biography of her father who was a leading activist during the ‘Nanyang riots’ during the founding of the National University of Singapore’ and who was shot by an anarchist during the ‘Curriculum Crisis,’ a time of heated protest and debate over the rights of mandarin speakers to have their own language curriculum handbooks and courses, and has recently completed an epic poem over three volumes that includes every word in the Collins English Gem Dictionary.

She is an habitual user of hallucinogenic drugs which she sees as a vital part of her everyday experience; once told she will die at thirty by an Azerbaijani mystic she is intent on finding a door into a parallel brane where she is destined to live for longer. it does however have unusual but harmless periods of debilitating side effect whereby she believes she is a Shanghai skyscraper which a restaurant in her brain for considerable periods of time.

The Zedster was born and still lives in Liverpool, England. Spending most of his childhood within institutions, first for basic child care purposes then for juvenile delinquency control, by his late teens he escaped the grasp of local police and villains to collect glasses and bottles in an Ibizan nightclub. Applying his drug dealing expertise learnt on Merseyside sink estates to the Balearics, he soon had made enough money to open his own nightclub at the age of twenty-one, with his own famous Friday night ‘Penguin Interference’ DJ set. Similar problems to back home however soon stalked him and within two years he turned himself in to the Spanish authorities for incarceration, which was safer than the option of staying on the outside.

In a decrepit prison in Alhambra, against the odds, he became fluent in Spanish, Portuguese and Russian, learnt the science of musicology, became an expert on advanced computer filing techniques [and hacking] after becoming the prison librarian and developed a keen interest in astronomy and the Ancient Mystics. He also at that time had the words ‘Never Confuse Information With Knowledge’ inscribed across his shoulder blades, Everton FC around his left bicep, Real Zaragoza around his right bicep and a large penguin on his left inner thigh.

Upon release he returned to the UK and undertook a degree in Information Technology in which he received a First Distinction and his thesis on creating the ultimate rhythm was widely acclaimed. Determined to stay close to his roots, this did not however distract him form some recreational drug dealing ‘to keep his hand in,’ and through which he met Lynx Exeter on one of her length Beatles pilgrimages to the city of Liverpool. He was quickly absorbed into the collective and is a key source of information on the occult and mystical symbolism as well as being the invaluably skilled party organiser for the biannual Collective conferences.

Friday 10 July 2009

The Right Reverend Horatio Rye Hill Cheesespike [1921-2007]

L'Épouvantail is currently involved in finding and publishing the life story, musings and sermons of the late Right Reverend Horatio Rye Hill Cheesespike [1921-2007] a hugely misunderstood, progressive Anglican priest who amongst other achievements had an immense impact on the mentally unstable patients of Numbscull Priory [North Yorks] during the fifties, which lead to the establishment of the notorious Crackpot Savants and their activities across the north of England during the late fifties and into the sixties which became known as the 'Sermon Disturbances,' and which eventually led to the Reverend Rye Hill Cheesespike's first period of incarceration at Her Majesty's Pleasure for continually breaking the peace, and a side issue of tax evasion.

Soon after his release he caused uproar in the General Synod over his theories on the bestiality, spent further time in Belmarsh Prison due to a misunderstanding involving tattoos, serious incidents of drunk and disorderliness in Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds city centres, as well as his organisations recruitment policies. There were also, once again tax irregularities including investigations by Customs and Excise centred primarily around containers imported into Bootle Docks, that involved his latest group dedicated to the Glory of God, the Servants Of Christ United.

He however he put his second spell 'inside' to good use, helping him to both dry out and establish a new, fresher adaptive Christian movement [called the 'small 'c' christendom faction']. An altogether more peaceful organization- although it did dabble in agitprop activities in the early eighties and for some time adopted a Red Star over a Cross emblem- it enabled him to return into the Church of England’s mainstream fold after a time in which he also, during a period of hard times, worked as a bingo caller in Blackpool and where he became known as the 'Pastor of The Golden Mile.'

Eventually he managed to obtain a sleepy pastoral parish of his own in Wiltshire, although he continued, as he had done through all his life, to struggle with the demon monkey [as he described it] of drink and to his dying day maintaining that he was channeling the spirit of a long dead vicar from the eighteenth century.

Extracts of his work sermons and memoirs are presently being collated and restored. Here is a sample:

aye tis oft I hath pondered the tranquility therein apparent in the oneness of the without partic. as I scribe my humble evensong sermon which I offer with contrite heart to Our Father Above and his Son, OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST AND SAVIOUR Amen.

As the cruel wyndes of Autumn doth bloweth around the gables of mine humble abode I admiteth that sweet nectar is what I doth naught sip but tis a charger of pale stout followed I do declare versooth by a verytable grand glass of golden spirit from the Scottish Isles and aye, tis ashamedly I must admiteth it but I do do oft open a flagon of 'Whyte Lightning' strong cyder which doth remindeth me of mine innocent seminary dayes in Dorset, that most gracious of countyes in our wonderous God's Country which lieth under the protection of Her Highness THE QUEEN May God blesseth Her and aye, I doth confess, that the sparrows and monkeys doth apeareth before mine glasslike eyes as the chancel candlelight doth flicker in these dark nights of November, as I ponder the in of the outness then lo the inside out of the withness...

etc

AIDE MEMOIRE:

i] BIDDING PRAYERS 5-11 TO BE USED

ii] PLAYCE WEEKLY ORDER AT VERYTABLE WINE EMPORIUM 'MAJESTIC' praise be to God amen

There is clear indication of his state of mind at this time, which is later in his career during the twilight ministry of his time as a parish priest in Wiltshire. Anton is presently working on a transcript which includes a critique of this period in his life and may well contribute something soon directly in relation to the above extract form the Right reverends memoirs.

Thursday 9 July 2009

Angels, Destiny and Confusion

The angel motif in the sidebar is an extract from a painting by Raphael in 1513. It is in a Dresden art gallery and it's patronage is unclear although it is likely it was intended to decorate the tomb of Pope Julius II and, understandably, the primary figures of Mary, the infant Jesus and the two saints- Sixtus and Barbara- are suitably solemn.

At the bottom of the painting are however two much more interesting characters. Two cherubs: are they feeling mischievous? and one is shown. Is the cherub feeling mischievous or simply bored at the solemnity above? Is it a deliberate introduction of levity, or a celebration of childlikeness in the face of mourning? Is it an Illuminati political statement? Or did Raphael just like to paint angels?

We will never know.

Sunday 5 July 2009

Welcome to this blogspot. It is currently under construction. Exciting things are to be revealed here, in particular our research into the varied and intellectually challenging world of Edmundo Bagel whose lost [and at times deliberately hidden] works are being uncovered by us and, who we believe, deserves to be re-established as one of Latvia's great heroes as well as the equally fascinating lifestory and religious tracts of the Right Reverend Horatio Rye Hill Cheesepike, which we feel strongly needs to be once again given an audience in the twenty-first century.

We are as such dedicated to re-publishing the works of some of the great lost minds of the previous century as well as our own commentaries on art, literature and philosophy. Watch this space.