What about a prostitute? A prostitute was sensible. Surely a prostitute was sensible? If it came right down to it and he did really feel as low as all that and the notion that female company, that
Not all the pubs would be shut. Up the centre of the city they stayed open till later. Half eleven. He could go out the now and snatch a couple of pints no bother, and if he really was as lowly
Plus what he could do for example; a quick wash and shave and fresh clothes and then off up to a latenight disco, to just fucking try one for fuck sake nobody’s asking more that. But what about the depression never mind the depression the depressings. And it’s no as if people have got these mammoth expectations. Just to see you’re making an effort, that can be enough. It would be enough for Gavin and Nicola. So long as they know he isni fucking giving up. So long as they know he isni a fucking pathetic specimen I mean nothing’s worse than that, nothing, nothing is worse than that, nothing, nothing at all. Get the coffee made, and made strong to keep you alert, an indication of your intentions, that you intend doing something of an optimistic bent. And obviously a prostitute is nothing to be ashamed of; it is quite common-sensible — fairly rational, as a proposition, as propositions go for christ sake, at least rational ones. There is that aversion of course which is also fairly rational, to do with the imagery, of a succession of pricks. But so what? If she is clean? If they were clean? What possible difference could that be from the same one going in and out all the time? Apart from the obvious A.I.D.S.! Venereal disease for fuck sake anything!!
The temporary English teacher would be at home just now with the wife and the weans and the grannie. They would all be sitting in front of the telly, in the middle of a movie, The Wizard of Oz or The fucking Sound of Music, a tray full of various sandwiches, cakes and chocolate biscuit. Happy Families. The television is good for that sort of carry on, everybody being together without having to communicate conceptually. People have suggested Patrick buys a television. And he has been considering it. Televisions must be good for loneliness. When you are lonely you just go and switch it fucking on. Simple. Nothing to it. And then you just relax with your eyes staring straight at it. But it could put you off reading and listening to music and what Pat likes is playing music and reading books at the same time which is a bad habit maybe but very comforting. And comfort is important. He is not getting any fucking telly unless comfort is guaranteed. Do you guarantee comfort with your tellies? No! Then away and fucking fuck yourself Charlie!
Even discussion programmes on the radio, Patrick can listen to them while reading. Probably just for the company. To avoid the
gaps. It is gaps.
And what about the pipes?
Fuck the pipes. It was a weanish notion from the kick-off. He would simply discard them. A not uncommon occurrence. But is that really true? Well it seems to be, even although it is the sort of trait Patrick approves of and here he is having it himself for christ sake he isnt a total failure, what do you expect, everybody’s got at least one thing going for them. He was reading this short story recently and the guy in it tried suicide, hacked away at his throat for ages with some kind of fucking supposedly sharp-edged instrument though obviously it was blunt as fuck; the usual, suicide as a last-gasp action rather than a considered event, something you prepare for. How did young Werther accomplish the deed. It is a couple of years since Pat read the novel. And the parallels! Christ, he hadni even thought of that. Young lover on behalf of beautiful-but-not-to-be-got young lass. Had she been spoken for? Was she actually a married woman? Could that be true! Christ. Right: no suicide till you rush out and re-read the book!
So God is dead is he, well well well.
Where did that come from?
Hölderlin was once alone in the same room with auld Goethe but didni know who the fuck he was because he was only there to meet fucking Schiller and was so excited he wasnt able to concentrate! Amazing these coincidences in life. You could actually just be walking down the stairs and something totally amazing could happen to you. Such as? Away ye go.
Such as?
Away you go.
Well how come the pipes are finished? They arent finished. Why was it a weanish notion? It wasnt a weanish notion. It was not a weanish notion. There was something about them, at the very outset. It can be recaptured. There was also something else about that night, a kind of oddness about things. Was it an eerieness of atmosphere! Fuck off.
But there was definitely an oddness, a strange kind of dullness — like the senses had been dulled and things were being viewed via that of a perception unable to give colour to things. It had been cold right enough. And draughty, at the back of the arts centre. And yes, Patrick had certainly been shivering — no joke when you’re having a pish. And it iced up that night as well because some poor bastards were having trouble with their starter-motors on Wednesday morning. Patrick hadni; that side of affairs is quite good as far as the mechanics of his own motor is concerned. It got him right through the entire winter. Which is more than can be said for so many of these bastards with their big highpowered efforts. Pat’s motor is okay — if it wasni for the fucking bodywork it’s the bodywork that lets it down.
The coffee was cold. He had a whole mugful of it sitting on the edge of the fireplace and it was cold, the entire contents, the exact 100 % of all that there was and could conceivably be, there in his mug, cold, with its regalia of the english monarchy, imperialism’s holy of holies, leaving aside the fucking vatican of course, not forgetting the kremlin, plus of course the fucking white house, then again you’ve got the fucking zionists. Patrick sipped the coffee. It was a good idea to sip the coffee. Healthy. The life force. Plus as well it’s aye interesting to watch how the line of skin affects the inside of the mug, as it shifts and makes its way down. No doubt it was such an enterprise that inspired Copernicus, stuck away in his tower and getting upset at folk. His relations had something to do with it. Did he have fucking cousins that didni get on with him or something. At one point he was living near to the Hook of Holland. Is that right or a load of fucking rubbish. The Zuider Zee. That must be a nice place to visit. How far is it from Jena. Plus you could visit that museum-cum-monastery on the northern section of the Germanias wherein you may find there ancient literary treasures of the old Irish-Scot scholars, that would be fucking good fun. I know: let us get up and go ben the parlour once again and we can look at the fuckers and see what there is to see, if there is anything at all, anything remotely of interest.
Pipes Two. Painted in Bright Enamels. Of the colours Three. Silver Red Black.
And the thinner yin:
okay, fine. Pat stretched out his arm, aware of the weight at his wrist, the weight of his hand or just the strain there because he had been sitting with the arm in question at his side for so long and he lifted the thin one up, as an aid to its description just. But it was not easy to describe at all. Once you had said pipe you had named the world. Consider the panpipes: they have been performed on by mankind since way back at the ancient of days. Aeons. At least six thousand years. And men have been playing the pipes. And here you have Patrick Doyle MA (Hons). What about a pair of fucking bagpipes! No, sarcasm doesni work. He laid his hand on the pipe. Maybe it was just another aid to the relief of sexual tension. Anything was possible in this life. And playing music has always been medicinal, psychotherapeutic. Maybe this was the key to the entire meaning of art. Of course. Obviously. Soothing the troubled soul.
But all of that which is necessary. All that is required. That is integral and essential and not able to be hidden, that must be to the fore, that has to come right out and enter the