Sinister: jazz in Alexanderplatz

[figure2 at xxx.net]

---~metaphor alert~---

LIFE!
*-lite*,
and it makes me happy, like someone emerging from the overindulgent ministrations of three geisha-girls in a Turkish bath whilst a bathrobed and sweating Marlon Brando sits in a corner reading aloud passages from *The Perfumed Garden* accompanied by a wrinkly woman with unfeasibly russet hair on the cymbalon. The morning outside is sharp and chill: sunlit and open. The bells (for this is Sunday) peal over a frosty valley here. Rails of the Inverness line wind joyously parallel over oily-filth-coated sleepers, in elongated sighs, tuggling a low winter sun northwards. Tesco are now stocking frozen tiger prawns again after some six month's absence. *Carry on Nurse* is on television. I have an easy job. It doesn't bore me. 
Yes, the little things in life haven't been dull this week; they've been *nice*, *pleasant*, *easy*.

-the pantisocratic velociraptor is snuffling in turpitude-*

She's got a German accent, and she's got a Glasgow one. The chap singing with guitar and synth (it's a wee analogue monophonic number whose keys he occassionally dunks with the headstock of his Stratocaster) 'He's so droll' enthuses a member of the largely art-school audience as either 'The Rebel' or something vaguely compound in German beginning with the letters oh dubblya el and sporting a rather fetching fedora works through his wittily composed tales of girls over garden walls and Hungarian accordion artistes. I'm leaned against a square concrete column, alone and gradually retreating up the ramped portion of floorspace as the Girl with the Glasgow accent  is slowly but surely reversing against me whilst the German girl speaks over her shoulder and into her ear whilst staring, unwaveringly, at me. I'm kinda baffled by this intense if elliptical onslaught. Over the space of the guy's musical set I've retreated a full three feet in a steady, relentlessly glacial or tectonic shift. Now I've to try and reach down for my shoulder bag without appearing to be making a health and safety inspection of the girl's jeans as she yells back into the German girl's ears about the status of the working classes. I'm not dressed right and my complexion is a mess. Furthermore, I feel old. Real old. At least I'm not drunk. Haha! I knew there was something needing, so I turned for the bar. But my brain dragged me out of the door and up the stairs.

Just a pinky trace of the sun's illuminescence filling thin lines of cloud-vapour now. Beeswax candles have a delicious scent. Its flame is against a sky of fadings and gradients registered through black sticks of an empty tree. A soft rush of electric fan heater inches from the carpet and a penetrating whine from this beige-clad hardware sitting next to the monitor, occasionally burping as the Hard Drive performs some unfathomable chore under the windows.

*Yeah, this is a bullshit phrase
to save you time with the dictionary:
'pantisocracy' is a utopian community where all are equal and all rule
'velociraptor' is a dinosaur with long, grasping forelimbs
'snuffling' is to sniff at a thing in a contemptuous manner, and
'turpitude' is a rare breed of dwarf ferret indigenous to the Siberian Olyei and subsists almost exclusively on a diet of rotting gherkins.

Someone has read a post of mine! Why thank you, Corduroyboy:)

Jazz in Alexanderplatz
Isn't the instrumental coda to Belle and Sebastian's *Marx and Engels* adoreable?
Lilting piano, cello, descant recorder then some softer, deeper woodwind?
Take four 'crayzee' East Germans on Alexanderplatz. It's raining. One is a ghost, or is, now... 
The man directing all the filming is called Jurgen, and now he's sitting in a stainless steel and wickerwork chair in front of cinema 2 screen in Glasgow Filmhouse with an interpreter called Fiona to one side, a cine-bloke asking questions to the other and a lady with a plummy accent in the row behind me requesting them to 'speak up!'
The ghost is the recently deceased artist responsible for an unusually friendly giant bronze sculpture of Marx and Engels commissioned by the Hoenigger reigime in the 80's, in front of which play two virtuosically mad jazz musicians: a saxophonist and a percussionist. The saxophonist's brass horn is full of water which gurgles in Dolby surround sound in the cinema as he blows in. The percussionist slams droplets of water into a dance on the hi-hat then clangs some joinery hammers against Engels' sizeable metal feet. How many feet is that. MMmm. Dada is such a relief. Freedom to crazyness!

Half-baked must be the opposite of biscuit in the mirror of the number one.
If my computer didn't keep crashing... I'd be 'coherent lad'.
and if my mind didn't keep wandering
I'd be 'straightforward lad'

/rouss toys with a toy boat and looks at more mails
maybe... eek oh. If I don't post now I'll be too scared of Laura's dexterity, so I'd better get outta here and skulk around the chat room a bit. 

Gordon


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