So Stockhausen came from Sirius, and why the hell not?, and Cage made 4’33 of silence and pointed out that around huge swathes of the whole world, silence is traffic. The sound of traffic, he said, is always different whereas the sound of Mozart or Beethoven is always the same. The point is, a friend said late last night, it is all in their imaginations and the truth is they don’t actually know what they’re talking about. This, in reference to those other friends who say they’re being spied on and the place is a police state. Attempts to somehow harness an incredibly dense experience with acute language resulted in disaster a little later on. A press of the button and the mail had gone. To the wrong person. Worse, to an in-law; the in-law who was the subject of the mail. Can I blame my morning but oh so belated discoveries? The liberation felt encountering Stockhausen and Cage at youtube? Can I blame Ill Seen Ill Said? Or that woman in the pool? Or the imaginery author who wrote the book reviewed by MJH holed up in an ambient hotel? Perhaps it’s all the bullshit being said about the bankers and their bonuses, the deceit about the borrowing. Language used only to cover up, never to release. The insistence on an outdated etiquette I’ve never understood anyway. Is this a kind of aspergers? Isn’t it that all the aspergers carriers, the schizos and psychos are all we have left as some kind of moral guide? I’d like this to have been written in a more classical way, probably a more male way, so I’d be taken more seriously, be allowed a little more status. But it just comes out. Bloggers’ Tourettes. When my book is finished, I’m going to take a male name.