You requested it; you got it: an interpretation of it anyway. The Tepee may not be five feet tall but it's certainly two if not three. Complete with figurines. As an artist I work only with found materials, I couldn't find any red indian dwarves so I used mediaeval soldiers instead. I'm still working on the rottweilers.
As soon as I get a picture of Mr. Welsh clocking it, I'll raze it to the ground.
Mary, I hope this means you are now going to stay in the neighbourhood.
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Getting tired of squinting out of the window, today I walked to the Internet cafe to photocopy documentation which proves, at least, my own existence, in order to qualify for a residents parking disc for Groove Park.
The photocopier was broken but on my way out I scoped Mr. Welsh at terminal number 10 checking his gmail.
I waited for over an hour at the bus stop opposite the cafe, observing with one eye, Bagman Byl making coffee with a jam-jar and some tepid water, the other on the door to the cafe, waiting for Mr. Welsh to emerge.
After he left, I went into the cafe and hired a terminal, specifying that I wanted number 10, beside the window. My biggest fear or fantasy perhaps, was, I suppose, that Mr. Welsh had stumbled across this site, and that I was rumbled but a quick flick through the history panel in Internet Explorer for the previous two hours allayed my apprehensions.
Before terminating the session, I rummaged through the recycle bin and there at the bottom, underneath the Polish CV's and the real Indian soap opera clips was the discarded fragment of a story.
For posterity's sake I retrieved it from the bin and have retained it for possible future publication on this site, pending legal and ethical consultations with both my solicitors and colleagues in the NUJ.
I mean, if he threw it away, he doesn't want it any more, correct?
Please let me know how you feel on this issue and whether you think I should publish or be damned.
The Artist clearing the Portal of weeds.
In keeping with the already established themes of elephants and class A drugs; one of which at least is a favourite theme of Mr. Welsh's and given that the filth were around here a couple of weeks ago, trashing the joint, the next object going into The Portal to the subconscious mind of Mr. Welsh is the bag of polystyrene balls which, from a distance, looks for all the world, like a giant sack of cocaine.
It's like the guy who goes to the doctor, looking for a cure for baldness.
The doctor places a couple of rabbits on his head and says
- There you go, that'll be ?50 please.
The guy says - Whit the fucks goan oan?
And the doctor says - Dont worry, from a distance they look like hairs.
Since this is supposed to be art I'm going to draw a picture of Ganesh on the decoy santy-sized sack of coke. Ganesh is the elephant headed Hindi god that has the capacity to reduce all the human weaknesses, such as jealousy, drunkeness, illusion, greed, anger, desire, egotism, self-infatuation which send the devotee away from his path to god.
Ganesh also has; having the head of an elephant: a very large nose.
Sean O'Faolain, in 'The Short Story' (Collins 1948, ISBN 0 85342 860 3) wrote,
Literary technique does not exist in a vacuum, it is a man's device for projecting his own nature in his own time and place. Indeed, as Henry James shrewdly remarks, time and place affect even the technique of the reader as he reads, pointing out that not only does the impression of life that goes into a story vary according to the man and place that produces it, but the impression of life that comes out of a story will often vary 'according to the place that takes it, the particular structure and mixture of the recipient'.
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