The geniuses of intuitive genius

Headlining are the geniuses of Albert Camus and Salvadore Dali. Followed closely by Schwarzenegger in third place.

Society and its ills

“Society” and its ills

 

Man is no longer free to gaze at the heavens and feed his mouth with the fruits of the earth. He cannot lay down by the green pastures and sip from the flowing brook. He cannot use his cunning and might to cudgel a monkey to death and roast its tortured body over a fire, or by his choosing, spare it! He is not free to explore the jungle-earth in search of knowledge, bounty and riches. He cannot build his own house, and till his field with his own two hands! He is not permitted to murder his enemy in some bitter and honourable dispute. All these things are owed to man, and yet the wicked and greedy, the cowardly, the boastful, the arrogant, the self-seeking and the proud have mechanised existence. They have made a wall around their ill-gotten gains in the form of laws, precepts and duty. Man in society has become a schemer, a plotter and a fiend.

A MANIFESTO

THE ILLS OF RELIGION

Religion bends man’s lusts and inward and turns him into an unnatural sex pest, like a catholic priest.

-THUS Priests should be encouraged to engage in coitus

Religion rationalises by the medium of fear the natural wonder of existence that is proper to us all

- THUS Priests should be prevented from using fear as a coercive tool and must be compelled by law to use the Children's Bible, instead of the actual one.

THE ILLS OF THE LAW

The law prevents due revenge and vengeance which is every man’s right, by offering retribution by proxy.

- THUS a law should be in place that allows the wronged to punish the wrong doer. The boats, the breaking wheel, head crusher and crocodile shears are all possible legal punishments.

The rich and greedy own the land which belongs to all of us and take the food from our mouths!

- THUS a large tax should be levied against the rich and the gains distributed for the good of society.

- THUS the richest man in society must be made to toil in a rubber fist mine for a year

A man must pay for the very ground upon which to build his own house!

- THUS each man, without exception should be allotted a plot of land for his quarters

- THUS machines should till communal fields in place of man, and pick the orchards, and bring the food to him and the community.

THE ILLS OF THE FACTORY

Man utilises the means of production to sell useless items and indebt their owners

-          THUS man should create more drug factories, to create a cheap supply of products

-          THUS man should create a GM bird that he can ride and feed oats or some such cereal instead of building a car. 

The meaning of life

Gentlemen, I present to you with all due modesty, THE MEANING OF LIFE.

AND

THE ULTIMATE METAPHYSICAL NATURE OF BEING:

1.) Being, i.e existence itself has no inherent meaning

2.) It is our desire to create morality and meaning in the world

MAN URGES HIMSELF TO GIVE MEANING TO A MEANINGLESS UNIVERSE

MAN URGES HIMSELF TO GIVE MORALITY TO AN AMORAL UNIVERSE

As the sole enforcers of this type of behaviour, we could choose not to act in a meaningful way as there is no punishment for disobaying the rules. But this is to miss an opportunity.

Metanormative dialectic

I have of late been wondering how to roll the perfect joint. I told  the wizard Wolfram Alpha my query and this is the pith of the response:

raises more questions than it asks

Elton John's "and the house fell down" as commentary on Job

"The sun is up and the shades are all pulled down
I'm more paranoid with every little sound
Like the leaf blower blowing the leaves around
And a siren wailing on the other side of town"

The modest beginnings of the first verse does not betray any deep existential ponderment, a leaf blower, a siren, and pulling down are all mundane themes, John still invokes such timeless images such as the rising sun and the terror of the wind but they are most definately muted by the mundane. In the second verse John does introduce the theme of suffering, and remorse. John tells us that he could be in many places, but what is crucial is that here he is on the precipice, having followed a poor diet of cocaine and wine for three days.John then in this couplet of verses eases us into themes of suffering and angst, whilst backing the apparent misery with an upbeat and groovy piano composition. It is however the chorus that rivals Job, the wolf here representing suffering keeps blowing down his house and what can John do but shake his fist at God?

some riggidy rap

I hereby put my unborn seed on it.

The Anguish of Boredom: Original Sketches

The Preacher & Camel"

"The Aching of the Contact Lens"

"The Beurocracy vs. Dinosaurs"

Pandora's Urn Releases The Nymphs of Decadence

Yukio Mishima and the love of St Sebastian.

It's not my bag

It is Sebastian’s almost base physicality and masculinity that instantly strikes us, upon viewing this painting. The dark shadows, the harsh lines, the piercing gaze, the massive semi-erect penis. If not for the arrows one would imagine the image to be designed for the purpose of proudly displaying a person’s authority and achievement. Sebastian in the picture stands erect and exclaims ecce homo – behold the man!

Yet there is a white elephant in the room, Sebastian this symbol of masculinity is seen in the painting as being ravaged by a swarm of arrows, (an obvious reference to the traditionally dominant phallus). Why is Sebastian a paragon of masculinity so often portrayed as being humbled by the phallus? Why is this sadomasochistic perspective seen as so erotic by writer’s such as Mishima? For the answer to the latter we must look deep into the mind of the great poet and writer.

Mishima’s childhood was rife with difficulty, he was often sick with tuberculosis and and was only allowed to associate with “weaker” female relatives for fear he would be bullied by boys his own age. In the beginning of “Confessions of a Mask” Mishima often escapes the sufferings of worldly existence by escaping into a world of sadism and dominance. His actual sufferings giving rise to imaginary sadistic triumphs. As Mishima grows this striving for dominance takes on a sexual aspect, he writes:

“I cried sobbingly until at last those visions reeking with blood came to comfort me. And then I surrendered myself to them, to those deplorably brutal visions, my most intimate friends.”

It is logical to assume that in the case of Mishima this early repression of the will to power led to a rebound of the ID – an explosion of sadism. The will to power that had been repressed and denied him in his childhood grew exponentially more violent in adulthood. Yuko Mishima strives from his mid twenties to be a real-life Sebastian, ceaselessly exercising with heavy weights, each day trying to fit his ever bulging muscles into his spandex pants.  Tiring to become like the heroic and ever masculine Sebastian.

Sexy

We see in the life of St Mishima then a pattern, a childhood of submission, a rebound and an adulthood of sadism and dominance.

And yet like Sebastian Mishima wants to die, and indeed declares that it would gratify him, to "die among strangers beneath a cloudless sky".In November 1970 Mishima commits Japanese ritual disembowelment (seppuku) in the back room of a military compound. For the reason why we must look to Sebastian.

Sebastian is the key to Mishima's entire oeuvre. As Mishima plunges the blade into his abdomen. He is reduced once more to his childhood weakness and surrenders to the power of death.  Mishima who strove all his adulthood to become masculine is seen here secretly craving domination and the power of another man's willy (represented by death).  Thus Mishima the Sadist becomes the Mishima the Submissive in death, completing his darkest desires and finally creaming his pants. Mishima is not only a sadist but a masochist and indeed his masochism finally overpowers his potent sadism.

RIP

A Lesson

Kristos came and kristos went
Kristos saved and kristos spent
-the preacher spoke
So eloquent

Within his pulpit, as a nest
At voicing god he was the best
An eagle on the scriptures fed
Or vulture, as on man’s carrion read

A man of God in vestments pure
But fell unto the vestal’s lure
For in the crowd below did spy
A woman fit for heav’nly eye

And to this prey he did pursue
And by her scorn, his lusts, they grew
Until one sermon spent and wrecked
He came unto her, so bedecked
In rosen garb with golden crown
A wealth fit to upturn any frown

And in the shadows of the cloister
By his own art her loins grew moister
And at the climax, he gasped at last
“For I am man, from God I part”

And now he roves the world anew
For from this moment, passions grew
And now his want is never sated
For by this act, new want created.

So brothers, here this warning wicked
The devil had his weakness tricked
Thus heed not the damsels fine
Or face the toil of Satan’s mine.

a story

“Gimp”, yelled Badger to one of the local school boys. The boy was scared by the badger, with its big teeth and beady little eyes, and Badger knew it and took great pleasure in his ability to scare school children. As tears began to well up in the child’s eyes the badger turned and proudly walked away. Badger could play saxophone very well and performed two nights a week in the village jazz bar, his band Jazz Badger and the Supremes performed a mix of soul and early jazz music, not unlike the style in which the human Barry White performs, though his violent essence personified in the music often led to misplaced shrill, high notes and dull heavy drones.He also took pleasure in this aspect of his being.

Surreal Poetry

The sandman eats his own sand

The snake eats its own tail

Schism of a boneless hand

Sea buoyant shores derail

Unborn folly of the gods

Old and dying  flame

See Kaiser to his subject nods

Sew whips unto his name

Crumbling wall and drying blood

Dark path and close'd door

The ever present virgin would

But for the present whore

A Mallard, Caught in Situ

I was happening to amble about the district park the other day, when in the corner of my eye I took vision of a most singular bird. This fine example of the avian form lingered only to allow me to snap one picture, before flying off into the sky, trailing stardust and mumbling indistinctly to itself. I present this one image here, for you delectation.

How fly is Nate Dogg?

The is no question that Nate D-o-double-g is indeed fly. But how fly? That is what I wish to examine in this post. Through a few thought experiments.

"Thought experiments are devices of the imagination used to investigate the nature of things. Thought experimenting often takes place when the method of variation is employed in entertaining imaginative suppositions. They are used for diverse reasons in a variety of areas, including economics, history, mathematics, philosophy, and physics."

We shall now assess the most probable outcomes in the following imagined situations.

Peter Jackson's Movie Trilogy Lord of The Rings: A Fertility Parable

 Argument

Just Friends, OK.

Any study of The Lord of the Rings will always be coloured by the obvious controversy that still abounds regards the relationship between the primary protagonists, Frodo and Sam. As People Magazine famously quipped, ‘did they do it?!?!’ However, I believe under this flaming tale of unrestricted gay desire there is something deeper, even more elemental than a mere craving for Hobbit booty. Therefore leaving the explicit commentary of Frodo and Sam's relationship concerning the fluid boundaries between homosocial and homosexual behaviour in a male-male partnership to one side, here I shall instead consider the implications of Lord of the Rings as a Genesis-type fertility parable, if you will.

This analysis will primarily focus on the mortal races; it is clear the elves in Tolkien's strict catholic prose are allegories for and synonymous with the Nephilim, an immortal, angelic race possessing superior physical capabilities from a far off location (The Heavenly Firmament, The Grey Havens) who mate with mortal mankind (consider Aragorn and his hot elf ho.)

Despite this, there is still much argument in the academic community at how far such an argument can be taken. Is this epic a thinly veiled portrayal of overcoming infertility, represented by the forces of darkness, the orcs who cannot love or make dirty coitus, who are birthed from the earth itself? Sex is everywhere and nowhere in Tolkien, omnipresent and yet denied even when at it's most obvious.

Genesis 6:1-3 When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose, then the LORD said, "My Spirit will not contend with man forever, for he is mortal; his days will be a hundred and twenty years."

Therefore here I will consider both an argument for, and an argument against a reading/viewing of Lord of the Binge as an ancient Mesopotamian Fertility Epic.  First Sam the inseminator will be considered, and then an opposite argument using Éowyn as an example of female independence.




An Argument For Fertility: Samwise "The wise" Gamgee, Professional Gardener, Gimp and Fatty.

Brooding

Sam is perhaps not the most obvious character with regard to fertility within The Lord of the Cock Rings, given his oft regarded romantic relationship with his 'employer' Frodo Baggins. While this commentary on social exploitation of the working classes through a subliminal BDSM narrative implicit in their relationship is fodder for a separate analysis, it may be productive to consider it briefly here.

The Worker's Struggle

Sam is subservient, oppressed, scorned, and yet loyal like a lobotomised cocker spaniel to his master Frodo. He is the only one shown cooking, or performing many of the other necessary activities on their extended camping trip. Meanwhile Frodo sits on rocks or tufts of earth, sweating, mewling, and looking into the middle distance. Is this, as Wilde put it, "the love that dare not speak it's name"? Or is it instead a comment on the exploitation of lower classes by a fundamentally weak and unstable oligarchy, here represented by Frodo. Once the police and army break down (here symbolised by the Fellowship, particularly Aragorn, and the spilt at the end of the fist book/film) little stops these two polarised groups from coming into conflict, culminating in Frodo's dismissal of Sam. Like the horse Boxer in Orwell's Animal Farm, Sam is loyal to the last, even when it conflicts with his own interests. Perhaps this is a comment on modern media's ability to be used to penetrate and manipulate the masses into voting against their interests, or perhaps it is too early to say.

However, Frodo finds that, abandoned by Gollum, representative of decedent and unrestrained desire, he needs his 'dear Sam.' At this moment the typically passive Sam comes to the fore, and slays the spider Shelob. Is it any wonder that such a brazen allegory for the web spinning ability of contemporary middle and upper class consumerist culture is a giant spider? It seems facetious to think otherwise. Here, unlike Boxer's fixation that "Napoleon is always right," Sam has finally transcended the yoke of the lower classes, and taken control. However, he has done so to rescue his educated master. The masses cannot survive, it seems, without some educated elite to guide them, though this elite must be now weakened, as the ring weakens Frodo. Now, as in Mordor, it is the masses who drive the nation forward, as Sam carries the feeble Frodo to Mount Doom.

With this brief aside in mind, it is now time to turn to the case of The Lord of the Onion Rings as a parable primarily concerned with Sam's fertility, and his claiming of Phallic privilege and exclusivity of procreation with the hobbit slut barmaid Rose "Rosie" Cotton.

Before Sam's adventure he desires this woman Hobbit wench, but is unable to act. His fear and his subservience overcomes his masculine urge for coital intimacy. Here Frodo is seen as the a-typical 'bro' at the party. Beer is flowing, the wenches are dancing and Brodo tries to convince Sam of the virtues of making a move. Frodo is a capable wingman, but he fails. Sam does not get lucky. He is paralysed by fear of the female, especially in it's most seductive of forms, Rosie. Paradoxically it is her very appeal to him that causes him to be unable to approach her.

Bro-do and Sam Mid Party

On his return. however, Sam is a transformed man. He asserts his masculine phallic authority by siring thirteen children from his woman while she is of healthy mating age, and, not content with his dominance over the female other, he asserts control over the male population through his long career as Hobbit Mayor, a role equitable in contemporary terms with the powers of the Deputy Prime Minister. Though he is arguably in a position of power of the 'little folk' of the Shire, in reality his influence is negligible on the wider Middle Earth stage.

Nevertheless Sam has asserted himself as fertile, although like Abraham it took a journey and many hilarious adventures to achieve it. This is in direct contrast to Frodo, who returns a celibate monk compared to his prior bro-ishness. The two roles have become inverted by associated and overexposure; just as proximity to the Ring warps Frodo closer to it, the time Frodo and Sam spend together, huddled together for warmth on cold and rainy nights gives rise to a mimetic transformation. They come to emulate each other, and slowly become each other. Frodo becomes the feminine, whimpering supplicant to Sam's proactive masculine heroics.

However, a spiritual transference with Frodo is not the sole source of Sam's new found fertility; that alone has not given new life to his withered seed like Elisha in the Valley of the Dry Bones. While in the Shire, Sam is exposed to the endless and bountiful exuberance and vitality of the Hobbits, and their undeniable fertility. As a result he feels lost, unable to compete with their happy harvests, another sign of fertility, in the very earth itself. As a gardener Sam understands this; he can nurture flowers and vegetables to maturation, yet he cannot create life himself. His very profession is an endless reminder of his impotence. No wonder he takes to practicing it outside Frodo's window in the middle of the night; in the daylight, his flaws are too apparent for him to be able to stomach.

But in his travels, Sam passes through lands barren, or ravaged by war. Weathertop, Moria, Icthillion, Gondor, Osgiliath, The Misty Marshes, Emin Muiel, Minas Morgul and finally Mordor itself. All of these locations have been made infertile, unable to support or produce life any longer. They are simply places of death, of perpetual conflict. As Homer puts it in the Iliad, 'war never ends.' The war in these barren climes is total and immortal, and in the face of all this destruction of life Sam becomes aware of his own life and fertility that he carries within himself. A sense, perhaps, of 'heroism' this becomes more and more pronounced in Sam the more adversity he faces. Sam discovers his internal fertility when set against the bleakness of Middle Earth, it is the only way his psyche can survive the trauma of war he witnesses. To escape the effects of PTSD, Sam externalises his inner peace, his inner goodness, and is able to conquer the darkness. Furthermore, when he gets home, he brings this fresh ability with him, and is able to seduce and procreate with a vigour that would put a rabbit to shame.

"Mister Frodo, she's at least an eight. Dibs."

 An Argument Against Fertility: Éowyn, The Sterile Warrior Mother

However,  Éowyn seems to turn this fertility narrative on it's head, or at least provide a female counterpart to Sam's 'male mothering' of Frodo. Her repeated attempts to penetrate masculinity and overcome her natural femininity and the prejudice that occurs see her struggling against the very idea of fertility and the female role as a vessel for procreation. Her people are 'horse lords' and the horse has long been a symbol of unfettered virility and masculine expression. She is a (frumpy) woman cut loose in a patriarchy where a man's worth is measured by the length of his beard and his ability to shout.

What a Horse

 However, Éowyn blends masculine and feminine gender roles to create a hybrid persona which fits both her ambition but also her maternal urges. Against her father's wishes she sallies out to battle, and, as well as slaying many disgusting (totally not Moor allegory) orcs, she kills a motherfucking Oliphant. The destruction of this masculine symbol of phallic compensation shows her triumph over the patriarchy through emulation. She acts like a man, she fights like a man, she is a man.

And yet she achieves something more. By bringing along the small, boyish Hobbit Merry, she plays the role of his surrogate mother. Under her influence he transforms from a foolish young rapscallion into a man, a warrior in his own right. She guides him in a second childhood, and both of them act out the child-mother relationship.  This is a relationship that oozes in Freudian tensions and desires. Merry is clearly in love with his mother, and sexually desires her, but, due to his tiny Hobbit manhood, is unable to meet her demanding needs, finding himself eventually replaced by Faramir, another Surrogate she nurses back to health from near death. Here she is able to project her maternal desires onto a male of the same race, and as a result is also able to finally consummate her otherwise sick and twisted desires. Merry is left jilted, but learns from this experience. His true love lies with Pippin; both Hobbits, though in rival factions like Romeo and Juliet in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, have achieved martial prowess, and as such affirmed their masculinity. No longer in crisis and feeling emasculated and vulnerable due to their diminished stature. they are able to consummate their love without these insecurities which previously prevented them from opening up their hearts to one another.

Another Hobbit Fantasy

However, by finding and rearing a surrogate son, Éowyn forgoes coitus in preference to an immaculate conception of sorts. She will not submit to the patriarchy, and as such will not suffer to be made vulnerable by the sexual act or by pregnancy. Her role is sexually gendered masculine at all times, hence the penetrative sword she brandishes. This is the sword with which she slays the dreaded Witch King, itself an gendered oxymoron playing on concepts of the evil (fe)male monarch, providing an empty 'other' onto which she can project herself and her virtues as she now becomes a female monarch with the death of Theoden.

Finally, by severing the phallic neck of the Fell Beast and removing it's aggressive, drooling head, Éowyn is asserting a new type of female masculine virtue. She is both an emasculator, a castrator of men in the mould of the bride from Kill Bill, but also very much a woman, protecting herself and the king from a violent 'rape' at the maw of the Beat. There is no need for the phallus in the new word Éowyn creates for herself, the final symbol of the patriarchy has been undone. She has made herself wilfully sterile, and yet also a mother. Men have no control over her or her reproductive ability, instead she is the commanding mother to men.

Pre Castration

Matisyahu Close My Eyes

A hidden masterpiece

The Dodger

I

I lay the ripe leek on the silver counter. I plough a gentle furrow through the white and grassy flesh with my charmed cutting edge. I prepare life upon the altar of the cutting counter. I place the bits into the broth. I am the high priest, the provider, the shepherd. I alone choose who lives and who eats and who withers and pines away in hunger!

Carved commandments onto the paper, my inscriptions! Leek soup it is. And who shall share in my feast! The dregs are lining up, students, pompous intelligentsia, and yet they rely on me, Chef, to prolong them.  The years have been kind to me, a man of fifty five, and yet I still see the ruins of an ancient Adonis in the mirror when I look, strong cheekbones, a sturdy jaw, a movie star hunk of a man. My white overall is stained with the evidence of my good deeds, it takes skill, skill and love to create; to make, to understand the art of The Chef. A spear of light breaks o’er the roof of my temple high noon, eleven-forty-five and the haddock is not yet broiled! The eggs tumble in their pot. He took the bread, and the eggs, and leek soup he did make, and haddock with chips. And he did give them life. All is in order, the implements are in their trays, it is time for the mass of life and today I give the sermon. The doors I fling ajar. Jupiter stands clad in an apron, beckoning. The feast begins!

Take for instance one of my eggs. A goose laid it, a farmer nurtured it with his homely caress, and I prepared it, to be consumed, here, in this sanctum. This is law; this is how god intended it to be. It is nature’s order. There are those who do not respect this divine chain, there are those who wish to steal from my kitchen and by extension steal from mother earth, at these times my muscular body quivers with anger. But regrettably my powers here are restricted to only harsh words and warnings.

What right does a thief have to take from my temple? Without the consent of the high priest! Make no mistake, I am god here; an erudite man; this aged Adonis has a formidable intellect... And I do sweat and toil! And often wane under life’s yolk. I provide for these people, these students! These apprentices! They should respect the order as I do. As we all should do.

My kitchen is palatial, well equipped cookers stand in the corner, great wombs of life, and ladles the forceps! Great silver furnaces, I turn knobs and reality bends to my mighty will. Here I am master king and genius; here I am Saturn, and Jesus, and bearded Moses and Elijah and pharaoh, Tsar! The altar boys and acolytes cleanse the temple of Waste. I almost burst at that the thought of food. How the broth seeps and trickles into the mixture, life within life, doubled and tripled and quadrupled in organic and orgasmic ecstasy. Some cannot see or respect the sanctity of Food and of manna and of Life. These people are degenerates, philistines petty pieces of decadent grubby filth; a cockroaches in my kitchen.

Grain upon grain, flesh upon flesh, blood upon blood, life into life, I know what I am, I know my calling. I do not of course, and as a matter of principle inform my colleagues of my views. To them I am just a chef, perhaps even in their eyes a mediocrity, how they a wrong! They are such fools, parochial in view, in vision myopic, followers of their passions. I am more of an Apollo, a rational man, a stoic; even an ascetic, I suppress my senses, I provide Life, and Life provides for me, and on my headstone it shall say ‘giver of life’. I am a Jesuit of the onions, a Cistercian of sprouts, a Trappist of the order of the carrots, an abbot of duck and guinea fowl, a high priest of mashed potatoes, cardinal of chips and pope of the Sunday roast. I follow these Foods, these life givers, I watch them and I know their ways. And they know me, and by them we are all made flesh, their flesh to our flesh, onion, into placenta, a chip becomes an umbilical chord, a pea a winking eye. That egg, that piece of bread it could become a little sperm, a tadpole a life bringer to a new Ramsay or Oliver or Rhodes.

Where is that egg now? That precious sustaining piece of reality, languishing away in his room, the toast covered in spores, rotting, decaying and putrefying, going to waste! A sandwich here he steals, there an extra cup of juice, all adding to his corpulent and disgusting body. He is taking more than his fair share of Food, of Life, of Reality.

The Dodger is here, bright and early I see, I watch him like a hawk, let me be clear here, The Dodger is no more an entity than Evil or Justice, it is more accurate to say that The Dodger is instantiated in certain persons, and indeed often in more than one person at once. Just as any number of persons can be Sad or Wicked or Pitiful so can any number of people be The Dodger. I confess even I, Chef have dodged once or twice. But though penance and fasting I have managed to keep The Dodger at bay in my heart, if only others would be so prudent! There is one particular student whom I particularly despise; he comes closest to the perfect Dodger. His heart is as black as sackcloth of ashes, his eyes piercing abysses his mouth knows only greed. He is ravaged by his senses. It is he who took a precious boiled egg, he who stole three of my sandwiches he stole toast too, hidden under his fleece. This I took to be the crowning insult. Wheat, pressed, milled and pressed, and stolen! He has stolen from the earth itself and me its minister.

I turn towards home. Morag is my wife, a fine woman, plump breasted and good natured. I wonder what she’s doing, knitting, or boiling a haggis or slicing potatoes into chips. Oh and how she can cook. Chickens and geese and grouse and tripe and kidneys! I sit on the couch next to Morag, that old crone, but her face has blossomed over the years, like a cauliflower of overwhelming potency. I see myself in the role of a Zarathustra a prophet and seer of the world to come. We must all grow and nurture and Cook, we must all become Chef! I am, I say without false modesty, that I am what Nietzsche describes as the Übermensch, the over-man, the one to whom so many owe their existence. Who can exist without Food, and who can survive on raw food alone? Is Chef not the most noble of professions? Does not cooking fill that deepest holy of holies within our very souls?

Morag is not so talkative these days; we both like our food it has been said. But can anyone comprehend the extent? Can Morag comprehend the extent of my love for, for example a pear? These questions are and forever will be a mystery; even the question itself contains masked within it thousands of others, barbed clauses, necessary implications, existential and ontological ramifications. Is it not our greatest scientists that describe the universe as a bagel? Is it not an apple that inspired Newton and caused the Fall of Man? Is a baguette not a symbol of pride and hubris, and wine of lust and jealousy? Does not cheese represent putrefaction and decay? Is not the onion the arête of subtlety?

I see them, the dregs in the Hall, a hall of residence, but who resides there? Morons obsessed with mathematics and logic and science! But not food, the very thing! The very thing that makes us what we are! Its texture, its taste, its feel on the tongue, coarse and so often smooth and yet sour and saccharine, paradox upon paradox and experience upon orgasmic experience. I pity them. Does Jesus not appear in crisps and toast and such and such? How can people be so blind, how can people Dodge the natural order! I have to sleep.

I am tournant, garde manger, and boucher, rôtisseur and pâtissier, saucier and poissonnier, grillardin, friturier, entremetier, legumier. I have so many incomprehensible facets, so many skills, and so many loveable assets. I continually renew myself. Chef can never tire of Chef. He knows no self-disgust.

I have begun to see reality as a glorious dichotomy of Chef and Dodger. The Chef builds, he creates, he imbues the raw pulpy fibres of existence with the essence of Life, and he makes bad into good, he gives Taste to life. And what does the Dodger do? He is like the morning star, the dragon, the beast, the serpentine god. He tricks and deceives and destroys, oh my poor egg, my lovingly prepared sandwiches, humus and lettuce and purple beetroot, chives and rosemary and lavender , what has he done…?

I creep up the staircase to bed. Morag will not join me for some time. Images come to my mind of a coiled frankfurter, dripping in oil and gravy, all pocked and dented, elasticised, all contained within that taught skin. Oh, how physical it is, how Real, I imagine the salty taste of the pork, how my mouth draws out its juices; the roast potatoes on the side. I see the most wonderful visions of onions and gravy and Yorkshire pudding and horseradish! Oh my! The tip of the sausage tantalises my palpitating taste buds and I feel the monstrous bulge down below scurry back into its quarters, leaving behind only ecstasy. I shall sleep well tonight.

Breakfast in hall and what should I choose? Do not be so naïve to expect that I do not have a system. A divination of some sort, but here is no dark art but the art of Life itself. When I cook I feel inspired, the Form of a meal seeps down from the ether into my neurones. A picture is forming; it is a pancake, a singular glorious pancake, a painting worthy of Botticelli. Its beauty almost consumes me. I fire up the pan; Pancakes for breakfast.

The Dodger is boasting to his friends, laughing, no doubt over some sweet corn surreptitiously stowed away in his pockets, bragging over a piece of ham hidden between his thighs. How I despise him! The pancakes are going down well, I can see the yolk of the eggs change their complexion (the students), the sugar brings out their saccharine smiles, the flour makes them paler, the milk, oh the milk. How their teeth glisten.

My mother taught me how to cook, her and her inky blouse of block black and golden leaves; it was forever covered in foods, that beautiful tough ginger hair, those adorable growths on her chin, her larder of turnips and string beans and roots and those sacks of jersey royals; a womb within a womb within a womb, heaven. Do I believe in a higher power I hear you ask? All I know is that when two or three onions gather in the same room, He is there, when an aubergine sits half eaten in a dustbin it is He who comforts it, when a fish is thrown dead, back into the sea He croons to it. The messiah, the perfect being, He cares for food just as much as I do.

All things - I posit- that exist are food for something. What is energy if not another word for food? Is not the basic substance of existence Food? Do not black holes ‘eat’ planets, doesn’t the wind ‘eat’ away at the cliffs. My burgeoning genius is so hard to contain sometimes, I feel ripe to burst, ripe as a ripe fig, seething with potency seething with Life. The fig is an easy lover. I have known her once, so tender, so sweet the white leathery outer reveals a pink inner. So exotic, how I yearn for one, no doubt mine has been snatched from my babe-like hands by The Dodger.

I read a lot in-between meal times, I have given up on Nietzsche, and I am reading Anselm’s Proslogion. From it I have derived my own ontological argument, which I have termed the ontological argument for the existence of a culinary god. I set it forth thus:

1 (Premise) The perfect foodstuff is conceivable.

2 (Premise) A non-existent foodstuff cannot be perfect, as one would not be able to taste it.

3 (Assumption for reductio) The perfect foodstuff does not exist

4 (Contradiction) from 2,3 it is a contradiction to assert that the perfect foodstuff which necessarily contains within it the concept the property of existence is non-existent. I.e. a perfect food must necessarily exist as if it did not exist one would not be able to taste it and thus it would not be perfect.

5 Therefore the perfect foodstuff exists.

Make no mistake I have already begun my quest for this divine meal. If it were not for The Dodger I know I would have had greater success. Once like Icarus I soared over a mighty culinary creation. It was pickled lobster, engrossed in a bath of salmon eggs and mayonnaise. The symbolism made the meal even sweeter than the expected taste. The fertilised ovum, rent asunder by the life drive, the mayonnaise its salty taste complementing the eggs, and the lobster an ancient symbol of hubris and fertility. It was all there, the beatification, and then at that moment, with a subtle hand movement The Dodger possessed the soul of a young boy who cast the holy dish upon the ground. I tried to lick up the scraps from the floor among the ruins of my dish, but it was in vain… how I hate that child! My heart flutters at the thought of that dish, that subtle flavour, if it were not for him, if it were not for The Dodger.

I am not a violent man, though no doubt if I was to resort to violence my muscular body would provide ample support for my urges. When I see him, cowering behind the eyes, seeping into their personalities, sometimes I cannot fight the urge to batter one of those vessels over the head with a ladle or a weighty piece of celery.

II

I visit home before dinner; I shall cook a pot roast. Morag, sweet Morag, how are you? Morag smiles tenderly. I venture downstairs to the larder, I open the cellar door and find last night’s dish in the crook, the receptacle, and it solidifies and petrifies and casts itself into stone, the pentacle of onions, orbs of glorious fire. I can hear him, I can hear his screams. I am nearing perfection, soon I shall trounce The Dodger once and for all, and I shall create the perfect dish.

The spices, oh the spices, I ordered some chillies from South America, they came a few days ago in the post. Red and green and amber and yellow, oh how they tantalise me. How they arouse me! The coconuts, hairy, brown, white as ivory inside, like tooth enamel. They shall form part of my dish. I’ve tried, I have toiled, and I have laboured in this larder. Codfish sperm, horseshoe crab, deep ocean eels, lambs eyes all these I have endured. Slowly at a snail’s pace (or should I say an escargot’s pace) I am reaching my goal.

Here is my true sanctum, underneath my home. Foods of all sorts hanging from the walls, testicles and offal, rare herbs, duck’s teeth, badger claws, mighty sea creatures, I extract all for their perfect taste. I take this here and that there and mix whichever takes my fancy. I have at the moment a brown liquid of exquisite taste; I feel fate will conspire to turn it gold as it reaches its point of perfection. It will make me rich, I suppose, but for me it holds a higher value, a metaphysical value, its taste will be beyond even The Dodger’s grasp, and I will be hailed as a culinary Tsar, a perfectionist but also a perfection bringer; A saint of food, and by extension a saint of the stuff of Life, a saint of Reality, a patron of existence. Yes, this is my fate, I am sure of it.

I have secured this place against The Dodger, even Morag lacks a key, and she is always suspicious, a vault behind locked doors that she is always peeking her nosy eyes into. But she has never seen, the cold and the dank here is a cloak to me. I can withstand it here, the cold, as my purpose is noble, my purpose is art and here even The Dodger can’t get to me. Here I am safe from him; here I am safe, behind closed doors that no Dodger can rend asunder.

I could have been a rich man with my looks and talents, God has been kind to me, and yet I chose to devote my life to cooking, to shaping the most important facet of reality. One cannot buy perfection with money, one must create it, and here in this damp hole in Scotland I create it! And in doing so I mirror the divine creator himself, I endlessly warp infinity into new tasty forms, new sensory delights for the taste buds. I truly am a titan, a nephilim, yes it is cold here, cold and dark, but toil often necessitates suffering. This is why I so despise The Dodger. He does not know suffering, he does not create, he merely destroys, and great Satan is with him. Well the almighty infinite and unfathomable leek is on my side.

I spend a great deal of time meditating down here, I relax my conscious mind, I clear all thoughts, and allow my subconscious to blossom, the most wondrous thoughts come to mind after an hour or so of meditation; grouse pie, haddock sandwich, boiled sausage meat. Why are great chefs so often overlooked by history? Painters, of course are recognised and scientists are acknowledged. It is laughable that the most honourable of professions is ignored by record. It is a great evil; an unimaginable shame. I have a certain text down here a dusty tome, an old cook book; weathered and battered but full of useful information. From it I learned the secrets of bull tongue soufflé; from it I sought knowledge regarding the mixing of gall and tendon to produce a broth of the most exquisite texture. There is a certain grass that grows on the peaty moors over yonder it tells me. I am yet to find it, the book denotes it Fennel’s Bane. Yellow and tender it is, sturdy as fine silk, it is said to have a beautiful flavour, I must possess it. Before, before The Dodger catches wind of my desires, he can smell them, he can taste my sweat, I must possess it.

Back to The Hall for dinner; tonight I am inspired by trout, its sensuous lips, its scaly skin, its exquisite swim bladder. When they taste it, it shall impregnate them! It shall dissolve into them, it shall become them! You are what you eat they say, and I choose what you eat, and by extension I choose what you are! They do not know my potency, it is beyond their ken! In this mind there lies a saint of formidable and prodigious intellect, behind this vessel of chef; there is Chef, he who sits at the right hand side of the Divine Foodstuff, The Real. My Lord I shall deliver them, I shall shepherd them, and I shall feed them. My hands begin to quiver and palpitate as I fillet the trout. Oh my god! I can feel the sky falling; he is almost here, the Perfection. Dinner is served!

‘Comfort food’ is a well known idiom, yet does anyone truly know the true comfort that Food brings? When I feel cold I am immersed in divine gravy, when I am alone a pheasant pays me a visitation, when I am too hot I am cooled by a brook of ever flowing white wine. And you must realise I am too a food, when I putrefy and my organs burst and when the worms and maggots crawl all over my corpse I shall be food for them, food for worms! Ravens will tear at my scalp, a badger shall make off with my toe, a finch with my finger nails, and a dog will nibble at my tongue.

One day I shall behold the Divine Foodstuff, I shall be one with him, he shall Know me and I shall Taste of him. In dreams I see him, in dreams I taste of him, in dreams I love him and I commence union with him. I can feel the bulge swelling once again, burgeoning! Oh my! I put on my blue apron to conceal my secret source of pleasure and rub my belly, slowly rhythmically against the cooker; almost anything will set me off now. I can no longer contain myself…

‘Chef’ I hear… the sound ripples though my corporeal frame and my body shudders with delight, I try to begin conversation with the acolyte but my lips merely quiver and I feel a wet stream of energy flowing down my leg. He can see my wide eyed smile, he may know, I must leave. The fish head accompanies me into the bathroom.

I roam the streets under the squid ink sky after Dinner, the streetlamps glow with the yolk of fresh eggs and I, as I inevitably always do, stumble upon new ingredients; a discarded crisp packet, with the husk of a salt and vinegar chip inside; An orphaned scotch egg, days old it seems, covered in spores and the like. You can rely on the old man, the night-watchman; I shall save my children, these precious morsels.

Now I see a vision in the black sky above the moon, it appears to be a majestically rotund and opulent grape, oh how I want to taste its juices, how I want to burst it with my teeth, how I want to subdue and consume it. Usury tells me that I should add grapes to the perfect mixture, omens and auspices greet me, comets streak across the void at my presence.

On the telly, look at the waste; how they murder and burn those poor morsels; squandering a cornucopia of delights; butchering noble beasts of the field. How I hate them. I turn it off to read the cooking section of the paper, but nothing tickles my fancy, I’ve seen it all before, liberal nonsense, hummus, pasta and pesto, salads! Where is the meat, man can not survive on hummus alone!

Morag and I are to make love tonight, it is a Thursday, the appointed hour is ten thirty, I scramble though the pages to find something that will make my blood rise, rise and boil with passion! But nothing! Just barren conformist pages and only half an hour left to provoke my lust! I remember the fish head stowed away in my apron and covertly retrieve it away from Morag’s eyes…back in a second dear. I sneak up to the bedroom and caress its frame; it is like a rich crème brûlée…

Morag is riding me like a dead-eyed jockey, her surly hair and strident features seem charming in the light and so I feign enthusiasm and manage to complete the task with adequacy. She smiles and we go to sleep and I dream the most wonderful fishy dreams.

III

I am sick of this job; it puts me in fetters, why am I required to work towards a menu? Courses; starters, mains, desserts, soups, appetisers, bread baskets, it just want to create one dish, the perfect dish. Solid in form, with no texture and no colour, just pure taste, pure sensual enjoyment for the taste buds. I wish them to be beatified in food! And the routine, the accursed routine, this is not a place for a man like me, the feast halls of monarchs would be more honoured by my presence, the longhouses of Vikings would be a fitting seat, the tables of the pharaohs have a seat reserved for me, Chef! And yet, I am here, catering for morons, students, and idiots!

Tonight I will head to the moors, I will find that mythical herb, I must make progress, I am stagnating here, and I am becoming stale, like an old digestive biscuit. I am growing old, Death no doubt and Father Time are on the side of The Dodger. Another student snatches a piece of toast, it is a common choice, I have caught him this time, I look into the coiled mussels in his eyes, and he can sense me, he sees the filleting knife in my hand, and he senses my fuming wrath. Put it back I say…

He knows, by god The Dodger knows when to back off. I feel a pride welling up inside of me. Divine Food, today you are with me.

Dinnertime, I leave an acolyte in charge and drive up to the moors. I pass by a field of smoking cattle, a pungent sickening smell of fly ash and charcoal, what is this bovine holocaust?

‘DEFRA off limits’ the sign reads.

D.E.F.R.A. Dodger enlists…Dodger eats food. What does it mean? Those poor cattle, and the moor, they’ve burnt down the heath in their bonfire! And the herb, the sweet herb no doubt torched with the lot! What I am I to do?

This is the commencement, this is why they are slaughtering the cattle, The Dodger is here behind the butcher’s eyes, he wants to constrain what we eat, confine us to gruel, yes I can see it, he wants to ban spotted dick and Bakewell tarts, almonds and mangoes, all will be gone. ‘Foot and Mouth’! What’s next? Pineapple Rot and Haddock Cancer, Diabetic Chicken disease? They will destroy everything, The Dodger will destroy everything! And they will come to my larder and overturn the pheasant perch and smash the jars of fish, and break my cinnamon sticks and torch my herbs, I am overwhelmed with a surge of, I don’t know what…disappointment, a sense a of self-failure! How could I not have seen this? I have to stop them. I must leave this place. I must leave Morag and the acolytes; I must travel to, The Pit, and Hades! To Dodger’s warren! But where is it?

I turn onto the minor road leading to into a tributary of larger ones. I shall return soon dear Morag, with The Dodger’s head in a sack. I Perseus shall behead the gorgon of The Dodger. I Hercules shall decapitate the serpent. I St Chef shall cast the demon of The Dodger into the swine. I see a lamentable sign, everything is so far away. It is dark so far north, pine trees and grouse, peat and heather and hills, and Munros and lochs and firths, and high cloudy sky, cold nights, kilts and cabers, night is falling and a dark blanket descends, soon to put me to bed. I flick on the high beams and drive down the single track road towards what resembles a motorway up here, it is not of course a motorway, a dual carriageway is the highest epithet I can ascribe to it.

I’ll travel to the city, where they make all those laws, where they consume more than they need, where waste and pollution reign and destroy. Where The Dodger has most sway…. I drive down parallel to Gare Loch. What monstrous foods dwell there? The loch Ness monster, soon to be the loch Ness kebab I feel, I salivate at the thought of it impaled on a magnificent skewer, hoisted upon a huge Aga and toasted and served. I can see the glow and the smoke in the distance. I can almost smell it…

I have the stuff in the back, trinkets and pentacles and such, sausages and lamb guts and beef legs. All charms against The Dodger. Sake and tomato juice, vodka and gin and Irish cream. Oh what a dish I could make. I shall cook the perfect dish right under Dodger’s nose and the sweet aroma shall conquer him. World, oh sweet World, how you need me in this dire hour! I pray to the Divine Foodstuff, guide my cooking knife, stay my whisk when necessary, watch over my pans and spatulas, and imbue my wok with flavour!

Glasgow is a squalid dump, remains roam the streets, and awful faux-Victorian edifices scrape the smoggy air, I can see them in their caps and tracksuits and Burberry, they do not know good food, they do not know Food, they do not know Life, they do not know Sausage. I wish I could stay here, a handsome prophet to the masses, perhaps I shall grace them on my return from the smoke; that is if I return. These people are so unlike our Scottish; our men are slender and artistic, have a fine diet and are athletic, much like myself. Our women are rotund, strong and good workers; here the women are skinny harlots and the men are layabouts and fat slugabeds who dress in tracksuits and Timberland work boots. How I would hate to live here. How proud I am to be from up North! I will give praise to the roads further south though. They are somewhat wider and more accommodating for a van filled with priceless cargo. I have composed an ode to mark the occasion of my journey:

Aboard a wheeled asylum,

The good cook takes his flight,

Pale embers set against the darkness,

Of the cold descending night

Why do the lights of the city,

Those fiery pickles that look so pretty,

Blend and flash and dissipate,

Into the pale air?

He hopes,

I say,

And not in vain!

Menus do not stay the same

Of chickens young, or fat and old,

And chewy legs to kill the cold,

And eggs a-birthed by chance, and madness,

And freedom from unyielding blackness

Yes! At once at last it seems,

That Salt and Pepper fill his dreams

At last,

At once,

Order’s spoken,

Dinner’s served

Kitchen’s open.

That was no doubt worthy of The Bard himself and yet I have had my fill of poetry for today. I must press on, Famous for its airport and hat-making, Come! Come! Nuclear war! When will I be out of this place? A few miles I expect.

IV

To appreciate true Food I feel one must transcend the man within though the dissolution of all sensory desire. In this state one can appreciate the pure and sublime essence of true Taste, which is none other than the pure and sublime essence of The Food, the Eternally Transient Spatula, the Grand Ladle of Taste and the Form of the Cooking Pot. One may stand beatified by the presence of the Almighty who is not a mind or a sentient entity but the enigmatic and yet omnipresent Foodstuff; the sour and the sweet the bitter and the sensual the disgusting, the fatty and the healthy, all distinct and yet all as one.

I stop for food just outside The Smoke. McDonalds not the ideal choice but I need my trinkets and supplies for the task at hand; I cannot lavish them on myself. The vats and fryers give off that aromatic scent. Bubbling and tumbling and washing the food clean. Dodger has not senses me here yet, Dodger’s eyes are far away. I go for a quick jobbie and gobble down my meal of burgers and Prozac. I roll up to the outskirts of Glasgow city in my van. It is dark and the night croons a languid and wistful melody, it knows I am here; it laments what has become of the Earth its friend. It knows how food once grew freely, in frenzy up to the heavens, vines stretched aloft; roots plunged into the soft and fertile earth. Once food was king, and it has been usurped by man. I shall restore it, I shall enthrone the sprout and the apple pie, I shall lift up the asparagus and anchovy and blueberries and grapefruit and Kiwi, oh, and mushrooms and olives…oh and almonds, and peanuts and pumpkin seeds, oh my! The bulge, the great bulge, extra virgin olive oil…honeys, oh, venison. Not here I tell myself... I have a task to perform.

But my point remains, Food will lord it over us, as it rightly should, man was made for Food! Not food for man! He was made to experience it, to taste it, to savour it. It has called me and I have heard the call. I am neither deaf, nor dumb nor blind, my eyes see, and my heart is open. And I know what must be done. I know, but if I can speak without contradiction, I do not know. Burning cattle, missing basil and curry powder, burning moors, DEFRA, there is a connection, here in this city, in this ancient city. Perhaps this is where food was first enslaved en masse. By the rivers of the Clyde, the trees were burnt, the grasses plucked, the tomatoes forced into furrows. I am still aroused, and yet I almost weep.

I must enter the mind of The Dodger, if I were he where would I scurry away to? Would I hide in plain sight? Would I bury myself away in some sewer, would I ascend to the highest seats of power or would I possess one and all with sublime and surreptitious subtlety? But forsooth! I am too pure for such base and sacrilegious thoughts.

I look in the rear view mirror. A catering van, it has been tailing me for miles. I can’t make out the driver. I pull over and mask my face with my hat, that divine and tender face, my divine and tender face! The van is black and has a baguette emblazoned on the side, a logo of some sort. It is not stopping, at the edge of my eyes I can see the car turning into a side road. I feel I should step out and pace towards it ladle in hand and swing and smush and serve him like King Edwards and milk, like crunchy Yorkshire pudding, like gruel amidst hungry dentures. But the criminal has driven away; he must be shaken, anxious even. In my minds eye his face belies a clandestine caprice.

If I were Dodger, where would I hide? Would I dwell amongst the folk of the glens or in the smoky city? He is here, his vessels are here, and I can smell them. Walking about in their suits (not aprons) greed, greed is all that motivates them and Dodger feeds on greed. Fish and Chips are beggars by the wayside here, not the princes and kings they should be, fudge is cast into the flames and the swelling waters, fairy cakes are trampled underfoot. I decide to follow one of them, The Suits, a nameless face, a parasite! He shall be consumed by his exertions, he is without self-control, and he does not have to toil for bread! He is the akrates! He walks into a glass faced barren building.

There once was a world, before the fall of the fruit of that forbidden tree where The Souls of Food lived in communion with that of man, in the pallid ether. Everyone knows the story of Adam, but what of that apple? What was its punishment? It was cast down from its throne, and man was given dominion over it and all its kind. Food was made to serve man. Not man to serve Food, food those most noble congregations of matter, and man their true supplicants. What has happened to the world? How can anyone account for this evil? Why must I suffer for the sins of my ancestors! I’d pay the Devil to undo that which has been done.

Indeed there is a divine hierarchy in place, a food pyramid, yes we see it everyday, and little do they know it hides a cruel and profound truth. Fruits, once the most noble the seraphim are now cast down to the lowest depths of unconsciousness so that even their bodies are made to mirror the members of man. The banana is now a towering yellow phallic appendage, marking and anointing those which consume it with a milky sap. The pomegranate is cursed to represent femininity as moist and globular and vivacious. How I long to see their true form! Grapes symbolize the eye, filled with clear aqueous humour, the seed representing the lens and ciliary bodies. Turnips symbolise the soft and palatable tissue of the breast, nurturing, intense and wholesome, necessary for life itself, the same is true of melons and grapefruits and coconuts. Carrots denote the fingers, sturdy, pliable, practical. Isn’t ‘carrot fingers’ a word we all use today?

V

There was a time, I say, when food was revered by man. When orders and sects and chartered groups, held beans and rice sacrosanct. These groups, knowing the true essence of the fallen Food, dressed in finery and regalia, gold and purple, and held the fruits and vegetables and meats aloft over them, granting them once again their true place in god’s order. In Israel, what do you think was in the Ark of the Covenant if not that sacrosanct first apple? Not those fetid commandments as we were all led to believe! What power do words have compared to Food? Could words carved into stone cause the death of men? No it is Food that has power of life and death under the sun!

And Josue rose before daylight, and removed the camp: and they departed from Setim, and came to the Jordan, he, and all the children of Israel, and they abode there for three days. After which, the heralds went through the midst of the camp, And began to proclaim: When you shall see the ark of the covenant of the Lord your God, and the priests of the race of Levi carrying it, rise you up also, and follow them as they go before: And let there be between you and the ark the space of two thousand cubits: that you may see it afar off, and know which way you must go: for you have not gone this way before: and take care you come not near the ark.

Wasn’t it god’s prohibition of certain foods a result of the fall? Indeed it was those Foods that had sinned least that were saved from consumption by his chosen people. The righteous shellfish and pork, insects and horses and rodents and the like, camels and snakes and birds of prey and cephalopods, these were the most virtuous of the fallen Foodstuffs, these were the ones that participated only reluctantly in the Apple’s rebellion.

Those custodians of the ark knew of its secret, they knew the apple of Eden was contained within in. Why then, you ask, why was this not mentioned in the sacred text? Is it not obvious! Who would worship the food they eat? It is an absurd and unbelievable proposition and what man would think that cloaked within this absurdity was a profound and arcane truth?

The Manna mentioned in exodus grants he who consumes it immortality, not as fools believe that old chalice!

So it came to pass in the evening, that quails coming up, covered the camp: and in the morning, a dew lay round about the camp. And when it had covered the face of the earth, it appeared in the wilderness small, and as it were beaten with a pestle, like unto the hoar frost on the ground.

And furthermore wasn’t Jesus’ principal message to rid man of The Law? Didn’t god in Acts proclaim all foods clean, and too like man redeem them for the first sin?

And on the next day, whilst they were going on their journey, and drawing nigh to the city, Peter went up to the higher parts of the house to pray, about the sixth hour. And being hungry, he was desirous to taste somewhat. And as they were preparing, there came upon him an ecstasy of mind. And he saw the heaven opened, and a certain vessel descending, as it were a great linen sheet let down by the four corners from heaven to the earth: Wherein were all manner of fourfooted beasts, and creeping things of the earth, and fowls of the air. And there came a voice to him: Arise, Peter; kill and eat. But Peter said: Far be it from me; for I never did eat any thing that is common and unclean. And the voice spoke to him again the second time: That which God hath cleansed, do not thou call common. And this was done thrice; and presently the vessel was taken up into heaven.

With man god too redeemed Food! He has made food clean, through his resurrection, and yet like us, food still lives in the presence of evil until the great day of his redemption. As St Paul says “where is there discord let there be harmony, where there is hatred let there be love, where there are sprouts let there be gravy and roast potatoes, where there is pasta let there be tomatoes, where there is bread let there be butter, where there is haddock let there be breadcrumbs, where there is pork let there be pastry, where there are peppers let there be hummus, where there are peas let there be rice, where there is ice cream let there be chocolate sauce.”

And is it not food that shows us how to be good? Vegetables can teach us a great deal about ethics, the good life and eudemonia. Look at the noble sweet pea, it isolates itself from the world in an organic blanket of brilliant viridian, and yet for all its reserve it provides for us! Despite its fear, despite its reluctance! It is not hard to see bravery in the sweet pea, a virtue most high! And the onion, layer upon layer of nurturing sustenance, food upon food upon food, an orb of virility! The celery stick is hardy, noble and enduring, hanging on when snapped by every last sinewy fibre! It can show us a thing or two about resilience and perseverance! It can show us how to live well and be virtuous. And let us not forget the plaice, a crafty and mercurial creature of the sea, it lies on the seabed when danger is near and hides its head in the sand. It is wise and prudent and knows when it is outdone! It is not foolhardy!

Food is I say the only theme in the Good Book, behind the veil of the human condition, redemption and salvation and the like, there is the secret of Food.

I am to continue my quest, let me recapitulate; I am in Glasgow, stalking Dodger like a wizened but handsome deer hunter. I have come to realise that I see Dodger a lot here, on those anonymous visages, behind those suits. I watch them, which one is his vessel? What is his plot? I say. How does one go about a successful interrogation? I ask my faculties….play it cool I feel. These people use the veneer of social awkwardness to check my advance. People are plainly not friendly here. I can pioneer dialectic and it will be abruptly terminated without cause by simply walking away rudely

I could drive my van through the window of one of those suit’s buildings the supports would bend under the force, the glass would shatter and fall in an almighty pyroclastic cascade, a sharp waterfall, a crystalline flow. Perhaps I would hear one of the suits go under the wheel and step out to find a contorted mess wrapped around the hub. His intestines rent open and in spasm, jerking with shock. One artery slowly lacerating and unfurling and snapping snaps like a celery stick. The bloody Mary that flows from him would be bright and oxygenated and as it drained from him his face would grow ever more pallid and his eyes would roll back into their sockets, pickles or litchi, white with fear. Cherry tomatoes flower from the sockets.

But perhaps disaster would come of this, imagine if another comes at me, waving his arms and spouting sticky translucent ribbons of white nonsense about a mess and a dead man. I could hit him with the haymaker, and his head would seem to cave in and implode. As I am stomping on his crotch maybe I would I hear sirens. And a tall man in a uniform would come and batter me over the scalp. And I would awake in a shower room, misty clammy and hot, soap gliding towards the shower pit. I would feel a pain down below; between my thighs and a quivering eel undulating back and forth, between and into the fleshy tunnel between my buttocks. And a ring of supplicants shrouded, masked and cloaked by the mist surrounding me would be chanting; soap drop! Soap drop! Soap drop! Soap drop! And the words would dissolve into a sound, harrowing and formless, auditory evil itself, as painful as the buggering I would be receiving. Then a lewd and abhorrent mixture would accrue on my back and I would be hurried back to my cell.

Perhaps in this situation I would have doubts, over my unjust punishment. Stuck in a cell having killed a man in just cause (a hard thing to do) and far from being rewarded for permitting my righteous anger to smoke against him, imagine if I would be punished my the means described. And the parameters of reality would break down! I would no longer be able to make sense of the world and would find myself in the midst of an appalling existential crisis. And how I would pray! Where were you in my hour of need almighty ladle? Why have thou forsaken me? And you great foodstuff, why am I in prison? And I would just stare at the light in my cell. Glass filled with a void which imprisons light’s scintillating embers; and I would cry “I am as barren as my cell”!

These walls! These walls confine me, here parallel lines and tangents and angles restrict my movement. I am within this room. I am inside a cell, as there are cells and molecules inside me. Is there no order to the universe? Is there…no great ladle? Does the bagel in the sky show me no pity? Am I to look upon the skies and the stars and the swirling planets and moons and find only a cold void? Perhaps I better learn how to face this cold indifference. Perhaps, I Adonis, I genius, I logos, am mistaken! Perhaps, when all is said and done, we shall not have to answer to the divine foodstuff, perhaps… If there is no Onion, why live when my only pleasure is to taste of it? Why prepare food when there is no Food, why eat when there is no Food to be eaten, no Life, and no Energy. Only dead matter! It is a dark night I say, a dark night for my soul this night! It is as black as say, an aubergine. I feel as if I have been abandoned by the love of my life. Her toothbrush, worn and stood in the stand is the taste of that burger in my mouth, her clothes scattered about the floor and the residue of the crumbs on my clothes. I need to choke these thoughts; I need to clear my mind!

I emerge from my bizarre tunnel of imagination. Still in the van I see! No doubt if I ever were to find myself in prison. I would hear the words “cast thy garment about thee, and follow me” and I would turn to see an angel of the great ladle come to save me. Breaking my chains and fetters and putting the guards to sleep around me.

VI

I walk to the offices to deliver my final gust; I slip the paper into the internal mail box it reads. “stop burning cattle please”… signed chef.