Pop Cult Mind Wax - Old Age, Memory, Penile Mutiny
Published July 22, 2006
So it is wandering these rest home byways in pursuit o' the sitting room. "Mourn none" these faces round about would say, if'n they weren't numbed by diazepam and routine.
"We got hella lot life running thick 'neath the foothills of Nowadays, manys a grand tale to be told if'n someone ever saw fit to mine for the buggers."
Epic arcs and sweeping narratives all pulsing 'hind those trembling eyes and perpetually stammering lips, aye, surely there are.
On account of my dear grandmother herself being allocated one o' thon rooms for three weeks in sunny July, for this reason and none much other I find myself perched on a windowsill in the downstairs sitting room with an ol' fella to the left by the name of Gerry giggling to himself of an occasion and a chap to the right, fella used to be a Minister, he's staring at the ends o' his legs like a fella might squint in the direction o' a ten-foot willy just burst out the center o' the mantelpiece.
"The… blazes…" he says.
What occurred a few minutes hitherto this scene is that the majority of the residents, my grandmother included, were taken off to the dining area for to enjoy a mouthful or nine o' fine Irish meat an' spuds an' gravy and what have you. The two aged lads sat next to me here and now, for reasons of complex digestion complications they get fed at times of the day incompatible with those allocated to the rest of the resting classes, although The Minister still enjoys a cheeky sweetie of an occasion. Right now, he's hunched o'er in the chair chewing a Werther's Original he's been chewing for much of an hour, an altogether fruitless session owing to how the wrapper's still fixed round the article in question.
Now and then he'll take it out his mouth for to mumble something regarding "The red bed, now, where is it?" and then the head slumped down anew, studying the sway o' the carpet fabric this way and that 'neath those mysterious, unknowable feet somehow smushed wi' the ends o' his pegs.
Myself and Gerry, we're watching the world trundle on outside the window, watching the sun shred the streets asunder with fierce lashes o' heat the likes of which, so the papers lined neatly 'side the TV assure us, this island has never once seen for as long as folks have bothered to make note o' such things.
The sun, it runs those inquisitive fingers round the necks and legs and foreheads o' a quintet o' twentysomething lassies lain on a grass-verge far side o' the car park directly faces this room. The lassies in question, wearing none but a few wisps o' Clingfilm attire on the most sensitive of areas, they're passing round a bottle of cooking oil, dabbing tiny dollops here and there o'er their already well-tanned forms that the pleasant browns may birth a glorious corn-flake cocoon o' blistered red / black terror.
The Duke (Aaron McMullan to his parents and the clergy) is a Northern Irish writer, performer and insomniac currently residing in London. He is the creator of Mondo Irlando, wherein his scribblings and hollerings can be found. He is currently working towards the completion of his first novel, and his debut "punk / country / folk / whatever" album has recently been released by Ex Libris Records . You can also pop by His MySpace Page and maybe have a coffee and a biscuit.
- Pop Cult Mind Wax - Old Age, Memory, Penile Mutiny
- Published: July 22, 2006
- Type: Opinion
- Section: Culture
- Filed Under: Culture: Family and Relationships, Culture: Personal History, Music: Country and Americana, Video: Romantic
- Part of a feature: Pop Cult Mind Wax
- Writer: Duke De Mondo
- Duke De Mondo's BC Writer page
- Duke De Mondo's personal site
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Comments on this articleComments
Gerry and The Minister'I keep thinking..."Jerry (or Gerry) and the Pacemakers"
I think Gerry and the Minister is a right proper title of something. Mark my words Duke! You'll be wanting to use this for something!
Now, to the actual writing.
You do not disapoint dear Duke.
thank you folks! this is a touch longer than i'd expected it to be, but there you go. still, i think i don't dislike it. (i've never heard THOSE words uttered, alas. that'd make for a fine Mind Wax in itself)
mary - i kept thinkin of gerry and the pacemakers too! i was gonna go back and change all the Gerry to Jerry, just to see if it might ease that somewhat. but then, havin Gerry And The Pacemakers flutter front the eyes every so often isn't at all bad.
thanks again, folks.
HA! well i hope you wiped up... and thank you, Sir Brewster!
Excellent stuff! I think you're right, keep the bad memories, for they make the good experiences all the better by way of contrast.
You are insane. hahaha. Now I'll think of you every time I stare at my gangling, flaccid manhood :(
Festive Dave! Saint's preserve us. wonderful to see you here, and i think it's only fair you should think of me in those circumstances, since i surely think of you every time the tweeds shuffle.
and sir fleming, thank you, and apologies for missing your comment. how in hells name did that happen?
I fear you have become a caricature of your own overstressed rhetoric, which delights itself in saying very little at all. All in all a fine display of vocal masturbation spun with the integrity of a child molestor's charm. The cretins will think this a harsh review. Well I say it's not in so much as it lacks detail, but thank fuck, finally someone tells a man what must be said! Indeed that's what I say on the matter and I say no more.
p.s. I'm pathetic in so much as ill be back. Perhaps even with a tale of my own.
Sir Rodney Dinkle, you, sir, have voiced what i myself have been thinking for much of the past whiles. and hurrah that you've given such thoughts such marvellous words to play with. thank you, but i dunno that i delight in sayin very little at all. i try of times to say something. it's with none much delight whatsoever that i find an altogether savage emptiness remaining therein of occasion.
surely you couldn't have said it at a better time! thanks, man.
I must retract my bitter scorn, for I meant no malice and I suspect I have portrayed much. I truly do admire your work and dedication; it is a triumph I lack considerably. A shit day makes me project my own self-loathing onto undeserving others. My review has credit in so much as it reflects the truly shameful nature of its author, nothing more. Forgive me, and do keep writing, your work is clearly a deserving joy to many.
I suggest you, tighthen up your expression, condense your images and refine your narrative into a more fluent and digestable form. At time your articles can be more exhausting to read rather than enjoyable, which is a shame because they harness huge potential. I insist you keep the lyrical tone that pervades your work, but try not to let it, distract away from the precision of the point or emotion your trying to convey - it's a simple matter of subtlelty more than anything. And most importantly use your often brilliant metaphors more sparingly, build up to them with suspense and excitement, so they suprise the reader with original perspective, as opposed to being exhaustively distracting in nearly every sentence. All this will inevitably, i think, make you writing more striking and memorable to the reader as opposed to making them feel with a current of rhetoric compossed, aye, i say of o's and ar's not dissimilar, or very much alike of those, perhaps cast by many, or if not many then one, squibbling sailor upon the spendiforous retreat of unspoilt and afreshly discovered ancient shores, Alas! Or if you will - overwhelmed!
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You truly wield a mean 'postrophe,Duke, but I'll never quite think of the mantlepiece in quite the same way again.
Another great read--Thanks.