Sunday 29 May 2022

The Sunday Ishmael 30/05/2022

“In the woods the bluebells seem
Like a blue and magic dream,
Blue water, light and air
Flow among them there.

But the eager girl who pulls
Bluebells up in basketfuls
When she gets them home will find
The magic left behind.”
 Eleanor Farjeon

I started hunting for an image of woods to illustrate the adage: Can't see the wood for the trees, but, as usual, was ambushed by bluebells. For our overseas and city readers, this is an English bluebell wood in early May, sunlight dappling through the new leaves, the warm air filled with the elusive bluebell fragrance. 
Oh to be in England, now that Spring is here....
Back to task.  Whilst standing in the midst of trees, appreciating the whole treeness of things, one cannot see the wood, its shape, size or whether it sits with integrity in the landscape.

Might this be true for Clive Myrie, who told his truth to Ambassador Andrei Kelin this morning? I've been to Ukraine lots of times, he said. How many times have you been? I've seen warcrimes in the street. It's a war, isn't it? Not a Special Military Operation? Tell us how much you despise Putin. Go on, I dare you. Look at these pictures on my i-Thing. Bodies on the streets. What do you mean, sir, don't worry about Mariupol? It's devastated. All these residential apartment buildings, you can see the sky through the holes in the walls.
At one point, Ambassador Kelin, 
who nature surely intended to be a lovable grandad with a teddy-bear face, tried to calm him down and keep him on track: Clive, Clive, are we having a discussion or are you having a conversation with Yourself?
Now, I'm sure that Clive did witness what he said he witnessed, and that his powerful indignation sprang from his belief that the Russian soldiery behaved as soldiers do behave - war is fucking horrible - but, being entirely immersed in the trees, he was unable to see the woodland that Ambassador Kelin was attempting - when he could get a word in edge-ways, to show Clive:
Mrs Belligerent Truss, whipping up the U.K.'s anti-Russian hyperbole, egging on the Ukies, extending the war and closing down peace negotiations by pouring in lethal aid. The refusal of the West to accept that the Azov battalion are particularly unpleasant, that the Western Ukrainians lethally discriminated against the ethnic Russians in the Donbas, that military installations by Ukraine in the east posed a threat to Russia and that the Azov soldiery did use civilian buildings for military purposes, including parking their tanks in the basement. The Ambassador neatly countered Clive's accusations that the Russian people are being fed propaganda and denied access to western reportage: so, can you get Russia Today or any Russian news coverage in the UK?
Bit of a relief to learn that Russia does not intend to turn Britain into a big smoking nuclear hole, lapped by the waters of the North Sea, despite all this goading, and that the Russian military strategy is not to deploy tactical battlefield nukes.
It was rather fun to see Clive teasing the solemn Conservative MP Brandon Lewis, Secretary of State for Northern Ireland - he's the one with the weird hair:  
Maybe try a fringe?
I'm not saying for a minute that you are anything like Ambassador Kelin, but, really, don't you feel like Andrei, having to go into public time and time again to defend the Big Dog?
The Conservatives are, by and large, still signed up to the Save Big Dog Operation, shake, shake, shaking the magic money tree to bribe the population - but wouldn't it be funny, if after all the various shenanigans, including, allegedly, intimidating Sue Gray into holding back in her report into Partygate (what, 4:00pm already? Wine-time!) Big Dog failed to get re-elected next time around?
 If he allows us to have another General Election, that is. After all, the Big Dog has already sorted out  the Ministerial Code by  removing concepts of honour, integrity and resignation:  in the breach lies the observance.
Old Transgender News: 

France declares war on Liverpool  
They are just so, so very Liverpudlian and we are so very chic

Whilst Liverpool fans are notorious for causing mayhem, walking into French shops and carrying out armloads of designer gear, blagging free travel across Europe, getting drunk and disgusting - for being, well, thugs, they are our thugs and they shouldn't be put in cages and sprayed with tear gas by France's finest. This is another provocation to war by the French, who have previous for sending tennis balls to the reigning monarch.
Northern Ireland Secretary Brandon Lewis (him again, still no fringe, or Bangs as the Americans call hair on your forehead)) this morning told Sky News that, while he didn’t want to involve himself in France’s domestic affairs, it is important “we learn the lessons and how all around the world we can police and keep people safe at big sporting events”
Would the French accept the diplomatic olive branch and just say sorry? Hell, no. Would they fuck. Amelie Oudea-Castera, France's Sport Minister, stated: “The attempts of intrusion and fraud by thousands of English fans have complicated the work of stewards and police forces ...Violence has no place in the stadiums." Gerald Darmanin, French Interior Minister stated: “Thousands of British 'supporters', without tickets or with counterfeit tickets, forced entry and sometimes assaulted the stewards. Thank you to the very many police forces mobilised this evening in this difficult context."
That's it then. Cry God for England, Harry and St. George! And they can keep their stinky cheeses. 

The proof reading of the third anthology of mr ishmael's writing is approaching completion: I've done my bit and it is now out for beta testing.
 We debated long and hard about which essays should be included. Everything is so good, how do you choose? This is an essay that didn't make the cut - just shows to go you the standard of the included pieces:



She’s got everything she needs, she’s an artist, she don’t look back.

Bob Dylan (She Belongs To Me)

So much of the PBC’s arts programming has been hi-jacked
recently by posturing, bullying arseholes talking down to us, Alan Yentob, interviewing, like a slavering groupie, his teenage pop idols; one almost expected, in a recent outing, that he would ask Mark Knopfler for a plastercast of his dick, just for his personal collection, y’understand. Yentob is one of the more gross, nauseating, overpaid luvvies whom, via our taxes, we keep in indolent, self-fellating luxury, sharing with us, betimes, his journey into this or that aspect of pop trivia; they’re never just making a fucking programme, these Yentobs, they’re all on a fucking mission of discovery; good of them, really, to babble at us, shouting urgent cultural instructions, from their luxury liners.
Mark PotatoMan is another, nose-talking flat-out, racing against himself in the Most-Well-Researched-Interviewer-Ever Steeplechase; one would be surprised to learn that he ever paused for a split second to enjoy a work of art or entertainment, too busy deconstructing it, making notes, for a future telly-arts gabfest in which he sits, bloated, ashen, reeking of grease‘n’garlic, and oozing his superior knowledge of everything, ever: repulsive fucking mutant, he should go for a run, the fucking gabshite. And he should wear a tie or a tee-shirt, one or the other. He clearly knows nothing of the art of dishevelment.
I would love to hear, just once before I die, one of these fuckers saying, for instance, Dickens, nah, never read a word of it. Shakespeare? Nah, not for me; read Hamlet, that’s enough, innit? Japanese cinema? You must be outa your fucking mind. But no, the PBC is carpeted, wall-to-wall, with cultural polyglots, a Babel of effete narcissism, the sort of people we’d like to see charged double or treble for their arts degrees. I used to be among that arts degree crowd, myself, Gilgameshing, Chaucering and Joyceing my way to a wordy, arty future, so it hurts to find myself, courtesy of the PBC, coming over all Hermann Goering - ven I hear ze vord Kultur I reach fur mein pistol.

That the PBC is run for and by crooks, ponces, pimps, slags, degenerates and child molesters is now axiomatic; that we continue to shovel our money into the scabby, snarling mouths of the likes of Chris Patten - just because this failed Tory spiv says we should - is almost unbelievable. In a decent society Patten, Dyke, Thompson, the whole shameless, shabby crew would be breaking rocks on Dartmoor. For ever. If a foreign, national institution was proven to be a hotbed of larceny, degeneracy and decades-long, institutionalised noncing, the PBC would be wetting itself in indignation. Mrs woman on a raft describes herself as being moored just off the coast of reality. Until heads roll at the PBC, actually into the basket and not into wealthy retirement, we, the United Kingdom, will remain a sewer-island, off the coast of civilisation.

They’re not all as bad as that, though, the culture jocks, not as bad, as foul, as Yentob. Some of them have a sense of humour and Waldemar Jabberwocky always has interesting things to say about paintings, and he even manages to make some of it seem spontaneous, although spontaneity and the managerialised, child-abusing PBC are antipathetic. It really isn’t good enough that the public broadcaster’s coverage of arts generally is in the unlaboured hands of a bunch of cunts. I know critics, at least paid ones, are a considerably lesser form of life than the rest of us but even so, Kirsty Wark and her slew of screeching, parasitic, late-night cocksuckeurs culturelles - Paul Morley, Diane Wei Liang, Miranda Sawyer, Andrew Motion - I’d throw them all out of the lifeboat; in fact, I wouldn’t even let them in.
Yentob and PotatoHead, Andy Graham-Dixon, Mark Kermode, Sue Perkins, Clemency Burton-Hill, Jesus, I could go on for a month. And most of this lot, as usual, are public school; some of them, like the gorgeous, pouting Burton-Hill are both Oxbridge and the pampered spawn of some superannuated PBC grandee.

But aside from daddies and dons, the main thing this gang has in common is that each really makes a dreadful, self-absorbed fist of what we pay them to do, what the nation needs them to do, now, more than ever. There is a better way and that is to take ordinary people and say, OK, whaddayamake of this, then? But that’s never going to happen. (I used to take groups of official criminals - as opposed to bankers and politicians - to see Shakespeare or to an art gallery or a music festival, alongside, I hasten to add, directing them towards work, training and common-or-garden Decency. Never knew that was for me, most’d say, and clutched in the sharp, grimy paws of Kirsty Wark and the rest, it never will be. X-Factor, that’s the thing for you, singing, ‘swhat you understand.)

In the grown-up world, writers review each other’s books (and how many fucking books can there be, there’s already millions upon millions of them; why don’t people learn a different language instead of reading the latest, indispensable, Sebastian Faulks tripe?) As bankers review each other’s bungs, PBC execs review each other’s larceny, cops review each other’s crimes and doctors review each other’s greedy malpractices, so the critics, acting as our own cultural coppers, review for us the evidence relating to their brighter, more successful chums’ efforts, and tell us what we think. But actually, if you look at Tracey Emin’s Great Bed of Shit, for instance, you will see that art is whatever you can get away with. Even so, wading about in shit, the role of ordinary people is to be told, by the charmed circle of clever people, what they think about art or music or politics. Or anything. You’ll like the things we tell you to, or you won’t like at all.
It was a rare pleasure, then, to see, last night, an arts show seemingly completely controlled by its subject and - barring an introductory simper from Clemency - completely devoid of the critical, faux-interrogative, flattering voice. (Although he will be best remembered for selling dodgy insurance to the elderly, the telly-monster, Parkinson, wrote the book on pandering to the scum of showbiz and the arts. And do tell us, Mr Niven, some of the many other ways in which you are wonderful.)

I don’t do dancing. Maybe it’s my early presbyterian up-bringing, I dunno, I just don’t and I rarely watch it - save for Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire and Michael Jackson, on a good day. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at dancing. There was a guy used to be on Sunday Night at the London Palladium, when I was a young child. Antonio, I think his name was, a Spanish flamenco dancer, hand-clapping, heel-stomping, shouting OlĂ© every once in a while - he was mesmerising. But that’s about it with me and dancing so it was just a mild curiosity which drew me, last night, to PBC2’s Sylvie Guillem - Force of Nature.

Now a breathtakingly fit 48, Guillem trained initially as a gymnast and only a student exchange period with the Paris Opera Ballet saw her talent recognised by then Director, Rudolf Nureyev,

who, against all precedent, propelled her into the position of etoile, principal ballerina, whilst she was still virtually a child. Rudi's preferment cast the die for her future personal and artistic behaviour. She would only ever do what she wanted to do.
The film is short, about a half an hour and concentrates as much on Guillem's monologues on Life, Art and the Environment as it does on her dancing and although these are compelling, a longer show would have enabled us to be the more amazed, I suspect, by her dancing. There are short clips of her in classical roles and lengthier segments of her modern works; all of them, for me, at any rate, clarified the difference between sheer, ferociously uncompromising artistry and the countless little daily performances which we all give, over and over again for the benefit of family, friends, workmates and strangers alike; all the world is a stage, of course, Guillem's stage, though, occupies a different space, rarified, fantastically dramatic and, perhaps most significantly, utterly wordless.


I was left breathless, open mouthed by the sheer physicality of her performances, her partners all marvel at the things she can force her body to do, even now, approaching fifty.

She can stretch and bend and fold and, free from partner support, she can spin two or three times in mid-air.
As I said, I know nothing of balletstrokedance, leaves me cold as a rule but with some of Guillem's modern pieces my ignorance, my unfamiliarity didn't seem to matter. None of them were large, ensemble, company pieces, just two dancers or in the final piece just Guillem, herself, sketching the stages of woman's life, the movements in space of this one body matched to a few notes, expressing achey truths denied to words.

In her to-camera pieces she was equally compelling.

It's odd, isn't it, how, maybe because we listen a wee bit harder, the words of those to whom English is not native, seem so much more, well, so much more right, unhabituated, more seeking and feeling and testing than declamatory. She spoke of how, early on, she had realised that she had but one life and to allow others - seniors - to dictate it was the same as giving it to them freely, for their own use. And when she transferred from Paris to London's Royal Ballet she quickly became known as Mademoiselle Non for her frequent flat refusals to play suggested roles. London - and global - directors and audiences feel that her ungovernability is a price well worth paying for seeing her on their stages.

Contemplating the end of her career, Guillem laughs that the inevitable decline in her powers will only propel her upwards, slingshotting her into something else, something which is manifesting itself in her antsy support for SeaShepherds,

a radical environmentalist group which sidesteps the customary Bono-bleatings of showbiz in favour of direct action, ramming illegal whaling ships, for instance.

I am sure she will be a loss to dance lovers but most of her stuff will be digitised for posterity and there may well be another Sylvie along in a minute or two, there usually is.
But if you get a chance to see her, in this film, dancing and talking - both of them forms of thinking out loud - then, as we usually say, it is well worth the time spent.

She's got everything she needs,
she's an artist, she don't look back.

(*…my faint delight in them is that they are a ragbag and that they don’t give a fuck because - and you don’t need me to tell you this - GlobaCorp doesn’t give a flying fuck about anybody, any creature, any resource on land, sea, or in the air; these people commit EarthCrime every second of the day, they will kill us all, we should kill them first and anyone even taking a step in that direction, standing up to them, is good news to me. Fuck Interpol, when are they going to arrest a banker or two?)

Sunday 22 May 2022

The Sunday Ishmael 22/05/2022 - the philosophical edition

 Your man is in a tight spot. Surrounded by man-eating aurochs, or something whose head and jaw take up over a half of its body, there seems no way out for our hero.
However, taking a firm hold of his dick and using it to thrust his way through, he steps boldly out of his reality, leaving the aurochs, who are not possessed of a weaponised penis wielded by a six fingered hand, to futilely crash their jaws together behind his retreating back.
Okay - you think of a better explanation for this ancient piece of dick art. He looks to be stepping out of the rock and into our history, flat head and all. He is 13,000 years old. Sean Thomas photographed him in the little Arab village of Sayburc, just down the road from Karahan Tepe, on the Harran plains of Eastern Turkey.  Karahan Tepe is a huge temple site of shrines, vaults, water channels and cultic chambers, one of which is the Penis Chamber.
The Penis Chamber holds representations of a dozen eight-foot high pink penises, carved from the rock and semi-enclosed in an open chamber. The people who made this place, at enormous effort, were hunter-gatherers, nomadic, coming together in this ritual place to celebrate their penises. Around 10,000 years ago, having done with it, they filled it in with tons of rubble. God knows why. Maybe they moved on from Penis worship. Because this whole, enormous, site was back-filled, it has made comparatively easy work for the archaeologists uncovering it. This ancient cathedral has challenged the orthodoxy that the hunter gatherers wandered around, not achieving much beyond finding food and procreating. The orthodoxy that only settled, farming humans produced surpluses that created spare time that could be converted into building work, inventing religions, rituals and art. The art took the form of relief carvings and sculptures, depicting animals and humans with six fingered hands enclosing or protecting their penises. 
Kirkwall, May 2022
Seems that the ancient tribes of Kirkwall worship the same religion.
The Ness of Brodgar is another such cathedral, but merely Neolithic - that is, fairly recent in comparison with Karahan Tepe. Building work at the Ness started 5,300 years ago. What the two structures have in common, though, is that both closed down their operations as a ritual site by backfilling with rubble when there was no further use for it.  At the Ness, around 4000 years ago, a feast was held to close down the site, involving the slaughter of several hundred cattle in one event. The broken bones of the cattle were piled up and topped off with the carcasses of several red deer. 
When we don't understand the significance of  a site, or an object, we call it a ritual object, as if that explained anything. It is more face-saving than saying, Hell, no, haven't a clue why they did it, what they were up to or why they stopped doing it. Or even why they killed all their cattle in a closing-down party.
Dr. Brian Cox of the Perpetual Smile is a scary fellow. A mere 13,000  years of human ritual is as nothing to him - he dismissed it as a mere snap of the fingers this morning on the Sunday Morning Show, no longer with Sophe Raworth, but today with a much tougher newstottie, Jo Coburn. 
Dr. Brian, keyboard player, rockgod and particle physicist, told his terrified audience that he is looking for the deep structure of everything. And then he is going to explain it to us. On TV. With lots of pictures of himself staring God in the face and finding him lacking as he unpicks the deep structure.. He terrified me with the Honeycomb Conjecture in one of his many TV series. As a textile patchworker and quilter, I'm quite familiar with the practical application of the concept, which states that a hexagonal grid or honeycomb is the best way to divide a surface into regions of equal area with the least total perimeter. There you go:
See the source image
The conjecture was proven in 1999 by mathematician Thomas C. Hales.
Here's the theorem, for those who understand such things: 
Let be a locally finite graph in , consisting of smooth curves, and such that has infinitely many bounded connected components, all of unit area. Let be a disk of radius centered at the origin. Let be the union of these bounded components. The theorem states:

Equality is attained for the regular hexagonal tile.

The first record of the conjecture is attributed to Marcus Terentius Varro, around 36 BC, and in the 17th century Jan Brozek used it to explain why bees create hexagonal honeycombs. Dr. Brian Smile told us that it is part of the deep structure of the universe, occurring absofuckinglutely everywhere. That being the case, there's something not pragmatic, mechanical and material going on and I do hope that they stop messing about with the Hadron Collider and just let us get on with our Penis Worship.

Here's mr ishmael on deep structure matters: 


 It is the tiniest, most infinitesimally small  particle, a truly amazingly small scrap of matter that not even the most amazingly powerful nuclear-powered laser microscope  would ever of been able  of seeing with the naked eye,  said Professor Brian Smile of the BBC and D'Ream, below, and of the Large Handheld Kettle. Or whatever.

Professor Cox sings his hit, Things Can Only Get Smaller, or Bigger.
Depending on your point of universal view.
But isn't it all just really, like, amazing.
On television, the image - or the form - always triumphs over the substance,  the presenter is King.
....and I just think it's all, well, wonderful, really,
 I mean, I've had a number one record,
 they gimme a medal, the Queen did,
and I'm never off the telly...

The ghastly and over-exposed Brian Cox, 
silhouetted atop all the world's mountain peaks,
the pseudo-scholar presenter is slave not to science but to showbusiness, like unto which business there is no other.
And so, disappointingly, was last night's BBC4 exposition of quantum physics, or mechanics, or whatever it's called. Or not called. 

mr bungalow bill and I, at the very least, had been keenly anticipating BBC4's Secrets of Quantum Physics, presented by this fellow. 
A presenter so far up his own paradox as to be risible.
I love the camera, me, and it loves me, too, donchathink?

Dr/Professor/Guru Jim al Khalili is, it turns out,  a vain gabshite. Whether or not he was making sense of quantum physics cannot be known, can it?  That is the point of it. Or the pointlessness of it, as you will.  It almost seems heretical to even attempt to explain the inexplicable, to know the unknowable, as the scriptures have it.

  Jim, though, in his universe,  is infinitely capable and strove last night not to provoke or encourage but simply to entertain, to seduce.  I have the books he mentioned - The Dancing Wu-Li Masters and the Tao of Physics and three minutes sat on the loo, glancing at them, would be more educational than a month of Jim and his showbiz bollocks.

Knowledge, now, of course,  is digitised into little cubes of shit, Tweets and re-Tweets, people's minds too full of vanity-dribblings to tackle proper thinking, no attention span, no mental shelf-space, as I heard it termed recently, their imaginations handed-over, freely,  to slab-faced, creepy, brain-dead American mutants.  
Mr Mark Faceberg. Trust Me, I want to own all your lives.
Jim is right up their cyber street, his mind, like theirs, a linguistic desert, uninspired and repetitive - Einstein was at the height of his powers, Nils Bohr was at the height of his powers -  and Jim and his producers' televisual devices were corny and unimaginative, a small, candy-striped marquee on the shore, in which Jim played Aunt Sally with some vague, tin-can permutation of relativity;  a pair of spinning coins  which he claimed demonstrated quantum physics, although they only demonstrated spinning heads-or-tails coins, Oh,  and there was a leering,  metaphysical cardsharp, determined to cheat reality.

Jim rode around, fitly, on his bike, to demonstrate power fluctuations in his dynamo-driven cycle lamp and thus the discovery of the quantum photon;  Jim dived, fitly, into a wave-generating pool to demonstrate the differing powers of small and large waves. And Jim sauntered, fitly,  through what was meant to be a nineteen-twenties jazz club but which actually resembled the studio of BBC Radio Four's Loose Ends show, the one in which Clive Anderson smirks and smarms and hisses and introduces terribly intelligent musicians playing terribly unlistenable-to music.  I think it was at this jazzpoint that Jim mentioned Charlie Chaplin being at the height of his powers.  Throughout, Jim seemed to want to climb through the screen at us, so close were his close-ups, so intense his cloudy summaries. It was all dreadfully Telly.

The thread running through last night's episode was the argument between Bohr and Einstein about the nature of physical reality, about its former certainties being compromised by the discovery and understanding of particles or quantums - quanta; by the belief that the mere observation of sub-atomic particles changed them or indeed, might have called them into being.  This is a delightful conundrum, one which has enchanted me for some years, now, since I read those books, maybe before Jim did.  I do not, however, need it proving or disproving.

Unsurprisingly, Jim's analagous demonstrations and his experiments  with the tin-cans and the cardsharp - and eventually with laser beams - brought him down on the side of Bohr, a position,  among scientists, common since the nineteen-forties, when everyone, of course, was at the height of their powers and one most laboriously and archly arrived at in last night's show.

Once,  there was God, who said it was not for us to know, simply to obey.  In my lifetime it is the BigBang we have sought to know,

 to photograph, back through time. I never understand that shit, photographing stuff that isn't there, now. Clever people have told us that Stuff just came, in an instant, from nowhere, and nodding, as though we had understood, we have believed. 

We have believed that once there was no time, no space, no matter, it all just invented itself. Yes, Stuff from non-stuff, everything from nothing, as hard to believe, as God, Himself, but Hey, that's what we're good at, believing shit. 

Now, many of  those - let's call them Jims -  who once worshiped the BigBang are saying, Hang About, these Black Holes, 

and there are gazillions of the fucking things, what they tell us, the BlackHoles,  is that there's actually shitloads of universes, popping in and out of each other, in, well, in BigBang moments; so, all that stuff, which,  just like QE money, popped into existence, well, it actually just slipped-in ready-made, from next door, sort of thing, kinda. No, you don't have to believe that NoTime, NoMatter shit any more.  We gotta new one for you.

The Jims, you see, they'll fuck you up;  NASA, the Hadron Collider, Hubble, it's all they wanna do, is fuck with your head, like priests, shamans, witch doctors, fucking Druids, they are all the same.  The Jims want you to believe, for instance,  there must be what they call intelligent Life, somewhere, and that we can find it.  The reason they say that there must be is because they want there to be, not very scientific.  A proper scientist would say, Well, fuck me, even if there were to be folks like us, maybe green, maybe with eight arms, whatever, but communicable-with, maybe there is a planet somewhere with exactly the same multiplicity  of accidental circumstances as led to Life on Earth  - y'know, a planet circling a sun  burning at just exactly the right temperature at exactly the right distance, a moon of exactly the right size and gravitational pull and all the trillions of accidental chemical and physical combinations necessary to create amoeba and then all the accidental geological, climatological and horticultural conditions necessary for the growth, survival and ascent of species, only one of which has an opposable thumb and can do technology, thinking, speech, fire, the wheel, transport and the storage and retrieval of information, and eats and tortures all the other species, even if there are all those trillions of improbabilities, even if they all do happen elsewhere, there is no reason for them to be there just now, right now,  in this infinitesimally tiny split second of time which we inhabit, is there? Pushing it a bit, don't you think? Makes more sense to just believe in God, than in all that horseshit.

Some people can do TeeVee, recently, AN Wilson has been one such;  Waldemar Jabberwocky and Matthew Collings, in the arts; engage, inform and entertain without becoming the show, without getting in the way. 
 Jabberwocky, stomping around Rome in his sandals, burbling about sculpture and painting and building is of course a confection but  one full of flavours, nuance, surprise  and juicy tit-bits, easily digested and memorable.
Jim,  for his part, was glutinous showbiz porridge.

Jabberwocky, I believe, wants people to appreciate whoever or whatever it is he's burbling about, Rembrandt or Bach or Michaelangelo, wants people to know it for themselves;  sure, he's on telly and has been for, what, twenty years to my knowledge but I trust his enthusiasm, his Godliness.
Let Me entertain you
.Jim, on the other hand,  doesn't want to share anything, wants but to impress, to show-off, to star;  wants to be the priest who,  claiming to lead us to the light, keeps us in the dark. 

Quantum physics, as far as our individual consciousnesses may perceive, is the sound of one hand clapping.

If you meet the Buddha on the Road, 
kill him!

The third anthology of essays by ishmael smith, thinker, writer,  satirist, contrarian and originator of this blog, is approaching completion.
We are still proof-reading, I fear, but cracking on with it.
If you haven't bought your copies of Honest Not Invent or Vent Stack, Lulu or Amazon will help you out.