Come In Julie Banahan

I don't know who Julie Banahan is but she lives in Devon and I have a postcard addressed to her in my handwriting. There is no actual message on it, just the address. If you are her or someone who knows her then please contact me.

This must be a random Thursday with so much oblique strategy within the first paragraph. What shakes the trees today commander? We have no results back yet so we cannot say. This tanker rusts by the dockside, a shell, a poetic heap of oxidation and thought. In the oily water round it we find ambergris and other fine and wonderful things. Perfume is made of this secretion. All that money, all those whales dragged up onto the factory ships and we make perfume of them. Smell of whale darling? That is lovely Darling. Go back to your womb, get boys toys and contract in Limbo. The rust flakes and the steel creaks, a failed organism. This ship is not useful any more. It will not sail again. Maybe they will drag it out to sea and power it back into the beach like at Gaddani. Speed her in boys. Right up the beach like a whale again. This tang and twang of salt will sink into any metal we recover here. Your new car is made of this old craft. They move over her like ants and steal the engines. There's a boiler rolling inland to be melted down and turned into the first car for the sub-continent. Money is all they want, not martyrdom. Or maybe she will end on the bottom of the sea boys, split in two and rolled down some submerged bank of sand down into the always-dark, the always cold. There are those boilers again, discarded by the graceful fall to land. Every glass of water I drink has traces of that iceberg along with the last breath of Ceasar. Baby talk, that is what everything is. I don't feel like I have left my teens yet. I still know all the Kings and Queens from William the Bastard onwards. I would relate them to you but there is no time. Henry! He was one of them, the fat bloke with the beard and the ulcer on his leg. And his daughter was nice, well one of them was. Never burned no one. Hung a few though. Real toys again. What is the ultimate toy? The opera, the theatre. 10 Quid the lot! We have a catalog or maybe a catalogue. Could be a decalogue though I'm not sure what one on those is. See the alluvial floodplane outside your window. In a thousand year all that will be gone back to a real flood and we will have to live in the mountains like hermits. They will pan from left to right, fed and clothed without having to pay for anything. The sea will be all around and we will live of leaves and roots, always on the edge on starving. Dolly Robots. Who can tell when they are real. I am a robot says Richard. Lalla always agrees with him. Maybe he is a proper one, a robot in they way we always think of one rather than the defined way he imagines. I am a machine, an intelligent machine for building babies and bridges, playing a role in evolution so subtle that I will never be aware of it. The prophet built an artificial man who talked. You will never know whether man made people or god made people. He killed the robot. Gradually the technology takes us over. This gives me pause to think about how bad it will be when the robots become us. We are machines, machines, machin,machin machines, nothing more. Dolly died young didn't she? A sheep with arthritis that killed her so early. And placed him in the garden of Eden. The process is as follows. Make a mand and woman and you are god or man? Taaake ooouuutttt thaaaatttt Deeeeee Ennnnnnn Aaaaaay and put in all the genes from another cell and there you have a man. We are stuck like a bad record. I was talking about ships and rust and here we are back with Steve questioning how real all this mad drive for clones actually is. They are going to kill many clones before they have one that lives. The wind fills the sails and we are taken back a thousand years, before that first king. I ran from Senlac hill, screaming at the mess of many bodies. And placed them in the Garden of Eden, created by our Genes. We haven't trained them; they just do it anyway as if it was programmed in already. Like a flute in some sixties library, the jazz of the eternal lunchtime. This one only has big coloured art books preparing for a new kind of consciousness. I can never spell that. We must preserve the genetics and we all have the same. I cannot tell the difference between them. Anyone else have a moral-boosting idea?