The Enigma of Fatality


We found ourselves delving into a bit of Jean Paul Sartre’s Nausea we had nothing better to do.

Got a bit carried away if truth be told and found ourselves thinking quite unreasonable thoughts.

We fancied we watched someone throw themselves from the window of an apartment opposite as the sound of a piano floated in from next door. Out of tune, out of tune, out of tune.

Everything was black sky and dirty white and stunk of yesterday and we kind of came to the conclusion that nothing was everything and everything was nothing and anything else was something horribly other again.

Bored and maybe also for the hell of it we took an aimless derive into the desire driven boulevards of Andre Breton.

Bretonville someone called the place.

As good or bad a place as any other.

It took us a while to get our bearings but we found it in the end.

Somewhere down the side street of the perpetual bothering now we came across a café that had no name but seemed to hold all secrets.

We sensed that from the moment we walked in.

Long haired men in tattered cardigans and profuse beards were drinking blonde beers and throwing down lazy dominoes. Dogs slept at their feet.

Women sat at the bar pretending to ignore them.

A certain style was reassuringly absent.

The music was Argentine; bandoneon tunes played in a tense manner. There was a tatty photo of Curtis above the bar.

The barman we guessed knew all about the enigma of fatality.

We knew nothing, absolutely fuck all.

Mark Read was at the table in the corner, reading misfortune in the coffee dregs lost in a fugue of smoke, casting runes with the words of the masters, a free agent in a world of no reason…

We asked him if we could join him.

The recording of this show is available on request.

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