Sociopoetics: When aesthetic and poetic decisions embodied in artworks lead to a heightened or changed social situation, one needs to describe these forms as sociopoetic rather than as artworks within particular social contexts. The social situation is part of a sociopoetic experiment.
Ramshorn crawls up plant as far as Hydra colony then crawls rapidly back down again.
Short Savages "Obsessed" Blair.
Leech inches across the glass, but which end is the mouth?
Dobupal Retard, 225mg.
Freshwater shrimp grooms its whiskers like a cat.
At my time of life (six and thirty years of age) it cannot be supposed that I have much energy to spare: in fact, I find it all little enough for the intellectual labours I have on my hands: and, therefore, let no man expect to frighten me by a few hard words into embarking any part of it upon desperate adventures of morality.
The recent Chicago Review special (on Charles Tomlinson, Sophie Robinson, Keith Tuma and Chris Goode) has arrived. The first problem with Sam Ladkin and Robin Purve’s introduction is that it’s concerned with gluing context around these eight shoulders (see note 1), but glues on so much that it begins to look like a very partial account of all noteworthy (tautologically, noteworthy) recent UK hip hop. The other problem is not so serious, and perhaps unavoidable when referring on such scale. Now and then comes the suggestion of four oeuvres more tightly connected than I say they are. But you can tell that the umbrella is fudged, because it could accommodate so many other hip hop and R&B artists: “In the work of each [...] there is an intermittent attachment to the more traditional idea of incoherence as the index of ungovernable feelings” et cetera. I think both problems rely on misreadings of what Sam and Robin are actually saying, but extremely likely misreadings.
Coming soon: a blistering personal attack on Andrew Duncan.
Note 1: “It is the sort of poetry that seems to require introduction.” And yet does “not deserve to be smothered in coyness or slick generalisation from the outset.” So fair enough.
Note 2: Names changed to protect the innocents – slender, elfin, Afric.
The modest aim is to situate the strategies of these young writers (and especially Andrea Brady) in their reinvention of the political lyric. A particular question is how they reconcile the lyric turn towards multiple ambiguity and a horizon of indescribable plenitude with the felt necessity to light a path toward an identifiable and attainable political objective (whatever the delay, whatever the conditionals).
Having grasped that post-1945 capitalism is strictly uninterested in the mind-expanding qualities of non-narrative language (Ursonate, Finnegans Wake, The Childermass, transition etc), Ben Watson resolved to produce his language-as-music as Out To Lunch, providing a marginal stain on the margina marzipan of 'Cambridge' poetry rolled out by J. H. Prynne. Publication hasn't been the point. If no publisher is mentioned here, it's because the work has circulated as a one-off notebook, often receiving just as interesting a reception as a 'published' work [...]
I don't think it's possible to build a serious programme around 'noncomformity'. It's too dependent on conformity -- like committing yourself to a shadow. In interviews Zappa tried to develop 'noncomformity' as a life philosophy, but he ends up with a weak kind of bourgeois individualism. Trotsky says historical materialism cares not a jot for public opinion, and I go with that. However, in my sexuality and my greed for alcohol I personally try and be as conformist as possible. Only by understanding and indulging the righteous of actually existing human beings can we combat fascism.
[...] I didn't start writing poetry myself though. I had a sceptical attitude to students who did. I bought a few things that looked like Prynne, but thought John Wilkinson was a pale wannabe, and that his boasts about playing ping-pong with a punk band were sad. I read Geoff Ward saying "forget punk rock, Cambridge poetry is the only thing going" and decided he was a tosser. In fact, I remember reading out this statement to Andrew Blake, a sax-playing history student who'd introduced me to Albert Ayler and Pharaoh Sanders and Archie Shepp. Feats Don't Fail Me Now by Little Feats was on in my college room, and he jerked his thumb at the record player and said -- "but what about this?". Exactly. I had problems with poetry which seemed to breathe an air of privileged self-regard. I think you did too, Andrew! Why else would you have put out NegativeReaction, a punk fanzine, and put copies in Remember Those Oldies on King Street? I looked at it, admired the title, but didn't buy it. Whyever not? Stupid. We could've started a band and changed the world.
Prynne's 'poetry' wasn't self-regarding, it was all prickle and attack and shiny malevolence. It walled out collusion. It accused you. Instead of inviting you into the sad, damp atmosphere of the sensitive poet -- the special pleadings of some over-educated shithead -- it made you feel paranoid and panicky, a shot of adrenaline. It has an affect like pornography or alcohol or Manga animation, below the belt as it were, you can't argue with it. So I decided to wreck my academic career [...]
[...] just like I really appreciate your aggressive critical feedback right now – it’s rad! Everyone else is being kind & practically respectful, having a nice time, but you’re taking it to the next level. OK, that’s it, I’m coming over. When’s good. I really think that’s the only right thing to do. Just give me a range of 24 hours in which it’s totally inappropriate to show up & I fully will be there [...]
& a very quick note on half the Poetry Cafe reading on Friday & then bedtime for boogazulus. The Poetry Cafe is the most exciting venue in London because if the standard of the work falls below threshold n the audience die of heat poisoning. Terminal burrowing behaviour is the name for why people are found dead behind wardrobes, under beds or on shelves. The gig on Friday (Lee Harwood & son & John Hall & others) held the vital interest very well, partly through variety in the surface, a variety which included Lee Harwood cut-uptrip-hopclub-bangers (created, I think, by his son). Now:
The Lee Harwood Drinking Game
Lee Harwood says “Sunshine” – down a tequila. Lee Harwood says “Leaf” – down a whiskey. Lee Harwood says “Bigears” – down a voddie.
[That’s enough The Lee Harwood Drinking Game – ed.]
Dictions are easy to mock. But the soundscapes, though meritorious noise, nailed into me how trite the dictions they sampled were, by conspicuously lacking whatever it is that makes the source poems “work” (to use a usefully-banal expression, indicative of approval probably comprising little more than an expectation of approval from approved sources of approval) despite their unengaging lexical field.
(Maybe this question is largely the question of how time and again a piece of language tips over the better side of a knife edge -- becomes generosity not naivety, for example, vulnerablity not sickliness, audacious hope not unworldly optimism; becomes such things barely?)
I don’t know the answer, but guess it may involve the voice (fucked), the tonal range (utterly un-reverent), the Ashberyish prosodic stance (leaning forward in slight, constant greed), the wrought nonchalance (whose spookiness might mutate into a senses of other deceptions, but do they exist?), the very occasional moment of ugliness, violence or ghoulish rebuke (“what do you want? an A-B-C?”), the man’s personality, reception, and luck.
Alyson had it going on also. I think I liked the unpublished poems best, tall stacks of stackables – images, mostly. The speaker’s consciousness in these is almost fully absorbed into her objects. The flanneur function shading into the researcher and journalist functions (you know, ‘lifestyle’-style ‘soft’ journalism: “[man takes shit in middle of carriage. / says, ‘what a lovely shit.’ / does it again]).” It reiterated just how much room there is within confessional verse to try out various selves / pseudo-selves / proxies, and also to do without them altogether. Alyson's performance of this material was masterful, tense but confident. I managed to get some footage on my mobile:
I reckon she should swap around the bit that goes “think of flight / see a man in a wheelchair”?
Both readings complemented each other really well, and the venue had what Barr the following night would have described as a “rad vibe.” Peace News was on sale. It was, more or less, a happy occasion, and every poem sad.
One conspirator in this “we” q.v. was James, who had it going on. His stuff was carefully-scaled, well-travelled, and interested in myth, art and objects and their geometrical and mathematical underpinnings. There was a kind of agitated Imagism in some of it, a careful but not necessarily sparing concern with the thing.
The opening poem, for example, coolly described the body of a bird as hydraulic structure capable of flight (though without taking the shortcut, as I’ve done, of invoking a machine-metaphor), adding, “The trumpet player standing erect and relaxed, / holding up the trumpet with the mouth piece touching his lips, plays.”
The things which were dissolved into careful descriptions did not tend to leave the membranes established prior to dissolution. I think that’s because the poetry collaborated with other arts – painting, music, sculpture, but also e.g. anatomy, statistics – and sought to respect the integrity of the objects borrowed from those domains. “[...] in front of me were eight multi-dimensional right-angled corners marking a material cuboid [...].” But in places they were haunted by the alternative – by familiar things dissolved, and unfamiliar things reconstituted from their slime. Inasmuch as the poems explored this possibility they became less conceptually accessible (though of course that accessibility does not map straightforwardly onto emotional valence).
One of the ones I enjoyed the most, by the by, fits these generalisations quite badly; it was called “The Juggler”: “[...] adds more balls / to keep the past and present up there / though his love has fallen to her death / and so much is happening / and eyes open on every ball / to look outwards not in”.
These noises also punctuated James’ set, and to a lesser extent (fewer opportunities) Alyson’s. The atoms of the exhalation resemble breaths of bewildered satisfaction, as if loosed seeing a possession not in its proper place, when it isn’t actually thought of as lost. These building blocks are rotated and combined to accomplish literary-critical omnipotence. It can be a bit tricky to reconstruct a primary text from its critical appendages, but from one of these sighs an interminable variorum edition of its poem is unmistakeable to the cutest smudge of comma. Whilst intermissing some of us talked about how we’d run an open mic. (It is difficult to listen to somebody who’s on the same bill as you. When everybody’s on the same bill it’s difficult for anybody to listen to anybody. There are other problems. Moral fortitude is not the answer). We’d have one or two people perform everybody’s work, or tip it in a hat, and from that hat all our hands take it, and perform one another’s work. Or we’d just have the sighs. Each poet could take the stage, the room could sigh, that poet could sit – such evenings would be more profitable and popular as you could get through more poets.
You have a need for other people to like and admire you, and yet you tend to be critical of yourself. While you have some personality weaknesses you are generally able to compensate for them. You have considerable unused capacity that you have not turned to your advantage. Disciplined and self-controlled on the outside, you tend to be worrisome and insecure on the inside. At times you have serious doubts as to whether you have made the right decision or done the right thing. You prefer a certain amount of change and variety and become dissatisfied when hemmed in by restrictions and limitations. You also pride yourself as an independent thinker; and do not accept others' statements without satisfactory proof. But you have found it unwise to be too frank in revealing yourself to others. At times you are extroverted, affable, and sociable, while at other times you are introverted, wary, and reserved. Some of your aspirations tend to be rather unrealistic. I treat you like that, like a princess. Most of your hair, I treat like Anastasia's.
Never meet your heroes, consume their products or know of them, noumenal heroes, I guess is what I'm describing. But the sound was good, and I still like Barr. They play the Sunflower Lounge in Birmingham tonight and are in London for some Amy Prior / Resonance spoken-word thing on the 26th; in fact:
Mon 16 – LONDON - Luminaire w/ NO AGE Tue 17 – BIRMINGHAM – Sunflower Lounge Wed 18 – BRIGHTON – Po Na Na Thur 19 – LIVERPOOL – The Magnet Fri 20 – MANCHESTER – Klondyke Club at 21 – LINCOLN – Bivouac Sun 22 – LEEDS - Brudenell Social Club Mon 23 – EDINBURGH - The Southern Tue 24 – GLASGOW – Captain’s Rest Wed 25 – BRISTOL – The Junction Thur 26 – LONDON – NOG gallery show / Resonance FM session (182 Brick Lane) Fri 27 – AMSTERDAM – OCCII w/ Partyline Sat 28 – BREMEN - Spedition Sun 29 –BERLIN - Festsaal Kreuzberg Keller Mon 30 – PRAGUE – Klub 007 Tue 1 – VIENNA - Tuwi Wed 2 – TRIER – Exhaus Thur 3 – LYON - Ground Zero Fri 4 – PARIS - La Flechedor
There was an open mic session which I mostly missed. I came in to hear Chris Gutkind read a deranged ekphrastic poem about swathes of Zeus and poking things with your eyes, someone reading her granddaughter’s poem about Winter (the woman I was sitting next to tried to throw a snowball at her, it was hard), and someone reading a sort of intriguing biographical poem – about stubbornly learning to read among crofters (part of a sequence). At the end of each, the room made a noise, which lasted about a second and was swallowed by applause.
[...] How strange, said Mercier, I had to wrestle with just such an angel. One of us will yield in the end, said Camier. Quite so, said Mercier, no need for both to succumb. It would not be a desertion, said Camier, not necessarily. Far from it, said Mercier, far from it. By that I mean a forsaking, said Camier. I took you to, said Mercier. But the chances are it would, said Camier. Would what? said Mercier. Be one, said Camier. Well obviously, said Mercier. To go on alone, left or leaver . . . Allow me to leave the thought unfinished. They paced on a little way in silence. Then Mercier said: I smell kips. All is in darkness, said Camier. No light of any colour. No number. Let us ask this worthy constable, said Mercier. They accosted the constable. Pardon, Inspector, said Mercier, would you by any chance happen to know of a house . . . how shall I say, a bawdy or a brothelhouse, in the vicinity. The constable looked them up and down. Guaranteed clean, said Mercier, as far as possible, we have a horror of the pox, my friend and I. Are you not ashamed of yourselves, at your age? said the constable. What is that to you? said Camier. Ashamed? said Mercier, Are you ashamed of yourself Camier, at your age? Move on, said the constable. I note your number, said Camier. Have you our pencil? said Mercier. Sixteen sixty-five, said Camier. The year of the plague. Easy to remember. Look you, said Mercier, to renounce venery because of a simple falling off in erotogenesis would be puerile, in our opinion. You would not have us live without love, Inspector, were it but once a month, a night of the first Saturday, for example. And that’s where taxpayers’ good-looking money goes, said Camier. You’re arrested, said the constable. What is the charge? said Camier. Venal love is the only kind left to us, said Mercier. Passion and dalliance are reserved for blades like you. And solitary enjoyment, said Camier. The constable seized Camier’s arm and screwed it. Help, Mercier, said Camier. Unhand him please, said Mercier. Camier gave a scream of pain. For the constable, holding fast his arm with one hand the size of two, with the other had dealt him a violent smack. His interest was awakening. It was not every night a diversion of this quality broke the monotony of his beat. The profession had its silver lining, he had always said so. He unsheathed his truncheon. Come on with you now, he said, and no nonsense. With the hand that held the truncheon he drew a whistle from his pocket, for he was no less dextrous than powerful. But he had reckoned without Mercier (who can blame him?) and to his undoing, for Mercier raised his right foot (who could have foreseen it?) and launched it clumsily but with force among the testicles (to call a spade a spade) of the adversary (impossible to miss them). The constable dropped everything and fell howling with pain and nausea to the ground. Mercier himself lost his balance and came down cruelly on his hipbone. But Camier, beside himself with indignation, caught up the truncheon, sent the helmet flying with his boot and clubbed the defenceless skull with all his might, again and again, holding the truncheon with both hands. The howls ceased. Mercier rose to his feet. Help me! roared Camier. He tugged furiously at the cape, caught between the head and the cobbles. What do you want with that? said Mercier. Cover his gob, said Camier. They freed the cape and lowered it over his face. Then Camier resumed his blows. Enough, said Mercier, give me that blunt instrument. Camier dropped the truncheon and took to his heels. Wait, said Mercier. Camier halted. Mercier picked up the truncheon and dealt the muffled skull one moderate and attentive blow, just one. Like a partly shelled hard-boiled egg, was his impression. Who knows, he mused, perhaps that was the finishing touch. He threw aside the truncheon and joined Camier, taking him by the arm. Look lively now, he said. On the edge of the square they were brought to a stand by the violence of the blast. Then slowly, head down, unsteadily, they pressed on through a tumult of shadow and clamour, stumbling on the cobbles strewn already with black boughs trailing grating before the wind or by little leaps and bounds as though on springs. On the far side debouched a narrow street the image of it they had just left. He didn’t hurt you badly, I hope, said Mercier. The bastard, said Camier. Did you mark the mug? This should greatly simplify matters, said Mercier. And they talk of law and order, said Camier. We would never have hit on it alone, said Mercier. Best now go to Helen’s, said Camier. Indubitably, said Mercier. Are you sure we were not seen? said Camier. Chance knows how to handle it, said Mercier. Deep down I never counted but on her. I don’t see what difference it makes, said Camier. You will, said Mercier. The flowers are in the vase and the flock back in the fold. I don’t understand, said Camier. They went then mostly in silence the short way they had still to go, now exposed to the full fury of the wind, now through zones of calm, Mercier striving to grasp the full consequences for them of what had chanced, Camier to make sense of the phrase he had just heard. But they strove in vain, the one to conceive their good fortune, the other to arrive at a meaning, for they were weary, in need of sleep, buffeted by the wind, while in their skull, to crown their discomfiture, a pelting of insatiable blows.
Tapia, Werboff, and Winukur (1958) found that only about 9% of a sample of people reporting to Washington University in St. Louis for non-psychiatric medical problems reported having colored dreams, compared with 12% of neurotic men and 21% of neurotic women.
Consider, as an analogy, a novel. While novels surely are not in black and white, it also seems a little strange to say that they are ‘in color’
I will conclude by raising the question of whether the phenomenology of dreaming is uniquely elusive or whether our knowledge of other aspects of our conscious experience, for example the experience of pain, imagery, thought, and vision, is equally poor. I am inclined to think the latter, that we are much worse phenomenologists than common sense and philosophy typically allow.
Revonsuo (2000a) outlines several testable predictions derived from the threat simulation theory. The present study was designed to test some of them. We hypothesized that if the threat simulation hypothesis of dreaming is correct, then we should find that (1) the frequency of threatening events is relatively high even in the dreams of normal subjects and that (2) the content of threatening events should reflect the original function of this system as a threat simulator in human evolutionary history. Thus, we expected to find that (2.1.) the dream production system tends to simulate not only trivial mishaps encountered in our everyday life, but also extremely dangerous events that are likely to be especially critical for survival. That is, we should find that normal subjects encounter severe, life-threatening dangers in their dreams with a higher frequency than they would be expected to encounter in their real life. Furthermore, we assumed that (2.2.) the dreamed threats should predominantly threaten the Dream Self and people on whom the reproductive success of the dreamer is most dependent: close relatives and friends rather than people or physical resources only remotely related to the future success of the dreamer. We expected (2.3) the dreamed threats to be relatively realistic rather than overly bizarre fantasies or science fiction stories, and that (2.4.) the dream Self is likely to take at least some defensive action against the impending threats. If these predictions turn out to be correct, then the threat simulation hypothesis of the function of dreaming receives considerable support, but if they turn out to be false, then the theory either must be rejected or at least thoroughly modified.
"Time to shift up a gear, we think. The number of demo applications received by the Metropolitan Police under the SOCPA law has risen to about 2,000 a year since the introduction of the act. With your help we'd like to attempt to hold this number of demonstrations in a day! Just follow the instructions given here to join in.
On Thursday 5th April, thanks to a bunch of friends and associates, we handed in 1,184 applications at Charing Cross police station for Saturday, 21st April, a little short of our target, so please come and join us if you can and please email us to let us know how many applications you have sent in."
2) I have a few things on my chest, so if you want I can apply for yours when I apply for mine. I think the deadline for the applications is this Saturday or maybe Sunday.
3) The main beef, as I remember it, is that although the Met must approve all applications under Socpo, they may attach conditions, limiting the number of protesters or the length of protest.
4) "It would be something if the police took Wallinger and Tate Britain at their literal, liberal word and removed the half of the installation that is on the “wrong” side of the line." There is something very interesting about the proliferation, in this issue, of Sorites Paradox-style thought. This kind of reductively anal thought is more often a manner of aggressively failing to engage with an argument or idea than it is a manner of processing it, and maybe for that reason deserves wide currency?
5) "If you hold up your banners or placards while moving from one demo to the next you could become a march - this would require other permissions. So keep banners down while moving through the zone."
Same evening. Last bar but one. Mather Church and artificial inseination. The giant barman. Mercier’s contribution to the controversy of the universals. The umbrella, end. The bicycle, end. In the street. The ingle-nook. The hose and the blowpipe. The wind. The fatal alley, The sack. The gulf. The fatal alley, Distant lands. The fatal alley. The constable. The gulf. “The flowers are in the vase.” The wind. The endocranian blows.
point: minnows have teeth in their throats. point: minnows have teeth in their throats. point: minnows have teeth in their throats. point: minnows have teeth in their throats. point: minnows have teeth in their throats. point: minnows have teeth in their throats. point: minnows have teeth in their throats.
potentialities here with a tired thumb and forth dance that has the conveyance of an angel with some thunderstruck the sky, begins to darken. Like a very large needle, coming straight out of the sky here, piercing through his body, going straight and deep into the earth, an
attempt to. There’s a friend of mine coming, who’s just down the hill, on the other side there you see. He wants my gig. I’m just wondering what you’re doing, because you’ve been wandering about like for ages as like this THING. I just wanted to know what you’re doing with it? I’m talking to a
friend up there in a window. Up there? Yeah. The wavy people? Yeah, O I see. That’s all I’m doing, I’m talking to them. ’Cause we thought, wow. Sort of like weird bloke. You alright? He’s talking to some people up there. I specialised in photography in there. What do
you tend to take photographs of? Generally walls, that’s what I spent my last year doing but generally portraits too, I like people and I like pubs. Naked people! That was my room, my room was in that far corner! Have you got a specific memory of that room? Ummmm . . .
What’s the best thing you ever did in that room? I covered that bit right, that room bit you can see I covered it in paper like ticket paper and like POURED water all over it and then poured paint that you paint cars with all over it and then PVC something and then loads of other shit on it
and it I started and did this really WEIRD like thing and then I passed my course, my GNVQ on that. I saw a thing with PVC dildos on it on TV the other night, that was quite funny. What coloured dildos? Black whatsits. What are you doing? What was the programme? Tell us
what you’re doing. I’m talking into this room and recording the talking. Why? Why? Um, to explore a whole process of writing. Why? What sorts of writing? Because I’m a writer and I want to find other ways of writing other than just sitting in a room at a desk, writing.
What are you talking about, the Arts College? I’m I’m transcribing what’s recorded. So, you’re now part of that writing. It’s in a Cultural Studies exhibition. Cultural Studies and like, we’re on it. You, you could become part of it. It’s safe we’re pissed then, coming out of the
pub and wondering what some bloke’s doing with a microphone. That’s attached. I thought that you had your eyebrow pierced. That’s what I thought! But it’s just on your sunglasses. I don’t like that. Have you got any piercings? I do. I have my nipple pierced, which I’m not going to
show you here. I have my belly button pierced twice and I have that and I’m getting my clit pierced in TWO WEEKS TIME! I’m getting that done too. Why? I’m getting my clit pierced, purely so that I can enjoy bus rides more. They go over big humps in the road down Magdalene
Street, they’re really nice. Also I really like horses, so I’m just going to spend the rest of my life with a big smile on my face. I’m going to do it too, because I’m pissed. Who are you going to go to? I’m going to Access All Areas in Nottingham, because I don’t know them, so therefore
I’ll never have to see them again so I won’t go Oh no that man pierced my private parts! So I won’t have to say hello down the street or anything. I’ve seen people doing branding, do you know anything about branding? I think that’s hideous! Isn’t that what they do to cows! Yeah, but it’s
become really fashionable to do it to people. No, but I’ve never seen that. Tell me about that. I saw a pencil thin hourglass figure of Marilyn Monroe branded onto the back of a young woman’s calf. It’s disgusting. Will you stop holding that in front of my face, it’s horrible. Well the only
reason I’m holding it there is because I want to be able to get what you say on the tape. Why don’t you come and have a pint, in there. Come and have a drink? Okay. (breaks in transmission – taxis interrupting) Yeah that will be when you get sixteen. That’s somethin’, but not tips.
I ain’t gonna say, ’cause that’s too rude ta say over ’ere. I’m never dirty. You are leery. Have you just switched it off at the power? “Ooh!” “A portion of your gorgeous body!” “Get a portion of my gorgeous body, neeehhhhh!” “Hello, I can now.” “Ahhhh, look out.” “Not three, bad
girl, tosser.” “The taxi drivers are talking about gorgeous bodies.” “Oh well that’s all right then.” “Brilliant.” “I can’t believe what people are prepared to tell me!” “Go away from her nude look.” “If I went into a pub and sat down.” “At the moment, yes.” “Tried to talk to them I’d get
nothing out of them at all.” “They won’t recognise you.” “Catch you later.” “Have I a genie mush?” “Byeee!” “Baby I love you. You’re lovely.” “You just live this running, recording.” “Oh baby!”
Unfinished sequences. Currently include those about Andrew Duncan's, Emily Critchley's, & Simon Jarvis's things. Caveat on quotations. (1) The Blogger architecture collapses tabs & multiple spaces; it's possible to get around this – (& if you’re nice to him John Sparrow might tell you how?) – but it’s friction, I hardly ever bother with it. Quotations which have lost indents or other formatting are labelled “not sic” unless I’ve forgotten. (2) Stuff filed under 1999 is kinda my personal commonplace book for a POLITIX course, a.k.a. BUCKBUCK Courier Point (Hill House): 799999, so. (3) I often don’t proof what I type / paste in. Gotta dash for snax. Avant garde British poetry.Peter Philpott holds the answers.