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63 7 Laughings Of The Mad Dog he critic’s fodder is such that you will hear them, one after another saying that the writer should “show”, not “tell”, a story. I suppose it should then be known as story-showing, not storytelling… How can one show his own death? I feel one should only have a ruminative mind, a mind seething with images, a mind made up of small kindling and a living conscience. Their story would play at the boundary of their self-reflexive despairs. They would tell their stories: stories that are fantastic pointing fingers.... straight, strong, complex; a compass arrow pointing south. One has to tell a story as if it’s something that hasn’t been told before, as if it’s unknown, unacknowledged, unrecognised. The telling should be doors that open and converses. The doors are the cul de sac meanings in the story. One has to tell a story from roads inaccessible, words unbidden, lines untold, and juxtapositions untried… Ok, I stop it! It could happen in those far-off strange lands but surely not in our beautiful green island. They should simply keep their cold wastelands to their own minds or to themselves. We will keep our own warm beautiful island garden. No, no, no. Never ever here, no, it will never happen here. “Not in our lifetimes, no.” “Ha ha ha he he...” There is a difficulty with those of the two-legged kind on how to start telling a story, especially if it’s a true life’s story... A collage of phrases strung together with bits and pieces of meaning, of their own life’s story, is not good enough. “Not with our kind no, no..., no..., no...” “Ha ha ha he he he...” Everything, no matter what it is, we start by laughing it off. “Ha ha, ha.” And if you can show a story then telling a story is the laughter’s country. Laughing things off throws one into the fray. The risk is that it might touch the eye of the censor. Telling a story becomes a problem here. Simply saying these things introduces T 64 consequences where there was none. I know that you think we are incapable of this..., of telling a story, that we don’t have the source of this jellied laughter in our beings, are we really incapable? You can’t even imagine a cat playing poker at that. It doesn’t seem to go with you; does that seem to go with you? “Ha ha ha he he...” As if you should know how we laugh, how dogs laugh, especially how I laugh myself. We even laugh at your funerals; after all, it’s none of our business. “Ha ha ha he he ja urri-uii- ii..., so funny ha ha.” But how do humans laugh? One’s laughter, like misery for the humans, is seeing hopelessness and futility in their own laughter. Humans!! So funny...ahh, so funny the world that I see in my glittering eyes. But can an eye see itself? How come I know that mine are glittering yet the muse have sung about how they never saw the whites of their own eyes..., and how about those that glitters? My mind seems to take over and give facts the colour yellow, the yellow glitter in facts, in eyes, too. That old fool could only cuss, “all that glitters is not gold.” “Ha ha ha..., some glittering nonsense, those ones are so funny.” So funny the world that’s been there since I started laughing, it’s so funny. I have started laughing and laughing since those two-legged creatures started making these sad..., abysmally sad episodes. “Have you ever seen anything so sad?” “So...oh, so funny, ha ha ha he he ja?” I used to think that they are so stupid, so incapable of the deeds they were now revelling in, with an insatiable hunger. A hunger to do again and again, a hunger..., “Ha ha ha he he ja..., such hunger!” As if they have gone crash, crash, crash..., and landing, imploding! They stand on their two legs and see what they are doing right now! Just look at it! Just look at that! “Ha ha ha” “Tshki tshki tshki..., aha so sad.” There is this one. He must be the head of this family..., and do I have to say my family? “No! No, no, no, never!” Is there any need for...

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