Anakana Schofield – Award Winning Author of Bina, Martin John and Malarky

The trouble with being a Dennis

Serenaded last night by extracts from Huxley’s Chrome Yellow. A part with Dennis and Annie. At one point Annie confronts Dennis over his blithering… Dennis responds:

“It’s the fault of one’s education. Things seem more real and vivid when one can apply somebody else’s phrases about them and then there are lots of lovely names and words – monophysit, iamblichus, and pomponazzi: you bring them out triumphantly and feel you’ve clinched the argument with the mere magical sound of them …”

I have come across the odd Dennis Stone in Vancouver (and Dublin) and had occasion to sit across the table from him. He tends to luxuriate in the sound of himself (usually — if you remain awake long enough to listen carefully — constructed on borrowed ready made phrases and tag words that plume out of him). One tires quickly of Dennis because with the ready-made phrases come ready-made ideas and he ceased listening to anything other than his own  pitter patter, which is not really his own, it’s derived pitter patter that works for the attentive spawning minions necessary for the legacy of Dennis.  Dennis, while bathing aloud in himself, often misquotes things he hasn’t bothered to read and wouldn’t bother to read because Dennis has already Decided. Dennis may have an interesting idea or two, but you cannot get near them for Dennis is constantly in the way. Dennis also places himself in the way of your own ideas, for in the shadow of Dennis no one has lived except Dennis who has lived all, everywhere, endless, in the name of the Dennis, Glory be to the Dennis, the bold, holed, souled Dennis.  Finally Dennis knows more about ovaries than well an ovary because Dennis has a direct telephone line to the ovary.

There’s something concrete bout Dennis, he’s an early relic, he no longer budges or moves.

In an inter-related matter, perhaps this explains why I rapidly fatigued watching the Charles Olson documentary and was struck by the doorways over all else. The male poet just takes up sooo much space. (thanks Lori for the distinction)

Behind the doorway is the possibility of an opening, an entry point into something, someplace, where Dennis FM, is not the sole (hole!) station.

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