_______________________________________"I shall forge in the smithy of
my soul..._"___'the uncreated '____________'conscience of my race '
Her: does that mean that what he wrote was not true?
Me: yes and no because it's none of it sure, or certain to be ~.
Her: You don't seem quite so sure of yourself here. Do you believe you have some authority to speak of these things? Or are you just making them up based on memories and other things you've considered.
let s be honest you're not his son, you never were. You're no t his son. Radio Genet is some mad invention.
You're a different type of being . And that is not bad, not bad at all. He's not your father he's your uncle.
Me: what is an uncle if not a father?
He was indeed my father and Angela was my mother. George Jackson. Look a t
the initials they're Genet's in reverse. J __ G __ , Like a lover a calm clandestine anagram perhaps..... you see there are connections, hidden ones at that among things you don't know...
Her : But they were black and you are white and Irish and Jewish. What are you ?
You're a mongrel, a dog a mixed mutt of kinship and this ship.
I salute him and leave him to tarry, so to speak my own forests. Of wet and vine, giant and divine.
There's no forest like the other's .
ends where mine own starts. I am closer in many ways to the Kerouacian strain of lyric but Papa made false distinctions and like d to play games that was
his thing and everyone, or not everyone necessarily, believed him. it was all a lie, a send up, a puff of smoke, and mirror talk .
I put periods between lies, he doesn't . he punctuates his sentences with
them. Thus Genet my papa was a liar and thief,
where as I the bastard son am a thief and liar, a chief teller of stories and make up yarns.
__________________I am the lover and he is the deceived book. His classical french bought him a seat at the Gallimard god's gallery.
Not everyone at that place was as lucky, or so blessed. And for your information I suspect that he was something that none f his critics have yet imagined but I wont tell you what it was until they figure it out. It's a secret.
You see like Burroughs he was a man of his time and because he was he did not go as far as he might have ... We do as we are the men women of our time and our like is our dishonesty our love ~ .
Her: I love you.
...: L’atelier d’Alberto Giacometti