An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Tuesday, January 16, 2007


A silence, stunned, descended upon the group and hung there. The coffee pots were empty now. The ashtray was full: full to overflowing. As they waited for someone to break the silence the door handle turned slightly and a gentle rhythmic rapping at the thick, panelled, door was heard. All heads turned toward the door. It swung open noiselessly on its strong brass hinges and Serena stood framed in the doorway. Lory nodded here into the room and she said, as she passed the desk and glanced at the detritus, "Would you like more coffee sir? And can I bring a fresh ashtray?". "That would be good Serena, thank you." said Lory as she came up behind him. She leant forward from the waist, she was about six feet tall, and whispered into Lory's ear, cupping her hand around it. Charlie caught a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. Warm, slightly plump, smooth, and deeply inviting. He thought fleetingly of Petra's recently perfect bosom and dismissed the thought almost immediately. Almost. Serena straightened up and again Charlie glimpsed that small warm flesh pot. She stood and waited as Mr Lory visibly digested whatever it was that she had just told him. Silence. "Serena, please bring us some more coffee and see if you can confirm that will you? Talk to D5. They'll know for sure. And please close the door behind you". Her elegant legs and fine turned ankles carried her out of the room confidently as Charlie turned to watch her exit. She pulled the door closed and it set into its jamb with a whisper.

Both Charlie and Power turned to Lory expectantly. "And? "

"Gentlemen, Serena has just apprised me of two new developments that might, and I emphasise the word might, alter our perceptions.


1 comment:

  1. Alter? Εγω/Εσυ. Easy.

    Where the fuck am I and who the fuck am I?
    I'm all around you - you can't see me - I'm not there in that sense but I am here.



    First, because I got bored. Derek you really have no idea how seriously boring all this stuff is to anyone but yourself, unrelieved as it is by the spark of true originality you so desperately want to believe it possesses.

    If it amuses you, and provides an engine for the plot, continue to fantasise about your ‘stalker’ and turn him into mill-grist. But think on this:

    Your ‘stalker’ was an invited visitor to the blog, who picked up your various balls and ran with them. And who just happened to be someone as clever as you, who like you enjoys playing games with identities. Who saw through your hasty post-facto claim that your various forum personae were part of some grandiose academic exercise. As if. Admit it. You love being KeithDrop the Writer and holding literary court.

    The truth is, I suspect, that you are an obsessive internet junkie; that you live more in the virtual world than the real one about you. Do you know this site?

    It helped me, and after the Christmas lapse I’m back on the No-Net diet from next week.

    I also wonder if the forum personae reflect the insecurities and preoccupations of their creator? A screaming need to prove himself superior - cleverer, better-read, more stylish, with better taste, than the world at large? In fact you probably are all that. (You’re certainly better-read than me). But you are never able to quite believe it, so you have to go on showing off, and looking for recognition – as with the publication of the blogs. How many people bought the Lulu book? How many would buy the new one, however elegantly designed by Franky? (Not counting ‘friends’?)

    Finally, I would add to the profile: a lower middle class background, long since rejected? Art school, a big shoulder-chip about the lack of university education. The conscious surrounding of yourself with design icons. That bit on the website about Savile Row clothes is really naff and you should remove it. Those of who wear such clothes don’t think to mention it. You should also maybe spend some time rethinking that website, which looks dated and neglected, rather than bitching about BiC to an audience of three. BiC, for God’s sake? A man who can talk of Barthes? Where is your pride?

    The second reason for ending the game? I find that, having come to know you just a little, I can’t keep up the aggro because I’ve glimpsed the man behind the Laz. Picked up a feeling of sadness, solitariness, of desperate diversion-seeking that’s going on behind all this Internetting stuff.

    Coming to Crete has worked to an extent, I would guess, and there are good days in the olives, but there are too many days at the Mac, of cigs and coffee and stupid Internet forum posting and where has another day gone? It feels like you are intellectually very lonely and that is what all this nonsense is about – all this haunting the web in search of soulmates who can never really be that. (That stuff on Spymac Lounge when Liam’s Bird said she was leaving, came as a revelation to me. All those lonely strangers, kidding themselves they are a community. Made me think of the Rupert Brooke poem The Jolly Company. Know it?)

    Derek Mou, you are better than BiC, better than the blog. Why not do something worthwhile with your time – abandon trying to reinvent the novel, forget the obsession with style, and write for yourself from the heart, as with the olive-harvest piece. Or learn Greek seriously in all those hours you now spend at the Mac? Abandon the public posturing, learn to be at peace with the private you. As a last resort you could even talk to me. We have more in common than you would like to think and I’m a good listener. You know where to find me.

    Meantime have fun with the final chapters. I shan’t say a word.