So I haven't posted in what, forever. November was not my month. Internet went down. Too cynical and writers' block. Life got in the way. I apologise unreservedly. It shall not happen again this crisp December. Think of it as an early resolution.
Richey Edwards was declared legally dead last week. From a concerned poster on my social networking wall: "I heard about the ruling on Richie, but do try not to act morose and distant. Don't let grief get in the way of being your normal cheerful self." (I believe the word is irony). I'd like to satisfy all wellwishers as to my mental state. I am not down (any more than usual). Life goes on. Although perhaps with more abstract and terse prose.
Okay, that's enough of that. I can't keep writing a post in this style, it's driving me insane. I read a lot of Don DeLillo this week, and it's hit my clauses hardest. Microsoft Word would have a field day - "Fragment- consider revising". That's irony too, isn't it? Is Bill Gates laughably hypocritical when it comes to sentence structure or what? Fragment. Consider. Revising. Where's the grammar in that? Practice what you preach, you unapologetic Creosote cretin. And make your operating system less infuriating while you're at it. And kill that fucking paperclip.
Anyway, Richey. Yes, this news is sad to me, as it will be to all true followers of the Bible (not that papery, leatherbound thing, the real Bible). That the obituary I linked to above was the most read article on the Guardian website for the day it was published indicates some of the level of devotion the man inspired. The thing is, this news doesn't really change anything for me or the legions of acolytes like me. We know Richey is gone, we've had 14 years to accept the fact. But he still lives. No, not on some Goan beach or secluded monastery, but in his words. I know this is corny (how else can one write a eulogy?), but his fierce genius still breathes through those machinegun bursts of lyrical insight that litter the Manics' early songs. I wish you peace, Richey, wherever you may be. A morality obedient only to the cleansed repented. You were stronger than Mensa, Miller and Mailer. You spat out Plath and Pinter. And you did not burn out, you will never fade away.