Appendix A

BLOT

Characters

Narrator (female)

Blot

Mother Blot

[FX: Two figures move through a storm. The woman moves ahead, pushing a shopping trolley. The sound of elevator cables underpins their movements. It ceases when they stop.]

NARRATOR

Darkness. Lightning. We see Mother Blot struggle towards a breach at the foot of Mount Blank. She is smeared with white lineament. It warms her pale flesh. And lights her like a beacon. Darkness, distended in her wake. As if Dawn will never wave its golden puerile on the valleys again. More lightning. But she has disappeared down the shaft. So follow her tight leash back. Her husband staggers, almost tripping, in his efforts to keep pace with her. In one outstretched hand, he grips the frayed leather strap which has always connected them. In the other, he holds up an extinct lamp. Darkness again … suddenly. Only the sound now. Of his body, rustling against an oversized coat. More lightning. He drops on his knees in the mud. His head flips back. His mouth opens. You can see straight down his throat to his heart: beating like neon. He screams out at Nature. Darkness. The leash vibrates. It begins pulling him along. He’s skidding on his gut through the aperture in the clay mountain which is about to snap … SHUT.

[FX: Sudden cessation of storm noise by metal door. constant moisture. loud vocals]

BLOT

It’s a long way down.

MOTHER

When you’re old.

BLOT

And once you’re there, there’s no way forward but to crawl.

MOTHER

I’ve made knee-guards out of moss and lichen, Blot, but it hardly even retards the plum-like bruising. Especially from the last Fall.

BLOT

Yes, that lapse was the worst moment.

MOTHER

Onto the hopelessly inadequate pads!

BLOT

Although they do keep some of the mud at bay.

MOTHER

It’s terribly dirty down here, Blot.

BLOT

[Absent] Did you bring my duster?

MOTHER

Your duster! Did you ask me to bring your duster?

BLOT

No.

MOTHER

Then how do you expect me to remember it?

BLOT

Intuition?

MOTHER

[Disgust] Oh.

BLOT

Would it happen to form part of our Collective Unconscious?

MOTHER

Not that again! Why, Blot, you have hung that notion around my neck like a plinth for the entire period of our out-of-wedlock bonding. Is there no end to your indulgence?

BLOT

None. [They begin moving]

MOTHER

Then we’d better go our separate ways while there’s still time, still hope. Just cut the cord and we’ll part.

BLOT

But we need each other for warmth, Mother!

MOTHER

Even if we fixed ourselves at the genitals, Blot, and tried to induce friction, we couldn’t survive the elements for long in our condition.

BLOT

We could build a shelter.

MOTHER

There’s nothing to build it with.

BLOT

We could make one out of mud.

MOTHER

There’s nothing to build it on.

BLOT

[Desperate] We’ll have a garden.

MOTHER

How? Haven’t you looked around lately? Sand all around us … out there just the flat sea. And, inland, only the dry, infertile soul/womb.

BLOT

What?

MOTHER

Misogyny!

BLOT

[Whining] But I wasn’t even smart enough for a Trade!

MOTHER

I knew that when I met you. It’s why I chose you.

BLOT

I don’t remember at all.

MOTHER

Memories, Blot! I hear about them in your sleep. I store them in a secret compartment under my coat.

BLOT

Tell me.

MOTHER

I was staying at a remote caravan park when I met you.

BLOT

[Sceptically] Are you channelling Odysseus again?

MOTHER

Maybe.

BLOT

This isn’t the one about a lawn mower?

MOTHER

No. My father had me sent there until it was TIME. I was feeding the carp when the weeds parted for a moment and I saw your tow truck grinding down the highway. You gave me green felt for my glory box then we sat in fold-up chairs under the annex and drank. You were beautiful that night when the lake storms blew. And you told such marvellous stories. When I lay in bed and whistled, the dogs made a network of ears stretching between my mouth and your head. And they howled, didn’t they, what, like blunted wind chimes, one after the other, diminishing, until only the neighbour’s voice could be heard: [Voice of an old crone] “I am alive,” she said. “I-AM-A-LIVE.” [Laughing softly]

BLOT

Was that really us, Mother?

MOTHER

Does it matter?

BLOT

I guess not. Go on.

MOTHER

All I brought back was that bag full of broken biscuits … that was all … only that and the coat on my back … though it was already stabbed through in a hundred places. And stiff as our old toes with grime.

BLOT

[Glee] I remember. As stiff as … as stiff as … [Pause. Stops. Vacant] I don’t know—

MOTHER

[Wistful] Does everything slip past your fingers nowadays?

BLOT

[Similarly wistful] There’s still a speck of feeling, Mother. I’m mainly inanimate, true. Soon, I’ll be nothing at all, I know that. But there’s still a little boy inside me, I can just feel him, turning away from a serviceman’s gaze at the urinal. [Mother begins laughing] What are you laughing at?

MOTHER

[Spluttering] Nothing. It’s involuntary. Like drooling.

BLOT

That’s all very well for you to say but what is there about our current predicament that could warrant even one ironic grimace?

MOTHER

Look for yourself, man!

BLOT

I’m looking, I’m looking! But I haven’t seen any sign that we aren’t totally deluged. Where’s the sky? The sun? And why are we soaking?

MOTHER

It’s not for you or I to question the great workings of the Beast. All that we can do now is just go on. As if into some endless Dantean spiral, we had been thrown.

BLOT

How?

[FX: Jungle. Dragging him]

MOTHER

On our bellies if necessary. Come closer. Hold on to me. I’ll forge a path through the wilderness.

BLOT

Palms are lashing my face, Mother!

MOTHER

They’re roots.

BLOT

Mosquitoes are ripping me!

MOTHER

Its worms.

BLOT

We’ve been nailed to the sky!

MOTHER

We’re crawling on our hands and knees through the mud miles under the Earth.

BLOT

I can’t go on.

[FX: Distant cyclone]

MOTHER

You’ve got to.

BLOT

I can’t.

MOTHER

Surely you can discern its mounting fury?

BLOT

[Emphatic] I can’t feel nothing.

MOTHER

Haven’t you shuddered a little at least?

BLOT

Not since the light perished!

MOTHER

Not even from the stench?

BLOT

I thought it was me! I got used to it! [Hopeful] Perhaps it’s coming to reward us!

MOTHER

Don’t be ridiculous. You know very well there’s absolutely no chance of that.

BLOT

Then perhaps it only wants one of us. Perhaps it likes the other one.

MOTHER

What?

BLOT

[Bright idea] I could kill you, leave you here as a sacrifice and go on alone.

MOTHER

Kill me! With what?

BLOT

My bare hands if necessary.

MOTHER

You couldn’t even shake a cocktail with those.

[FX: Storm intensifies]

Listen. It’s getting closer.

BLOT

What is it?

MOTHER

Probably the Chorus.

BLOT

What?

MOTHER

[Screeches] The Chorus!

BLOT

Is it time to put my eyes out?

MOTHER

Not yet!

BLOT

But it might not want them as eyes per se. It could use them as plugs.

[He starts trying to pluck out his eyeballs]

MOTHER

I told you to wait.

BLOT

What for? Some sign? I can’t see anything anyway. And I don’t believe a single thing I’m saying. Where are we? Is it Heaven? Are we floating? Light the Lamp!

[FX: Sound of lamp ignition]

MOTHER

Put that out, Blot!

BLOT

But I can see! [Blot starts standing]

MOTHER

You don’t want to.

BLOT

It’s warm.

MOTHER

Put it out, I tell you!

BLOT

[Swinging wildly] Are there any markings on the walls?

MOTHER

[Angry] No.

BLOT

Nothing familiar?

MOTHER

Nothing.

BLOT

Not even Orpheus?

MOTHER

No.

BLOT

But they told me to come up at him from beneath.

MOTHER

He’s not here, I tell you.

BLOT

What about Atlantis?

MOTHER

That’s not here either.

BLOT

And the dark tower?

MOTHER

We’re already inside!

BLOT

In that case … extinguish the lamp!

[FX: Snuffed lamp. Blot sinks to the ground]

MOTHER

That’s better. I just hope there’s still time for us to escape. Get up, Blot.

BLOT

Why?

MOTHER

At least then we won’t be crawling through this cess like wounded animals.

BLOT

But I’m afraid to leave the mud!

MOTHER

[Pulling him up] Get up!

BLOT

Leave me alone!

MOTHER

You’ll be crushed!

BLOT

But it’s my natural habitat!

MOTHER

Don’t be ridiculous.

BLOT

I don’t want to go on!

MOTHER

You’ve got to. It’s too late now for scruples! I can hear it coming. Hide.

BLOT

But there’s nowhere to conceal ourselves.

MOTHER

Try to look like an inanimate object! It’s our only chance.

[FX: Cyclone breaks into enclosed space]

NARRATOR

I was clay. Water. I washed out of the murky shallows onto the bank but I could not walk yet. I evolved. Grew. But I was still but an ear in the mud. I could divine nothing, not even myself, as yet. I huddled into a corner of my cell waiting for life. From this enclosed position, no sight; only the lights that are encoded behind the eye. Only their fireworks. And only the faint smell of Self. Only this parchment of Being. Only this and the foul taste infecting my mouth. That was all. Except for the eyeball veering up at “in-on-me” until it filled up my hole. How did I breathe? By mouthpiece. How did I feed? By suck. I could have remained in that state forever if I’d wanted. But my soul was on fire. I was like a sheet of newspaper burning from the centre to the stark circumference. In that box. Don’t ask me how long I was in there. I got to like it after a while. It seemed like a veritable lack. But it was a rich place.

[FX: Dusting themselves down]

MOTHER

Good. It’s gone. Get up, Blot.

BLOT

[Plaintive] Can’t we stay like this forever?

MOTHER

No.

BLOT

[Whines] But I like it like this.

MOTHER

Is that meant to move me?

BLOT

[Begs] Let’s stay here in silence like mounds!

MOTHER

[Firm] We can’t.

BLOT

Why? Nobody will find us. And, besides, even if I was striding through Eden in a gold lame suit, I’d only ever be visible as a dour lack in the brilliant scenery.

MOTHER

Oh come on, Blot. [Dragging him. He resists] What are you waiting for now?

BLOT

The muzak!

MOTHER

[Disparaging] It won’t come.

BLOT

Are you sure?

MOTHER

[Shrill] It won’t come, I tell you!

BLOT

In that case … [Moving. Muzak begins] there!

MOTHER

[Angry] Alright. Can we go now? [Pause] Wretched tune!

BLOT

I find it quite uplifting.

MOTHER

[Sudden weakness] But is it “our” song? [Stops]

BLOT

[Shock] Sentimentality, Mother!

MOTHER

[Apologetic spurt] I’m its slave!

BLOT

[Gushing] We both are. We’ve been locked away with it… every night… in our dank hovel.

MOTHER

We were locked in there together, Blot.

BLOT

From an early age.

MOTHER

Our parents were responsible.

BLOT

I used to beg Mother not to die, Mother, because then there’d be no one. Then, all of a sudden, there was you! I’m glad I was with you.

MOTHER

Not you now! [Stops]

BLOT

But I love you.

MOTHER

I love you.

BLOT

Impossible.

MOTHER

But true. [Moving].

BLOT

Remember when you left me for another man?

MOTHER

I do.

BLOT

I was devastated.

MOTHER

But I always came back.

BLOT

You did. [Pause] And then I left you.

MOTHER

You did. [Pause] Sometimes I think you only won me back just to dump me.

BLOT

But I always returned.

MOTHER

Yes. You returned again like a rank odour. We faced ruin together.

BLOT

[Stops] It was Destiny, Mother.

MOTHER

Or fear.

BLOT

[Huffing] Whatever it was … does it really matter?

MOTHER

No. Even Romance is still geared to closure.

BLOT

That’s right, Mother. [Pause] Psalms 146:4.

MOTHER

[Sardonic] But your thoughts perished long ago.

BLOT

It was a ruse! Behind the mask … behind the mask, I was vital!

MOTHER

That’s a delusion, Blot. Or just plain vanity. Statements like that. You’re turning into jelly. Violence was your only grasp at even mediocrity.

[FX: Background of outback pub.]

BLOT

[Spluttering] But I could expectorate … drink … squeeze the barmaid’s tits … vomit … and wet myself … all at the same time. All without leaving this stool!

MOTHER

I know, Blot. I know. I was that barmaid!

BLOT

[Stops] You?

MOTHER

Yes.

BLOT

But she was some big-nosed country girl.

MOTHER

That was me, silly!

BLOT

[Shrugs] I don’t remember at all.

MOTHER

Try. Fancy-dress balls. With orchestras. And breeding.

BLOT

Flies filling your orifices.

MOTHER

And the cool, brown sound of cicadas.

BLOT

Always sunstroke in summer.

MOTHER

In Winter, arthriticky.

BLOT

And no in-between.

[FX: Farmyard slowly giving way to tempest. Almost singing the rhymes]

BLOT

Father in the workshed shunting nails.

MOTHER

Mumma on the haystack, shifting bails.

BLOT

Revvin’ up the engine of the old Ford ute.

MOTHER

Goin’ out in a brand-new second-hand suit. [Stops]

BLOT

Ah, evil days, Mother. Evil times. But they’re gone now … gone … all erased. [Turns to her] I suppose we’re better off without them.

MOTHER

Yes. But they were “times,” Blot. However bleak. “Times.”

BLOT

[Frank] I really don’t remember.

MOTHER

Do you recall our son?

BLOT

What?

MOTHER

Cabel! You left him in a shopping trolley.

BLOT

[Inquisitive] Does that mean you eat it?

MOTHER

[Disgust] Oh.

BLOT

[Quizzical] Is it something you sell?

MOTHER

[Louder] So you do remember!

BLOT

[Shrieks] I don’t know nothing.

[FX: Storm in Eden. Animal screams. The rib. A crisp apple bitten. Expulsion]

NARRATOR

Thunder slogged that night. Rain streamed down my face like purified piss. God waded into the Garden, moulded us into one entity and named me. I was now Adam. Surrounded by a wall with no way in, no way out (not even Jesus yet) nothing but sheer barrier. [Pause. Anger] No part of me was allowed to remain uncatalogued, undisclosed. My chest was ripped open in dreams. When I woke up next morning, Eve was slumbering in the slot between my ribs. A taboo was founded. Next thing you know, I was naked. So we covered ourselves with crime. We were ejected. A place to which we have never returned. We wandered like the Nile. But, like the Hydra, I was not allowed to die. Each time that they decapitated me, two fresh heads sprang out of the bloody gush like birth. They hover over my head now like vultures. I don’t know how to pledge obedience. Or to whom. [Pause] I had no choice at all but to go on. [Back in the mud. Inert]

MOTHER

It’s swept through our past, Blot. We can sneak out the back while it’s gone.

BLOT

[Obstinate] Is that out only option?

MOTHER

Can you think of something better?

BLOT

We could … [FX: Ignition] light the lamp!

MOTHER

[Sardonic] Is that it?

BLOT

[Sheepish] Yep.

MOTHER

Put out that light.

BLOT

Extinguish the Lamp?

MOTHER

Yes.

BLOT

OK.

[FX: Snuffed]

MOTHER

That’s better. [Pause] Let’s go. [Moving]

BLOT

[Pause] But this is awful.

MOTHER

Don’t think about it. Just go on groping your way through the narrative. [Stops]

BLOT

Couldn’t we just wait out here in absolute darkness, huddled on the surface like mounds?

MOTHER

No.

BLOT

[Raising head] But the sky is only one inch above our brows, Mother.

MOTHER

Let’s scurry down this shaft.

[FX: Pulling him along. She yells back. He yells ahead]

BLOT

But where to?

MOTHER

Metonymy!

BLOT

What’s that?

MOTHER

The last place.

[They struggle into tight hole. Continuous contraction. Her ahead. Him behind]

BLOT

[Between surges at the aperture] But aren’t we there already? Or haven’t we just been? Are we going around in circles? I can hardly move my head now.

MOTHER

It’s the brace.

BLOT

What?

MOTHER

The brace! It’s been there the whole time.

BLOT

But I’ve never noticed it before.

MOTHER

Think: it’s made out of wire.

BLOT

Do they also call it the wedding ring?

MOTHER

Yes.

BLOT

Then soon we’ll be crawling along on our bellies like snakes.

MOTHER

We’re doing that already.

BLOT

What’ll we do when we reach the face?

MOTHER

Start picking our way towards—

BLOT

[Interrupts] Towards what?

MOTHER

[Irritated] Just towards. Think of yourself as Antigone.

BLOT

So is it Thebes?

MOTHER

Don’t even try to work out where we are … where we’ve been … or where we’re going anymore. Just dig.

[FX: She begins digging.]

BLOT

But I don’t have anything to dig with.

MOTHER

Use your fingers.

BLOT

Are you joking?

MOTHER

Alright … your teeth.

BLOT

What?

MOTHER

Gum it!

[FX: Wet digging. Blot struggles to chew.]

BLOT

[Whining] I can’t get it into my mouth.

MOTHER

Then dissolve it in bile.

BLOT

The Chinese ate mud.

MOTHER

It’s why Beckett gave out biscuits.

BLOT

[Surprised] Look! A tiny crack of light!

MOTHER

Dig faster.

BLOT

Do you think we’re being born?

MOTHER

Don’t be ridiculous.

BLOT

This leash could be our cord. Where does it go from here?

MOTHER

Out there.

BLOT

Follow it. [Pulling]

MOTHER

I can’t.

BLOT

Use this bar.

[FX: Forcing open orifice with crow-bar.]

Good. Now wedge it into the gap. What can you see?

MOTHER

I think it’s an eye.

BLOT

[Sentimental] It must be Mother!

MOTHER

Impossible!

BLOT

Could they have turned her inside-out?

MOTHER

I don’t know. But I don’t like the look of it at all. Let’s stay in here.

BLOT

Like inanimate objects?

MOTHER

No. I’ve told you before … that’s impossible. We’ll have go back. They’re opening it up.

[FX: Retreating.]

BLOT

Which way now, Mother?

MOTHER

The rear … to the rear!

BLOT

Where?

MOTHER

The arse!

BLOT

Are we germs?

MOTHER

Just keep working your way up the anus.

BLOT

But it’s sucking me out!

MOTHER

Hold on.

BLOT

I can’t.

[FX: Birth]

NARRATOR

I was born (one of twins) to these two people. Look at the photograph. I’m holding it up against the inside of my cage. It’s all I have left. They pinned it onto my skirt when they left the car park. My father like a burnt-out wick. All you can make of him is a thin ribbon of cigarette smoke rising in front of his shiny steel teeth. He died on the end of the leash. Unmourned. My Mother was a quiet woman, largely inexpressive, except in front of the Form Guide. The midwife cut me loose from my dead brother and displayed me through the dark bedroom at Father. Then I felt the flash of my first camera. The sulphur scarred my stomach with a white constellation. It tingled my lack. And marked me forever like a braille brand. Like his tiller-hand, scarred with melanomas. He picked me up with it and held me aloft. [Ironic] Then he lowered me onto Mother’s lap, re-loaded the box camera and started the timer. He moved in, rent his shoulders and stuck out his chin. His chest was stiff as if with rubber membrane wound. I can still perceive his presence. The saddest man on Earth, my father, hollow with lies. His eyes like pools of petrol. His body sprinkled with cinnamon and rust. Glowing like apricots.

[FX: Sulphur flash. Mud. Pulling]

BLOT

What was that? [Pause] Where am I? [Pause] Help me! I’m blind, Mother!

MOTHER

Follow my voice.

BLOT

Alright.

[They scurry on]

MOTHER

Are you still back there?

BLOT

Yes. Go on. [Pause] Are you leading me to the cliff, Edgar? [Pause] Light the lamp, Mother.

MOTHER

Surely that’s futile in your current predicament.

BLOT

All the more poignant, Mother. All the more pathos with me in this condition. [Pause] Like blind Oedipus! [Irritable] What are you poking me with?

MOTHER

A stick.

BLOT

Well, stop. [Pause] Who are you, anyway? Following me around like a curse.

MOTHER

I’m your wife.

BLOT

What?

MOTHER

There’s no time now to explain. Just cut the rope and we’ll part.

BLOT

Not that again!

MOTHER

It’s always at the back of my mind.

BLOT

Don’t go!

MOTHER

Why not?

BLOT

Because I love you!

MOTHER

I love you!

BLOT

Then let’s stay together!

MOTHER

No, let’s feel it at a distance.

[FX: Cutting rope. Springing apart. He moves off. Groping through tunnel along walls]

BLOT

If that’s the way you feel … then goodbye, Mother! I can’t say it hasn’t been great. Great while it lasted. [Ejaculates] The best thing I’ve ever had, frankly. The best thing I’ve seen. [Wistful] But it had to end sometime. Yes, it had to end sometime just like anything. [Pause. False bravado] Free at last! In my dotage, true. But, nonetheless, liberated. Why all I need to do now is to update my ‘notions’! How can I do that? I guess just invert them! Alley…upp! [He tries to invert himself. Collapses down a hole. Lands in a pool of muddy water] Help! [Underwater] I’m drowning! [Gurgling] Is anybody out there? [He drops beneath the surface. Mother suddenly splashes at the edges of the lake]

MOTHER

Here I come! [She swims towards him] Blot! Where are you? [Underwater search] Are you down there, pussy? [She sinks and re-emerges] There you are! [She drags him towards shore] I’ve got you. [Louder] Just hold on, dear. We’ve almost reached the bank. [Their voices become more distant as if his spirit is leaving the scene. She shakes him. No response] Blot! [Listens. Silence] no breathe. [Pause] nothing! [Suddenly plaintive. Shaking him] don’t leave me, Blot! There’s still the hard part of the road ahead, remember? Blot!? [Pause] gone. [Wistful] and I, helpless to prevent it. [Grabbing him. Frantic] I’ll do whatever you want, Blot, just don’t leave me. [Melodramatic] Too late! Alone. Alone … and with the dead! God, I feel so naked. I wish I had something to put on. His coat! That’ll keep me warm. [Takes coat off Blot and wraps it around herself] I feel worse with it on. [Strips it off. Blot moans]

BLOT

[Weak. Almost inaudible] Where am I?

MOTHER

[Loud] Blot … you’re alive! [Grabbing him] Let me help you up. [Fussing] Are you alright? What was it like? Was there Jesus? Thank God, I’m not alone just dependent. [Passionate] Let me warm you. [Covers them both with cloak]

BLOT

Where are we?

MOTHER

Deeper than before.

BLOT

Who are we?

MOTHER

Don’t you know?

BLOT

The last thing I remember was a woman’s lips closing over my mouth. I received her warm sweet breath like a bath. [Bathos] Oh, if only she could have blown hard enough, for long enough, the flap would have lifted back enough for us both to glimpse Eden.

MOTHER

Forget the epiphany, Blot. Just crawl.

BLOT

I can’t.

MOTHER

You’ve got to.

BLOT

It isn’t necessary, Mother. Soon sanctuary will be imposed.

MOTHER

What?

BLOT

Just wait for Prometheus.

MOTHER

Who?

BLOT

The Titan!

MOTHER

I don’t understand!

[He rises from the ground]

BLOT

Wife, we can stand here in sunlight. Help me up.

[They get louder]

MOTHER

Let go of me.

BLOT

We need not crawl.

MOTHER

Are you mad?

BLOT

Light the lamp! [Ignition] Dawn, Mother!

MOTHER

Stop it, Blot. What will we do when it comes?

BLOT

It’ll never come.

MOTHER

But I can smell it. I can hear it!

BLOT

It’s good for you.

MOTHER

I can feel it.

BLOT

It’s me.

MOTHER

No, it’s not. It’s an … Other.

BLOT

Trust me.

MOTHER

I don’t.

BLOT

Try.

MOTHER

It’s impossible.

BLOT

Perhaps if you intone the word ‘faith’ over and over in your mind you can convince yourself.

MOTHER

Oh, where are we? And how will we ever escape?

NARRATOR

[Breathless] She struggles to pull him. He resists. They pirouette until the leash becomes hopelessly tangled. They are bound together. Their faces press. Slowly they are strangled. Suddenly, they kiss. The text capitulates to “halt.” [Pause] But this was only their closure. I went on alone.

[FX: Fast with related sound effects.]

To recapitulate: I was born. I strangled my brother at birth. They named me Cabelle for that. Black insects shook in the sulphurous air. I grew. But I was held down in murk like some helpless poddy. I mainlined. Helen of Troy came down. Her languorous gaze burst my eyeballs. Tears streamed down my face. I was taken by the succubus in dreams. Her kisses gashed my mouth. I gulped at her swirling river. All that is not Helen is nothingness. And the Helen that I see is but an apparition. I am screwed into her soil like some fast-fallen rocket. I wish I was mist. Then I could slip back to earth like a shiny feather. And be laid on Space. To slowly extinguish the dwindling lamp. And be slowly extinguished myself by dawn.

[FX: A candle is snuffed.]

TEXTUAL SYNOPSIS

Blot was the pilot for a popular TV sitcom, The (incontinence) Pad, about two ageing hippies (HH-1970 & KLUG-MAN) sharing an apartment in Manhattan. The narrator, Cabelle Blot (feminised combination of Cane and Abel), is the hostess of a popular gameshow and the only offspring of Blot and Mother Blot. The play is her representation of her parents’ union as well as her own reconstruction of her progress from foetus to orphan.

The play begins in a typical Gothic setting of nocturnal, alpine tempest outside the village of Testy on the Lull. Its unwitting heroes, who have been driven relentlessly through extrinsic space in their efforts to maintain some semblance of dignity, are finally flung down a wet mine shaft: a standard Romantic device to promote dialogue with existential concepts. Inside subterranean vaults, they are forced down ever-reductive channels of memory. Fragments of the past (both personal and cultural) clamber to attach themselves by allusion and make themselves heard. Yet they all wither in the half-light farce of the Blot’s undisclosed quest, which is a simultaneous drive towards/against death that ends with a parody of epiphany (see Walter Pater).

Cabelle connects her existence to epic religious and classical images of creation, evolution, displacement, expulsion and endurance, only to be thwarted in every effort to find inclusion in a Master Narrative. She provokes a state of continual crisis in which she tries to punish or separate her parents, only to be compelled to consistently reunite them. The final irony of the play is that they are allowed to end while she must go on alone. This is her inheritance. Thus, Blot is halted as a narrative but never closed.

Blot exploits the power of the radio-play to shift between exotic locations and different eras using sound to induce disorienting spatial and temporal incongruities.

Over its mechanical course towards closure, the narrative of Blot is reduced to a sequence of dead-end feints at meaning which leave a morass of mal-meanings in their wake. What is left out of this process is style. Yet some semblance of human nobility in the face of cosmic bathos remains nonetheless. Representing the cruel paradoxes of the human condition with a small degree of pathos. That is the intention of Blot.

PRODUCTION NOTES (1998)

Blot will be an all-digital production – it will remain, as it were, in the ‘digital domain’ for the entire post-production stage.

We envisage the bulk of the recording will be done on location straight onto DAT; possibly with some studio recording where appropriate. Studio recording will be to DAT or direct to disk. Sound effects play a crucial part in creating the shifts in landscape and atmosphere during the course of the play. Wherever possible, incidental sounds and ambient effects will be recorded on location.

The prevailing ambience is a damp and muddy soundscape maintained by a mixture of industrial and natural sounds. The movement of the Blots throughout the narrative is characterised by a mechanical pulley (metal on metal). The positioning of the narrator within the play is achieved by a contrasting lack of atmosphere (dead room, close mic).

The location of microphones in relation to the characters is crucial in creating an aural image of the Blots’ journey through a series of artificial landscapes. The listener maintains a definite proximity to the characters, hearing not only their voices but also their physical movements.

The characters possess contrasting vocal styles. While the Blots are cranked up to a hysterical state of total self-consciousness about the events imposed upon them and their status as textual contrivance, their daughter’s narrative delivery is controlled and intense.

The Blots’ journey through the narrative and final release from it is experienced by the listener through the Blot’s physical (aural) withdrawal from the sound image. The fate of the narrator, on the other hand, is undetermined and the aural space which she occupies remains constant throughout the play.

Psycho-acoustics are important in the technical production. Certain frequencies will be manipulated to give a surround-effect on both AM and FM broadcasts. In stereo, lateralisation and localisation techniques will be employed to further enhance the audio image.

The use of sound beyond the voices of the characters supports the sensation of the narrative (as well as just the text itself), creating an environment of impossible realities in the imagination of the listener. This mood is a constantly-changing yet ever-present, backdrop to the action or inaction of the characters.

The overall effect is of an intrinsically-related sound piece running concurrent to the narrative: at times, subverting the listener’s expectations; at times, reinforcing them.

Appendix B

STRINE TRANSLATIONS

Extract 1 (p. 780)

“Where’s Eyes & Ears,” asks Ocker.

“He went to the TAB,” replies Chindrip.

“Did he back Black Knight?”

“No. Chagemar each way.”

“That’ll barely cover his outgoings.”

“Yes. He won’t be shouting the bar tonight.”

“Get him back here now.”

Chindrip asked me to return to the bar pronto. Ocker signalled for me to come up with his middle finger, bent like an articulated bow. I took off towards his booth, where he was working for the Cause with form guide, pencil and ledger. I slid into the channel either side of his henchmen, Scatt and Chindrip.

“Who are they,” asked Ocker gesticulating a finger at the newcomers on the kerb. “They look like two Federal agents.”

“No,” I replied.

“Coveys from Bush then?”

“Vets, I reckon.”

“This is not a game of who-the-fuck,” says Ocker (snarling). “Your job is Eisenears. Get down there and find out!”

“I’d lay odds they’re Vietnamers from their countenance and talk.”

“They were treated most shabbily,” says Ocker shaking his nog. “But then all our Diggers get crapped on from a great height back home.”

“They become mere ghosts in the corpus,” says Leperis Bloom, entering the conversation.

“What the hell do you mean by that,” I thundered in reply.

I have not got a clue what Bloom is going on about half the time. I am just an average bloke. He got bitten by the yak-yak bug. Dry blow bonkers.

“People just want them to disappear so they can forget the whole damn show.”

“Persona non grata,” continues Blue.

“Bunch of no names,” adds I.

“Emasculated,” blows Ock.

“Got their testicles snipped,” I drivels.

“Yes. Not men anymore,” goads Ockerbeck.

“No men,” adds LB.

“Send them down two beers,” says Ocker dropping a ten-dollar note on the counter. “Sit down and talk to them. Find out the facts. They could be police informants. Or they might just want a sandwich. Who knows?

I sidled up behind them. The barmaid passed. She reduced the air conditioning.

“A gift from my boss, Ocker,” I said, sitting down on my posterior and places the bottles of beer in our midst. “Louder is my name. ALF LOUDER.” [NOTE – this is a pseudonym.]

We shook. They swivelled towards Ocker. He raised his glass.

“Thanks mate,” says A.

“Don’t mention it,” says I.

“Did your boss have a big win on the Cup,” insinuates his mate. I ignore him.

“What are your names,” I asked.

Null and Void, one replied. These were ludicrous names but I let it pass. It was none of my business. No name, no pack drill. Don’t make excuses. Never ever give nothing away that you don’t have to, advises Ocker. So, I just scratched my testicles gently. Summoned some mucus. Lit a fresh cigarette. And we all got stuck into the grog.

“Did you go to the Grand Final,” I asked pointing at the television screen.

“I didn’t go,” said NULL. “I live in the Philippines.”

NULL = DON. VOID = TOM in this short piece by Samuel Beckett.

“However, I saw it on television,” added VOID.

“The Sea Eagles got ripped off,” says I. “The referee and touch judges must have got sacks full of sandwiches in my opinion. The Eagles had cause for sour grapes.”

Ah-hah, I deduced like Sherlock Holmes. That man must think I’m a total deadhead. Because the Sea Eagles did NOT play in n the Grand Final this year! The Bulldogs and the Eels played! This aroused my suspicions. Maybe they are nothing better than a couple of undercover policemen trying to find out information or solicit monies. The police can have a large appetite. A large plate of chips with a rare serving of jumbuck, as Plod says. It’s all so cosy. Why don’t we all come tumbling downhill like Jack and Jill, or kiss some girls like Georgy Porgy? There’s just no word for it. I ought to piss the whole lot of them off. I could get a semi-decent job like Joe Hynes. He’s always flush from debt collecting for old Moses Herzog. Gu & Elizabeth are both debtors. SD and TOM are both in their debt. I could make them repay their debts with the assistance of Ocker’s henchmen.

“When I left Sydney,” he recollected, “we still had pence, shillings and pounds. Imperial currency. Not this decimal currency.”

“Really?”

“Fact.”

“How long have you been gone?” I asked.

“Twenty years,” he replied.

“Where have you lived in the interim.”

“Every two-up school from Darwin to the ‘Loo,” he replied laughing.188

Leopold Bloom joins our group and commences mouthing off, working himself into a total blather. Nobody can understand him, let alone interdict.

Extract 2 (p. 787)

“Now there’s a lowdown dog to be sure,” says Ocker loudly. “John Stone’s new puppet.”

An uncomfortable shuffling in seats followed. It was clear that neither party would yield an inch to compromise. They butted gruffly.

“My Colonial Oath,” Ocker continued. “That Accord will ruin the ALP. Old George Reid has finally won. Took eighty years. But he’s beaten Deakin and the Set.”

Cornwall replied to the Captain with words to the effect that something had to be done to repair the Australian economy after decades of complacency had brought the nation to the brink of ruin and it was a credit to the trade union movement that it had seized the initiative with the incoming Labor government.

“Kelty’s the brains behind that whole operation,” replies the Captain of the Push. “He’s plying another trade entirely.”

Beer spilled over the brim of fresh schooners that Eyesenears now laid before the MEN.

“All those barstards are drier than my bluddy throat,” he concluded, sculling fiercely then slamming down a dead glass. The television screen scrolled through images of Hawke, Murphy, Frank Costigan and Kerry Packer in quick succession.

“Hawke cut off Costigan’s testicles to protect [REDACTED],” says Ocker. “And to take care of his new mate [REDACTED].”

“Protected species,” replied Cornwall to allay.

“Wiped his arse on the NCA,” nodded Afferbeck.

“That’s why the government leaked the case summaries.”

“McWilliam swallowed the whole document.”

“Would have been made very tasty for him,” added VOID.

“Goanna must’ve splashed on a great big blob of his special sauce.”

“It was [REDACTED] what dropped them all in shit,” says Ocker.

“ATO gavelled the leap.”

“Beames backed him.”

“Bored a new hole up Molland in the private jet.”

“Goanna’s share would have been substantial,” says VOID. “Just from weeding the kick.”

“That’s one good punt for the Squirrel,” I replied.

“Well, it’s certainly a level of remuneration that would have motivated me,” added Bloom. “What about you, gentlemen?”

“Would I dong a bloody copper if I caught the cunt alone?” I retorted vociferously using a rhetorical question to signify my intent. Ocker nodded agreement at this sentiment. Sweet silence ensued. He examined large slow bubbles as they expired in the dregs of his beer glass. Cunts, he thought.

“Lockyer, Beames and Brian bloody Maher,” he said mawkishly. “They’re all in prison now.”

“Inhabiting the Bali suite where they give blowjobs,” agreed VOID.

“One hundred condoms of hash oil,” exclaimed Tom Cornwall. “That was the run. Customs sent it straight to the bond store. Nobody even touched it at the airport.”

“Fed poked his pen into the package,” adds Orc. “Got an eyeful of cannabis resin.”

Ocker chuckled hard-heartily. Tom Cornwall and Eyesnears joined him but his firend, Eric Killion, observed them as if deaf, neither partaking or drinking.

“So who executed Coote,” demanded Ocker loudly.

“We’ll find out at the Inquest,” replied Eyesnears showing faith in the justice system.

“Carver is responsible, I believe.”

“No. It was Greedy that did it. They brought him up from Melbourne. HE got a one-way ticket to Manila at the end.”

“No way. Ten bucks says it was a Sydney shooter.”

“Where else could he get the cash to open the Aussie Bar in Manila?”

“Well, if you’re talking about Dennis Smith,” interrupts VOID, “then he’ll want to get that cash back out quickly.”

“Before Marcos falls,” aids NULL.

“Correct,” nods VOID. “He doesn’t have long. May be less than a year.”

“I was told that Squirrel was the client,” interdicts Eye.

“Got nothing to do with Squirrel.”

“Pro-Vital’s more his kind of deal.”

“A jaffa,” replies Ocker. “Absolute peach.”

“Like [REDACTED].”

“[REDACTED]’s super fund, they call it.”

“[REDACTED] branch was behind that job. [REDACTED] provided the petrol and matches. Now that’s New Labor for you!”

“Still flinging a few hot-dogs at [REDACTED], they say. He knows the meaning of the word, ‘mate.’ Stood up for Old [REDACTED]. No craven type. By the same token, I would not give the new Member for Sydney a face full of cum. They were very cunning to send him off to Canberra where he wouldn’t cause more strife.”

“Things will get done Sydney-style down there from now on.”

Mutual amusement was registered. A feeling of camaraderie infused the participants. Each other, they realised, was not so different. Warm silence descended. They imbibed heartily. Ocker made a structural adjustment to his scrotum.

“When is this election campaign going to end,” he asks. “I have seen enough of the Prime Minister’s tears to last me a lifetime.”

“He’s taking the Kirribilli showboat across Sydney Harbour next week for his campaign launch at the Sydney Opera House,” says VOID.

“He’d better watch out. The CIA might sink his barge like the Kuttabul,” adds Cornwall.

“Another Coup,” nodded Ocker.

The assembly bowed sagely at this point, raised their glasses and toasted both the fallen Prime Minister and those brave deluded japs still canned upon the floor of Sydney Harbour. At this point, Ocker arises from his booth to slash. His bodyguards follow. This enables Tom Cornwall some intimate time to engage his target directly.

“Back to business Don,” he says. “We’d like you to coordinate our pout of the Philippines. We need an experienced hand. Someone who can work all over Asia.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard to get access to good intelligence via Thailand.”

“Agreed. Hanoi is totally focused on China at present.”

“Deng really stuffed an elephant fart down Le Duan’s toilet.”

“That little war was a masterstroke. Deng showed the world that China was prepared to sacrifice a whole army to support Pol Pot. Regardless of human cost.”

“Life’s cheap for communists.”

Extract 3 (p. 805)

“Can’t a Jew love his country just like the next fellow,” asks John Wyse Nolan near the end of the Citizen episode. It is a manufactured question by the author, too basic as a narrative ‘lead’ for such a natural dramatist as Joyce.

“I’ve got no problem to mention with Jews,” answers Ocker. “Monash himself was Jewish.”

“Ten thousand Jews fought for Australia,” argues Tom Cornwall.

“There’s no such place mate,” replies Ock. “Those blokes all died for England like headless chooks. Lang was the first bloke that ever stood up to Westminister. That’s why they sent out Niemeyer. The FIX was IN.”

“I feel like the new migration policy has done some good,” replies NULL politely.

“Let’s see what happens when we tell them to go shoot Indonesians up in Darwin. I bet they’ll be arms all akimbo again like Saigon.”

“We owe sanctuary to the good people of South Vietnam,” says Tom Cornwall bold-like. “They stood up to Communism. They worked with us. They believed in us. WE LET THEM DOWN! You wouldn’t talk so much nonsense if you’d gone and fought in Vietnam and seen firsthand what we did to their country instead of indulging in … armchair orations.”

Appendix C

CHARACTER LIST (abridged)

Mel, Rachel & Xavier – dedicants. Also, note the Late David McComb.

Flaubert – dilettante and pornographer. Author of Dictionary of Received Ideas (Fr. Le Dictionnaire des idées reçues), published in 1911–13 from notes compiled by the author in the 1870s. Often paired with Le Sottisier (Eng. Howlers), a collection of stupid quotes from famous authors.

First Voice – unidentified narrator who describes the recording of Under Milkwood, BBC Studios, 25 January 1954. Dylan Thomas has dead for three months.

Meillon & Burton – narrators (Australian, Welsh respectively). Actors famous for their powers of oratory.

Sophos, Andy, Dick, Dikaiosynē, Andreia, Theo, Ari, Spiros, Chris – interchangeable names applied to Attic youths in C2.

Ralph, Tom, Rhino, Ewan, Madge, Fishpump (Alt. Fish Pump), Toe Cutter – residents of Beta House. Later, most of them appear at the lunchtime strip show, EA Times opening and Feedtime performance at Frenchs. They proceed to either the tunnels or the bridge in C10.

L. (Lester) Byron – equivalent of Elpenor. Also, the swimmer who Mulligan saved. He falls at 32 feet per second vertically, as per Joyce’s physics formula, on Night A at Beta House in C2.

Blot & Mother Blot – characters in eponymous radio play (see Appendix A). This work has also been known as “Blot O’Blot Landscape” and “Testy on the Lull.”

Tom Hallem – a painter. One version of Telemachus. See Saussure (C6) for his true identity. His family name derives from Arthur Hallam, subject of Tennyson’s In Memoriam A.H.H. His name is a broken anagram of Prince Hamlet. The surplus letter is L. In alchemy, ‘L’ stands for decomposition. He was variously Dave Paine, David Cane, Tom Paine and Tim Hallem during drafting of this work.

Elizabeth Archer – Athena figure. Leading character in Henry James’ novel, The Portrait of a Lady. Compare and contrast. Compose a sequel about her later life in the mode of Wide Sargasso Sea.

Leon Daniel – a dentist. Husband of Elizabeth Archer.

Rachel Daniel – daughter of Elizabeth Archer and Tom Hallem. See C7 F/N.

Prosenchyma – an otiose botanical term for tissue consisting of elongated cells closely packed together with their ends interpenetrating and often with the terminal partitions obliterated so as to form ducts or vessels. I use it as a metaphor for the amplification of an author’s corpus of reading. For instance, Arcadian imagery is smuggled out of Shelley by way of Browning and Swinburne and transmitted to completely different ends by figures as diverse as Pater, Joyce, Brennan, Chidley and Havelock Ellis. Harold Bloom speaks of these links as “chains of misreading.” For example, William James Chidley made a creative misreading of Thoreau because of his obsession with sex, diet, good and evil, suffragettism and physiology. My misreading of Joyce includes heroising Sydney. Bloom refers to this phenomenon as the irony of one generation becoming converted into the noble synecdoche of the next. Prosenchyma is an anti-closure/absolute-closure kind of term. It’s a paper centipede combining Bloom’s Transumptive Misreading (troping wrong on previous tropes) with Deleuze and Guattari’s Rhizome. The best metaphor that springs to mind is of a vast and aimless field of interlocking volumes fanning out in an arc from the reader different volumes fitting together all the time so that maybe the reader hops from step to step across short or apparently random greater distances (each step possessing a musical note to be determined by Mallarme) or shimmies down a sequential line with this vista expanding until it begins curving and folding back over itself, encasing the reader in a transparent bubble (AKA a pedagogical capsule) through which Life is observed and interpreted like Heidegger’s SPHERE (see Sloterdijk) new books fitted into the pattern continuously new layers locking over the original like archaeological stratums and altering its significance individual tiles repeated and extracted and refitted back into the mosaic elsewhere to create new effects of pages and spines fucking together like dogs leaves touching leaves as per Goethe’s Die Urpflanze or Archetypal Plant in which the leaf is seen as the basic structure in Nature. This idea was later updated by Ruskin and Thoreau. It’s a path that you can take forward because the bubble rolls ahead of you. It is one over which you can retrace your steps because the bubble is behind. Reading thus cushions your steps against the uneven cobblestoned pavements of Proust’s Venice. Its spatial projection is both upward (Biblical) and inward (Romantic). It spreads towards a warm horizon … and sunset! Because it’s always a little sentimental and melancholy in there ensconced inside your own prosenchymatic dome like a rat running on a merry-go-round ignoring the existence of the cage that confines you. It is related to the early twentieth-century critical notion of Einfluss or Influence.

Influence – its literary meaning is the infusion of an author’s work with secret power or principle from a precursor or peer. It also has astrological and occult meanings that resound with a wild Romantic style: “the flowing from the stars of ethereal fluid acting upon the character and destiny of humans; and affecting sublunary things generally.”

Mr Monaro – a realtor. His name means ‘high plain’ in Ngarigo language. Also, a brand of popular Holden motor vehicle in the 1970s. NOTE – it has been said that another Holden car, the Torana (see C2), means ‘to fly’ in an unspecified Indigenous language. However, no match has been found for this word in the vocabulary of any First Nation.

Mrs Brennan – service station operator.

Non & Slope – two men moving a refrigerator in C2. Later, Persian Jones visits their drug lab in Glebe (C5). Associates of the McCann family.

Penelope Hallem – nee McFadden, mother of Tom, wife of Les, ex-wife of Don Cane. Note Pen/elope pun.

Les Hallem – second husband of Penelope McFadden.

Hensley & Mrs Hensley – Menelaus and Helen in old age. Also, Philemon and Baucis.

Asenahana Lafei – Musician. Her naming alludes to the legendary Arthurian character, Morgana la Fey. Explain. Asenahana means ‘red berry’ in Tongan. Dies of drug overdose in C10.

Don Cane – also Eric Killion and NULL. Odysseus in Vietnam.

Hanh – a shopkeeper. Don’s lover in Bien Hoa (1968). Later, Barry’s lover in Sydney. This connection suggests that Don and Barry maintained contact throughout the period of this novel. Insert theory: Don aided her escape in 1977.

Various taxi drivers – Stephen Joyce (Tim SEBESTYEN) and Tommy (Pham). See C8.

Reverend Bent (Bennett) – a school pastor. Wounded in Vietnam.

Moody – a student. Equivalent of Sargent in Ulysses.

Ian Westacott – equivalent of Garrett Deasy.

Colonel Cornwall – a businessman. Also, VOID. Orator at Choc’s funeral. Recruits Don Cane for a job back in Manila. This symbolises the fact that Don Cane has not changed over the course of exile. Like Odysseus, he has hardened into amorality over the last 20 years.

Richie Buenaventura – Don Cane’s ex-partner in Manila. They were not able to have children due to his exposure to defoliants in Vietnam. Their only full-term infant, Robert Cane, died aged two days. Link to my own father and dead children (spina bifida). Also, Elizabeth and Leon’s dead baby (Chaim). Plus, Rudy Bloom in Ulysses. Key trope. Her family name means ‘good fortune.’ She married a local man. They live in Bulacan province. They have a son, aged 35 (Don Carlos Sopena).

Barry Evans, Brian Deverill, Don Schofield, Ray Farrar, Brian Beath, Dick Stone – former army veterans at the funeral of Albert Wheaton. Hostile towards Don Cane. He makes no sustainable human connections during TMAC. All his interactions with people are mercenary.

Mrs Albert Wheaton (Jean), Eleni Loukopoulou, Deb Deverill, Narelle Schofield, Dr Helen Saunders, Barb Farrar, Bev Orchard – a group of women drinking in Kings Cross after Wheaton’s funeral. They are joined by Gary Hampton. Ms. Loukopoulou shares her name with a scholar of James Joyce.

Greg Wheaton – Son of Choc Wheaton. He represents Don Cane’s vision of an ideal son.

Willy the Pimp – AKA Willy, W-the-P. Drug dealer and companion of Tom Hallem. His association with Haines (C5) creates a connection with Mulligan. He is the last person to see Tom Hallem alive.

Kenneth Arthur Leer – a false father figure for Tom Hallem. Also known as Ernie. Originally introduced in the radio play, In Black Box (played by Peter Hayes). Divorced. Two children. He relocated to Sydney after serving a long prison term. There are various references to this occurrence in an aborted radio-play, titled Nhill. He lives in Alexandria. He is a hustler and privateer. He debases Tom Hallem in the brothel scene (C7).

Dougie the Animal, Weasel Bob Akers, Persian Jones and German Eva – a drug dealer, 2 addicts and a mule.

Billy Capri – another version of Telemachus. A literature student. His family name is shared with a famed Ford sports car in Australia. Also, an Italian resort island. It is derived from Capra, the genus of goats. Frank Capra was a famous American film director. There are no direct links with his films in TMAC (including It’s a WL). Billy’s first name is a nickname for male goats. Partially, he represents the narrator. His postgraduate studies are aborted in 1985. He returned to them in 1991. He and his half-brother represent art and writing while Ana Lafei signifies music. Equate to Elstor, Bergotte and Vinteuil in Proust’s ALRDTP. See C3.

Helen Capri – his mother.

Barry Capri – also known as Bob. Apparently, Billy’s biological father until revelation of paternity in C4. His lover is the shopkeeper in C5.

O – a scholar. Potentially, the wife of Shanghai Dog.

Blind Basil Kiernan, Emeritus Professor Jeremy Ilks, Dame Nellie Krafter AC DBE, Lady Weffy, A/P Donald Tuck, Professor Milkmaid (also known as Mim), Dr Judith Barbour, Mousey Roche, Marvin Mildling, Deirdre Sackerson – various fictional academics. Note link to G. Stein in naming of supervisor.

Associate Professor Able Goldstein AKA a gilded vessel AKA Gold Cup (see Ulysses) AKA G. Stein – supervisor.

Derek Attridge, Kevin Birmingham, Eleni Loukopoulou, Blooms & Barnacles (Kelly & Dermot) inter alia – contemporary academics. Citing their work creates a sense of TMAC being drafted in real time.

Spikey Ulan, Angus McCreedy – postgraduate students. Both became professors of Australian literature.

Edmund Hamley – illegitimate son of Stan Welles. A budding tycoon. See King Lear. His name reflects the fact that he is kind-of-Hamlety but a few letters after the fact.

Miss Gallagher – his secretary.

Daisy – his stepmother. Based on my mother’s family.

Edgar Welles – elder brother of Edmund Hamley. See King Lear.

Keith Carpenter – building services manager. Modelled on JJ O’Molloy.

Leon Daniel (II) – his first name means ‘Lion’ in Ancient Greek. His family name means ‘God is my judge’ in Hebrew. Note symbolism of this combination. The Book of Daniel originates in the Ketuvim of the Tanakh. It is an apocalypse combining prophecy and eschatology. Its most famous event is his survival in the Lion’s den in Chapter Six. Leon Daniel resides in Darlinghurst (Babylon). He conducts philanthropic works in the Jewish community. His future is clear due to infection with HIV (he foresees his own death from AIDS). He is a brave person. Yet he is also flawed (e.g. he continues to perform surgery after infection). The closest figure to Bloom in TMAC. Daniel’s death is not chronicled. He is considered an apocryphal, composite figure by many scholars.

Ambrose E. Welles – also known as Stan Hamley AKA Stan Wormsley. Alias Raymond John Candy. Merchant banker. An ageing Boylan figure. Linked to Nugan Hand Bank (see Nuges).

John Dengate – busker.

Marie Swain – widow. Mother of Tug.

Lady Peasoup – acquaintance of Elizabeth Archer. Collector.

Farquhar & Gravy – criminals.

Shop Assistant – equivalent of Miss Dunne in W. Rocks.

Professor McNab – a local historian. See W.Rocks, sub-episode 8, Rev Hugh C. Love.

Starpunk – also known as Groveller, Stinkbug and S. Spams.

Jackie – bass player, Birth of Mirtha. AKA Joanne.

Hazel and the Nut – performance artists working as exotic dancers on Melbourne Cup Day. Also known as Holly.

Jiles, Cuthbert – clerks.

Vivien – primary school punk magazine editor.

Frances Hackett – also, Francine.

Greg Devlin – a lobbyist. Anglicised form of Gaelic, Ó Dobhailéin, a diminutive of ‘dobhail,’ meaning ‘unlucky’ or ‘unfortunate’. Nothing in Joyce is left to chance in nomenclature, timing, literary references or place. This naming foreshadows the failure of the Minister’s scheme and Devlin’s execution.

Joe Raspudic – alias John Smith (written) and Ken Jones (verbal). A property developer. His name is a phallic pun on ‘Rasputin.’ Known as Sellmann in earlier drafts of TMAC.

Doug Truck – politician.

A & B – two elderly ladies in Glebe. Widows. Suggestive of Patrick White characters. Link to ‘Parable of the Plums’ in Episode Seven in Ulysses. Two midwives climb Nelson’s Pillar and spit plum stones onto the street below.

Shanghai Dog – enters C5, E17 (Martian’s Son). Also goes by SD, S.Dog, Billy, etc. Also Messrs. Norman, No-man (Odysseus), Normal, Flower, Ralph Iron, Barry Cane, Bob Cane, Eric Killion, Don Capri inter alia.

Xiao Fang – a migrant worker in Shanghai.

Zhu Di – a barmaid in Shanghai. Ex-girlfriend of Shanghai Dog. Now married with child. Lives in Pudong with her parents.

Governors of NSW – a chronological list of 33 governors from 1788-1984 in C5, E19. Progressively ceremonial position with increasing focus on securing funds for renovations of Government House.

Jabber Ladiesman, Justine Labiameister, Delia Flight-Falconhurst, Pockmarkt Macritis – literary tyros.

Comedians 1 and 2 – deleted.

Mulligan – a student. Shares name with Stephen Dedalus’ foil in Ulysses.

Grandpater – relative of Leer.

Bella, Candy, Solange, Biddy the Clap – prostitutes.

Marion Hackett – curator.

READ – nickname for a famous artist. Pronounced past tense. A homograph.

Peter Fuller – historical British art figure.

Matt Supplejack – popular young painter.

The Collector, Bloo MD, Slut Harolde, Merlin – art collectors.

Angela Dwyer, Michel Deekeling – residents of West Berlin.

Ocker – Captain of the Push.

Eyesenears, Chindrip, Scatt – denizens of the Crest Hotel, Kings Cross. Members of Ocker’s gang.

Doctor Gu – Shanghai Dog’s business partner.

Shredded Ginger – an Englishwoman. Billy’s friend.

U. U. Bardun – award-winning author. He prevaricated about adding the words, “he said,” as the end of C11.

Unknown brother – Billy Capri discovers the existence of a deceased sibling when he visits his father’s grave in Manila. His efforts to find closure are onec again SPOILT.