The Holy Spirit is of course both EVERYTHING and NOTHING, depending on your belief, and so the Blue Rose will no doubt prove to be the same, to those in the BRS it has great meaning, to the non believer, it is nothing but a joke.
It is interesting that Our Mozzer gives the biblical comparison, because yesterday he was spotted at Russell Brand's 'Messiah Complex' show in London.
FOLLOWING THE MOZZIAH COMPLEX
Morrissey meanwhile will soon be heading to this book shop in Goteborg, Sweden, where on Thursday he will be doing a one off book signing:
Many Morrissey fans have been left wondering WHY Morrissey chose this particular book shop to do a book signing. I too was wondering, so I emailed to ask them, and here is their reply:
Dear Mr Ratsback,
It was the publishers that contacted us, so it could very well just be a question of that our store was not too far from where he was in a tour, and it happened to coincide with the release-date of his book? Guess you have to ask the publisher about this:)
Norra Hamngatan 26
411 06 Göteborg
Basically, the Akademibokhandeln have NO idea why they have been chosen!
There are now just TWO days left until 'The Book' becomes available. It has somehow managed to remain completely 'leak free', but it has now started to reach shops, so let the leaking begin.
Finally for today, for those who can't wait for 'The Book', but would like something to read, here are the EXCELLENT email exchanges between Kate 'Dolly Wilde' Ryan and 'Our Mozzer', which I found at the Solow place.
Part I: My Email Exchange With Morrissey
July 2nd, 2011
Through serendipitous means I chanced upon your gorgeous blog. My Morrissey, thank you darling, for making my world a tad less tedious. Your words are utterly precious: I've been in adoration of them for half of my, largely uneventful, life. Sycophantic, though, I most certainly am not. How I loathe the word 'fan' and all it pathetically evokes. I idolize my Kitty only and at times, during ethereal moments of bliss and calm, my dilapidated self. I manage, somehow, as we all must. My pigsty of a life is remedied only through a glorious, sustained and unabashed pillage. I plunder as best as I can, consuming whole dullard boys.
Let me be your Alma Winemiller, the most eccentric of nightingales. An obscene bombardment of words I'd like to pashernately bestow, a more worthy recipient escapes me.
Let's stage your life for it simply must be sung. What delicious dialogue I'd get to splash about in, the heady joys of a playwright! I am utterly at your disposal for I am more than able to brilliantly conjure the alchemical, all that you intrinsically are. So, how about it? Say 'go' and I shall hastily commence such a transcription. You'll translate, I surmise, beautifully. Even Joe Orton would be rendered wearisome in comparison.
Much in need of unearthing I am, ever devotedly, yours.
I'd rather not be faceless or lost amongst the countless rubbish emails you're likely to receive. So I'll send two photographs your deserving way, I'm nearly as beautiful as my brain is. I made both of those tee-shirts, one of my many (and varied) fortes. A few words from you, gorgeous boy, even ones telegraphically-framed would bring me immense pleasure! Perhaps I am a fan of yours, after-all.
I attempted to comment twice on your charming blog and neither stuck. It seems the only ones which manage to squeeze past are the supposedly-anonymous ones authored by you, as the comments for today's post can only rationally be. I know how you compose words and I'm on the verge of knowing how you think, you're an easy study Baby Boy.
Anyway, here is what I wrote much earlier in the day:
I. Under the entry 'I should like to disassociate myself from this website' I wrote:
Too damn funny Morrissey! The feckin eejits on So-Low actually believe you are not the author of this blog. Jesus, how obtuse can they be? If it was indeed fraudulent why would it have a quotation from you denouncing its authenticity as an actual entry? Of course, I know better: but I'm infinitely more clever than the lot of them are! Brilliant way to glean acolytes, I must say, however few there seem to be. I find it shocking that I'm only the twelfth follower of yours. Perhaps you are spot on when you bemoan 'it's like I hardly exist anymore.'
II. Under one of the many Boz contributions I wrote:
It's cute how you speak through others, you've always had a wonderful knack for that! So, does this girl FINALLY get a response of some sort? As a laudation for debunking, in a truly keen fashion, her beloved Morrissey?
It's a tad silly, I know, to continually write my name: however gorgeous it may be. But I will, vicariously, as you invariably do. I'll sign off as:
Dorothy Ierne Wilde (My one true love, the one underground)
I now realize a response from you, even one truncated, is unlikely. You're far too busy basking in self-adulation. What I've written to you, however sadly one-sided, will be immortalized in some humble way. Likely in a play of mine and, without fail, in the vitriolic wasteland of my journals.
Being the only gem upon your rubbish-heap of tedious 'fans,' I'm still foolishly anticipating the providential. An actual, rather than contrived, response would benefit you greatly in the play I intend to mould. I'll attempt to let you be, in the interim, but this may prove rather difficult: for I write more for myself than I do for you.
Subject: Girl Strange is a Beautiful Mouthpiece, Don't You Find?
Here is what I just posted on that shite website. How proud I am of my gorgeous self. I must have garnered a potential reply by now, surely?
If the link is no longer I'll immortalize the words below:
And the Sycophantic Cunts All Say...
This site is worthy of being loathed, for it illustrates servility that bleeds into stupidity unabatedly. Anything written in a deprecatingly humourous fashion entirely escapes the lot of you.
Really, what makes you think Morrissey actually gives a toss about any of you? He would find me fantastic company but it halts there. I wouldn't droolingly revere the poor, beleaguered man: we would banter as equals. Slap each other about, you know? He would emerge more battered than I because I'm a tad less chafing. He might even wish I could elongate my stay.
So, everybody, get fucking stuffed by a girth of an ill-fitting circumference. Haemorrhage yourselves into nonexistence.
Whilst you're all rendering yourselves null, properly nought with no atomic particles remaining, I'll call over my sexy boys & girls. We'll compromise one another in delicious ways to the soundtrack of my life: Morrissey's music. Don't be too envious, dullard bastards.
I've just been banned and it will 'never be lifted.' Should I cry into my porridge?
I'll also post this on your blog, it simply cannot be missed.
I posted one of your comments on to my blog.
Keep up the wonderful work - because you must.
How I hope, with every decrepit bit of me, you're the real thing. Not merely some bored boy perpetually posturing, cowering behind impeccably crafted prose. For I possess few conduits to bleed all that I must. Having an audience in you could be positively liberating. I'd venture out more. I'd bravely pester artistic directors, unabashedly whoring whatever little talent I've managed to maintain (despite a decade of unfathomable consumption).
So, darling. Are you actually that man? The one who's always been worthy of, and nearly begging for, a proper mounting? Say it is so!
In mad anticipation of, yet another, response,
Miss Kate Ryan
Subject: My Little Soul Will Leave a Footprint
I find myself neglecting a simply gorgeous boy in my bed, one of enviable Danish ancestry, so I can bring solace to you somehow (however unsolicited). So-Lowers are right cunts, this you intimately know. Why bother with them, my darling, if they render you deflated? Let them carry on boorishly, rolling around in shite & drying their filth in the sunshine until it cakes. Spend your time bothering with me instead, a more gorgeous & enlightened girl does not stalk this tiresome planet. My colossal beauty is utterly spellbinding, I'm worth the bother. Gay men contemplate spawning when I walk past. Girls that are friends want every piece of me, if only they were (reciprocally) worthy of being consumed. All sentinent beings, for that matter, find themselves awed. My strange appeal is boundless, I do believe.
I'm the type of girl who reads, with impeccable enunciation, favourite bits of Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure in bed, after brilliant lovemaking. If you'd rather Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zararhustr I'd mesmerize in a similar fashion. And words from the eternally gorgeous Alma Winemiller just might cause you to spill-over: she renders me legless, her words are utterly hypnotic. Tennessee Williams needs posthumous kisses, one on each cheek, for such a magnificent creation. If only I could exhume him.
Those seventeen words you munificently bestowed, upon questionably worthy me, were a veritable drug. Like all things that manage to shake & stir one psychotropically, I cannot help but desire more. My biology nearly demands it. Hit me baby one more time, if I should be so lucky.
Girl Likely To (despite mounting encumbrances),
Part II: My Email Exchange With Morrissey
My Dear Kate,
As I stumble and fall through this life I can't help Playing Easy To Get. Of course it makes no sense for us to communicate through this mundane medium - each word lacks vitality and the caressing thump of the singing voice, like strawberries without cream, velvet sans slap, or David Showie minus his make-up. All I have in my soul to give I transmit willingly through song, whether on record or on stage. This leaves me bereft. How could it not? I have nothing left to sustain myself or my relationships or to will myself out of bed and away into the bleak grinding machine we call society. The Germans call this property geist. That thing emanating from deep within, which disappears from the iris the moment death comes. We have no suitable word for it, being Anglo-Saxons. To us the concept is not meant to exist. 'Where's my geist?' 'Geist? You haven't finished that stitching yet.' None the less, in spite of my emotional anaemia and the limitations of this form of communication, here we are - writing to each other. Like all the best things in life it makes no real sense. Why else do I continue to write songs??
My life is merely a shadow. When I cry the tears are those shed by Nico, like dead freesia petals falling to a concrete floor - that frozen spring blossom of malcontent which was her rendition of 'Sunday Morning.' When I laugh it is an echo of Jimmy Clitheroe filtered through the mind-warping prism of Wilde's rapacious wit and mesmeric insight. From a certain point of view I do not exist at all, I am a trick of the light, a hoped-for poetic uncle, a child crying out for attention in a world where time is money and money is the only constant. The drip, drip, drip of marketing, the glad rattle of the corporate cash register, the endless round of interviews, meetings and conferences - these things slowly kill me. I know you understand. I know it.
If you are happy to write to a man with no hope, a shadow dancing on the carpet, someone who is already dead, then please continue. But like the others, you will soon grow tired and leave. They all do.
The so-lowers are indeed right cunts, as I observe on my quasi-anonymous blog. My laughter echoes with every pontification over its authorship. So many questions would elucidate the authorship of the blog - if only they had the wit to pose the right questions. That they do not see the game is intentional. They do not realise the inelegant use of mesmerise rather than the Oxford mesmerize is quite intentional, that the absurdly bloated narcissism is ironically-intended, that my denial I was the author of the blog when nobody had even heard of it was a clue! - In due course the authorship will be proven - and what of the so-lowers, then?
Subject: The World REALLY Is Full of Crashing Bores
How lamentable, my dear Morrissey!
Lexical semantics stumped the lot of them. Rather sadly, it extended past the SoLowers and encompassed, en masse, any wanker in cyberspace with a keyboard dangerously at their disposal. The stench of their collective imbecility, carcasses of brains once useful, is nearly palpable. I must ask, yet again, why do you bother?
Let me be your sole audience, I seem to be among the few who are still deserving. In doing so, not a single thing you say will go amiss, or adrift, or afloat, or find itself a tiresome 'trending topic' on Tawdry Twitter. Speak only to those adept at decipherment, your words are far too precious to be decimated by the many whose comprehension can only exist ephemerally.
If your pockets are sufficiently stuffed with coins and your chequing account swells robustly with bank notes, live as I do: in the wisest possible way. Where you leave your home infrequently, please solely yourself and answer to bloody nobody (except your mother, of course). The world is undeserving of your fecund endowments, as it similarly is of mine.
With the Government of Canada as my whore, both Kitty and I live modestly, but we do entirely as we please. If she could talk she'd say the food tastes better under such an arrangement. The stout, incidentally, does too. I'm a woman positively mad with depression, it never dissipates. If I had a shite job, it would be like walking to the gallows daily. I've squandered the last decade proper! Managing to both read & write a great deal (those dual-pleasures which matter utmost to me) it was well-spent.
If only you could liberate me in a profound way, My Morrissey, from this barbarous country. I could be the girl who never bores, your veritable pet: Miss Kitty at her utter best. One unusual enough to teach you otherworldly things, as only the physically-beautiful can. The conversation we would brilliantly conjure would likely ignite. It'd be a pyrotechnical display! Let's leave fireworks to the SoLowers & other dullards! My brain is a pleasing one to pick at, it is yours to wield in whatever way you would like.
The bombardment of words from you, how they gloriously luminesced! I was subject to a biological shift, artificial and natural highs coalesced to dance a hypnotic waltz. Or perhaps it was a rousing rumba? I'd like to feel that way always, but optimal brain-chemistry isn't eternal, or immune from rampant abuse, and I do not want to exit demented just yet.
Am I the 'Katie (my dear)' you wrote of? I do hope so, I'd like to think any grandiosity I harbour possesses some scaffolding, however modest its framework.
You bring long-departed words back to me: those abandoned when I mastered website design. Without such inspiration I'd likely implode. So, thank you for the magic only you can offer.
Boy cursed with a brain, can I bask in its glow? The desert is a lot less arid now, I am strangely hopeful. A deluge just might befall us.
I'll now go to bed with Thomas Hardy's Jude, you'll sing me to sleep with I'd Love To and I'll dream of Dolly Wilde.
Fuck the world, sage Morrissey, for it is good for little else,
Your Dear Kate
Part III: My Email Exchange With Morrissey
My Dear Kate,
Yes you were the Kate to whom I referred in my blog post. Thank you for defending me on the so-low place over the past twenty four hours. Small kindnesses do not go unnoticed. I often say to fans that you should expect one reply for every three or four letters you send; similarly when I wrote to people I admired I did not expect a reply - and rarely received one.
I often ask fans to write me three thousand words about what I mean to them. Julia and many others began their friendships with me by doing this. I enjoy it and - for the most part - so do they. Would you like to send me a short essay about Morrissey? Kate it's not egomania. It's the hard simple fact that I do not know who I am. I find it fascinating to read about what I mean to others when, from my own perspective, I mean nothing whatsoever. I read them with famished eyes and re-read them and... I often print them out and read them in the bath. Is that too eccentric for you? I hope so.
Subject: Introducing Morrissey...
... as Road Hog. Am I right, my darling?
Before I embark upon such a colossal act of devotion (prose composition candidly capturing my implicit adoration of you) I must ask, yet a-bloody-gain:
Are you indeed my Morrissey? Can you frankly tell me so?
His immediate response:
Then it is over Kate - almost before it began.
Later that day by me:
Any doubt harboured has now fully dissipated.
Am I beyond forgiveness, Morrissey? There is nothing I'd rather do than spend a day crafting a gorgeous essay for you.
Can I please redeem my pitiful self?
This is immensely distressing. I feel as if I destroyed something beautiful. Please tell me to proceed with the essay, it'll be the most gorgeous you've ever received. I promise.
Morrissey, I thought you'd be impressed with my wee discovery. I don't give a toss that you're Road Hog, really! I'm not going to tell anybody. I'm more friendless than you are. I only asked if you were indeed the author on Morrissey's World because I was momentarily confused. Is that so bad, my darling?
You cannot possibly ignore me, Morrissey, I'm infinitely more precious than any of your other fans.
So, sweetie-pie, send me an email saying I am forgiven. Please!!! I am nearly begging!
Through tears so plentiful they shroud me in a mist I'll ask, just once more: would you care to receive an essay from me?
Do please send at will.
Subject: All You Need Is Kate
Are you hungry for my essay? With famished eyes will you indulge fully? I'd like to think you find my Hallo Spacegirl emails amusing and worthwhile.
Today I'm literally going to a friendship group for the mentally-ill, I do so weekly. We really do make Christmas cards in the month of December. Typically, we sit around circular tables playing board games, in our incorrigible way. I keep asking the professionals to bring Twister to the centre, but they say 'it's not appropriate.' How abysmally boring! They feed us too and give away door prizes (everyone could use another tube of toothpaste or a razor). They, rather naturally, have rules. I'm always in danger of being asked to leave: I flirt with two of the only good-looking boys and a sexy girl too. I also say the word 'retarded' sometimes, they go stone-faced when I do. Know that I am without any sociopathic tendencies, my only madness is for words. I'm remarkably sane and only must wage battle on cuntish depression. I'm sure you can sympathize.
An email from you, however truncated or telegraphic, would delight me considerably.
In heady anticipation,
Miss Kate Ryan
This is where I, regrettably, became mean:
Subject: Jumped-up Vocalist
The essay will, sadly, not be written. I tried. I really, really tried. I found myself utterly bereft of inspiration. Hours upon hours I stared at pixellated bareness. No words of adoration for you visited, for I am scarcely a fan anymore. So-Lowers, in their frankness, may have actually pegged you with adeptness. Dull you must really be. With your tiresome set lists & perpetual moaning.
You are not nearly as clever or good-looking as you fancy yourself to be. Taking your shirt off in London will be most farcical. Expect audience members to flee through emergency exit doors. Perhaps if you drank less of your favourite Nazi beverage Fanta and gave up dairy (as any decent animal rights activist would) you'd weigh less.
Canada does not miss you in the least. Did I mention my father was a seal hunter? Cry into your croissant. The country I live in is a dirty word to you. It's better being Canadian than an inbred Englishman: does any other place have more rubbish ribonucleic acid?
Expect me to have a bit of fun on the site you loathe so much. For every fraudulent profile you have on there, in which you engage in constant self-stroking, expect three more from me. I'll use proxies from Antarctica if I must. My posts will not be adulating in the least, it will be a glorious verbal slagging.
By the way, your three new songs are dreadful: never have I heard more banal lyrics. Another album from you, how really likely is that?
This is good-riddance. Have a few good wanks and then kindly exit stage left. Cower in the wings, nobody will likely ask for an autograph. You're so antiquated it would likely be a shaky one anyway. If only your music was as majestic as Damien Dempsey's. Your prodigy surpassed you effortlessly.
Morrissey's final email later that day:
"If you are happy to write to a man with no hope, a shadow dancing on the carpet, someone who is already dead, then please continue. But like the others, you will soon grow tired and leave. They all do."
C'est la vie.