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Wednesday, 3 May 2017

Day 2157 - Another MW classic re-surfaces

Despite Morrissey currently being on a Twitter hiatus, the True Morrissey blog remains live, and today another old MorrisseysWorld classic has been republished.

Much as though i would love to, I can't publish the article here, as I have been banned from doing so. Instead, I will just quote a few of the highlights. The piece is entitled, 'Excerpt from the Autobiography - Taken from chapter 38; The So-low place part 1'.

The article was first published on the MorrisseysWorld blog on July 25 2011, and is all about the year 1997. Here are some of my favourite lines:

"there were three bona fide top 40s in the form of 'Alma Matters', 'Satan Rejected My Soul' and 'Roy's Keen (well, almost...); and the odd hip-swivelling appearance on TOTP and TFI Friday."

"a working class boy from Stretford stood up to the bullying and harassment of a high court judge and a man who beats up dead animal skin stretched over metal for a living"

"Morrissey? Isn't he dead yet? Salt in the wounds? This was industrial-strength alkali. And it burned straight through the bones like a hostile QC through Old Mozza's defence."

Image result for morrissey 1997

"It was the beginning of those seven long years in the wilderness. Jesus only managed forty days."

"Admittedly it was a mistake to snooze horizontally after Mexican food. That was the beginning of the old reflux problem, of course, which has blighted me ever since. I know that now; didn't know it then."

Image result for morrissey 1997 sunbathing


"Ah, those were the days. Russell Brand was safely locked up in some government bedsit in south-east London, a million miles away from the tele."
Image result for russell brand 1997


"The spontaneity of the web somehow intensified the umbilical connection between artiste and audience."

"They were hanging on every syllable, playing 'Satan Rejected My Soul' backwards looking for hidden meanings (and I mean SRMS didn't even have any real meaning when played forwards...)"

"The internet in those days - from Morrissey's perspective - consisted of a fawning fan site or two, endless photographs of myself looking absolutely sensational, and the Diana-Morrissey phenomenon, which scared a few ailing relatives and made them think I might be the antichrist. Lovely stuff."



"those days look rosy compared to the unbridled electronic stalking, harassment and libel of today's Morrissey solo... that man has a lot to answer for. But needless to say, I had the last laugh"

My previous blog entry to this one was a celebration of 1,000,000 page views of FTM, and in it I listed a number of personal highlights from our journey. One that I forgot, which GWO reminded me of, is the connection between the song Smiler With Knife and the MorrisseysWorld story from August 2011, 'Brazil'.

Brazil is a quite remarkable piece of writing, and could only have been written by one person. I guess I should be flattered that there are fools such as Uncle Skinny from So-low who think I could possibly be the author of such beautiful writing. Ironically, both Brazil and the old MorrisseysWorld classic that I have blogged about today, were published on the MW blog in the Summer of 2011, BEFORE I had even discovered it.

14 comments:

  1. ooh always forget to check the other site.. will now, cheers colonel

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  2. really strange this colonel, when I click on the other site the interview comes up and it wont update with Brazil. any ideas

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    1. Brazil isn't on it, it is the excerpt from Autobiography. It is listed under 2011.

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  3. On the subject of 'Brazil', let's not forget that Smiler was played in São Paulo in 2015 as an apparent nod to the Brazil story, as blogged about on Day 1533. The Autobio excerpt was such a delightful discovery to make on TrueMorrissey today. Here's hoping the classic MW posts will continue.

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    1. Well remembered. I've just re-read Day 1533, including the comments, which with the information we now have, exposes Chuck as the deceiving witch we all suspected she was. This place is so much more harmonious without her around. Her and the self-obsessed MerryAnne are well suited.

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  4. A new veil for the new rules. The new attire for a new mistress. Mistrust and distrust. Truth and untruth. The lost years are lost only in name only, save yourself the burden of struggle and embrace the lost years with me. The journey of discovery is a discovery of the most personal. Pursue the purview. Years have gone and stored and lodged in the memory of all. The all fall and leave only temporary fragments of their reality. Things have happened and tried to happen again, almost but not quite. As predicted by myself, ourselves, yourself. A bitter pat on the back for us on that count. Our conscious is a metal bird trapped in a suffocating metal bird cage. I am the angel of the park.

    A boy downstairs in a bar rests his head on the chrome, all alone with wet and disgust pouring from every bone. Under a caliginous sky and in vague and ill-defined Cimmerian refines. I am spectacular and you may compare me to a crepuscular. My very nature is nebulous and my mind is obfuscous. I am a sepulchre of stygian, find me if you can stand the tenebrous blurred lines of your own mind.

    I spy with one eye howling dogs bark into the stark dark and see zero return for their efforts. An allegory there we feel. Archives once lost have come to our attention, no need to mutter or mention a thank you. Your thanks is muted as it stands. A personal archive holding treasures not yet seen and not ever to be believed. Do you believe? Will you believe? The taste of the pudding will reveal the answer. Relieved we are to say you can delve in or delve out. We make no recommendation. It is a personal choice. I do not care, do you care? Must I care? I do not care. Leap the lap of personal salvation, your boots so full of miles and sundials, and the journey is treacherous. Leeches remain leeching. Do you dare step from the comfort of the known? You are parasites. Do not feel sad at this revelation and revel in the fact we all are. Even I. The secret keeper of the regret reaper. Parasites of a fake society, knee deep in insects. Confirmers of doubtless and insurmountable woe. Woe and woe. Victim of self hatred and self esteem plummeting through ocean floors. Ocean doors do not open. No visitors in the watery grave. Cruelty over nurture. Poverty of enjoyment is what structures the order of the less ordered.

    When I was young, not that I have ever encountered a happy memory of youth nor an unhappy one, I was a boy where visitations were met with hesitations. I needed comfort and a chest to rest my head instead of the hollow bed. Christmas contentment which never comes is the dream we cling to and the dream we will die by. There is no contentment to be found with malcontent souls. Gratification will never come when we wait for it. Yet still I wait. An opportunity for untold drama and disaster is what I see. Do not forget that discomfort is either a condition of the brain or a condition of the thing less well thought of as a heart. Choosing will tear you apart. I ride in aeroplanes; you cannot find the strength to mount a donkey. Enough about me, tell me about you. I’m bored already. Stop. Stop. I implore you to stop. Please. Please. Please. Stop.

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    1. I don't understand a word of it, but it looks mighty pretty. Crepuscular has become my new favourite word. It is so....You!

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    2. Oh, how we've missed you, Dawn.

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    3. Wing tips, white doves, sidle by like tears. Punching bags, heavy weights, shoulders that hold years. Childlike, eyes bright, once upon a time. Hand held, bathed in light, innocence protected. Later years, darkness fell, pleas fell, deaf ears. Heavy wants, stolen nights, if no saw, it never happened.

      No one knows. It was never real. But here I am, and breathing.

      Eyes still bright, but my voice, in whispers. In the dead of night, the past is gone. All love, forbidden. Still, nothing lost. Yet.

      Heavy shadows, lost in thought, time stands still, the feelings freeze. Years pass, darkness falls, the earth still blooms, but the sky is dark. I stand still, motionless, barely breathing, and behind this wall. But I can see. Because it’s broken glass. My broken soul. But broken glass, still fits together. Just don’t touch. It’ll fall apart.

      Skin torn, heart worn. Rhymes with warm, but false alarm.
      Instead, forlorn. But so it goes.
      This is truth.
      And the prophets know.

      Once upon a time, there was a house, there was breeze, I remember sunlight, sand, and suntanned knees. Child’s heart, never part, hold your ground, then stand apart. Stand alone. There’s nothing else. It’s how things are, and how flints spark.

      Rocks on hearts, drowning beats. Silence in shadows, mute. Underwater, sinking slowly, melting into liquid, navy.
      Blackness now. Starkness here. Going nowhere. But spinning slowly.

      Seagreen, sea grave. Roses, roses, and we all soon drown.

      Give me your lost, and give me your lonely. I lose time, like gloves. I lose people, like marbles.
      I lose my heart, but in name only.
      And I can lose the lost, the lonely, the daring, and the mad, - like the lost that I was, and that I ever will be.

      I write, because I think. I cry because time moved too fast. I smile, because I lied. I’ll cry in the never, and I look to the warm night for my truth, always.

      I come and go, and in my life I leave, and then I leave again. But here, I return. Because there are games, and there is light, and I see shadows made of gold, and mountains made of days.

      My child’s child ran back. That is, the psyche born of the unconsciousness’s subconscious – or yes, you could just say, my innocence. I called her and she came to me, it’s true. But ever obedient, is not something I recognize, or pull to me, or seek in others.

      And so I stand in the gloam. And here, these words I write, these thoughts, and this explanation - are all the hue that I can see, and the one that no one else can.

      Bathed in all hours in the salmon-coloured Mediterranean reflective light of particles dancing on cathedral rooftops in August, I follow the sun. I follow no one.

      And I stand alone.

      A gaze can envelop all of eternity. And with the lightest touch, my silken fingertips will ever trace on warm, living skin, the history of this life, the next, and more.

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  5. absolutely loving Justin Beiber wearing the Smiths tee shirt, what those on so-low don't know about Justin is that he once had a quiff, and yep jacket and beads!!!! yet so-low are claiming that he has only just stumbled across Moz.. oh! I just love it

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  6. ooh forgot the black rimmed glasses.. the glasses you fool

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