a congregation of wolves.

Under construction: sample.




Now V could stand for anything. Victory? Five? Five victories? But in this case it feels a lot more like vanquished. Verbose and bloodied I laid on the floor of some cell. For… I don’t know how long. Hours? Minutes? I opened my eyes. Ish. But the swelling had already set in and the haze presented me made me want to spew. But I didn’t. Not yet. It was all rather quite sanguine. My mouth, in profile, laid open, a slight. I remember coughing rather quite a lot. Too much really. I closed my eyes and plotted the room in my pineal. The door against which I laid opening on to two walls running away from each other until stumbling against a far wall which closed off the triangle. The walls an off white, the floor hard. Running my fingers across it I found it gravely cold. Meeting the door, warmer, smooth. My fingers running up and down the layers of cracked paint that built and dropped incrementally like ages in the stratified terrasphere. Meeting the wall my finger tips slipped on the gloss and fell back behind me. Shackled alone, I heard nothing of the other side of the door. My solitude had been broken just once since my maligners had tired of kicking me. When black shoe stepped abreast my huffing chest and slanged away to his heart’s content. I was still none the wiser as to what precisely was going on, but felt I’d inadvertently accepted an invitation in to the lion’s maw. When black shoes spoke, light glinting off his well dubbed and polished toe caps, the words escaping me, the cadence hit me. Or more, it lacked one. A cadence that is. It was more akin to typing words in to a digitized vocal synthesizer. It implied a further lack. Something emotional. But I wasn’t sure of what yet. The word indignado had again cropped up, it haunted me. An illness contracted through ignorance. I knew nothing but that this academy of whatever were none too plussed as regards my blog. It was then I realized it must’ve gone viral and delighted, I reached my hands out to fetch the laptop from the coffee table. But I soon realized, with a sharp jolt about my neck and so on, I wasn’t in my usual lazing spot in the living room, but on the gravely cold floor of a triangle cell. I resigned myself to starvation, after attempting self-snuffing by holding my breath, but finding I could only count to 20. It was hours after that I spent slowly lulling myself to death that I was disturbed somewhat by a tinker, tinkle and then a nominally large explosion.


Livid, as you can imagine, I braved the haze and opened my eyes shouting, YOU BLOODY FOOL CAN YOU NOT LET A MAN DIE IN BLOODY PEACE! And there, on the short side and somewhat rotund stood Napoleon. S. Jose Napoleon, to be exact. My saviour. As saviours go he wasn’t noticeably concerned as regards my safety and, grabbing me by the shackles, dragged me through the rubble and I was rather quite impolitely bundled in to the back of a waiting van. Thanks! I thought. Thanks a bunch, as I bounced about the walls and ceiling of the van, cushioning the moments at which my bones and the metal intersected invariably with my face. It was a long drive back to A Coruna and I had only just about enough sense left to, upon arrival, read the sign above the door I was quickly ushered through. It read:




I was placed face down on the floor and left alone for some time. I wondered what the bloody hell was going on. I wanted answers, and these damned shackles off. I had needed to itch my nose for what felt like years. I made do by wiping my face against the carpet, which can be best described as constituted of tiles of woven wire. It didn’t suffice and I breathed a sigh of relief when Napoleon returned with cutters. Freed I helped myself to a chair and sat and itched my nose while he spent an inordinate amount of time rounding the oversized table which dominated the room. My eyes were little better and I could just pick out the red of blood where my hands had touched against the wood of the chair and floor.


You messed with the wrong people, señor. [I correct his speech for both our benefits]


Exactly. They don’t take too kindly to change round here, you should know that.


A bewildering silence ensued before I realized my nose itching had turned to nose picking quite inadvertently and I quickly returned my hand to my side, depositing of the results on the underside of the seat.


            What do you mean people? What do you mean wrong? What do you mean here? [I attempted to look serious, suss him out with a tight frown, but as my sight returned slowly throughout the conversation I realized I had been frowning at a rhododendron on the bookshelf to Napoleon’s left the whole time]

What do you know of the International Indignado Brigades? [He leaned forward, I assume by the sound lighting a cigarette, or cocking a gun. Or perhaps utilizing one of the former with the aesthetic qualities of the latter]

            Inter-who? Nada. Diddly-pip. Don’t know ‘em.

Well they know you, Hullcity_fan11. [I gasped at this stage] They know you well. As do the Academy, I believe you and they are well acquainted. [I gasped again and had to take a breather for a moment to regain inhalation normalcy]

            Yes, we’ve had our moments. Today, as you know, I assume. You’re the one that ruined their lovely décor. And what exactly have they to do with me, other than gifting me the urgent need of a dentist.

You’ve, unfortunately, stumbled in to what until a week ago was a proxy war. Literally, played out on the proxy servers. The ii want freedom from centralized control. The Academy, as you might know, hold power over the entire Spanish language. It’s here the fight began, with The Academy shutting down facebooks, blogs, even Myspaces whose users communicate in text speak. Your blog has gone viral. And the ii has taken ¡¡ as its emblem of resistance. You’re a marked man, and Concepcion is out for your blood. I see he’s already bled you a fair bit.

            Black shoes? He’s had his pound. What does he want with me?

To silence you, not to martyr you. Just, disappear you.

            Right. [By this point I felt myself disintegrating, noting the growing pool of blood across the carpet, I could muster little else] And you are who?

Napoleon. The ii wanted you alive. You’re their mascot. Their figurehead. I was tasked with retrieving you, they’ll be here soon to claim you.

            Well … all I can say to you is, fuck that.


I stood to leave, and it is unclear to me whether I feinted of slipped, but as you may have gleaned by this point, me and the floor are well acquainted and upon greeting it I sank quickly in to unconsciousness. Blowing bubbles in the morbid puddle creeping out around me.



we, the damned. the voyeur.

the voyeur.

He’s been sat there for hours. What is he doing? Same as always, nothing I imagine. I wonder what’s on the telly – ooh! He’s up! Wait, no, no, just a stretch. Maybe a yawn. I’d better take note: 22:04:57 – Sub. A leans backwards in chair. Pen leaves paper, no trace left behind. Leans back forward. Pen meets paper, no productivity achieved thus. I’ll place my notepad and pencil just so – as always – for best access should anything of worth occur. The carpet looks brownish in this light, I know better though. It’s a reddish colour I think. Or maybe more a rose. The bed is too small for two people. When they sleep, they lay practically on top of one another in order to keep from falling over the edge on to that brownish carpet. Reddish, sorry. Or maybe rose. The full moon is my ally. By it I see everything. The crescent is my nemesis, pulling the light from the air and leaving my task to the light lazily drifting from some object beyond my gaze. I imagine a lamp of some sort, maybe a candle. But I’ll bet its a lamp. A tall floor standing lamp. Wood carved petals flowing from a dainty base. Disappearing in to a large fabric shade. That’ll be why its so ineffective as a lighting instrument. Or maybe a candle for that matter. Half-moon even, isn’t particularly helpful. The knock of her feet on what I gather is the wall. A green wall maybe. The soft flow of pages she turns. AGAIN! Where is my notepad? Pencil?

22:07:34 – Sub. B turns page.

22:07:37 – Sub. B turns page.

22:07:40 – Sub B. turns page.

22:07:44 – Sub B. hesitates, turns page.

The rasp of his dry pen on barren paper. The languid turn of the ceiling fan blades, pushing the dark matter around. Not that I can see a ceiling fan from this angle, nor dark matter for that matter. I am twenty-five feet away, slightly to the left of their window from where I stand at mine. Two storeys higher. Or four lifts, in scaffolding terms. It allows for sound observation of the bed, the chair, the desk, a small L-shape of floor around the near side and end of the bed. The peripheries of the circumference of light my binoculars can fathom, but any further and visual detail is lost. My blind spots are the immediate floor at the foot of the window, the wall facing me in its entirety, anything beyond the bed – although on a clear sunny day it is possible to make out the shape of what is perhaps a drawer, or door, or wardrobe – the furthest one third of the desk, below it, and anything relatively far above it. The ceiling, the left hand wall, from where I stand, and the far wall. I can see enough of the right hand side wall in order to guess at its whole. All in all I am not too far off a mental facsimile. And my work in progress, my magnum opus, is nearing completion. My research will never be done, a facsimile is just that, it lacks detail. It needs detail. But my model is nearing completion. Years and years. I’ve built it up, and only several voids remain. And when they’re filled I will have dominion over all. I’ll be the master of all I purvey. I will be immortal. 22:10:38 – Sub B. turns page. All I see, here, from my window, will be mine. To grasp, caress, support, destroy. I will be god and – 22:11:27 – Sub B. turns page. - what was I saying again? Ah yes, I will be god and everything that exists in front of my window for me to see will be mine to love or hate at turns of my own whim. The figures, now barely fleshed skeletons of paper, will be whole, and will laugh and cry for my amusement. At my command. I will be them and they will be me, for my foot to crush or lips to kiss. I will be … everything.

The Voyeur stands stiff in the window. A tall wooden stool, worn, where he repeatedly places and picks up a notepad and pencil. The room he stands in is starkly lit, with no corner obscured. As much as a corridor may be labelled a room, that is. From the light bulb hanging naked in the centre of the ceiling it is possible to denote a doorway, closed, in the wall opposite the window where the Voyeur stands. Next to the door around chest height is a white plastic square attached to the wall with three screws although there are holes for four. The lug heads are hollowed out from use and are therefore lodged for posterity’s measure. The white square harbours a switch presumably for operation of the light. Equidistant between the door and window is a low brown sofa, old yet immaculate. Opposite the sofa and centrally positioned is a television of black plastic. The floor is bare concrete. The four walls and ceiling are bare concrete. The one blind spot from the position of the filament is directly above the bulb, where it must be assumed the wire escapes through a hole in the ceiling. Observed from behind, the Voyeur is dressed in a ratty old jumper and sweat pressed corduroy trousers. His feet are bare. His hair thinning, a puff of white smoke about his skull. His arms are raised to his face holding a black object he rarely removes, at such intervals it becomes apparent it is a pair of pleather bound binoculars. Beyond the pane the night sops with water. Spreading in tides across the glass. Anything past that is obscured by streams of smog rising from cars bleating six storeys below, that is twelve lifts, in scaffolding terms, and the contrast of light to dark on either side of the window. The Voyeur leans in to the cold, pressing his body up against it to peer on through the elements.

Behind him the television softly blares, muzzled by the marching feet of crusading pleurisy. Pleut. Rain, sorry. The woman on the screen is starched and bleached, ranting on about this and that, trying to sell the viewer something useless. The news then stops for an advertising break and the lectures become more interesting. Relevant. Minutes pass, unmoving, other than the repetitive flash of colours thrown from the television. When starched and bleached returns to the screen, discussing some point of interest or other, the Voyeur reaches panicking for his notepad, pencil and the information merges as one in the maelstrom between his ears.


22:56:17 – Sub A. rises.


22:56:24 – Sub A. now on bed. Sub B. laid on back. Magazine has slipped from vision.


22:56:30 – Sub A. atop Sub. B. Seem to be committing some sacral dance. Murder?


22:56:56 -Sub A. gazing at wall above bed. Sub B. gazing through window. Still embraced. Moving erratically.


22:57:24 – erratic movements continue. Sub B. unblinking.


22:57:52 – Sub A. disengaged. Moved to desk. Sub. B laid on stomach. Flicking pages of magazine.


22:59:58 – Sub A. leans back. Yawn? Paper defaced. Now reads: ‘Time collapses. Linearity erodes, on the precipice where fact and fiction merge and parade under the banner of reality with a certain caprice. Here at this desk. I don’t know what time it is.’ Sub B. turns page.

The smog whips up tumult in the fathoms between the buildings. The rain, smoke and carbon dioxide fumes melt together to create a curtain through which no device may pierce. Somewhere in the dead space between walls scuffling is audible, akin to the pads of tiny feet. The Voyeur stays watching. Pushing the macula lutea. Deafening all in the push of the centralis. Looking for the subtle movements of shadow puppets. The television, the sofa, the walls, the feet dissolve. As the clouds envelop the moon and his ally is lost, his mind lingers on one purpose. His one purpose. And the walls build up brick by brick for him to one day smash down. And somewhere, close. Not too far off. A man sits blind in a cave of fossilised life.

we, the damned. the writer.

the writer.

Time collapses. Linearity erodes, on the precipice where fact and fiction merge and parade under the banner of reality with a certain caprice. Here at this desk. I don’t know what time it is. Wednesday? Monday through Sunday trundle on, and destroy one another as an ouroborous. I think its the tail end of the week. Or perhaps the head. In this room, here at this desk, the bland avarice of solubility jogs my memory too much. Too too much. Its on this precipice where time collapses. Its on this precipice where days collide.

At this desk. The grain is solid, running in lines from one end to another broken only by occasional eyelets and objects strewn apparently at random, however now as I picture it in my mind placed just so to imply carelessness. Or perhaps abstraction. There is a lamp, not akin to but a simulacrum of the one that I glanced in the window of 25b Cannon Street, London, WC1. It has a green cuboid shade with one face missing from which slightly protrudes a dull bulb. The wire trails from the back of the cuboid, winding around a brass stem to a weighty base before disappearing over the tip of the far end of the table and beyond. I witnessed the object some years prior, and only from three of its six sides - when seen as a complete object – and so it must be half assumed. If seen in its composite form I viewed only two fifths of its overall external area, tops, and from a distance, and so any wear, deformity, maker’s markings and so on are null in the instance of its reproduction here. It is reproduced lit, however was originally seen unplugged, and so the angles at which the generated light project must too merely be assumed. The light splays little to the sides, or up. And is thrown meekly down across the left half of the table from its sentinel position at the farthest left corner of the solid grain from where ‘I’ hovers. Its light stumbles where it meets the spine and placated pages of two books; the first two thirds of a sheet of paper; the nib of a pen; the very bottom of a cylindrical glass object; the edge of the table on two sides where it falls in to the comparative darkness of the wider room. The book spines are probably coloured in a dark shade, although the material of their binding and their pages are rendered in a greenish hue where the lamp casts tampered light and dead shadows beyond. Inscribed on the spine above is the word INTIMACY, on the other JOURNEY TO THE END OF- the last words are lost. Along the curvature of light three inches clockwise the paper is creased. Slightly. It is lined, in faint grey, or perhaps a dark blue. It has no preordained margin. Along the very top, situated roughly in the centre of the width are scrawled three words containing one use of punctuation. The view has been approached from the perspective of the lamp in this instance and so reads thus:

we, the damned [upside down, backwards]

Using implicit knowledge of the runes of the English language it is possible for the brain to visualise the shapes and render them in a decipherable state. Therefore the pattern reads:

we, the damned

Several lines below rests a pen nib. A metallic gold colour emanating from a small steel ball bearing smeared in dark blue/black ink. The same tone as the words scrawled atop the page. The metallic gold colour housing of the ball bearing backs on to a gold coloured cone of soft plastic before meeting with the beginning of a transparent plastic cylinder encasing a thin tube filled with ink of the aforementioned shade. Baring for the shadows now. Before the ink tube can run to clarity its outer stretch is obscured from observation by a thumb, index and middle finger that swaddle its circumference in such a way as to throttle it thoroughly. Delirium tremens or no the fingers shake just perceptibly, leaving small ink marks around the general area of where the nib meets the paper. The digits are members of a set of five attached to a hand, which in turn connects to a wrist, elbow, upper arm, shoulder, neck, chin, mouth, philtrum, nose, tear ducts, eyes, optic nerve, the visual cortex – taking the hyphen as a knife – through the pons to the pineal gland. Where can be found ‘I’. Nice to meet you. Out back through the eyes the rest of the body is swathed in darkness and must too be assumed. A hand which intermittently grasps at a glass with a cylindrical base, or that picks at the petals of a flower sat low in a glass vase of cylindrical proportions. Below in the darkness from where the table drops; legs, feet and toes sit still, mulling the tapping of a steel ball bearing on creased white paper.

A noise is audible behind ‘I’, a woman laid on a bed; over the covers. She flicks through a magazine of photographed faces in the blue light of a full moon rushing in over her torso, one third of the bed and covering three foot of carpet before falling short of the light and relief of the writer at his table. She wears little, laying stomach down. She kicks her feet against the headboard and flicks the pages with the rhythm of a pendulum. The sound is soft at first, slow, but as moments fleet and the blue of the moon moves across the room, retreating further from the writer to illuminate the woman fully, it grows in candour. A scratch, before a saw, a shout, a scream and then silence. Soon, I’ll have to give up gazing at this paper. I will think about the impotence of my pen and the willingness of my hand. On the bed where I and she will tessellate. With the first rip of clothing the words will finally flow to me. And I will look away from her contorted face and gaze at the darkened wall, and there it will hit me. Afterwards I will sit down at my desk, pen to paper. Write phrases to dissolve totality. Words to transgress utility, a piece of writing to subvert my boredom, with words something like: time collapses, days collide.

life: lived.

Who is it then? Do we know? Ah, you’ve gone. Way back. Fiddling about with that box of yours.

Well then. Who is it then? Do we know? I shouldn’t’ve worn a jacket. The statue, I don’t know. The bust? The man or the woman, the man I’d imagine, he’s higher up. Woman as decora- the white sheets red, midnight warm. Too warm. Hm, some might say. Too warm. Hm. Window should be opened, but it’s left cold. And the people linger as cadavers lurching here, over there. But the howling screams and screaming howls cut the air altogether. Too loud, some might say –tion. But who can tell. I can’t tell. Can you tell?

With every step he moves his eyes, I’ve seen it, Hey! Would you hurry up! This one’s alive! I’ve seen it! You’ll take your time. And the, what’s an artist’s mixing board? Where their oil paints are stored? What’s it called?- He takes the palette down again. Looks around the corner, not happy, frowns again. Deeper somehow. Scooping amber, is it amber? The beard is patchy, he should probably shave it. The girl is naked, she should probably shave it. Who has a chaise-longue in a room with no heater. Foolish –Wooden choc? That’ll do. I’m not arsed to think so far. Not too far. And what’s the woman doing? Petals? Rose petals? They’re mint green. Why would she be throwing mint?

With every step, I tell you. You can hear the grind of his brass chin on his brass neck. Maybe it’s the cars. Probably it’s the cars. Or maybe it’s her. Sans-culottes. Spreading flowers around the grave. Whose grave? His grave? Her grave? Maybe no one’s. Been here sometime. Long time. But all I ha- red dress white, afternoon cold. Not too cold. Autumn, probably. Autumn, definitely. We’ll see. Is it allowed to be Catholic? After the , y’know. She don’t tell, he don’t tell. The beard is full, he should probably shave it. A baby’s crying. Somewhere. Nowhere. Back of the room. The easel at their flat is full, canvas empty –ve is wandering. For today. Might change tomorrow. Hopefully. Honestly.

She’s not even wearing shoes, have you seen this? She’s not even… ! Madness. She must be frozen. I can’t see a name. Can you? Not hither, nor thither. Is it Degas, maybe. I said is it Degas? You’re not listening. Maybe round the- front of the tram rolls low along the road. He’d never’ve seen it coming. A moment prior a bird flew overhead. Wipes his coat, frowns again. He never saw it coming. Steps off, looking up, trundle on the pavers and up and off. People screaming. Somewhere. Nowhere. The account at the bank is full, the easel at their house is empty. Tram rolls on. He’d never’ve seen it coming -back. Uff, it’s getting cold now. I should have my jacket on. It’s not on the sides, maybe round the… what did you say? I wonder how they get the bodies down here. You’re off to Rome? We’ve only just got here! Home? Oh home. Yes, yes, well. Back’s a front of back and front all the same. Is it this way? Or maybe just the way is this.

Composition Commentaire

Ces photographies ont été réalisées à Paris, au cimetière Montmartre durant le mois de Septembre 2011 avec un appareil photo moyen format de la marque japonaise Fujifilm.
L’ensemble des éléments apparaissent dans un ton neutre. La couleur prédominante de ce diptyque est la couleur beige. La lumière est chaude.
Les sujets sont immobiles et centrés à l’intérieur du cadre.
Cependant, la statue, stoïque de par sa nature, semble synchroniser un mouvement avec le personnage vivant de la scène.

Composition Note

The photographs were taken in Paris, in Montmartre cemetery in September 2011. Taken in standard format Japanese Fujifilm.

All the elements are rendered in a neutral tone. The colouring is predominantly beige. The light is warm.

The subjects are stationary and centred in the frame.

Yet, the statue, stoic by nature, seems synchronised with the movement of the living narrator of the scene.


(http://www.marieathenais.com/ && http://acongregationofwolves.tumblr.com/)

serie B coming post-haste.
Photographs courtesy of sister wolf Athenais.


serie B coming post-haste.

Photographs courtesy of sister wolf Athenais.



Chapter Four.


January First, Two Thousand and Five After Death.

Thirty-Three minutes past Six Ante Meridian.

Manitou says: Sorry, do you have a lighter, please?

Brahman says: Er, yeah, sure… there. How’s your night been?





Chapter Three.


April Twelfth, Two Thousand and Seven After Death.

Fifteen minutes to Eight Post Meridian.

Narrator says: 4 Bd Voltaire. After months of deliberation, a three second flourish on the signature rendered the third floor apartment on the left here under the joint ownership of Brahman and Manitou. It is small. Cramped. The walls lean over you as if to crash down around you, a surf of bricks, to drag you out to sea. But the ceilings are high, and open up the environs, allow you to breathe.

The large room, street side, is for them. Brahman has already bought the blue pastel paint for the small room, courtyard looking, and a flat pack cot.

It’s not too soon, for all this… don’t you think? - Manitou had said.

- Nah, it’ll be perfect. It’s all perfect. perfect.

They laid back on the sofa, in each others arms, Manitou laid her hands on her stomach and looked along the walls, poised to crash. Perfect.

It will be three months, five days, ten hours and forty-seven minutes before, sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, they receive the news that it was is will, not.


Chapter Two.

Filles du Calvaire.

June Seventh, Two Thousand and Ten After Death.

Twenty-Seven minutes past Four Ante Meridian.

Narrator says: One hour, two minutes and seven seconds ago, Brahman had stood loosely against the wall to my right. Leaning heavily against the drainpipe several inches below the blackened mark, he swore at his feet. He punched the wall around about the cut between the second and third stone from the floor and regretted it instantly.

Manitou stood a little behind him, your side of the two painted over grill faces. Scuffing her sole along the kerb. She let her eyes rest on an abandoned anonymous alimentation bag, and let her thoughts rest on the fate of its fleeting owner. And the assuredly finished contents, assuredly at least two cans of Amsterdam Maximator. The fissure concretely perceivable, in the two foot and a half distance between their bodies, and ever pushing further.

A fissure ripped promptly by inaction. They had formerly been together pressed. Close to the electrical box to my left. Manitou had however, felt more inclined to pay attention to the box and its black paint admonishment, than the amorous come ons of her beau of time passed, current, and inevitable future.

Inaction leading to the deserted scene in which we find ourselves. A deserted scene where in the air lingers final words:

What about your coat?

- Fuck the coat.


Chapter One.

The Bastille.

June Twenty-Eighth, Two Thousand and Ten After Death.

Thirty Four minutes past Eleven Post Meridian.

Narrator says: To my near left is a couple. The male is Emanuel Brahman, he is a researcher at a small security services company. His hobbies are bowls and stamp collecting. He has worn glasses since the age of seven, when the orbs within his eye sockets twisted in to the shape of rugby balls. He wears an earring in his right ear, a subtle silver link tight against the flesh. This addition goes unseen in attached photography due to the angle at which he holds his head. He is thirty four years of age. To his right is the female Gitche Manitou. She is a receptionist at a central Parisian bank. Her work is repetitive but she enjoys the calm of the wide open office space and greeting familiar clients. She has few pass times other than spending her time with M. Brahman. She too has worn glasses since the age of seven, which acted as common ground when first meeting M. Brahman. Her hair is a dark auburn. Her eyes a similar shade. She is thirty six years of age. They left their apartment together at approximately Ten minutes past Ten Post Meridian. They have sat in silence for the last Fifteen minutes, which M. Brahman is about to attempt to dissipate. In the time they have been sat down they have consumed nothing. The waiter visible back left has been shooed away several times.

To my extreme left is a couple. Thomas and Philipe, they require no second names as they are simply supplementary characters providing the scene with a well necessitated depth.

The irony of the scene lies in the fact that, Thomas and Philipe have recently found each other. Their first meeting has gone well and they have found themselves in a jovial mood. We cannot know the future, but for the present all is fine. Juxtaposed to this is M. Brahman and Mlle. Manitou. They have been together for Five years, Six months, Twenty-Eight days, Seventeen hours and Forty-Six seconds. This relationship ended Three point Five seconds ago upon the utterance of the words: “Maybe we should stop.” And it stopped.