Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Who is Keith Danko? Is he a partner at Titan Capital Group?

Rimbaud experienced his great crisis when he was eighteen, at which moment in his life he had reached the edge of madness; from this point on his life is an unending desert. I reached mine at the age of thirty-six to thirty-seven, which is the age at which Rimbaud dies. From this point on, my life begins to blossom. Rimbaud turned from literature to life; I did the reverse. Rimbaud fled from the chimeras he had created; I embraced them. Sobered by the folly and waste of mere experience of life, I halted and converted my energies to creation. I plunged into writing with the same fervor and zest that I had plunged into life. Instead of losing life, I gained life; miracle after miracle occurred, every misfortune being transformed into a good account. Rimbaud, though plunging into a realm of incredible climates and landscapes, into a world of phantasy as strange and marvelous as his poems, became more and more bitter, taciturn, empty and sorrowful. - Henry Miller

I have no idea who Keith Danko is, but I am determined to find out. Please don't tell me he has joined Titan Capital Group as a partner. I already know that. I am not stupid. And don't tell me that he is a hedge fund industry veteran with years of experience, a man who has served his time at CQS, Acam Advisors, and Goldman Sachs. All that means nothing. Tell me Arthur Rimbaud wrote poems. I won't know who he is. Tell me Picasso painted pictures. I won't know who he is. Tell me Gillian Tett floats in front of me, a lovely vision, almost like a real woman. I might have a clue then. But we cannot know who a man is. Not by his name. Not by his job title. I want answers! Who is Keith Danko?

How many idiots in the history of the world have written poetry? Millions! Arthur Rimbaud was a poet. He was the only poet. How many idiots in the history of the world have painted pictures? Christ knows! Picasso was a painter. He was the only painter. Tell me Lautreamont wrote a novel. I dare you. A poetic novel. Tell me Michael Fowke has been writing this blog for over three years. I just might believe you. But who is Michael Fowke? I want to know who I am. Why am I so desperate to know who Keith Danko is, when I don't even know who I am? There must be an answer to the mystery. I wish I knew who Gillian Tett was, a thousand years ago, in another life. Who will she be, in the future? And who will I be? Who will Keith Danko be? Not that he will have any business coming between us.

If I’m going to continue with this blog, things will have to change. Reality will have to change. It's no good all this, this, this stream of names, stream of companies. I don't know who anyone is. I don't know what anyone does. I am stuck in a reality I never asked for. How long can a revolution last? No one knows what is happening. I am not satisfied. Close to three hundred thousand words now. But I am not satisfied. I dream that one day I will be able to reach a reality that changes everything. Me and the world. And everyone I know. Everything I know. Most art is worthless. That's because the artist is worthless, as a person. That's why there is only one poet, one painter, one literary blogger. I don't know what Lautreamont was. A sort of poet. I don't know what Kafka was. A prophet? He transcended literature. Who is Keith Danko? What does he do? Why do I need to know?

I fell into this. I am not leaving it. I have turned real people into fictional characters. I can't go back now. Imagine writing a play, or a novel. With puppets getting involved in various adventures. What an absurdity that would be! I couldn't do it. I couldn't muster the enthusiasm for such nonsense. Imagine a story. A story that starts at the beginning and ends at the end. A story that isn't real. Ridiculous! No, it's much better to write about a crisis, before it begins, and then to see it through to the bitter end. The financial world transformed by visions! With chaos. With many styles. With Americanisms, and vulgar language, literary quotes and fragments of songs, and voices out of nowhere, all streaming to the end. Wherever the end is, or will be. So, yes, Keith Danko is a part of this. Gillian is a part of this. I could stop, I suppose. Leave it for fifty years, while I work as a ... what could I work as? I don't have a lot of options. Strange thoughts, strange words. My trade.

I will never know who Keith Danko is. He is not Hamlet. He is not Faust. He is not Maldoror. He is not Johan Nilsen Nagel. He is not Pechorin. He is not Georg Bendemann. He is KEITH DANKO! He is real! Do you understand? More to the point, do I understand? Ladies and gentleman, you have to appreciate the fact that Keith Danko is as real as I am. Unfortunately, that's not saying much. Let's leave it here. I have exhausted myself. I am fed up with myself. I hate myself when I'm like this.