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Rob A. Mackenzie




…and, to conclude the way we began, this has all been

about nothing, just time spent driving between airports

or restaurant queues, performances with applause

and indifference to it, where arguments that matter 

are not over politics or morality but whether we ought

to enter parking spaces from the front or rear or how

the this might combine with the that – mangos, from 

a specific New York City fruit shop, for example, will 

leave you one bite shy of sexual climax. Saul Austerlitz

found a “relentless pursuit of the prosaic”, an antidote

to lumbering epiphanies that afflict the arts. Nothing

beyond rug-tugging meta with no metamorphosis, 

nothing beyond a city’s heat-map: the drycleaners, 

subways, half-empty cafes, taxis, movie theatres,

local peculiarities, accretion of minor and imagined

slights and faux-pas leading usually to unmitigated

catastrophe – plotless nothings stirred by the sly

encephalography of comedy to pitched battle with

the instigators of everything, and still they wind up 

debating how close a second button down a shirt

should be to the first, and such yada yada yada… 

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