4th person singular
The Adventures of Brain Man

an alchemical story

by Ron Whitehead

A Ruin I

at Howth I stand looking to sea
one purple crocus at my door
a ruin I have few walls
left to secure myself from storm
bold I stand vines to mortar stretch
 
spring, a ruin I wonder enthralled
by wind and rain sun and sea
ships see I come and go
but I remain a ruin
 
rumination filling cracks gaping
low and high windows doors roof
all gone only angel song and me
a ruin I you me all one we be

The Other

I told you I am the oldest of six children; my parents Goliath and Grendel, my younger brother Muscle Man, my sisters Lamia and the Three Furies, but I forgot to mention the Other, the shadowy figure, the older brother I never knew who left home when he was sixteen never to be seen again and only heard of in newspaper reports, magazine articles or from so and so saying they saw him dropping into some dark alley or slipping into a second hand bookstore. He never wrote so we never knew where he was. He studied for two years – after leaving home – at Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship, won all kinds of academic awards: ESU and JBE scholar awards and writing awards but we didn’t go to any of the presentations because we weren’t invited. We always found out about them from some other source. We read the occasional poem in the New Yorker (the librarian would give us) and of course we read his deadly strange books. He was a prolific writer: On A Mission To Procure Molasses For The U.S. Army, Numinous, From Marduk To Urantia, Approaching The New Age: A Pilgramage, Eve & The Ophidians: The Red Flower, The Plot, The Life of Pierre “POM POM” Revoir: Anarchist, God in Heaven, Oh Melchizedek, My Daughter Just Loves Her Vulva: Portraits of Life in A Small Town, Stone Thief, A Legend in His Own Mind, WO-BA WO-BA, Monkeys Rule The World, Down and Out in Louisville, My Daddy The Czar, Myweeni’s Satyricon, The Mosquito Extermination Commission, Rishikesh, He Lives and its sequel He Dies, his academically acclaimed work on comedy Aristotle and Anassoyes, his award winning one act expressionist play: The Absurd Turds, the Onan Award winning short story “One Armed Adulterers: The Masturbatin Blues,” his astonishing book on literary and cultural criticism titled The Politics of Marriage: Parallelism, Convergence and Transmutation in Three Stories by Tolstoy, his work on esoteric mysticism Mysticus Memoria Rhythmus: Ignis Fatuus?, to name a few and of course the most controversial one, 123 weeks on the New York Times Bestseller List: Guilt Without Sex, oh and who could forget his internationally acclaimed UR-Feminist Fantasy: Fellatio With Dirty Men Made Them Grow Moustaches. I call him Brain Man. Why not? After everyone started calling me Bone Man I started calling my younger brother Muscle Man and felt it only natural to call this shadow intellect Brain Man. I remember walking into his room when I was a kid, I was in my I’m gonna be a spy stage and I was taking notes, writing everything down for future reference, god the books everywhere and he was just in high school: books about the holocaust and the apocalypse, Gibran, Rumi, Sufi books, Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, Freud and Jung and their followers, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Corso, Ferlinghetti and The Beats, Hesse and Mann, some guy named Hamsun, Ibsen, Munch, Jacobsen, Strindberg, and all kinds of esoteric mystical occult stuff: crystal skulls and pyramids, Egypt, Great White Brotherhood, Atlantis, the Bible, Alchemy, Gnosticism, the Essenes, Egyptian and Tibetan Books of The Dead, Cayce, Hopis, all the major religions, meditation, levitation, invisibility, Dylan, he was consumed by Dylan and Gregorian Chants, God the sounds that came out of his attic bedroom: scared the hell out of us kids some nights. There were lots of posters and pictures on his walls, surreal and psychedelic stuff, sayings and poems tacked all over, covering the walls like wallpaper, one poem by Hesse titled “Stages,” one by Wendell Berry titled “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” and then one he wrote I never understood, “3 A.M.”?
3 A.M.

I stare at three prunes on a 
white napkin on the brown arm
of an Indian couch against a
brown carpeted floor with three
steps leading up to…a white
wall. A tiny bug crawls from
one prune trying to escape my
finger which smashes it. My finger
leaves it exactly where it dies
as proof that it did exist.

See what I mean? What the hell was he getting at? I don’t know. He was so strange. He had tea bags hanging from his ceiling, a tombstone in the center of his room, candles all over, a human skull on his desk, a stuffed raven perched on the back of his chair, incense going all the time. Totally weird stuff and he never talked. I never heard him say a word. One day he was gone. We never saw him again. I heard once he decided to become an Essene, read tons of books. May have helped translate some of The Dead Sea Scrolls, got rid of everything, started fasting and one Easter Sunday – I read this in the newspaper – he burned down hundreds of acres, said it was an accident, said he was burning off a plant bed for an herb garden. No charges were pressed. He disappeared again. I heard he went to Greece for a couple of years, lived near Delphi or maybe on an island, traveled all round east on the Enlightenment Tour to Egypt, Persia, India, Tibet, and back again.

Your Arrogance

Squinting my eyes tighter: what I first thought was a wormhole my narrowed vision now transmuted to a keyhole. I rubbed my hand across the smooth wood paneled wall and found the seams of the door, a closet door, actually more than a closet the narrow black room reminded me of some ancient burial chamber, perhaps a catacomb, as my flashlight revealed deep shelves embedded in the walls and at the end of the room an opening to the left as if the room extended to other, hidden, areas of the large attic. But I stopped just inside the door at the first of Brain’s large black file cabinets in which I discovered manuscripts, filed manuscripts, some typed, some handwritten, and letters, file after file of letters. Working my way from top to bottom of the first four-drawer cabinet I pulled the bottom drawer open and my eyes flashed on the red TERROR file. The first letter was written by two professors from the University of Tulsa:

Your Arrogance,

We do not consider your (unfortunately best selling and so-called ur-feminist fantasy) novel, FELLATIO WITH DIRTY MEN MADE THEM GROW MUSTACHES, even remotely humorous or interesting. How your publisher sold any copies is beyond us and reflects the oh so sad state of our patriarchal society. We don’t think the text is well written, as a matter of fact we don’t think you can write at all. We are performing research (investigations!) on certain sections of your text to determine whether you have plagiarized older (perhaps ancient) documents. You sir have performed a great injustice and disservice to the cause of women’s rights, to the emancipation, yes emancipation, of women! If there is ever anything we can do to hinder your progress be assured that we will. We will create detours, roadblocks, whatever obstacles we can: YOU are on our list so BEWARE!

Despitefully,

Professors Sparrowsworth & Frogbait
University of Tulsa


This letter shocked me for three reasons: 1) I had read, I thought, all Brain’s published work (English translation) and he always, explicitly and implicitly, advocated the freedom and personal rights of every individual regardless of race, sex, creed, etc. 2) Brain had always been a loner but the terrorist attacks that had driven him to complete isolation, to invisibility, started within a month after the date on the Sparrow/Frog letter and 3) FELLATIO was published long after Brain left home; the professors’ letter was dated nearly a year after the book was published; how, how did the letter get here? Brain hadn’t returned home since he left, years ago! Or had he?!

Brain Man

After Brain Man, my invisible older brother, The Other, without a word to anyone, left home I started slipping up to his attic room. For months, then years, I made notes. I was secretive about my journeys because, for all I knew, he might come bolting in the moment I sat down in his dark green leather chair plus his room scared the hell out of me what with the heavy smell of musk, the creaking floor, the low whistling sounds of the wind, the wind moving the tea bags – dangling on strings from the ceiling – to dance a slow circling dance, the tombstone in the center with Reverend Roscoe Rankin January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849 inscribed on it, seven candles cross the top of it with old wax down the sides and on his desk a human skull, an Egyptian ankh, and obsidian stone shaped like the head of a spear, a small crystal skull, a bronze dragon, a gold Seal of Solomon with a strange design at its center hanging from a turquoise necklace, the bookends of some character I hoped was Pan but I feared was the Devil, with three books between them: Gustav Meyrink’s The Golem, Bruno Schulz’s Sanatorium Under The Sign of The Hourglass, and Knut Hamsun’s Hunger, the stuffed raven perched on the back of his chair and on the walls a Munch painting: “Death and The Maiden,” a Van Gogh: “Skull With A Cigarette,” psychedelic posters, a stained glass three-dimensional hanging of a pyramid that drew my eyes to its center: sides of diminishing multi-toned browns flowing into a dark-blue pyramid flowing into a circle of fire into the center: a golden pyramid.

At times, with all the sights and sounds of the room, sitting in his chair, I found myself staring, drifting, deep into the golden pyramid and the next thing I knew I had passed through the fire, had passed through a blinding light that lightened my electromagnetic field and I entered a chamber, the upper chamber of the pyramid and in that golden chamber I levitated over an open, golden sarcophagus and as I floated, relaxing, moving deeper and deeper, a brilliant light filled the crystal ceiling of the chamber, filled the room permeating my entire being and particles of gold from the room danced with the light and found focus in my being and from time to time I left the chamber through the ceiling and found that I could travel anywhere I wanted and see whatever I desired to see and then return, reversing the process until I was conscious again sitting in his chair.

The first thing I always did (after the first few months) before I sat down in his chair was to light his Spiritual Sky incense. He had a large hand-carved wooden box full of packaged musk. The package had a For Madmen Only, Inc. stamp on its face.

At times, sitting there, in the quiet, with the wind, with my eyes closed, I could hear laughing: distant, soft, closer, hysterical, never long before fading and gone. I wondered if it was him and he could see me, perhaps traveling through the pyramid.

After a few months of sneaking up there and sitting quietly and taking in the vibrations I started looking through his books and papers and listening to his music. His Gregorian Chants were my mainstay – they seemed most appropriate for this microcosmos – but I worked my way through his entire music and book collection and I was nearly finished with his papers when, at the back of the bottom drawer of the black file cabinet in the corner of his closet I found a document, actually a small file, in his handwriting, that along with my questions of why and how he wrote Eve & The Ophidians: The Red Flower, made me determine to find him no matter where I had to go. The document I first, mistakenly, thought was one of his longer novels had two words stamped in red ink on the front cover: CODENAME: BANKRUPT.

C.I.A.

VV Four dogs, snarling, growling, teeth gleaming in Delphic moonlight, had us squared. The square of dogs stood at the edges of the circled temple: the temple of Apollo at Delphi. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck was standing. I had goose bumps and felt like I might piss in my pants. I had been dreaming: I was hot on the trail of Brain Man. I was in a cave high on a peninsula off Mykonos. On the ceiling of the cave was chiseled “The Other was here.” Then the dogs woke me. Luckily I kept my walking stick next to my sleeping bag. I moved slowly. I let the fear pass. I punched Gene, sleeping about six feet away, with my stick.

--- What the hell! He said.

--- Be quiet I said. Move real slow. Look

He saw the dogs.

--- Oh shit! Was all he could get out.

He didn’t move.

I got up in slow motion. I’d seen my Dad deal with packs of wild dogs in western Kentucky. Daddy was always meaner than they were so he always won. I crouched. I growled.

--- Okay who wants me first?!

I screamed a vicious growling scream and swung my stick hard and fast in a circle

--- come on you Bastards!

Before the words were out the dog with its back to the valley, to the Gulf of Corinth, came leaping with teeth flashing. I gripped and whirled my ash stick with all my might landing a blow that crushed the dog’s head. It went down with a thud and a whimper. I turned quickly to the other three. They stared for a moment then turned and ran.

Stuck down under Brain Man’s CODENAME: BANKRUPT file was a thick, bound, manuscript, that I think was his doctoral dissertation, titled “Quest For Self In The Ocean Of Consciousness: The Origins of Expressionism and Modernism.” Copious notes were written on all margins. Jammed inside the front cover were letters from Richard Kain, a photo of Brain with Richard Ellmann in front of Ellmann’s home at 39 St. Giles in Oxford and notes on their conversations related to “the ocean of consciousness novel,” comments on a lecture and meeting with John Kelly, editor of Yeats’ letters, discussions and notes from a Valentine Cunningham of Oxford, a note from Michel Butor, and other old letters and notes from various persons.

There were several paper-clipped pages, tucked inside the back cover, with the heading “The Ocean of Consciousness Movement.” Brain had created characters he called Numinous: The Group of Seven. They were the founders of the OC Movement which was to be a poetry/prose movement that would transform and redirect the literary world of Brain’s Categorical Vision: Modernism, postmodernism, Ocean of Consciousness. He predicted that out of the Post-Modern surreal chaos would evolve a structure, more vast than presently perceivable, that he called The Ocean of Consciousness. The structure is difficult to perceive because we are the structure, the structure that encloses the chaos. But where do We, do I, my Self, begin and end? Do we begin? Do we end? The Earth was once thought of as the center of the universe but our view, our perception, thrown out, like a boomerang, through the creative imagination expanded and is now returning and we will soon see that we, each one of us, are the center of a vast, perhaps infinite, universe.

Brain had submitted individual pieces by The Seven to a number of journals and magazines with many accepted and published. A list was typed for each fictional author’s works. Each one specialized in a different genre. Probably the best known was short, two stanza, poem published in the Paris Review:

Ocean of Consciousness
Penumbraic Penultimatum of The OC Movement
 
All streams reach Here
polyglot commingling
blood filled vessels
racing to The Heart
 
Vapors rise
Thalass fees Herself
all come
and go Her Way

The mention of “OC Movement” created quite a stir and initiated a stream of questions as well as anticipation of the ultimate statement. The poem was attributed to the Numinous: Group of Seven member named Alfred The Great.

I wondered why my brother had abandoned this apparently lost text and associated project. Had he forgotten about it? Certainly not: what with his encyclopedic memory not to mention his psychic gifts. He’d written so many things in so many areas perhaps he just lost interest. Whatever the reason. None of it had been presented to the public, so I started excerpting sections and submitting them – with a brief history of the ‘lost’ document and crediting Brain – to various scholarly/literary conferences around the U.S. and abroad.

I decided to make good use of my presentation of an excerpt, “The Ocean of Consciousness Novel: Knut Hamsun’s Hunger,” at the Annual International Modern Language Association Conference in Athens to continue my pursuit of the invisible brother. Gene’s uncle, Robert, was C.I.A. agent extraordinaire and a Russian expert. Since much (not all) of CODENAME: BANKRUPT dealt with Russians I decided to take the manuscript, show it to Robert, and see if he could offer any leads.

I’d been in Greece for three months when I met the tall, slender, regally-goateed Stranger, who Robert later (erroneously?) identified as the grandson of the last czar of Russia (Robert was dead serious about this man’s identity and never changed his story.). Gene and I had been in Athens all day crawling around the Acropolis, drinking retsina, kicking tailless, one-eyed cats, and shadowing new and used bookstore with the everdiminishing hope of spotting my brother. Returning to the Erythrean terraced northern suburb that overlooks Athens Moni, Robert’s lovely wife, asked us to not make any noise and not to go in our bedroom as there was an unexpected guest asleep there.

Upon waking, the czar, with a genuinely friendly attitude, after three martinis and suggestions on how to improve our GO game, with a heavy accent, began, with some obvious evasionary side-stepping, to answer my queries. Yes he knew my brother. Brain, with his incredible mind and his psychic gifts, was involved with a group of Russians, and the C.I.A., working outside and inside the Iron Curtain. He had been having, and recording in CODENAME: BANKRUPT, visions of events that had occurred, were occurring, and, he thought, were going to occur in the Soviet Union. He said the Marxist walls were crumbling and would soon be tumbling. The czar (if that’s who he really is), who is not, at least publicly, known to exist, stands ready to re-enter the new Russia as monarch if conditions allow. Brain Man, The Other, having learned of my quest, passed word through the C.I.A. to Robert that since the czar doesn’t exit let him go and at least give Bone a truncated view of what I am up to.

Sequestrating the czar to the back balcony overlooking the valley and Athens I handed him a sealed envelope, a short letter to Brain with a plea:
Brain,

How did you know about Eve and me before it ever happened? And what about everything in the book that hasn’t happened yet? I want to know about my future. I you know will you tell me? We have never talked. I must see you.

Bone

Oxford

Looking out the window I toast my tall glass of Harvey’s Club Amontillado Medium Dry Sherry through the heavy noon rain to the tall walking stick leading the little man in the green coat and his black and white border collie across Broad Street to the White Horse Saloon next to Blackwell’s bookstore. My room is on the third floor of Exeter. William Morris, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Richard Burton studied here. I can see Balliol, the Bodleian, the King’s Arms, Clarendon Press, and to my right the heads of the twelve sages of the Sheldonian Theatre.

Two years have passed since Athens and only a few clues have surfaced as to Brain’s whereabouts. I am drinking a liter of Harvey’s a day. Not getting drunk, merely glowing. I continue the same routine: reading, drinking, exercise, drinking, searching, drinking. I have already presented Brain’s conference paper at the Oxford Union. The paper is from Brain’s lost text and is on Knut Hamsun’s Mysteries. The title is “To See, To Create, To Lie, To Die: Johan Nilsen Nagel’s Singing Myriad of Blind Angels in The Tower of Night.” Yesterday, with a letter of introduction from Richard Kain, I spent the afternoon discussing Brain’s “ocean of consciousness” theories with Richard Ellmann at his home, 39 St. Giles, in the heart of Oxford. This morning I signed a contract with Oxford University Press to publish the lost text which I believe was Brain’s original dissertation although he actually received his Ph.D. for a book he wrote on Edvard Munch’s Self-Portraits.

I have never discovered why Brain abandoned the Quest for Self text. Hell I’ve searched the planet but I haven’t found the Brain Man, that damn invisible older brother of mine who refuses to reveal himself to me! Brain, you lousy bastard, I’m about to give up on finding you; as if you care you invisible sonofabitch! But if I do ever find you the first thing I’m gonna do is kick your ass!

Dublin

Space. Time. Rhythm. Static. Kinetic. Truth. What is truth? Silence. Do you know? Movement. Rhythmic movement. What is the shortest distance between two points? Creative distance. How do we move forward? Imagination? Mysticism? Lies? We move forward by the aid of symbols and we change those symbols as we move forward. Who said that? Is there an echo in here? A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Who said that? Who is in this dark room with me? Who is standing by my side? Whispering in my ear? Breathing on my neck? Giggling? Who is laughing?

In the Aer Lingus terminal at Gatwick Airport outside London Brother Patrick Dominique Allende is writing the litanies of Mary, mother of Jesus, on envelopes. He is quoting the rosary prayers and is now describing his daily personal encounters with Mary, his guardian. It is interesting. A week ago I heard an interview on NPR with a nun whose new book on her daily personal encounters with Mary had just come out and was expected to be an international bestseller. Brother Patrick had been standing, looking lost, near the Aer Lingus counter. I said hello. We entered into discourse. Are you going to Dublin? Yes. The flight is two hours behind schedule. But our flights were different. His left an hour after mine. Brother Patrick, the youngest of seven children, is from the Phillipines, has just completed his training for the priesthood in Spain and has received his first assignment: Bray, Ireland. Bray is south of Dublin. We talked for two hours. He wrote his Bray address under the last prayer and invited me to visit. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bone rosary and said I’ve carried this with me for eight years, here, take it. I’ll get another. I accepted the gift with thanks. We hugged and parted.

I meet a woman on the plane. She is for women’s rights. Her husband is picking her up at the airport. Where am I going? We’ll give you a ride. What brings you to Ireland? The International James Joyce Symposium. Ah. Do you know Senator David Norris? He spoke for women’s right. He and I were on a panel together. He’s wonderful. Perhaps you’ll meet him. He is a homosexual and has done more for women’s right and gay rights than anyone in Ireland. He’s a Joycean. Teaches at Trinity. I’m sure he’ll have something to do with the Conference. She was right. He was one of the Directors. Head of the Host Committee. And I did meet him. More than once.

Where am I now and what am I doing here? I have arrived in Dublin in June to present one of Brain’s papers at the International James Joyce Symposium. The paper is from the last chapter of his dissertation, the chapter titled “Stephanoumenos in Quest of the Numinous: Mysterium Tremendum and Gnostical Turpitude: The Big Bang Epiphany in Joyce’s A Portrait and Ulysses.” The first section of the chapter is titled “Alchemically Transmutative Symbol Decipherment: The Book as Sacred Elixir” and the second section, the section I am presenting, is titled “Me. And Me Now. I,I: The Ocean of Consciousness Novel II.” I recently discovered another unpublished Brain text Modern Monk Beat: Joyce at Gethsemani and City Lights: James Joyce, Thomas Merton, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Apparently Brain met Merton once. Somehow Brain and Ferlinghetti had gotten to know each other, met at Gethsemani, and the text evolved out of that initial visit. I had already selected a piece from Modern Monk Beat for the next International Joyce Symposium in Seville but now I’m in Dublin, still looking for Brain, and in the process having all kinds of strange experiences and meeting some remarkable people. I had met August H. Altmulig at the Oxford Conference, she had attended my Brain presentation and I heard her presentation on the great Norwegian feminist writer Cora Sandel. I had been intrigued by Sandel and Altmulig, introduced myself, and we maintained a correspondence. August had received her Ph.D. from Oxford. She now lives in Oslo and is considered the greatest female scholar of modern Norwegian literature and art (Harald Naess, of course, being the greatest male scholar).

I made downtown Dublin mid-afternoon. Signing in at Trinity August was the first person I met. While we were visiting, Robert Spoo, the editor of the James Joyce Quarterly, entered the conversation and the three of us headed to Davy Byrnes’, where we met Fritz Senn and Suzette Henke, for dinner which was followed by much drinking, talk, and, finally, song.

Like a lantern run low of oil the sun casts its last embers into a multitude of diminutive waves dancing restlessly cross the River Liffey. From the center of the arched bridge I watch the dance of Dublin slow, falter, change rhythm as the embered waves sink, the flame finally extinguished.

After I’m not sure how many pints of Guinness Stout, stumbling from the bridge, finally finding myself back in my room, I make some coffee and sit down to finish reading Lytton’s A Strange Story: An Alchemical Novel when suddenly a gust of wind blows the paneled windows open. A cold chill fills the room, something runs up my spine, bumps jump all over my head and my hair shoots straight up with electricity. Sobered I place the book on my desk and sit still, listening. I can see the yellow cover out of the corner of my left eye and the cover symbols, the sun and moon, the river, the male and female emblems, juxtapose themselves, a double-exposure, cross my view of Grafton Street as I stare out the window from the third floor. A fog crawls towards Trinity, towards me, from the River Liffey. A figure in a bright red hooded cloak appears from narrow Wicklow Street, directly across from the college, from my window. Her face is shielded by the red hood but I can tell it is a woman by her lithe, graceful, catlike movements, and from the Indian mound curves that charm her body. In the distance I hear the two songs I hear so often: Jimi Hendrix playing Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” and Bob Dylan playing Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.” Where is Jimi Hendrix? Where is Bob Dylan? Who is that woman with the red hood and why is she sneaking through waist high fog on this dark night and what the hell am I doing standing outside my third floor window peering over this tower’s parapet? “the curious warning sign before our protoparent’s ipsissima verba?” A warning sent to Bone from a magician named Ogmios Brain? Should I hattract her hattention?

In Sandycove…The day will start early at the South Bank Restaurant where the customary Bloomsday Breakfast (with entertainments) will be served from 6 o’clock in the morning. Breakfast is priced at seven pounds and bookings may be made at 280 8788. At 8 o’clock the Joyce Tower will open for the day and will be the scene of readings (official and unofficial), parties and shenanigans until closing time at 6PM. The Tower, which marks its thirtieth birthday as a museum on Bloomsday, has recently been given a facelift and the Round Room has been partly restored to the condition it was in Joyce’s time. One of Joyce’s two death masks is displayed.

Where are Joyce n Beckett? In Re-Joyce N Beckett by Phyllis Carey says Catherine Malloy and I’m searching for Joyce n Beckett. In the Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis, Joyicity, events of all sorts, in addition to those on the Symposium programme, will be going on all day. Where is Eithne Strong? In Monkstown chanting lullabies to her nine children, whispering to her dead husband, smiling at the rest of us. And I’m searching for Eithne Strong. Where is Seamus Heaney? At the Peppercannister Church with Joseph Brodskey at University College Dublin with Mark Strand at Lenoir-Rhyne with Rand Brandes at Bellarmine with Bert Hornback at Queens with Donatus Mwoga at Ulster with Cathal O’Searcaigh at Poetry Ireland with Theo Dorgan at Harvard with Ron Whitehead Published in Heaven and I’m searching for Seamus Heaney.

And the fog, with Brain somewhere deep in IT in IT yet lost to Bone, the fog has come from Liffey from the sea and covered Trinity Dublin all