Truw Thru True Story

Artedi punch
Document ID PH TXT BT 1981 FD 2B44
1981, April
Object-type: Photograph with notes

One of the strangest texts by Bob Tagge. It's quite unclear if Bob is playing a literary game on the basis of a biographical pastiche or if there's a strong urge to ridicule the described person. No clues are found.

This is the true story of Peter Artedi, the man who kept his conversations hidden under a catalogue of fish. This is the true story of the role fish played in Artedi’s formative years. This is the true story of a couple of moments throughout Artedi’s formative years that can be associated with fish and boxing. Like fish in a bowl of water, truth as central to a true story makes itself apparent.
The true story of Peter Artedi starts from the words "this is the true story of Peter Artedi" and quite suddenly ends up with fish and his taste for boxing. Does anyone needs more truth?
“I would have written a different one”, Peter Artedi said, when his true story came out.

Truth finds some colour in the fact that Arundjö, the town he was born in, was overwhelmingly poor. "We are not poor," his mother told him. "We have plenty to eat, -- and we have screen doors." Peter's father had a quick wit and a flair for conversation. Peter and his father divided fish and conversation between them. At the age of six when Peter would see someone new coming into town, he would walk up to him, shake his hand, and say, "Welcome to Arundjö, if I can do anything for you, let me know." He got what he asked for. The vast amount of newcomers made him studying the social skill of indigenous fish – “this is what you can do for me!”

All the same, truth was among his guilty pleasures. As was boxing. By his late teens, he was a Golden Gloves champion, two years in a row. In the end, while living in the Netherlands, there’s a picture of him throwing a good right hand. The gentleman he hit in the nose has blood flowing from the punch, and it’s just a perfect picture. The same picture re-interpreted showed the right hand belonged to Hommerson and the punched nose was Peter’s.

There is a man on the floor with a bleeding nose. Above his head a sign: the party started without you. “Is it you on a floor”, the host asked. You stand up and introduce yourself. “This could be part of a true story”, the host says, “and since it’s September the 27th and the commemoration of Saint Vincentius a Paulo and your bio was planned to end here you can take the punch as finale or find yourself in one of the canals that are smart elements in one’s personal history.”

His parents called him Pete but his name appeared to be George. In a true story George has a career in Alabama and so do the fish. What are we waiting for?

Photograph and text as seperate items clipped together

Om te beginnen is er geen feilloze methode
het is zover het oog reikt
en het daarin geziene.

Planten kunnen als voorbeeld dienen.
Wie van de planten wil leren krijgt kansen genoeg.

Maar vanwege de rapportage wil het toezicht dat we moeite doen
voor de methode. Het is een mager begin de bewering dat niets stilstaat
dat niets blijft, dat de meest succesvolle levende organismen gewend zijn om te groeien.

Groei is een beweging
Groei zoekt niks in de palmen en alles in de groei.
Groei is vitaal, is feitelijk.

It took a long time to finish.
All summer long, in defiance of the heat, we tidied up the classification tables
took new cuttings and guided them towards the cool morning
where we fell into each other’s arms, exhausted but satisfied.

Freed from the tables briefly, not quite knowing how to interpret the limbs
we’d used to support the desks and display cases.

2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, , 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, , 73, 79, 83, 89, 97, 101, 103, 107, 109, 113, 127, 131, 137, 139, 149, 151, 157, 163, 167, 173, 179, 181, 191, 193, 197, 199, 211, 223, 227, 229, 233, 239, 241, 251, 257, 263, 269, 271, 277, 281, 283, 293, 307, 311, 313, 317, 331, 337, 347, 349, 353, 359, 367, 373, 379, 383, 389, 397, 401, 409, 419, 421, 431, 433, 439, 443, 449, 457, 461, 463, 467, 479, 487, 491, 499, 503, 509, 521, 523, 541, 547, 557, 563, 569, 571, 577, 587, 593, 599, 601, 607, 613, 617, 619, 631, 641, 643, 647, 653, 659, 661, 673, 677, 683, 69

Forms, Figures, Tables, Ideas.
All that happened once.

Difficult to think, given the absent wind in the picture.
When the lull inches across the afternoon and your lips don’t move any air about either.

The thought scares me, I try to comfort myself with what I know, but can’t find a single fact that brings relief. The photos still don’t convey anything of what continues to grow inside the lab technician.

Where to go
the day we see
there is nowhere to go?
all that remains
and the rain making sound
all that
all that
that all one’s thoughts
have been thought by others
one another
confusion and balance
other times not

Water is the mouth
I am your confusion
I that must always be
the only possible point of departure
the darkness that
sleeps, the blood in the body that sleeps
tomorrow it will be almost sleep
always take up sleep, also

Zoals de planters zich tot de houthakkers verhouden.
De palmen hebben zwaar op onze schouders gedrukt. Als idee van hout, maar meer als idee op zich. Steeds als in onze gesprekken een stilte viel waren het de palmen die onze gedachten innamen.

We hebben de liefde van planters en houthakkers hoog zitten. Daar gaan we in de tabellen niet graag aan voorbij. We weten dat we in kaart brengen waar anderen hun argumenten aan ontlenen.
Zoals de kaart zich tot de argumenten verhoudt.


The rules are given
in order to make them prevail.

Which rules? he asks her
and his movement beats out the hours, like a bird.

Someone else, on the other side of that movement
and holds an arm over the head.

Suppose this is a bird
says the one who is staring at a spot
that  is slowly becoming red.

I went to see if it showed:
the sun’s position, swallows under the gutter.

Difficult to say.
All those empty barns. Land everywhere

this landscape started to be
and lots in it
that was beyond repair.

Had not only come here
but also overtaken
I was

an acre carried to this head
to have been for this acre.
This led to sand and stones
and I lay there
until the rain came.

Nobody who can remember
what may still be gathered
and dried with care.