Genesis P-Orridge - Nonbinary: A Memoir

I thought it had to be fake.

William S. Burroughss name and address was right there, in the middle of a magazine called FILE.

There it was in an image bank request list section in the part of the Yellow Pages devoted to correspondence art. One artist could request an image from another artist living thousands of miles away. And now, right before me, soliciting Ideas and Camouflage in 1984, was Burroughss home addressin London. I was sure he lived in America; not to mention this was 1972, and 1984 seemed a long way off. Convinced it was a joke, I nevertheless wrote to the address telling Burroughs just where he could stick his camouflage and instructing him, Allen Ginsberg, and any other Beats to STOP pretending they knew me just to gain contemporary credibility.

A few weeks later, an old souvenir postcard of Morocco arrived through my letter box and fell to the cobbled floor beneath an axe and hammer clipped for defense on the inside of the bloodred front door of the Ho Ho Funhouse, the communal home in Hull I shared at the time with my guerrilla performance art collective that was also a band. On the back, a greeting signed by William S. Burroughs telling me that he had enjoyed my recent letter and that he would love to meet up the next time I was in London!

Just call me up and I will pay for a taxi over here from wherever you are, he wrote, adding his phone number.

Whoa! He wrote back!

This was so much more than just a thrill.

Naked Lunch had changed my life, The Third Mind was my bible, and I was even more eager to read The Wild Boys, which was just about to be published. His cut-up technique of writing, which he had developed with the artist and writer Brion Gysin, was heavily influencing my music at the time. The idea of chopping up the tedious everyday narrative and creating new, unexpected meanings, even prophecies, was fascinating.

The first time I met him, he was living in Duke Street, St. Jamess, London. I had no idea what to expect. Would he be cantankerous Old Bull Lee of the Kerouac sagas, where I had first heard of him, or the thinly disguised biographical character William Lee of Junky? I was excited to discover the REAL person.

After hitchhiking from Hull in East Yorkshire all through a miserably rainy, blustering night, I had crashed with my friend Robin Klassnik, sleeping on the floor of his artists studio at 10 Martello Street, Hackney, East London. I was woken by Robin with a cup of tepid instant coffee heaped with white sugar.

You know some really annoying people, Gen, said Robin while I tried not to grimace at his foul brew.

What do you mean? I asked groggily.

Some stupid idiot has been phoning all morning claiming to be William Burroughs and asking for you. So I told him to fuck off and not call again, Robin proudly announced.

Oh shit! What time is it? I asked.

Eleven A.M. I let you sleep; you looked tired.

Robin, that wasnt some stupid idiot pretending to be William Burroughs, I said, rubbing my face and then staring up at him in happy disbelief. That really was William Burroughs. I hope hell still see me after your tirade.

Back in Yorkshire, I lived in a commune and stole whatever food I could, supplemented with broken biscuits that rescued a watery cup of tea from disgrace. I scavenged bruised vegetables and fruit off the road after the local farmers market closed and brought home meat that was donated by the local Freemasons Temple. The kitchen ladies there would leave fish, steak, and chickenleft over from the masons lavish banquetsby our door for our poor cats, but we destitute humans got first choice.

I wasnt used to traveling in taxis, but William was paying. I expected him to be quite financially comfortable. He was a famous writer, after all. Ive since learned that no matter how many people know your name, it still has zero to do with having a healthy bank account. I anxiously walked around the block several times because I was early, and I had this notion that hed be upset if I was a minute early or a minute late. Id built him up in my head to be a hyperintelligent, never-suffer-fools-gladly type and that hed be waiting, silent, to be impressed by me. I had a bad case of the exam shakes.

As I nervously walked up the narrow stairs, listening to the faint echoes of my Doc Martens boots in the dark, austere stairwell, I was convincing myself that hed see how dumb I was instantly and chuck me out, humiliated and clearly inferior.

I knocked on his door.

He opened it before my hand was back at my side, no chance to compose myself. And there he was, a living legend, neatly dressed in a suit, his eyelids half-closed, the convex bags under his watery eyes an unhealthy pink.

He looked smashed, and it was only a little after noon.

Genesis, he said, the last syllable drawn out in that famous voice.

Oh, God, this is real, I thought. Its really him.

We politely shook hands. Nothing like the revolting wet-fish handshake of Philip Larkin, I thought again, calming myself by making small comparisons. Burroughs ushered me into his surprisingly small apartment, squeezing past a life-size cardboard cutout of Mick Jagger.

God, I hate fucking Mick Jagger! I secretly thought, followed by, Careful, you only just got here and youre being negative.

The volume on a shitty colour TV was turned up high in front of the one window, and thick green curtains blocked out any daylight. William sat down on a grubby armchair. He took a long sip of Jack Daniels and told me hed spent his day just changing channels with the remote.

Id never seen a colour TV before.

He picked up the remote, changed a few more channels as if he were searching for something underneath the white noise.

Ive been doing this all morning, he said, changing to another channel. Sometimes it helps if I close my eyes and just listen to the noise. Turn the volume all the way up.

And so it began. He started to talk in that infamous hypnotic monotone, that underwater junkie voice of his. It originated in his throat, a long, sustained, rasping growl reaching a dry mouth and becoming a nasal St. Louis whine. Id expected him to put me on the spot. Test me. Challenge my intelligence to ensure he wasnt wasting his time. Or, more likely, make some excuse and politely suggest I leave after a few minutes, having decided his pen pal was less interesting in the flesh.

Instead he asked me if Id like a drink, and when I said yes, he walked over and poured more Jack Daniels into two glasses. I noticed his shoulders were slightly stooped. He sat back down, and for nearly a minute we didnt say anything. He was looking me over, but not in an unfriendly way.

So youre a musician, he said.

Im in a band called COUM Transmissions, I said.

He took a sip, and the faintest of smiles spread across his face. He looked so tired, it was as if his skin just wanted to slough off his face.

Youre in our songs, I told him, taking a sip of the whisky. I use your cut-up techniques when I write lyrics. Ill read something in a newspaper and just splice the words together.

Then youre on the right track, he said.

He picked up the remote control, and for moment I thought Id already lost him, but he changed a few channels on the television, stopping on a grainy image of a football match, and then turned it off.

It never would have occurred to me if I hadnt read Naked Lunch, I said.

Can you reach that book on top of my desk, he said, lifting one trembling hand and pointing at a leather volume filled with strange bits of paper.