So now Suzuki
(politique de gauche, voiture de droite), not content
on making millions off his witches’ and warlocks’
got in to high-rise-farming (no doubt he’ll keep the roof-top
free for his gas guzzling chopper).
wonder what his ‘greens’ will taste like? As insipid
as his 'greenie' counterparts?
I prefer my Chianti grown in soil, sprinkled by the rains, shaded
by cloud, and sun-kissed gradually from dawn to dusk. But taste
and potential health detriment aside, farmers around the world
are finding it hard enough competing with un-fairly
traded cheap inferior imports without addtional competition
from Suzuki’s genetically engineered, all of a kind (hence
beautiful? since when is homogeneity beautiful?) tasteless inexpensive
tomatoes. Is that environmental? About as environmental as killing
the seal hunt thereby forcing Newfies to abandon their homes
and head west, and see their beloved ancestral Grand Banks transformed
into sea-rigged oil revenue gushers. Is that environmental?
I see the
day when ‘real’ tomatoes will be as expensive as
the finest wines. And
again it will be the wealthy who’ll demand and afford
the BEST, who’ll keep the peasant in business, as they
now do the vintner and the tailor.
keeping tradition alive? What would les Revolutionistes,
the Robespierres and Dantons say to this, I wonder? That it
has gone too far? That it was not in their plans?
Vive la tradition!
Okay. But does that then mean Vive les riches? Certainly
seems like it, if Suzuki has his way!
Be that as
it may what is certain is should Suzuki have it his way both
you and I will be eating SUZUKIAN GARBAGE soon . . . And more
than just his words; his food as well. Is this environmental?
I wonder will Suzuki put in his salad?
a fucking thing that narrow-visioned prick does that I like.YOUR
your hi-jacked dreaming
The Greek god of
dreams was Morpheus (from the Greek morphe, meaning
form, hence Morpheus as the maker of forms).
Has there ever been a time when mankind was more bombarded by
IN-FORMATION than today?
Are we therefore more dreamy today than in the days of Arcady?
today the source of our dreams is for the most part externally
conditioned and superficial (and, which is not quite the same
despite the analogy, superficially imposed). The Greek notion
of form was akin to Plato’s eidos, which
is to say, intellectual form, and not pattern, and the ensuing
modern day extension of form into the term IN-FORMATION,
which, as the term literally suggests is a kind of
templating of man and, by consequence, society as a whole.
In olden days dreams
were the blending of sensual experience with transcendental
possibility (imagination), and as such, the "stuff dreams
are made of" was then the gift of the muses, not the crafty
lure of lucre and lust.YOUR COMMENTS
your shameless media bias
So maybe Trump groped
a few dozen dames in the course of his life.
What to say except that guys will sometimes give it a go if
they feel they have a chance.
Evidently the Donald
always had a good read on the field as not a single one of the
“offended” madames went after him legally at the
time of their alleged “assault.”
In fact they all seemed to have allowed him to pursue his advances
for minutes on end -- some in the public domain no less -- without
so much as a grumble!
And now, decades later, they emerge from their obscurity weeping
head in hand and we are somehow supposed to not only feel sorry
but believe them to boot?
This is the opposite
of political correctness.
This is defamatory exaggeration.
A good spanking would serve well these fame-seeking, gold-digging
opportunists. (And yes, let's bring back the bitch word).
And shame on CNN for airing the garbage ad nauseam
24/7. They are not a journalistic institution but a propaganda
Hardly a month goes
by without someone coming on TV weeping for the loss of her
dear one who then proceeds to say that despite the hurt she
forgives the conscienceless bastard responsible for the senseless
killing of her daughter.
And if it sickens
you to hear this kind of sanctimonious magnanimity it’s
because it goes counter to every human instinct.
Forgiveness is at
the core of Christian teaching, but for a mother to willy nilly
forgive a killer, immediately after the loss of her child --
without the creep responsible for the butchery showing any sign
of contrition and never even asking to be forgiven -- is incomprehensible
and repugnant, if not outright inhuman.
If the lady needs
approbatory attention she shouldn’t be using her child’s
death to flaunt
her moral loftiness.
I wonder if her
daughter from way up high in her eternal abode has forgiven
the demonic freak.
shouldn’t ultimately rest on mere intuition, the intelligence
of instinct should not be under-valued either. There are in
fact situations where we have nothing but instinct to go by.
The bear fattens
up in late autumn, relaxes instinctively into hibernation for
the frigid, winter months, and weak, slim and hungry, but alive,
happily awakens to the warmth of spring.
The swallow travels
oceans away to seek the sun and always finds it.
The squirrel gathers
and buries his nuts which will see him through till the thaw.
And man has since
the beginning of time looked up to the heavens wandering in
wonder . . . ...or he was not man.
Of course the ultimate
act of trust is the blow-job, but this is totally irrelevant.
Or is it?
He tore the coconut
apart from outer shell to pulp with mere incisors
and the brute strength of jaw.
The deep dark eye.
The garden of black curl.
Muscle and brawn.
Merriment and rage.
He tore the fruit
but little else engaged his impulse.
A sudden unfamiliar
The peering stare, the stillness and a growl.
The wind no doubt.
the gorilla tore another coconut apart,
then scratched and yawned and lying on his back looked up,
perhaps in thought, though more than likely not.
little ones pulled frantically at the her toes.
A mum no doubt.
be pressured if not outright enforced to
say their thing unscripted, off the cuff. A few side notes are
OK, but certainly no teleprompters.
As is, the whole
thing’s little more than a reading-ability test.
That Trump, the most straightforward, candid politician America
has seen in decades, should have been FORCED to read from a
prompter says much about America’s obsession with appearances.
Despite the sanctimonious
veneer America shuns sincerity; will find a word poorly chosen,
a slip of the tongue, however innocently , thoughtlessly or
mistakenly uttered, more offensive than outright lies; and the
media will seek out and exploit every flawed utterance and ride
the airways with it for days on end at the expense of substance.
indeed! The lot of them hypocrites should be whipped off their
All but one. Donald
Like him or hate
him, we here have a guy who speaks plainly, tells it spontaneously
and as he sees it, until he too is suddenly diminished to talking-head
status, delegated to reading from a screen instead of speaking
from the heart. No flubs permitted. Nothing but scripted perfection
will be tolerated from a system and national mind-set bent on
the semblance of propriety.
If democracy thrives
on the promulgation of appearance as the ultimate reality,
then nowhere is the political fantasy, the democracy, more vibrant
than in the United States of America.
The only consolation
is that old habits die hard.
Should the Donald
carry the day we can find comfort in knowing he’ll be
telling all deserving of it to go fuck themselves all over again,
and go about straightening up the mess we’re in as he
sees fit.YOUR COMMENTS
This road goes on
forever dude. If this is the promised land God’s a joker.
Chill out. You’ve got all your priorities mixed up. Who
said anything about paradise. It’s the Big Land. It’s
alive. It’s the four elements in their purest form. It’s
a hundred million beasts smelling and looking at you out of
everywhere, unseen and silent. Unobtrusive beasts, when you
come down and think of it. We’re the ones making all the
noise. We’re the beasts. The animals? They got manners.
Little finesse, but savoir faire. They are euphorically at one
with this land of openness and hiddeness. It’s the north
dude. And the blood doesn’t flow any thicker and hotter
anywhere else on the planet.
dead. We’re in Labrador. Spruce and lakes and moose and
pine and rivers and falls and bug spray, as vital as the oxygen
Yeah but it never
ends. The Lord must have had a creative block when he conceived
this land. It just never ends. It would be the eternal recurrence
of the same, if not for the occasional jaw dropping moment of
Creative block you
say, eh? It’s cause your mind is limited. You think small.
The Lord thinks infinitely. Does the evening sky bore you in
its vastness? Look, there, Andromeda, and Venus, and all the
dippers you could possibly imagine, stars as far as the horizon.
Big Land, Big Sky, and very fucking cold, and the 257 car train
carrying the iron ore into the midnight sundown, and no one
within miles to see and smell it but the moose, the partridge,
weasel, and bear, and us, in our vehicle heading somewhere hypnotically
And water, water,
everywhere, and every drop to drink. The force and nutrient
of the nation, pumping its vital fluid along an endless labyrinth
of rivers, roaring swiftly along, like monstrous aortas towards
the damn, the turbine, the force keeping folks as far down as
Texas alight, hot and cool and ever in a glitter.
And the road, all
to ourselves? Give it time dude. Look, there’s a pickup
truck . Enjoy fishing and hunting and ski-dooing, and driving
? You’ve come to the right place. And salmon, trout crab
and Big Macs, Hersheys, and coke, too, of both kinds. The Inuit
hunt the beast but love the junk, of both kinds. Yeah, and a
whiff of Off-Spray for fragrance.
Cut the sarcastic
cynicism. Expand your mind dude.
Big Mel, he runs the union and hangs out at the pub and has
got a kind heart. Imagine a guy calling up his wife after you’ve
told him the local fishmonger ran out of smoked char and she
shows up minutes later with a big vacuum-packed fish in her
hands. What’s the odds of that happening anywheres else,
They got hearts
of gold the Inuit do. Métis? Are they really? Don’t
matter. The Inuit takes over. The wild always reigns over civilization.
The throwback comes through when you least expect it. That’s
another reason they call it the Big Land, cause the natives
got big hearts that’s why.
no fools. They spend summers in road side shit hole shacks to
qualify for on the land benefits but drive 80-grand pick up
trucks and live in half a mil bungalows in the winter. Conquest
my eye. They won the lottery when Columbus and Caboto sailed
their way. Yeah, many a wrong got done but I’d say they
seem to be doing pretty good now -- by my estimation anyway,
for what it’s worth, soberly speaking, as it were.YOUR
your open bord-errors
If the EU experiment
is falling apart it is because it was never conducted in concert
with the will of the people, or, which is the same, with common
sense, with human nature.
It just so happens
Britain was the first to leave, but no great enthusiasm for
the European venture existed in other nations either.
mostly unelected, EU architects, one world dreamers and bureaucrats,
have since decades forced their personal ideological illusions
onto Europeans, totally ignoring the peoples’ plea for
When all nations'
borders were torn down the house of cards was bound to crumble
You can only force
doors open for so long before the dwellers retaliate, demanding
the privacy they deserve.
your 'think you got issues? and worst of it it all makes perfect
sense to me
The deed had been
completed but I’d not received legal papers on account of the
notary’s secretary having resigned that very day. And so I found
myself, deedless, intestate and confused on the football pitch
holding on to a red plastic ball which I presented to the ref
hoping it would meet FIFA standards. But I got kicked out of
the stadium instead and was now out of a job to boot.
At a loss for better
alternatives I hopped a cab and made for the north end of town
where the sharpest mobsters hung out. A classy looking guy dressed
in sparkly whites handed me an envelope full of money. I want
you to be my new used car salesman, the last guy drove me nuts
and got fired, know what I mean?
All this of course
made no sense to me so I ran fast as I could, left the pitch
and fly-jumped onto the outdoor suspended chess board immediately
adjacent to the “Spectaculars,” a local pub frequented by Vietnam
draft dodger lunatics on the lam.
A double Havana
straight up please, I asked the barman. Don’t say that, he said.
I am not your mate. Just hand over the certificate. Allright,
no need to shout, I replied. No need to shout? He rebutted Did
I just hear you say no need to shout ? Can't you make a leap
of logic you fucking dim wit. I’ll bet you haven’t even checked
your e-mail? No, matter of fact I haven’t. why should I have?
I put in. Has it ever occurred to you you’ll need to provide
the PW in order to open the file. Which password I asked. The
Afghan’s minister of defence son’s name, who else. Ah, hopeless,
said the guy, shrugged me off and left the joint.
It was a long assessment.
I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Too much medical and all
written in pig-French. To hell with it. Besides, I wasn't feeling
ill. So I chucked the papers out and tuned in to the sound of
the falling rain instead. It was then the thought crossed my
mind of wearing my cock-crested family emblem hat at my father’s
ceremony leading to the town’s cathedral.
Wrong thought. It
was the thought which broke the camel’s back. Imagine me parading
up the boulevard looking like Chef Boyardee. No fucking way,
I mumbled, and skipped town.
And so here I am,
a long ways from home, deedless, destitute, intestate and exiled
all because I couldn’t quite get the gist of the secretary’s
letter, who happened to quit her job cause she couldn’t stand
hearing me ask her mob boss questions about her chess champ
boyfriend’s whereabouts on the very same night when the football
champions league finals were held and the underdogs won, which
is of course how I got sent asking questions, inquiring into
the possibility of foul play about the mob-driver having gotten
sacked or fired or both in the first place. Anyway, I knew they
couldn’t pin this one on me and if nothing else it was comforting.
Hadn't the Afghani ref rejected my red ball? And if fly-jumping
ain't an alibi I don’t know what is. YOUR
your fragrant butt
leave home without them.
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Will muffle all anal-audio to virtual silence.
No more embarrassing Yoga classes.
Try our Paco-Raban special of the week. Why waste the cologne
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right folks, on cue.
Purchase our six fragrances FB package and we’ll give
you Dr. Bomber’s latest book, Fart Control Technique on
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Fart Busters: So gratifying to the senses you’ll want
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So why wait, call now.
(warning: consult a doctor should you experience rim-rash, anal
throbbing and irritation, redness and tenderness, puss discharge,
constipation, itching, anal fissures or warts). YOUR
your clockwork orange
Science has taken
most of the poetry out of car racing (out of just about everything,
including science itself actually).
In the old days drivers were welcomed at the pit stop with a
warm espresso and a smoke. They’d get out of their cars
and stretch their legs for a few moments, have a sip and a puff
before hitting the road again. They did their own shifting and
tire evaluation assessing. No automation, no pit-driver-radio
messaging, no electronic rear-brake control systems, nothing
of the sort.
True, they didn’t
go as fast as today either, but when they missed a curve they
paid the ultimate price.
the car takes all the impact, the driver walks off unscathed,
makes the front page of the sport mags -- not the obituary column
-- and collects his millions. Sort of like a matador fighting
a cow nodding rubber horns. All flash and skill but minimal
risk. The method is applauded, not the daring.
Science is about
keeping it efficient and clean. Don’t want to shake up
the plebs. We leave the killing for the bad, whoever they may
be, and we do it from a distance and the victims are mere numbers.
Blood? The day will soon come when blood will be as illusive
as the heavens.
Only stars most
city kids get to see nowadays is watching the Discovery channel.
It’s all fantasy footage and the kids know it, but who
cares if it’s fun watching, eh! So why should it be any
different when it comes to sports. Why should the danger factor
be real if the illusion is surreal? Besides, it was a hell of
a lot more dangerous flying around the globe back in the ‘old
days,’ too, let alone circumnavigating the oceans à
So no, I don’t
mean to dismiss science. We’d be lost without it, as we
and the science of the day are one, as it’s always been,
regardless our understanding of ‘her’ ways. Do we
understand the ways of the lungs and the liver? None perfectly,
few at all. But we’d be fucked without these organs regardless,
And so Vive La Science!
I am not a luddite. Far from it. But couldn’t we keep
some poetry at least in our pleasures, or will kids soon be
carrying hormone-detector gadgets to grade the gals sex accessibility
potential ratings so as to maximize their pick-up odds?
it’s coming folks. Technology is governing organics. Great
for the blind, the cripple and the deaf. But not good for our
pleasures, our fancies and our sports.
The day will come
when soccer players will be wearing head phones, getting radio
coached from the sidelines, much in same way American football
The fact that a F1 race is won or lost on millimetric precision,
timing out of the pit attests to the diminishing worth of the
pilot. The driver gets the trophy but the science wins the day.
no stopping the Borg! Yet guys like me continue bitching about
Guys like me who liked it better when it was worse.
Because we just did, that’s why.
And I don’t care for any smart ass scientific explanation
for it either.
Like urban cocks.
Always the first to announce the dawn. The
last of the regulars wailing out loudly the last of their beer,
some into barf, some into the fresh of morning.
Kiefer pushes his
sycophantic head hard against
my armpit and sniffs and meows.
He wants me out
He likes his food warmed up.
I shrug him off.
He persists . . .
by immemorial routine
sometimes wins out,
and sometimes a whack to the rump and he
slips beneath the covers and waits.
Patience is a feline
sounds erupt abruptly out of the city dark.
Every movement is an echo. The shuffling of feet. A smoker’s
A car door slams
shut. An engine roars fast up the sooty boulevard fading to
a murmuring hiss into the distance. She blurs out that he get
a life. He cries out "you never even fucking loved me,”
and another yarn gets woven in the bright.
A can gets kicked
off the curb. A neighbour goes through his ablution rituals,
clears his throat and spits.
The gulls screech
past my window. A squirrel chitters .
The flush of a toilet.
High heels tapping pavement.
And then again she
flushes. Why couldn’t city planners, with all their fucking
socialist nanny-state bi-laws enforce state of the art insulation
in modern day living?
Ommmmm! I sigh the
Soon all vibes will
blend into an indistinguishable noise.
And I’ll awaken.
To sleep past the
dawn is to ignore the dizzying ways of first light into glow.
Shadows will dissolve
feverishly until the ninth hour then slowly wane to a halt beneath
the invariable veil of noon.
And soon the slow
of evening comes.
your high prayer
hang and Mary drags her skirt across the quenching soil beneath
the porch where
Joseph sits rocking and drinking and burping and farting and
hissing and wishing he were the lass’s bicycle seat.
Autumn at last and
Lavender dirt glaucous
pregnant kernels in dozens to the bunch torn delicately off
the vine and squished into must where
it lays and boils in oaken barrels fermenting into spirited
Ah, the joys of
living known best by satisfying the thirst, and most graciously
bestowed upon the skinny harmlessly meandering drunks. YOUR
All aiming is illusion. The
wise enjoy simplicity. a
shadow scent, a
breezy whisper or a nod.
Ambiguous was her
glance. For me? He wondered still, a life gone past.
dwelled. They fight to name her still.
And what of them,
the buccaneering Vikings? Lodbrock
Hvitserk Sigurd Ivar?
Of them no man truly knows and so the legend grows.
A nobody you say
Rejoice my simple
be remembered still when all else goes.
your alanus morissette
Just became aware
that the song “Hurt” written by Trent Reznor, first
released on Nine Inch Nails' 1994 album The Downward Spiral,
received a Grammy Award nomination for Best Rock Song in 1996,
only to ultimately lose out to Alanis Morissette's "You
Well, so much for
The consolation is that the market can only legislate taste
to the innately ‘tasteless,’ i.e. the majority.
Good were the days
of the elites, of the aristocracy, where kings and queens were
advised by their knowledgeable at court (mostly underground
punks no doubt) what to wear, listen to and read.
In 2002 "Hurt" was covered by country music star Johnny
Cash to commercial and critical acclaim.YOUR
your french kiss
Her breath redolent of smoke and Chianti.
She looked wonderful
in the dark. Bony
She invited me to
her place for a night cap. Why not. I was flat broke and thirsty.
But when she removed
her dentures I knew I was in for an odd one.
feel like velvet, honey," she whispered in my ear, then
launched a thigh off the couch, threw
back her head alludingly, cat-walked to the turn table, bent
over for an album, curving her back so affectedly you’d
think she was engaging in some yoga pose.
The flaunt was unmistakable.
A peacock in heat.
By now I’s
thinking of an excuse out, but how?
And then it spun.
And from the very first note all anxiety of kissing toothless
gums vanished to nothingness.
. . . Beauty sleeps
. . . Sound and
the sound Andromedian
. . .
before heard anything like it. I
she lisped. “Won it at a scratch and win at work. We
hold these every Fri . . . ”
I begged for her
to hush up. I was away, to where music sometimes sends her own.
She sighed, she
crawled, she moaned, she hissed, and caressed, all to no avail.
The Highlands had the better of me.
do,” she suddenly howled, sprang off the chesterfield,
slipped her plastic snappers back in her mouth with the unabashed
ease and normalcy of someone putting on their glasses, and,
still yelling, urged that I get the fuck out . . . as of now,
though I hadn’t quite planned it this way, I gulped down
the last of the scotch, and
happily hustled down the stairs, the witch still screaming her
spleen off, the song still in my head.
A close one I thought
to myself, enjoying the freshness of a cool thin Celtic autumn
But she wasn’t
done yet. And don’t forget this,” she screamed from
her balcony and flung the disc at me, like it were a worthless
Fortunately it fell
Still have the original
Sons and Fascination LP , and every time I spin it,
though 35 years have past, I picture Joelle, she and I a Semi-Monde
girl whose name I’d otherwise have long forgotten.
As for Simple Minds
they remain, to this day, among my very best favourite bands
In 1633 the Church
forced Galileo to recant regarding his take on the way of
the stars or suffer the consequences.
Today we have Pope
Francis all in a whirl telling a reporter anyone who thinks
encounter with Bernie Sanders was politically motivated should
seek the assistance of a psychiatrist. Just days before the
New York primaries? What else are we supposed to think Francesco?
But this aside,
for you, Your Holiness, to suggest psychiatry as a source of
mental (spiritual??) healing is nothing short of ANATHEMA.
If there is any
one discipline which more than any other has distanced humanity
from the Transcendental it is psychiatry. A false science, the
sophistry of which Dostoievski so majestically makes clear in
the "Grand Inquisitor" from The Brothers Karamazov.
A slip of the tongue
is a rare thing from a learned Jesuit. A
recantation would be in order, Your Eminence.
Either that or we’ve
just witnessed another Ecclesiastical compromise with the “Times.”
Long time no see,
what’s up, oh yeah, how nice, and how’s the wife?
Sorry to hear it.
Oh, I see, I’d misunderstood, for sure, one of these days
not, yes I’ll definitely mention it. Oh, their doing fine,
you don’t say, straight A's, eh.
Wow, no, never been
to Florida, yes I can imagine, oh yeah, I see, wonderful, okay,
yes gotta be off as well, anyway nice talking to you, best of
I love winter.
. . . and so on
frigid cold days everyone’s so covered up and in such
a rush to get to wherever it is their going that you very seldom
recognize anyone in passing and if you should a quick nod and
a smile will do, and you keep on your path skipping the artificial
greeting cordialities and other niceties, which,
let’s face it, most of us rather do without.
No, why would you
you think that? I’m actually quite congenial.
I consider myself
a social person.
I have a friend.
I attend to his grave daily.
Big country, big
business, big deal, big mac, big guy, big problem, big solution,
get over big, big send off, big idea, big head, big plans, big
cars, big city, think big, and yes, big time -- even this most
elusive of metaphysical notions needs expansion.
favourite adjective is BIG. We’re addicted to it. Big
is our biggest aspiration.
When was the last
time you heard a politician or socio-economic guru of any sort
make a speech without alluding to growth (just another word
for more and bigger).
Quantity at any
cost, quality included, sadly. The truth is we cannot make planet
Earth grow bigger. Our resources are limited as is our space.
So what to do?
How could we consume
less and enjoy the same as now and perhaps more without further
pissing off our already quite irritable greenie friends? Well
I suggest a radical mind-change.
How about THINK
If we cannot augment
the size of the Earth surely we could shrink down humans?
A world of well
proportioned dwarfs is the only way to global salvation.
notice the difference as we’d all be shrinking proportionately
And since human
intelligence is a constant, like the speed of light, neither
regardless brain size, this is quite doable.
The advantages are
humongous . . . really really big!
And (due to mathematical
factorials which go beyond the scope of this writing) if we
all eventually shrank by say half we’d be consuming tenfold
less and more. None of this is far-fetched.
If the average height
has increased by more than 10% over the last fifty years (without
intentional human intervention, mind you), why not have it go
the other way round. So all of you scientists out there "stop"
wasting time and energy with theoretical bullshit and get practical.
Modify foods, graft
our genes with pigmy DNA if you must, and artists cinematographers
stylists and geeks, I urge you all to promote and celebrate
shortness as the ultimate in aesthetics.
The Hobbit is our
best hope to a better and healthier future.
Before long we’d
be housing four times as many people per cubic foot of space,
consuming ten times less of everything, driving smaller vehicles,
smaller cruise ships, fewer traffic jams – sanitary departments
won't be so much in the deep, and, come to think of it, even
our space capsules would require less space and emission fuel
. . . and on and on, the pros as limitless as our imagination.
Bill was bossing
a huge warehouse . . . i was working on a painting hanging up
on one of its north walls. he looked the same old self but very
much concerned with the logistics of the dark oak wooden crates
being moved in and out of the joint. we ignored each other.
i painted, he directed traffic. i’s curious as to the
crates’ content but i thought it best to mind to my business
and paint. occasionally Bill could be heard asking questions
to what i assumed were his surrogates, questions somewhat political
in nature, hypothetical questions regarding the consequences
of outcome as opposed to the benefits thereof. “yes, it’ll
fatten up the eastenders for a session but piss off the southlings.
And guess who’se gonna pick up the slack.” Exactly,
lord sanctimonious Himself. No that won’t do. Move those
fucking crates and leave the thinking to me, he shouted out,
his eyes suddenly assuming a fiercely glare, unsettling to say
the least. He then moved towards one of the main pillars crossing
the immense Prussian blue scarlet expanse above, and sat down
resting his back against its greyish crusty flat, pulled a cigarette
from his shiny silver holder out of his arse pocket instantly
lit by a snow white black haired girl in tight leathers by blowing
on it with pursed lips. The stench grew unbearable. What was
he smoking? It smelt organic and rotten. It smelt like all the
guts and mucus and snots and every living thing that oozes cringed
and gasped for an unlikely whiff of oxygen. It smelt of death.
I looked Bill’s way. Our eyes met. I felt extremely uncomfortable
within the horrid surroundings but feared him not. I knew I
held the upperhand and so did he. We stared his damnest stare
at me. I sat looking back with the serenity of innocence. I
would not yield. He got up, approached me, picked up some brushes
threw them up in the air, but I would not react. I don’t
like him, said his wench pointing her finger at me, at which
time I told her to shut the fuck up. That this was between Bill
and me. She vanished, I presume forever. Bill’s eyes were
on fire, red like coals, but I didn’t fear him. He wasn’t
completely possessed, not quite yet, not quite done for like
the dead creatures inside the crates doomed for the farthest
edge of the southerlies. He ran the joint which meant there
was still a chance for an escape. Cut the hissing and sit, I
told him. He raised his head towards the seemingly infinite
darkness of ceiling above and shouted to the top of his lungs.
I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, his diction
a mixture of syllable, spittle and dribble and cough. MAKA,
MOKR, MOCKR , , , Did you say mocker? Mocker? I swear I never
mocked you Bill, I was never derisive. The fire left his eyes,
but not the madness. He looked at me grinding his teeth grabbing
on to my jacket. Never mocked you Bill, I swear it, though I
did believe you were delusional. Delusional? He yelled out.
Is this a delusion to you. Yes I said. The whole thing is just
a dream Bill. Step out. Let the devils be and they shall flee
from you. He sighed and let go.
Upon awakening I
looked at the canvas hanging on my bedroom wall.
It was white. Painted white. A keeper.
your Pope Francis
A religious institution
is not a charity-based conglomerate.
Christ did not die to feed the flock but to strengthen and invigorate
its Spirit with hope.
“Man does not live by bread alone.”
The Promised Land is an ideological place -- not a soup kitchen.
Does the Catholic Church practice charity?
Most probably more so than any other institution on Earth. But
this is not her primary mission.
And so I have no problem with Francis preaching unity, brotherhood
But he goes too far. He compromises principle. And so, for instance,
when asked what he thought of the Hebdo massacre he cavalierly
answered, raising his fist: horrible, BUT, if someone spat on
a photo of my mother I might punch him in the nose as well.
A foolish response and, quite frankly, in the immediate aftermath
of the senseless killings, quite
insensitive and offensive to the victims.
There is no justification to horror. Never. Categorically none.
Christ never sucked up to anyone, not even the clerics in the
temple; and he got nailed for it.
Francis? A goody-goody two shoes opportunist.
And don't the world love him!
And so the streets
of Paris are yet again stained red with western blood, and,
in the immediate aftermath of the massacre, only yards away
from the spot where the butchery took place, outdoors, in Place
de la Republique, surrounded by a crowd, some
nitwit at a piano begins to sing IMAGINE.” -- and
no one reacts?
Have we westerners
all gone mad or merely all turned stupid?
Is this what Parisians
No France? Cause
if they do the terrorists are complying.
Your nation has
been bled to death right under your noses by an alien force
bent on annihilating you and you allow some moron to chant “Imagine
there’s no country?”
Okay, so “imagine”
into your home, kill your parents, brothers and sisters and
minutes later, some guy whips out his guitar , and sings “
Imagine there’s no family, it isn’t hard to do!”
Would you find this
consoling? Would you sing along? Or would you crack the guy’s
guitar across his sacré serenading head?
Wake up you western
wussies. Don't be duped by smooth-talking one-world ideologues
and dreamers, or you’ll soon find yourselves homeless
in your own home, strangers in your own land.
Never think of being
more than a mere one by merely being loud.
Drunkedness is the enjoyed illusion of the drunk.
Which ain't at all bad when you come down and drink of it.
If the Trump phenomenon
has taught us anything, it’s that all attempts at changing
human nature are destined to fail. His candid authenticity is
cathartic, which only goes to show that political correctness
is forced and unnatural behaviour, mostly imposed by left-minded
media, that, in the name of some phantom (bogus), misguided
humanism, now finds itself ship wrecked on the shores of a relativism
that embraces every personal quirk and perversion, where every
evil is tolerated and once punishable crimes are now regarded
as medical conditions.
Trump is a dissenter,
a "despiser" of political correctness. He can afford
to be, just as he can’t be bought. Trump will most probably
soon be thrown off his agenda by a media bent on self-preservation.
But the seeds of rebirth Trump has planted will not have fallen
in vain, and, in the words of Zola, sooner if not later, “their
germination will crack the earth asunder,” and not with
a whimper but a thump. Will America show itself smart enough
to play its only Trump card.YOUR
He zig-zagged through
traffic like the gazelle dodging the cheetah.
I sat on the passenger
seat, my arm resting on the open window when it rubbed against
the side of an uncoming minivan.
Fuck you doing Carlo,
I shouted. I’ve chafed my elbow damn it.
What's it look like
Pull in your arm.
I’m driving’s what I’m doing.
Every inch counts
in a particularly good mood yesterday.
then the thought crossed my mind things could be much worse,
that in another world or dimension I might have been a dog,
in which case I’d be going about sniffing every other
dog’s behind and, even worse yet, enjoying it.
And so thinking
I took a deep breath, filled my lungs with the freshness of
the morning and smiled, thankful for being alive
The old man swished
along for years, and then I heard a thump.
A wind suddenly slapped the awning.
I held on to my pint.
A plant fell onto the street from a balcony up above.
Dirt across my face.
Best finish her off, I thought to myself, and gulped the beer
down in one breath.
A Vespa parked by the curb got knocked over on its side.
I considered straightening it up, then thought it might be best
It wasn’t going anywhere anyway.
Which reminded me
of my high-school physics class, the time I went to pick up
my pen off the floor as Brother Slattery was lecturing on the
laws of inertia, slowly pacing the room from corner to corner,
then suddenly fell silent in mid sentence, his glance raised
at the ceiling, bringing the blackboard chalk to his lips, deeply
dragging and blowing out in my direction, as if sucking on a
I knew then I’s in for trouble.
Movement, he proceeded
to say, is action. And when I lecture, you do not twitch a muscle,
do you hear?
Well now, is movement interruption?
Well, not necessarily, only if abrupt, correct?
As in what?
Impulsive what? You’ve made that one up haven’t
you? You do understand physics has little if anything to do
with poetry do you not?
Yes Bro, very little.
At which point, apparently appeased by the approximate veracity
of my response, (which response no doubt spared me getting whacked
across the head), he moved away from my desk mumbling to himself.
He then paced the front of the class and paused and continued
in a now more congenial tone.Aren’t you glad you’re
studying physics? You might even get to befuddle a lass or two
over the course of your existence with expressions like that.
And were you in motion or were you still prior to bending over
to pick up your pen?, he proceeded to inquire .
I was still bro.
Yes still, inert, as was your pen lying on the floor. And things
which are still do they not tend to remain that way unless disturbed?
They do Bro.
It wasn’t going to go anywhere was it? So why the urgency?
Learn to stay still when you must and most importantly learn
to listen. A most noble activity. Inertia
is sometimes good you know, sometimes excellently good.
Well, if always
precarious, the Brother’s lectures were seldom unexciting.
He lectured on physics but in a flexible sort of a way, never
discouraging student initiative, however ‘poetic’
And so as the Vespa
wasn’t about to go anywhere I thought it best to leave
Besides, why risk catching blame for being a good Samaritan?
The blameless nature
Morality as inadvertent inaction.
Perhaps I should neither have bothered to gulp down my beer?
(at worst the wind would have fanned it away ) or answer back
when reprimanded. Had Brother Slattery been keener and in a
less accepting mood he might even have cuffed me (all in the
name of physics) citing the principle of minimum exertion, explaining
mere nods would have sufficed.
. . . As if things,
however seemingly still could ever be truly inert anyway . .
The wind quieted
down, or so it seemed.
An old man lay supine by a garbage bin on an alley next to the
terrace where I was sitting.
I hurriedly jolted his way and picked him up off the ground.
your wimpy men's soccer
If you enjoy the
beautiful game catch the Womens’ Soccer World Cup being
played right here in Canada.
Believe you me,
the girls can play -- and no theatrics. No diving, no whining,
no squirming on the pitch like shrivelling worms, no stripping
to the waist every time
a ball finds the net (occasional wardrobe malfunction acceptable),
no jersey switching at half time, no caressing and kissing,
none of that effeminate (?) stuff, and no, no biting either.
None of the Ronaldo,
Suarez, Neymar play-acting nonsense.
These girls play
a masculine game -- if you get my meaning -- the way it’s
meant to be played.
with the artificial turf? We grow, smoke and sell more ‘grass’
in Canada than just about anywhere on the planet. You’d
think we could put up a patch for these glorious young ladies.YOUR
The bus trundled
along the stony path hugging tight to the side of the mountain
on its right with nothing in places but a few inches of dirt
to the unguarded precipice on the left below.
A windowless vehicle.
sat somewhat nervously at first but as the ride progressed I
blended with the joyful chatter and laughter and confident ease
of the locals on their way home.
A baby cries. The
mother passes her child to me, and why not, as I was the closest
to her, and proceeds to slip out her teat for her other babe
Meanwhile the music
from the speakers up front is blasting full out, almost as loudly
as the blast of the klaxon bleating at every turn.
A man in his thirties
is chewing paan, spitting the red juices out the window.
A spittle accidentally splashes my shirt. I tap him on the shoulder.
A row of blood red teeth flash radiantly into a smile as his
head bobs regretfully from side to side. Very sorry, very sorry.
Do you have school pen for my child?
I stand to stretch
my legs. I glance uneasily to the right.
Not to worry, yells
out the driver. We’ve been this way a thousand times before.
Besides, if its
our time there’s no preventing the karma.
There are dozens
of little effigies dangling above his dashboard. So which is
your god? I ask. Oh depending on my disposition, but my favourite
is Kali. A devilish one, he says, giggling. Catch her in the
wrong mood and she’ll chop your head clean off. Just like
the wife, eh? Ahh, yes yes, absolutely correct, just like the
wife. And yourself? Do you have a god? Yes, Jesus. And what
does your god say? Oh, basically to treat others good and have
a little faith. Ah, I like your god, I think I’ll put
him up with the rest soon as I find an icon of him.
I think we need
all the gods in the heavens, I tell the driver. It's very misty
up ahead. Hard to see, don’t you find? Not to worry. I
go by feel. Besides, we’re driving through clouds which
means we’re there. Welcome to Kodaikanal.
So yet another painting,
this time a Picasso, sold for 106 million, to someone for whom
the cost is a mere single digit decrease in a multi-billion
ever increasing numerical figure quantifying his monetary worth.
And so, for instance,
imagine a guy with a full pail of sand throwing Sotheby a grain
and gets his Picasso delivered at his palace.
And then you’ve
got an artist who sells his painting for a mere 106 dollars
to a guy whose pail is not only empty but mortgaged to boot.
Seen from this perspective
the meaning of a painting’s “worth” takes
on a completely different meaning.
I want to stay healthy
enough to enjoy all those unhealthy things which make life worth
cop bad cop
There's the rotten
10% in any group, whether priests, rabbis, gurus, psychologists,
proctologists, coaches, teachers, and yes, even cops. Hiring
You can never get inside a person's head from an interview.
No, there will always be bad cops. And besides, let's face it,
you've gotta be a bit of a kook to consider a carreer as a cop
Warriors and enforcers, whether on the fields, on the ice, in
the deserts and the skies, and yes, even in the ghettos, can't
be expected to be chosen from an average population. Most have
got issues, something to prove, whether to themselves or their
loved ones or society as a whole. And whenever and wherever
there is need for approval there is imbalance and fragility.
Which is why you don't ever mess with cops. Yes madame, thank
you very much, is always your best bet. And let's face it, society
Give them a wide berth, let them do their job, swallow your
pride and be respectful despite their attitude and they'll leave
those at either extremity of nature's standard deviation curve,
I look at it this way.
are not normal? Not your fault.
But this does not license you to promote your life-style onto
others, nor does it endow you with special automatic entry into
institutions which have since time immemorial objected to your
ways. And so, for example, if you are coprophagic, this does
not entitle you to open a restaurant catering to those whose
favourite delights are similar to yours. Or, assuming you enjoyed
humping your goat (provided, of course, your goat offered every
semblance of consent), this wouldn't give you right to suggest
your sexual predilection as a legitimate life style to grade
Same holds true for other types of deviant behaviour.
In short, do whatever the fuck you want, but do it in PRIVATE.
Meanwhile I can't even take a piss on a full bladder any more
without getting fined for indecent exposure. (new city law =
$1000 fine -- hear about it?). Before pissing (uh! I mean passing)
municipal ordinances of this sort city had better build urinals
at every street block, damn it. .
What was that mayor? As a preventive measure against perverts
whipping it out at school yards? Well, freaks like that ought
to be neutralized and their trophies fed to the pigs.
But to make the innocent piddler pay for society's creeps doesn't
seem at all right.
a good quip, catchy and to the point, that quickly generates
upon repetition into an annoying cliche, so it is with simple
Should we therefore conclude complexity a necessary condition
to all good art? Or might not the opposite be true, that the
most excellent art is perhaps meant to be seen or heard but
once, that all other renderings must be provided by memory and
Perhaps it's why the Sun likes not been seen, for fear we might
grow tired of it, too.
defined laughter as "an affectation arising from the sudden
transformation of a strained expectation into nothing." In other
words the element of surprise arising out of a sensible contradiction,
(i.e: a paradox) is at the root of laughter.
The aesthetic experience is very similarly constituted though
not at a rational but emotional level. And so melody, which
is at the root of all aesthetic experience, is asymmetric equilibrium,
a balancing of sorts which, as asymmetric, is both a paradox
and by necessity, unexpected.
While accustomed to thinking of melody as strictly musical we
find it also in the plastic arts as well as poetry.
This joyful harmony characterizing all good art (as opposed
to kitsch), while extremely difficult to attain is very often
extremely simple in its constitution.
And so for instance, the difference between a memorable, touching
melodic line and one leaving the listener indifferent, if not
outright 'tuned off,' could be as simple as the difference between
a major and a minor chord, a half note, a single fret, or a
grace note acting as link between otherwise discordant musical
Similarly, the difference between, say, a painting awakening
in the gifted/knowledgeable viewer a sense of aesthetic appreciation
and one which does nothing at all can be as plain as a lengthened
line, or toned down colour, or diminished form. The same is
of course true of poetry, where a mere word in the right place
will suddenly engender an inspiring metaphor.
And so, despite opinion to the contrary, creativity has extremely
little to do with technique and much with vision.
Which is why, though performers and critics abound, true artists
are far more rare.
Which is why, in his unique ironical way, Nietzsche commanded
that above knowing ourselves we first and foremost acquire good
your hair of the dog
yoga instructor succeeded in eliminating my early morning hangover.
a few too many last night watching the game with the boys but
decided to attend yoga practice regardless. I couldn’t
even manage the child-pose I was so wasted.
then Antoine suggests the most important things are often those
we strive to shun, that recognition is in effect little more
than an embracing of what we wish were not. An interesting paradox,
I thought to myself, and experimented by seeing if I couldn’t
somehow embrace my willies.
wouldn’t you know it. Gone. Instantaneously. And my balance
doing the tree pose -- seldom more stable.
am still incredulous to it, but it bloody works.
only I’d have known the trick earlier in life I'd have
wasted fewer evenings staying sober.
your cause and effuckt
is no rationality in beauty.
fools invent reasons to the flower’s glory: to attract
the bee they say. And if the flower had no scent and the bee
would be attracted to it anyway they would invent some other
reason for that too, perhaps suggesting the bee has some magnetic
biochemical disposition to petals fluttering in the wind. Hot
air. All of it. Any sensible peasant knows that.
stop and listen and see and smell beauty for what it is, and
be content in the experience. “If I were but a nostril
I should be happy as I’d have an opening to the World,”
said Merleau Ponty.
life has a reason. Being has no reason. Or, to adopt a biblical
explanation, the wisest, in my view, closest to the truth, we
were made for God’s pleasure. It is what it is.
There is no justice, and every attempt at levelling out the
playing field through human imposed retributivist measures only
creates more injustice. She’s smart and beautiful and
you’re sporting more than a sufficient nose on your big
dullard’s head. And so it is. No reason to it whatsoever.
course someone might try to convince you that, as the tree with
the erraticly spread out branches draws more attention than
the perfectly straight one, so does a defect enhance a human
countenance. Perhaps, in some instances, assuming the defect
is minor, but otherwise, again, a bunch of hot air, and the
lass with the artichoke nose knows it, smiles, and takes in
a long big breath. Why? Cause she can, that’s why. No,
there is no sensible way to rationalize injustice. Which is
why it is said that vengeance is of the Lord. And then there
hear of unconditional love? Or, to put it otherwise, to love
for no reason whatsoever, not as my cat loves me, because he
knows I’ll feed him, but for nothing.
love for no reason. Can you embrace so much irrationality? Hope
so or you’ll waste away seeking reasons which do not ON
THIS PLANE OF BEING exist, and miss out on the show, on the
Magical Mystery Tour we call LIFE.YOUR
your official charity tax deduction
filing my taxes.
In the hood I’m known as Grub.
I’m always giving hand outs to the local strung-outs.
I ask no questions.
Those good enough to fool me into thinking they’re losers
though they’re not ,well, what to say, good on them.
But for the most part I think I’ve got the field well
Anyway I do my fair share of sharing, or, donating, to put it
in fiscal terms.
But no, I’ve no receipts to prove my Catholicism.
expect me to ask Joe Squeegee for a receipt every time I ‘throw
the bum a dime,’ or, then again, perhaps I should?
the government provided the less industrious among us a receipt
booklet, not only would they (the street bums) offer an example
of simple living to the greedy rest of us but also provide an
opportunity for more people to give without concern about their
monies ending up fattening some double-crossing Red Cross 6-digit-salaried
is most fat-wad ‘donators’ don’t give two
fucks who ends up getting their hand-outs; their only concern
is tax write offs. In fact they never do dip their hands into
their pockets. It’s all digitally done, very mechanical,
all arithmetic, no heart, mostly executed by their chartered
accountants; all very clinical.
they do get tax write-offs. I don’t, damn it. No matter.
Hell with ‘em all.
speak to the simpletons of the world. The innocent. The wise.
The clean in spirit.
I tell you this. You give a buck to a bum you’ve given
a buck’s worth and you’ve given well.
the bum does with it is no concern of yours. He can drink it,
shoot it, blow it, name it, no difference. What is important
is he’ll know there are good people out there willing
to help him out.
all, charity is not about quantity but care. And for most street
kids and others alike it’s what they thirst for most.
give to them and fuck the feds.
No donation tax credits for me again this year?
far as the feds are concerned I’m just another donationless
tight-wad cheap fuck?
hell with them. Who are the feds anyways? They don’t feel,
they only calculate.
down the street? He knows me. And that‘ll top a tax write-off
off any day.YOUR
wet grey afternoon.
rustle beneath my feet.
slippery swishing traffic grieves along the red leaf-laden boulevard.
fitful winds puff up fragile fallen tree-wings.
spin and dance in whirly elegance then rest aground awhile then
quieting muffled hush.
suddenly the scurry of a squirrel, and then not.
ravens shrill and dive within the branches' deep -- then rest
observantly and still.
naples-yellow through rusty maple trees ignites to orange-mellow.
lone dark cloud whips fast across beneath a woolly silvery heavenly
mantle beyond it up above.
not a stir way down below.
then another flutter and then none.
last sporadic triggerings of tremulous excitement
before she spreads in white her peaceful frigid calm.
the Catholic church’s position on contraception why is
so much being stirred up out of nothing? The
church preaches and teaches its fold to be 'natural.'
when you’re banging the wife clock the cock, pull out
a wee bit sooner, or stand on a pail while doing it and ask
her to kick it when you’re on the verge, or whatever.
In other words man, show some control, some balls, some imagination.
course if your too much of an unimaginative wuss and can't hold
in then yes you’ve got 'artificial' options. You’ll
not burn in hell?
not find no condom wearing Dicks in Dante’s Inferno,
so where’s the worry?
it's your mother, or your teacher, or your Church, or anyone
who cares for you, they’ll always raise the bar, inviting
you to comport yourself according to the very highest standards?
But that’s as far as it goes.
wearing a nodder is not the eleventh commandment.
the Catholic Church is all about natural versus artificial.
hobbled along the stony slabbed waterfront where one of the
fishers reeled up a two-footer. A trout, by the looks of it,
though it might have been a salmon or even an overgrown sardine
or a baby tuna perhaps. Not being an ichthyologist, I couldn’t
quite be sure as to exactly what kind of fish it was, though
it most definitely was a fish. Anyway, the fisher held the fish
up by the gills, looked at it in the same way one might inspect
a handkerchief after one has blown in it, or straight threw
it, as often occurs with paper kerchiefs, or across it, as often
occurs with small kerchiefs, or when the kerchief isn’t
so small but the nose in question is enormous, or, which would
indeed be most unfortunate, both a small kerchie and a cauliflower
sized nose, and also depending on the various types of symptoms
accompanying the cold, and, not unimportantly, also very much
depending on the pulmonary force of the person doing the discharging,
as well as the environment in which the nasal releasing is performed;
after all, one would not quite expect a dainty mademoiselle
of refined pedigree attending a dinner to blow with the same
intensity and spirit as a pig-farmer at a he-ha folk festival,
and so, having quite deliberately inspected the fish, the fisherman
threw the fish my way. For you, he said. As the trout flopped
about the pier one of the boatmen yelled out that I should lay
my knee on it and pin the slimy thing down, which I did. The
helpless creature panted for air, or whatever it is fish pant
for when out of water panting , flashing a sharp set of pearly
white teeth… Were the teeth extracted from the fish before
their heads ended up boiling in the pot? Or were they left to
slip off their gums straight into the broth for flavouring?
questions and my missing socks were enough to keep my mind in
a whirl for the better part of the week. For you see my socks
had vanished. Now we all of course have had our socks gone missing
in the course of our lives. But why of all my socks only the
yellow ones. And why had they gone missing -- again.
were the trout’s teeth left intentionally on its head
for flavouring the fish head soup, as I had initially suspected,
or might there not perhaps have been some other, more exotic,
oriental reason for this strangest of culinary inclusions?
the teeth left in as a ‘hardening’ agent . . . for
aphrodisiacal purposes? Perhaps not as cherished as a rhino’s
horn, or porcupine bezoars, or even pangolin flesh, or gecko’s
skin, but certainly more accessible to mariners and way way
this be why over the centuries sailors had acquired such renown
as lovers? Is this why the most beautiful Canadian women live
in the Maritimes?
the sailor’s celebrated virility attributable to fish
teeth in his soup and not, as the literature would have us believe,
from being months on end out at sea, womanless? In fact one
might very well make the case that having been weaned on toothy
fish soup our sailors’accented sexual prowess got the
gals chasing after them boys so hard their only way out was
sailing the high seas.
more I contemplated the more questions popped to mind, though
none as perturbing as the sudden disappearance of my socks.
And why only my yellow ones.
my bed where I lay, sleepless, I glanced searchingly into the
moon was long past the full, a beautiful round yellow moon,
as yellow as my socks when quite suddenly I heard a screech
in the night. I gingerly approached the window sill. And there
he was. Don. My Chinese acrobat neighbour swinging from my clothes
line. But of course, it now all made perfect sense . . . all
those hours at the gym, honing his acrobatic skills . . . to
steal my socks -- no doubt attracted by their colour to match
his complexion? It would never have occurred to me had I not
seen him with my own eyes.
they say crosswords sharpen the mind? Rubbish. It's scrabble
for me from here on out.
did the fisherman throw the fish at me cause he thought I might
need a little toothy fish soup of my own to energize what he
interpreted as an otherwise less than seaworthy masculinity?
and more questions. Damn me and when I get to try linking words
what if yellow socks, for some strangest of reasons, were as
desirable to the oriental persuasion as the seal’s dried
No bloody way. No more doing with word-link of any sort, no
out as well I thought to myself, sniffing at my last remaining
pair of yellow socks.
'bracketing' (époqué) went further than merely
eliminating 'accidentals,' hence the term transcendental reduction.
He was more concerned with the mindfulness of experience, with
presence, and whereever there is mindfulness and presence there
can, by necessity, be no room for judgment (past experience,
conceptual baggage of any sort). Which is why the artist, while
in his phenomenological mode, does not see the tree as tree
but as mere colour and form (not easy when drawing the nude).
In so doing the artist's experience is in no way obstructed
by his notion of what a tree is 'supposed' to look like. Hence
the word phenomenon -- that which appears as appearance. I suspect
every woman who visits her gynecologist trusts that he too is
in the phenomenological mode while visiting her.
your bombay dawn
It was a bumpy
landing that I’d never experienced before. The plane skipped
on the strip like a flat pebble on water. I attributed the ‘miss’
to the night and let it go at that, grumbling.
Must have been 30 Celsius and the sun wasn’t up yet. My
shoes stuck, squishing off the tarmac with every step towards
the main building. Inside hundreds of immaculately coiffed Indians
all in white shirts, flashing radiantly welcoming smiles. I
felt happy to be there.
And desks everywhere
laden with tons of paper, dusty roped-up stacks of tawdry documents
lying forgotten on the ground, stacked in shelves up behind
and beyond. No, you didn’t want to get mixed up with the
law, not in this bureaucracy; you’d be forgotten and left
to rot. Everywhere paper. Forests of the stuff. These were,
after all, the seventies. No computers to speak of. Only paper.
crows as big as cats flying overhead. And a lady clad in all
the colours of the rainbow walking straight and proud alongside
her goat. This was a weird-wild place, no doubt about it. I’d
hardly got there and I already loved it.
Soon I’m out and hustling for a
cab. I arranged to share a ride with a couple of guys from my
flight into town. It was an old Bentley, worn down but spacious
and classy nevertheless. Being a Montrealer, with the worst
streets of any big city on the planet and the most run-down
taxis anywhere, this was an unanticipated treat.
It was still dark out but the first light of day was streaking
the horizon. The roads were poorly lit. Shadowy figures lying
beneath a tree. Homeless dogs running about, seemingly anxious
and confused. And the occasional cow, scrawny and bony, chewing
newsprint. An intellectual beast.
Look, said Dean, pointing to the left at a wall, some 8 feet
in height, that seemed to go on forever. Squatting on it were
dozens of people, one next to the other, their bare asses pointing
our way, dumping. I gaped in disbelief. The cabbie, who until
now had kept silent, said: squatters colony, as if to remind
us that it wasn’t all like that, that this was an undesired
anomaly, that he wasn’t part of that, that they belonged
to another caste, on and on. He wouldn’t stop lecturing,
explaining, justifying. But so what. I then thought to myself.
No different from our shit-huts up north. So they’re short
on sewage. No fault of theirs. It would all get fixed in time,
rode on. And the sun rose higher, and there she suddenly appeared,
the Bombay Bay looming in the distance, spreading out far beyond
a thousand sails, masts and ships moored forever along the shore,
the warm white-yellow light surrounding the city like a halo,
the skyline a wonder of Hindi-Brit architecture, the eerie birds
swirling up high and above the ubiquitous spires, and the magnificent
colourful scent -- no other way to describe it -- as it smelled
like everything at once. One does not know the nose until one
goes to India -- tantamount to the severely daltonic discovering
we drove closer to town the streets grew populated. Cows halting
traffic, the drivers calmly accepting the wait. People everywhere,
some leaning against the side of a building chewing paan,
their coal-red teeth betraying their habit, others sitting about
in a small circle, taking breakfast on a banana leaf, and jittery
monkeys pouncing the rooftops erratically like a thousand superballs
let lose upon the earth from way up high,. The urban monkey
is coy and agile. There she is. And now she’s gone. And
the pungent smell of spice. Spice is everywhere. India is spice.
Everything smells like spice. You cannot get away from it. You
become it. Spice.
of course the early morning scrubbers, brushing their teeth
with huge brushes, with thick bristles, brushes big enough to
floss a camel, vigorously brushing, foaming at the mouth, walking
about, holding their metallic water filled cups, sipping and
unabashedly spitting out as though in a spit-the-farthest competition,
loudly clearing their throats, inducing vomiting, as is the
Hindu’s wont, part of their morning ablution ritual, a
way of keeping it clean, of cleansing. They may wear tattered
rags but they are a clean people. Always and everywhere scrubbing,
washing and bathing. All kinds of people doing in public what
we all do privately.
is a public reality. It is an organism too concerned about survival,
about the truth of life to worry over the niceties of western
privacy. To the street-Hindu privacy is death. When he finds
it, it is too late.. He is no longer wanted. Shunned. Even by
his very own. He is contagious. Infected. A goner. And so he
doesn’t t bother. He huddles up in his private spot, and
dies, silently and acceptingly, as he must, for the sake of
the rest, of the organism, of INDIA, an organic indestructible
reality . Should a nuclear cataclysm, a global Armageddon occur,
India would survive. The Hindu excels at survival. All other
options are inconceivable to him.. His love and respect of life
and of divinity too great for him to ponder over alternatives.
the Hindu, that we are all merely passing by is a given. Everywhere
the little statuettes of their gods, Shiva, the transcendent
Lord who creates the cosmos, maintains it and destroys it over
and over again, the ubiquitous Ganesh, the elephant god, the
remover of obstacles, and Vishnu, one of the main deities, the
perseverer and protector, and Kali, the Hindu goddess associated
with empowerment, Shakti, and Hanuman the monkey god, and many
many more, all fascinating and tremendous in their own way,
making up the most colourful mythology the world has known,
and of course Braham, the highest and indescribable reality.
And before their many gods are offerings and burning incense
and solemn prayer, and powdered drawings.
the Hindu there is nothing eventful about a ceremony. The ceremony
begins at dawn and ends at death. To the Hindu life itself is
a ceremony, a thanksgiving and preparation for the other side..
All this, driving the streets of Bombay, and it was still only
decided to stay at the Seashore Hotel. We were led to our room,
a spacious opulence affording a spectacular view of the Bay.
I was tired. We all were. One of the guys, Marc, rolled a joint.
Copped a tola (the weight of a silver rupee), he said,
from the bellboy. Ten grams for 100 rupees, a mere ten bucks.
I lied down and fell asleep, the morning’s impressions
running through my head kaleidoscopically, and the cabbie’s
last words before dropping us off, that it isn’t as ugly
and bad as you might suspect – those people are happy.
in time, having spent several months in India, his words proved
prophetic, though after only having been there for a mere few
hours I already knew
I still remember how everything smelled like spice, but then
you grew used to it and it smelled no more, and you missed it.
Zeppelin's incomparable Jimmy
Page compacted melody -- the essence of music -- in the
tightest ways possible. No other band or guitarist has approached
that kind of purity of expression, or plenitude, or musical
equivalent of singularity.
your misplaced civility
was a time when I could take the subway home after a long day
hanging out at the pub, grab a seat, read the paper and relax,
or even take a snooze for that matter.
every stop, at every stop and before leaving every station,
I’ve got to be loudly reminded by the same automated speaker
voice of the name of the same bloody station about to be left
or approached. Very annoying.
I know, all for the benefit of the blind. Or is it?
the blind who perceive sensory stimuli much more sharply then
the rest of us visually un-impaired, who can feel thread so
discerningly that the best darners are blind, who can read brail,
whose attention to auditory cues is so refined as to identify
a person walking far behind by the most subtle of scents, fragrants
or otherwise, who can tune instruments as precisely as the most
state of the art technological gadget out there, and on and
on, do you think they, the blind, need be reminded of every
next in line subway stop? I suspect most blind persons find
this very condescending, and as damn annoying as the rest of
want to assist the blind? Boost up their pensions. Now that
I am all for. But to drive the likes of irritable me off the
rails every time I hop a subway train? No, that isn’t
And besides, since for every blind person out there, there are
literally thousands of neurotics (i.e. normal folk), numbers
alone should dictate that a bit of peace and quiet be provided,
at least on the ride back home from wherever.
to drive even the most balanced, measured and restrained of
souls to drinking.
The announcements aren't for the blind but but for people
who are reading their newspaper or book and can't be bothered
looking up all the time to get one's bearings, or someone
who is seated in rush hour and can't see above the bodies
and heads of the crowd and relies on the public announcements.
Humans went about their day for millions of years without
Now even my elevator must inform me as to which floor I am
on. There are only three damn it.
Staying with it, being aware, is healthy and civic.
In olden days one didn't need alarm clocks to get out of bed.
And one certainly didnt forget to water his orchard, feed
his cattle, or he might starve.
And mums certainly didn't forget their kids locked up in cars,
or carts, or whatever other space.
I’ll admit, I would find it problematic memorizing a
self-destructive tape à la Mission Impossible. But
knowing where to get off?
Even sheep and goats know how to get to their barns unattended
at sundown. And chickens have no problems finding their coup.
you willing to sacrifice your nose for the environment? Because
unless you stink, you see, you’re not a true greenie.
Here are some of the reasons why. Just the basics facts, really.
average cost of a ten minute shower in Canada is around $2.
Fifty gallons of H2O down the drain.. That’s a lot of
waste, and for what, to smell a little less for a little while
Health concerns? None. It’s not unhealthy to stink. In
fact it’s absolutely – you gotta love this -- ‘natural.’
Yes. You heard right. Natural: every tree-hugger’s favourite
Additional costs? None. No additional medical costs out of the
nation’s piggy bank. Not that environmentalists ever cared
about costs of any kind. They are so generous they are willing
to sacrifice literally thousands of jobs today for the possibility
of a fraction of a degree increase in temperature a century
down the road. Now ain’t that principle. Of course their
largesse would resonate all the more if they themselves took
a cut in their personal, tax-subsidized salaries, but that'd
be stretching it, wouldn’t it? Every principle has its
stinking? It wouldn’t cost a cent.
Not showering (and this is only a personal non-scientific theory,
but a sensible one nevertheless) is good for both circulation
and skin. Dirt would induce scratching, which would enhance
the exfoliation process as well as blood flow, in turn rendering
skin more elastic and naturally ruddy, thereby reducing usage
of facial ointments, pomades and a whole variety of skin-care
products, materials, lest we forget, all harmful to the environment.
Also, the inevitable ensuing rise in the need to scratch-off
occasional itches in far reaching parts of our body would serve
as stretching exercises. No stretch would go wasted. Very healthy
and ‘natural’ in-deed.
And with all the talk about humanity turning decadent, I’ll
bet much of the kink infecting our society would inversely and
proportionally diminish with increasing levels of body odour.
But this is an aside.
We are here concerned with keeping it green. If ‘green’
be our mission, to STINK is our motto.
You want clean? Then ‘stink’ damn it. It’s
small pain for so much gain. Besides, who is to say that in
time you might even get to enjoy it, the stink that is.
So STINK UP or SHUT UP.
Enjoyed this very much. Not 'sucking up.' You could put a certain
talk show host to shame. Or maybe be his writer!
your CBC on Ghomeshi
never much cared for those who welcome all things new merely
for the sake of change, or, to put it cynically, for the obsessive
desire to topple tradition.
would characterize ex CBC broadcaster Jian Ghomeshi as one such
when CBC gave him the boot I wasn’t in tears, though I
do sympathize with the man as I feel he is the fall-guy for
a movement bent on pre-emptively punishing any semblance of
wrong done to the gentler sex.
is into S&M (sadomasochism). Rough sex. I personally could
never quite wrap my head around the supposed thrill in getting
my testicles squeezed like a lemon. Nor has it ever so much
as crossed my mind to inflict physical punishment of whatever
kind on any of the many ladies whose fortune it has been to
share the comfort of my bed (ah ah). But that is just me, isn’t
it? Who am I to judge?
a world whose primary mantra is “everything goes if consensual”
then why not have someone tie you up like an Italian salami
till you turn blue in the face and then, to make matters worse
(or is that better?), insert the object of your choice into
the orifice of your choice. I once read of a guy at an emergency
ward with a toaster up his ass. One can only hope it was a rounded
cornered piece of appliance -- and that it was switched off.
In any event, if that can be passed off as ‘normal’
behaviour, however electrifyingly eclectic, so should consensual
was watching Anthony Bourdain on CNN just a few weeks back.
Seems most Japanese are into rough sex, and their society doesn’t
seem to have suffered the worse for it. So S & M must be
alright if consensual. And herein lies the key to the tale:
Ghomeshi’s gals engage in the dangerous games consensually?
If yes, then the CBC had no business firing the guy. In fact,
in so doing, the CBC indicted not only Ghomeshi but everyone
indulging in S & M. Not too cool for a broadcasting institution
whose mission has for years been to go out on a limb in defending
all manner of sexual orientation.
now, after an extended quiet period in her life, we have actress
Lucy DeCoutere who, and only after the scandal broke, has come
out testifying that Ghomeshi slapped her about while putting
it out a bit, and that she hadn’t approved. Hmmmm? Was
this before or after she squashed Jian’s balls? But this
aside, are we to believe her? She is, after all, the same Lucy
who played the part of Ricky’s wife on Trailer Park
Boys, the gal whose favourite pastime was ‘cutting
a little lose,’ as she was wont to describing it, hanging
out at parties, getting pissed out of her ‘fucking’
gills, and why not, rubbing it up with whomever took to her
fancy. Yes, that Lucy, the actress whose director thought her
true to life persona so close to the role he never even bothered
changing her name, which obviously suited her just fine?
are we going to believe Lucy or Ghomeshi, who claims the other
girl who snitched on him did so out of revenge for having been
jilted? And what about the dozens if not possibly hundreds of
other gals Ghomeshi might have ‘hit on,’ -- pardon
the pun -- over the years. Why haven’t they also come
don’t know who to believe. What I do know is until the
whole truth is out Ghomeshi should not have been sacked from
his post. The CBC acted out of fear of reprisals from the women’s
lobby. It acted pre-emptively, cowardly and hypocritically.
is the cornerstone of western thinking, regardless of political
leaning. And western justice states that one is INNOCENT until
proven GUILTY; and as a sparrow does not the spring make, neither
does Lucy’s lament nor the anonymous clamour of the spurned
lover make Ghomeshi a criminal. He might be a deviant, and most
probably a "victim,' but no, not a criminal, at least not
for as long as the sun shall shine upon this earth Heiddeger’s
reminder shall resound as a warning to all and a blessing to
was too brilliant a thinker to shout in desperation.
the contrary, his was a message of hope, a Zarathustrian cry
in the wilderness, a message "for everyone and no one."
your assisted suicide
only people who should be assisted are those physically incapable
to end it themselves. As for the rest, if they haven't the courage
or imagination to do it on their own (which is what suicide
etymologically means) they’re not legitimate candidates.
the Japanese of old could perform hari-kiri (paradoxically transforming
the act into a glorious event), surely us westerners should
have enough “guts” to overdose on pills, a shot
of heroine, or do the ultimate bungee jump with a joyous hurrah.
The real McCoys, the Peter Moroses of the world (a personal
friend who got it right first time) do not ask nor wait for
superior court judges to pass the assistance law. We’ve
turned into a society of pampered wormish wimp -- perhaps a
good argument for total mass suicide. But who should we then
ask to pull the trigger?
clocks running fast
Beggars consulting menus
Priests scheduling confessions. The guilt ridden sinner arrives
late and slits his throat.
Billionaires preaching morality
Anarchists demanding rights
Querulous female cops in army get-ups bent on keeping the peace
Priapic pedophiles beat the rap as the psychologist applauds.
The rich abet the poor to fatten up still more . The poor man’s
lard appeases wealthy consciences.
Dumpster divers, pan handlers, can collectors, grocery-snackers,
skin carvers, drunks and then the buskers, posers, whores, transfags,
pimps and sleeky vendors glad-handing everywhere seeking favour.
A helter skelter and factitious morality.
A damsel and her pit on a summery afternoon stroll along the
boulevard, delicate long anemic ivory skim-milk-white fingers
twirl the handle of a pink parasol.
theorists shooting craps
A diaphanous moonlight veils the evening sky.
The rabbi scuttles hurriedly to Friday prayers then pays a routine
visit to his local massage parlour.
And the cock-eyed Cyclops throws another stone, and misses yet
again, and blinks, and the fortunate miserable wanderer winks
Psychedelic logic breaks the frigid silence with bad noise.
Sleepy felines mind the zone.
The mice were giving a lot of whingeing to the rats.
The mice were thinking the felines might have been fit to run
on to the rodents.
But the cats weren’t having any of it.
They remained patiently indifferent.
Rain now coming down hard.
Jaundiced hands cling on to wet rail
I watch the flowing waters.
I miss the ocean waves. I sense they are inviting me to follow
A mere illusion. But illusions help to keep the soul at peace.
And then a slumpy fall and wrinkled skin and green monsters
slurping down their bloody mead.
my modus operandi
inspiration could arise from something as trivial as a wet pebble
on a beach, or a sulking donkey, or the rusty hull of an abandoned
boat dry docked by the side of a lake, or even a young she goat
frolicking about in the meadows.It’s all out there.
palette of every artist is nature.
I am not as concerned with themes as I am with putting something
together pleasing to the eye. If the work should invite viewers
to revisit the seemingly ordinary with renewed interest, all
the better. But this is purely incidental. I am not out to tell
stories, provide morals, correct past wrongs or in any way change
the world any more than the musician.
as in music, whose beauty transcends significance, so with art.
A painting need not mean anything for it to touch us. A piece
of marble is beautiful not because we recognize something in
it we can name, but because of its harmonious blend of colouring,
texture and form. Art is in fact all the finer when it means
When the artist leans too heavily on acquired technique style
becomes imprisoning, and the work annoyingly repetitive.
I like changing it around. I am not a cookie cutter artist.
When I become too comfortable in a genre I grow bored and go
elsewhere. An artist must be an explorer, never for long content
with his newly found abode, always pushing further, and absolutely
never producing to please an audience . . . .or he’s no
artist at all, at best perhaps a craftsman or a cook.
is why I prefer not to be pigeonholed stylistically.
now? I am currently working on a series of aerial paintings.
I was flying over the Prairies last spring. It was a clear crisp
day. Not a cloud up in the skies. Below all was flat. Nothing
recognizable. Not the silos, not the farms, not the produce
of the fields, not the combines, trucks and barns. Nothing down
under except for a seemingly erratic coloured patchy quilt,
as only mother nature can weave. You asked for a source of inspiration?
Well this was definitely one.
to next? I was thinking of going up to the Yukon . I love the
sparse silent vastness of our Canadian hinterland, where light
travels unimpeded towards ever distant sun-splashed horizons.
And the way the skyline subtly blends with water and land in
explosive hues of light vibrating colour. Yeah, I think I’ll
be painting abstract north-scapes sometime soon.
Here we are most of us fat if not downright obese. Yet every
other billboard adorning our streets and highways is an invite
to dine out.
TV shows by the dozens from morning till dawn. The medics, to
their credit warn of the dangers of overeating. But why aren’t
the environmentalists out in full force on this one.
you think bovine flatus shall pierce the ozone layer beyond
repair? Obscured by farts is a tragic epitaph to be sure. A
sad legacy our descendants will be loath to forgive.
then, go tell it to the cooks who transform the helpless quadrupeds
into irresistible slabs of haute cuisine and stop picking on
the cows why don’t you.
They promote gluttony is what they do. And the better they’re
at it the worse.
yes. Up Chef Boyardee.
now I must go.
a little tongue and cheek on the boil needs minding!
“The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah Dedalus,
the Greeks. I must teach you. You must read them in the original.
of course Joyce was right.
of course he was alluding to the musicality of language which
by necessity gets lost in translation.
hell with meaningful literature if it lacks musicality.
is why, for all my efforts, and I've given it three tries over
the years, I can't for the life of me get past the first 30
pages of Marcel Proust’s English translation of A
La Recherche Du Temps Perdu (Remembrance Of Things Past).
Even in translation the work is as profound as anything you’ll
ever read. But it reads dead flat.
for all you guys losing it trying to enjoy the classics in translation,
here’s my advice to you. Read only as far in as your patience
carries you and no further.
it's not as though any people in particular had a monopoly on
it's meaning you’re after you’ll find it in just
about any language, I am sure.
if it’s the artistry, the musicality you fancy, then best
go with the original.
if your dead bent on reading foreign literature learn the foreign
if languages are not your thing then go right on ahead and read
the bloody bit in translation, but don’t expect an easy
I’m hard at work on Le Passe Simple, that would be Past
Simple in English, a misnomer at best as it’s anything
but simple, or am I missing the beat?
Scattered waters gather forming rivers.
Simplicity is the latest evolution of chaos.
your pit bull
Just back from a pawn shop on old Craig Street, now Saint Antoine.
In the old days most of us wanna be rock star kids used to hit
the Craig Street pawn shops in downtown Montreal on a regular
basis, scouting out the joints for a guitar that didn’t
put your wrist out of place when holding down a bar chord. But
them good old days are gone.
what I got myself today is a sturdy Gerber DMF Automatic, fast
action switch-blade; the kind of knife that’ll get you
in trouble with the authorities should you so much as flash
is I don’t want no trouble, but you see, way I figure
the only chance I got against a pit-bull attack is to stretch
out an arm as bait go for the knife with the free hand , press
the release button, switch the blade open and proceed to cut
the beast’s throat straight clean. Pit bull attacks have
been compared to shark-attacks: “pit bulls inflict more
serious wounds than other breeds. They tend to attack the deep
muscles, to hold on, to shake, and to cause ripping of tissues.”
mere stab in the chest won’t do it. Pepper spray will
only piss it off even more. No, unless you’re Crocodile
Dundee you’ve gotta decapitate them mothers. OK, so you’ll
probably never again have full use of your leg or forearm, but
you’ll not be a cripple or a corpse.
my exposed neck of town, it seems every second dog on the block
is a pit. I’ve been lunged at twice in the last year alone.
Fortunately both times the savage beasts’ owners were
strong enough to hold back their drooling toothy monsters. Not
never did this before. Must be your damn aftershave. He hates
sharp smells,” she managed to yell out as her pet dragged
her some twenty feet as I high-legged out of there. And that’s
when I made up my mind.
hell with the law.
people can walk the streets with an unmuzzled beast by their
side I‘ll carry a blade. The law is an ass? I am not.
for those who blame the master for the dog being aggressive,
may be so, but who gives a damn once my head’s bit off.
What are we gonna do anyway? Have every dog owner undergo a
psychiatric exam followed by a one year dog training course
before granting Madame license to purchase her four-legged,
foaming-at-the-mouth, witless body guard? Not very bloody likely.
Until them pits, Rottweiler and the like, no less than tigers,
lions, panthers, bears and crocodiles are banned from strolling
city streets, I am carrying a Gerber.
persons who should object to this, other than the owners, are
the plastic surgeons.
take my advice, arm yourselves and your kids with a switch blade,
or even a bloody pistol, for that matter. I’d rather have
a thousand switch blade carrying gals walk past me than a pit
bull brush against me any day.
And don’t wear cheap after-shave lotions, not ever, not
in my hood.
Just saw this guy on the BBC showing footage of melting icebergs
warning viewers that if this tendency continues the Arctic will
have all but vanished in some 1000 years from now.
lets assume the global warming preachers are correct, and the
Arctic will melt in 1000 years, and the Canadian prairies will
dry up in a 1000 years, and coastal cities will get swallowed
up by the seas in a 1000 years, and the air will be too hard
to breathe in a 1000 years and, and, and . . . and how about
all our tax money getting spent on all that whacky black hole
quantum theory mult- dimensional bullshit.
your so damn convinced we’re all gonna fry in a thousand
years, and there ain't nothing we can do about it short of rubbing
sticks together to build fires and go back to spearing buffalo
for breakfast why don't you put all of your supposed genius
at work and find a way for our great, great, great, great, great,
great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great,
great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great,great,
great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great,
great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great,
great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great,
great, great, great grand children to get the hell out of here,
if and when the time should come, instead of badgering us with
your nonsensical far-fetched theories about big bangs, multi-dimensional
universes and the likes. Build a modern day arch. Get practical.
It still takes me nine fucking hours to fly to Europe. You can't
even forcast tomorow’s weather, and you have the audacity
to tell me what it's gonna be like in a thousand years?
ever ask yourself why Global Warming religionists never show
footage of the Arctic in the middle of the winter, or even the
autumn, but wait till late spring instead. EH!
Just heard Putin’s boys were out east in Harrisburg, PA.,
manifesting with American anti- fracking protesters.
Putin owns Gazprom. It's all about energy.
Italians are smart here. They buy nuclear created energy from
France at 3-times production cost them but vote against nuclear
at home. The only mega-nation on the planet without a slice
of yellow-cake. As if radioactivity will stop at the Alps should
anything abroad go wrong. And then the very same left wing no-nuke
baffoons parade across the peninsula blaming the government
for the crisis?
You wanna go back to the horse and buggy days? Ok. Learn how
to milk a goat and make some stinky cheese, buy a hoe and dig,
grow some eggplant and tomatoes, swap your Armanis for a pair
of overalls and gather some manure, and when your done, go feed
your pigs instead of buying your pork from the Slavs next door.
Either that or put up a nuclear plant, cut
your hydro bills threefold, switch on the tele, pop open a bottle
of cheap Albanian wine, be happy and shut the hell up.
your ancient evenings
The history of the world is the history of self-interest and
ethical rules evolve in response to conflictual afflictions,
they are consequential to conflict and not the other way round.
wars have taught us anything it is that a land belongs to a
people only as long as they can defend it.
as I have no claim over a park bench or a fishing spot merely
because I have been its sole user for the last two decades,
equally I have no claim over a territory, regardless how long
I've been tenting or hunting on it, unless I can defend it.
notorized contract is worthless unless the authorities which
make it binding can keep out the envious foe. Which is why nations’
defense budgets take up such a big chunk of their GNP spending.
Which is why world maps are constantly changing. Everyone should
be able to grasp this self-evident truth, even our political
science students attending our prestigious universities at taxpayers’
so for certain peoples to forever gripe over ancestral lands
lost centuries ago to invaders from abroad is a bit ridiculous.
Which is not to say every measure shouldn't be taken to accommodate
those wishing to keep their traditions and language and teachings
dynamically active within their communities.
to forever be seeking apology?
like asking your next door neighbour to apologize for having
eloped with your wife . . . . and long ago to boot. Perhaps
not very nice, but whacky nevertheless. And besides, should
he tire of hearing you ask and apologize, all the while humping
your ex, would you believe him?
apologies won't do. So why not cut the bitching and start the
screwing instead, multiply the nations in big numbers, no less
than a dozen kids per family, but you’ve gotta keep it
as a family, or you’ll only breed disorientation, and
that’s no way to make it home.
westerners have become a greedy bunch seemingly only good at
firing blanks. So multiply, invade from within, and before long,
you’ll constitute the majority and will have taken back
what once was lost.
see there’s more than one way to lose one’s ancestry,
and more than one to get it back.
western greed has robbed you of your lands, may western greed
engender, generate its own downfall.
the vertically challenged
I’m around 5'10, no one’s ever calld me a dwarf
and I never gave my height a second thought, not even when I’s
staying up in Sweden with the Norsmen.
then I hook up with this guy Mike. Smart easy going guy we share
similar interests, have similar tastes and get on good except
he’s got this nasty habit of cranking up his neck whenever
we’re chatting it up, stretching it to its maximum to
get the additional 16th of an inch out to top our otherwise
all good when we’re sitting at the pub having a beer,
or driving about or whatever, so long as we’re benched.
But the moment we’re standing he gets as near me as possible,
sticks out his chin for maximum leverage, and starts craning
that fucking neck of his all the while sporting a little snicker
as if to say "topped you again haven't I." So what
d’you say to a guy like that? I mean it’s not like
I’s hung up about my height, and besides, I’m not
even sure he is in fact taller than me. It’s all a matter
of millimetres really. Yeah I've thought about pulling up as
well but that would be giving in to his obsession. It would
only create more, how shall I say, tension?
I've hung out with midgets and giants. Never an issue. And now
I've gotta have this guy check my heels whenever we’re
out and about making sure I’m not sizing up.
raises the word ridiculous to a different 'level.'
She lay thin upon the pyre. There was a lull in the air. The
sun melted scarlet at the horizon. The Ganges ran on.
dead dog’s leg floated past the bathers. A topless buxom
woman drank of the river, gargled then swallowed then spit.
A man knee-deep in water frantically rubbed his wet face with
the palms of his hands. He then swam some ways, pushing a metallic
urn used for the cleansing ritual.
sound of water splashing and voices murmuring everywhere.
dizzying sweetness filled the air like an atmosphere. A scent
of incense and all else.
ghats teemed with folk of all walks, both locals and pilgrims
on their final journey, come from afar, everywhere life, people
shaving, combing, grooming, smoking, massaging, drinking, eating,
blue boat drew past a pier by the pyre.
A wiry Hindu descended carrying a parcel wrapped in cloth.
Soon the chanting and a billowing smoke, a crackling fire, and
a sending off into the early evening dimming distance where
life’s vanishings resolve invisibly anew.
solemn yet all in good form.
No big deal.
Just another day in the life on the Ganges.
George Bush Senior's villa was some place to behold. More like
a cosy castle with windows offering lush views of Venetian courtyards
than one might expect of a Texas ranch.
don’t know why of all people I should suddenly find myself
his guest when I never even much liked the guy, but there I
was, being poured wines and liqueurs in posh surroundings with
none other than President Bush and his predecessor President
friend Ronald Reagan himself
two of course referred to each other as Mr. President but it
was evident from their demeanour they were as close as peas
in a pod. They chatted to one another for some time, talk to
which I was not privy, state matters no doubt, but were otherwise
cordial to me.
I was engaged admiring what appeared to be miniature Etruscan
sculptures when I heard a swishing sound followed by a quick
good bye and good luck by a rather agitated President Reagan
hurrying for the exit door. Some beedy-eyed guy also lived with
the President, but he rather kept to himself, looking over my
way from time to time, smiling radiantly, quite content sipping
champagne in these rather extravagant settings, hitting golf
balls into the citadel below through bay windows adjacent to
the library, each successful strike followed by a short self-approving
yep-grunt accompanied by a mischievous snicker. Think nothing
of it, he never did like Reagan much, did you George, said President
Bush chuckling, who then proceeded to his chamber for his afternoon
nap, though not before inviting me to make myself at home and
not hesitate to fill my glass, which I must have done several
times over for all I remember after that is being down in the
gardens below with a terrible headache surrounded by a sea of
Titleist balls and President Bush Junior wearing a T-Shirt with
I love golf printed on it.
now that it's over and done and my head has cleared and though
most particulars escape me I find myself suddenly liking Old
man President Bush, which only goes to show that the imaginary
world does affect wakeful reality more than we might suspect.
As for President George W. Bush Junior, I still think he's a
nasty belligerent prick.
Sir Felix of Weston
. . . unfortunately most never really got the chance to know
the brilliant side of Felix, his uncanny ability at interpreting
life situations, politics, theology, literature, people, name
it, with the perspicuity of the philosopher/poet, and the unintentional
innocent wit which alone is the mark of all great poets. Though
I doubt he ever read a book cover to cover, there are few he
isn't acquainted with enough to intelligently expound upon.
And the best of listeners and easy at conceding position whenever
Felix lied he only lied to himself, and always out of pride.
He could leave you stranded alone at a stadium if he found a
better seat for himself but could also crumble over at the slightest
touch like the beautiful autumn leaf he was. Which is why, despite
his psychotic drivellings, Felix could write. I can go on. It’s
too damn bad. I’ll always love Felix, but short of shoving
pills down his throat, I’ve had it with him. I wish I
were wealthy and could then send him a ten million dollar cheque
courtesy of Mum (the Queen), for his services to the crown.
But I’m just another Sancho whose grown tired and weary
of picking Quixote up off the floor.
If phenomenology has taught us anything it is to cleanse ourselves
of all pre-conceived notions to fully engage in an aesthetic
experience. To see the same over and over again and to never
see it twice the same as it in fact never is twice alike as
both we and the thing before us are ever changing.
The instinct to possess things by naming them is indeed strong
and hard to undo. And yet who among us hasn't picked up a pebble
on a beach, or an autumn leaf, or admired a fiery sky at sundown
or the rusty hull of an old abandoned boat dry docked somewhere,
and admired the colourings, forms, textures without desire or
need to give the experience a name or meaning?
International capitalism, or the border-free world, or anti-national
non-protectionism, in short, globalization, as it has come to
be known, was supposed to bring people together, liberate markets
and by extension, man, from the shackles of domestic monopolies.
The international historical compromise? Well not quite. All
it has done, aside from having provided ubiquitous tax havens
for the filthy rich, is given mega-nations with mega-economic
clout license to do as they please to their neighbouring smaller
ones with impunity. International free market greed has all
but rendered ineffective that balance of power between nations
which more than anything had served to ensure, since the days
of the Caesars, security for the little guys (e.g. Ukraine).
It's a mess. Internationalism doesn't work. The weak pay the
brunt of the cost of the One World Image Mirage.
An earworm is a self-inflicted punishment for shunning silence.
Read Gide ages ago . . . .a brilliant writer, a modern day Wilde
with rather similar inclinations.
Don't remember particulars but I do recall his writings leaving
me with an awkward sense of dangling on the abyss between perversion
and purity . . . .making the imponderable ponderable, like that
Canadian film Kiss, a mind-boggling film which remains
to this day etched on my mind as if I’d seen it yesterday.
Don't know about the Arabs living their art, but they do appear
to live their folklore moreso than we westerners do, or do they?
Is not all their singing and dancing in effect little more than
appearance, with Dionysus well guarded behind a 500 year curfew
few dare publicly break; all they are left with is a lame Apollonian
flaunt, .a kind of jesting which could never reach the ecstatic
sensuality of Greek Tragedy when pain transforms itself into
joy at that precarious edge where morality dares its bounds.
And of course Arab women not being allowed to partake in the
flaunt makes their dance all the more farsical, although I doubt
André much minded their absence -- might in fact have
suited him rather nicely.
Art is that which touches you without you having to touch it
. . . . a defintion which finally does away with all of them
fucking cooks trying to pass off as artists.
Separating the wheat from the chaff should be a no brainer.
Unfortunately socialism is not grounded on common sense but
on a delusional notion of egalitarianism, precluding selection
of any sort. Blaming teachers is missing the point, especially
when teachers themselves are not appraised according to worth
but seniority and popularity.
No, selection is a privilege enjoyed exclusively by those who
can afford it: institutions such as Manchester United, Barecelona
F.C., or The Metropolitan Opera House, or The Royal Bank of
Canada, to name but a few. Of course these are not socially
based but entrepreneurial realities.
No, our 'youth' is too cheap a commodity to be 'selected.'
wimpy soccer ballers
So they lose one in seven years to injury. Miners, construction
workers, carpenters, seamstresses, and probably poets and artists,
too, from hypersensitivity and anxiety, not to speak of pimps
and whores and all good people without much expectation and
little precaution, all these lose at least as many and don't
enjoy the ones they don't half as much as do their millionaire
(billionaire) heroes. No one worries over the nobodies, eh.
So why all the fuss ? Ali lost his mind, Senna and Villeneuve
their lives. That’s the risk you take for money and glory.
And then there’s the Napoleons, Alexanders and Caesars
of the world. No sorry. I dont feel one bit sorry over 20 year
old illiterate billionnaire footballers getting a banged up
knee or a bruised toes from time to time. Play the game like
a man. I got banged up as a kid, as I am sure you did, too.
It’s a manly sport, not a pansy poof show for strung out
pensioners on a dream.
as for hockey players they should remove their helmets. Jacques
Plante killed hockey. Let’s Worsley up the game. And if
every five years or so someone loses a tooth, or even an eye
so be it. You like stats? Well check your stats then tell me
who suffers more injuries, working class joes getting paid a
pittance or our millionaire heores who give us mortals oh so
many headaches while out playing, having themselves a great