Saturday, March 04, 2006

Ragamuffin of the Flowers

Depression is catching, like cancer.

That's right, you heard it here first, folks.

From me, MD of the Rain Forest shickle-shickle with the rattles. I am a closet West Senegalese and lover of the music of New Orleans, Dr. Longhair and Oscar Brown Jr., and when I feel really down, the poetry of French manic-depressive Charles Baudelaire. But first Oscar Brown Jr.

I heard an old ragman
Out making his rounds
Comin' right down my alley
Making sorrowful sounds.

Crying 'rags and old iron' and pulling his cart
I asked him how much he'd pay me for my broken heart.

I asked that old ragman
How much he would pay
For those big empty promises
you used to make

For a second-hand lovelight
That's lost all its gleams
And a couple of slightly used
second hand dreams.

'Rags and Old Iron
Rags and Old Iron
All he was buying
was just rags
and old iron.

How much in agreement are the poets.

Sin and soul.

Oscar Brown Jr., his broken heart his Broadway failures and his jazz.

Charles Baudelaire, master of forlorn sentiments and his diabolical masterpiece, Flowers of Evil. Flowers of sin. Flowers of the devil. Walking the streets with his whore, the coquette embarrassed, like a U. S. attorney general by all the naked statues around.
I'm poring over all the old pictures of dead black musicians who did so much to advance the cause of civil rights, and also long-dead Frenchmen who may have set civilization back 200 years, but started a new literary form all the same. And they all seemed to get it from Edgar Allan Poe, that poor bastard who suffered so damnably and still managed to start all of our modernism and the very first detective story, charmingly titled "Murder on the rue Morgue."

Bob Dylan:

Don't put on any more airs when you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there
And they'll really make a mess out of you.

Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

Not for nothing does Green Day continue to produce hits.

I walk alone
the only road I've ever known
I walk alone.

Giacommetti and his striding figure, stripped bare of illusions.

Existentialism puttied large..

Shelley and his broken lamp.

Diogenes in the wrong end of Athens, the thieves having stolen his lamp. Depressed. Yeah.

In the old days, people would get the blues.

Today, Valium and Prosac make short work of depression, up until these horrid drugs eat your brain.

For the memories of you
Are no longer sweet.
I just wish he would haul them
Up-down the street.

Rags and old iron.
All he was buying
Was just rags and old iron.

I have been accused at different times of having the mental processes of a Chinese person, though I am so white I come snowdrops.

There is the I-Ching:

Before completion
Success.
If, just before completion
The little fox
dips his tail into the water
Nothing will further.

So all you depressed folks, get your tail out of the water.
Up on the bank now, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
No more depressing blogs.
Cajun and Chocolate
No longer dirty words.
"We are a family...”

Chief Gall, Crazy Horse, Mandingo, Confucius. Play that funky music, white boy.

58 comments:

Nightprowlkitty said...

Good stuff! I like your blog.

Erik Ivan James said...

Yeah, really good stuff. I come here and I learn. I come here and I think. Yeah, really good stuff.

ivan said...

Erik,
Thank you. Amazing what a good snort of Irish whiskey can do for you. Alcohol a depressant? Ha!

ivan said...

Nightprowlkitty.
You a hep-kitty. Old coffee house.
Sure nice to visit Ginsberg land. March is the month. I guess you know.
Maybe a bit of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross: Comin' home.

R.J. Baker said...

I've moved on from the depression phase to the get my shit together phase of life - and it's tough work.

I love the "rags and old iron" stuff. Why are the Blues so piercing? So true.

Why must the tortured soul write?

The seasons of this life draw you through, in the endless pursuit of knowledge, love, and happiness - always close but always just outside your grasp.

We weep, we laugh, we love, we mourn. This is life. Pain and introspection, in the end, are good things.

"I set out one night
When the tide was low
There were signs in the sky
But I did not know
I'd be caught in the grip
Of the undertow
Ditched on a beach
Where the sea hates to go
With a child in my arms
And a chill in my soul
And my heart the shape
Of a begging bowl"
Leonard Cohen, Undertow

ivan said...

Thank you R. J. (Rick? Robert?).
I especially like the Leonard Cohen quote.
I.

R.J. Baker said...

Robert. Your welcome. I love Cohen.

Anonymous said...

Depression may be the result of an active mind living in the real world. Winston Churchill called his, "the black dog." He learned to live with his and made the western world a better place, I think. Didn't give in. There is a knack to this living thing. Some people never learn the knack, and peg out or live in a daily hell.

Depression, if not caused by an imbalance in our internal chemistry set, is a result of how one REACTS to what life hands one. Knowing that you can ride it out and get to the other side is a part of the strategy.

Discussing one's depression can sometimes be a pissing contest. "Oh yeah! I walked TWENTY miles to school, one way! You only had to walk 10 miles. Humph!"

Daddy died the month before I was 5 years old, and a vengeful mother beat the crap out of me for the next 13 years or so. Until I got bigger and discovered Ali's secret of "rope-a-dope." I learned to read at an early age and books became a refuge from what life had to offer. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and the Modern Guys were my mentors. I discovered Camus and Genet, and found that Genet found a place to go in "Words." Nineteen sixty-eight crashed like thunder on this poor schlub. College ended suddenly and I had "convictions" I would not compromise. Bobby and Martin and Andy got shot, and only Andy lived. Now the mentors were Mailer and Knowles and Heller and Ginsberg. Bobby D and Joanie and Ochs and Country Joe sang in my ear. Time to pack up the MG and hit the road.

Tectonic plates move against each other like the edges of a broken bone. The pressure builds and suddenly there is a jolt. Life can be that way. A series of jolts.

Marriage to an acquaintance from high school. I gave her my heart, and she kicked it around. Fred N. said that ifn' it hasn't kilt ya, it gonna make you stronger. Yeah.

I learned not to believe any thing I hear, and about half of what I see, because there are those that will tell you what you want to hear. There are no lies that compare to the lies we tell ourselves. I learned to choose my allegiances very carefully. I am still learning how much I can lose and still be happy. And to sing this song from "Hair":

I Got Life Lyrics

I got life, mother
I got laughs, sister
I got freedom, brother
I got good times, man

I got crazy ways, daughter
I got million-dollar charm, cousin
I got headaches and toothaches
And bad times too
Like you

I got my hair
I got my head
I got my brains
I got my ears
I got my eyes
I got my nose
I got my mouth
I got my teeth
I got my tongue
I got my chin
I got my neck
I got my tits
I got my heart
I got my soul
I got my back
I got my ass
I got my arms
I got my hands
I got my fingers
Got my legs
I got my feet
I got my toes
I got my liver
Got my blood

I got my guts (I got my guts)
I got my muscles (muscles)
I got life (life)
Life (life)
Life (life)
LIFE!

('specially got my ass!)

Works for me, your mileage may vary.

DoubtingThomas (still hopeful after all these years)

ivan said...

Kinda like the dawning of the Age of Aquarius myself. Was a rock critic. Wrote under John Pope.
Change your name and change your luck? Not really.
As you say, Doubting Thomas, it's not what happens to you, it's how you react. And even if you change your name, your antecendents are still there.
So it's fitting that you added all those I Got Life lyrics.

Went back to being Ivan and soon got a job at the Globe. They didn't like my original name, but here and there, they liked the writing.
But, as I say, only here and there.
It doesn't get easier as you get older. Rejection letters? Me, Gods chosen? Heh. Nobody's immune.
"They'll stone you while you're driving in your car..."

Bernita said...

Self-pity, counting one's defeats, wallowing in misery, crying or shaking fists at the fates, the cruel, cruel world, the corrupt, uncaring,disfunctional world, yelling "Why me, Lord? is destructive.
Paralyzing.
And susceptible to pride.
Everyone, just about everyone, has sorrows and griefs,memories and mutilations, and aching pain that never, ever goes away - even if they don't vomit it out for all the world to see, even if they're not a case file in some social worker's archives.
Agony comes a dozen for a dime.
This world, this life, is the only one we have.
Deal with it.

ivan said...

Bernita,
With love and kisses: Disfunctional, you say.
I think my shift-lever mechanism has to got throught a spell-check too.
How come when I watch a one-star softcore like Show Girls, I function like crazy, and yet my last mistress complained that after my stint with NAPA Auto Parts, my lovemakinghad become mechanical.
ROFLMAOF.
There are times I think none of this blogging stuff is real. Kind of Borgesian, really. We are all perched on pixels where we shhould be, along with Montaigne, "Perched atop our wives."
But then I haven't got a wife these days and am becoming even more eccentric than my hero, Charles Baudelaire, kind of Like Dieter the angst-ridden German on vintage Saturday Night live. Dat is a dark and seething passion you have raised. Touch my monkey. I vantyou to touch my monkey." Next frame: There is an actual monkey on Dieter's shoulder.
And besides that, I have picked up something and have downed a whole bottle of Listerine to kill those damn spirochettes.
Alanis Morisette: "How 'bout getting off those antibiotics?"
Dostoevsky: We should all be engineers, but then we delve into this creative writing stuff."

Shooting exotic creatures in the woods. (Mr. Chaney?) Fishing in forbidden streams.
My last dutchess was a dominatrix.
Bernita, I fantasise with you wielding a riding crop. You are neat, but you might be able to dig it.
What the hell, it worked for poor
overworked Leopold von-Sacher Masoch. Beat me, said the Masochist. "No, said the sadist.

Coffee house song out of Yorkville, Toronto's Greeewich Willage: "Ever since my masochistic baby left me, I've got nothing to beat but the wall."

All that being said, who won't agree that you have the most successful literary blog in Canada.
Come over here and dominate me.
I mean, really.
Yours in delicious pain,angst und blues musicgemachen,
Ivan

Bernita said...

Oh, Ivan, you are so full of it sometimes.

ivan said...

I think I've already said somewhere that most poets come accompanied by a lyre. I have been reading too much of the late
Baron Munchausen lately, and have become something of a liar, i.e., a writer of fiction.
"But you fall so short," said an
estrogen-emboldened woman editor.
"Yeah, I know," I admitted.
"But you'll be astonished at how fancy I am."

Anonymous said...

So be it,throw aside the rough-sack matting of self-denial in
> > this world,
> >
> > and for your prayer-mat take flesh as the place of your
> > devotions.
> >
> > Li Yu

Anonymous said...

Easy on, Ivan. You'll get on better with Bernita as a charming old coot than as an old lech. Now try some charm. I remember Candace was ready to spit in your eye. Softly, softly.

Yer buddy,
DoubtingThomas

ivan said...

Sounds like good advice, Tom.
I just saw Candace's photo somewhere. I expected Medusa, when wonder of wonders, she looks a lot like a scrappy Helen of Troy. A looker, actually.

ivan said...

Doubting Thomas.
I think it's the coffee.
Balzac was known to tie himself to a coffee uruntil he finished a novel.
A story is told that he died of uremic poisoning, but my European sorces say he died of pheumonia in his mistress' arms...Here they were both waiting for the husband to die and old Honore' took the pipe himself. Oh well. Even geniuses end up at the wrong place (Ukraine) at the wrong time.
Coffee jag. Aaron has something about it on his blog. Raises your testoterone level and you lose your hair. WTF.
David Susskind in MAD:
It's not that I meant to be an asshole, i just am.
So I really guess I'd better cool it before a whole lot of people make anatomical comments.

Anonymous said...

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the jivin' and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!

I love java, sweet and hot
Whoops! Mr. Moto, I'm a coffee pot
Shoot me the pot and I'll pour me a shot
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!

Oh, slip me a slug from the wonderful mug
And I cut a rug till I'm snug in a jug
A slice of onion and a raw one, draw one.
Waiter, waiter, percolator!

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the jivin' and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!

Boston bean, soy bean
Lima bean, string bean.
You know that I'm not keen for a bean
Unless it is a cheery coffee bean.

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the jivin' and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!

I love java, sweet and hot
Whoops! Mr. Moto, I'm a coffee pot
Shoot me the pot and I'll pour me a shot
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!

Oh, slip me a slug from the wonderful mug
And I cut a rug till I'm snug in a jug
Drop me a nickel in my pot, Joe, Takin' it slow.
Waiter, waiter, percolator!

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the jivin' and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!


DoubtingThomas (still perky)

ivan said...

Tabernac!
Cafe au lait.

Shesawriter said...

Depression and mental illness is common among artist, actors, writers ... etc. I think it's in our DNA.

Tanya

ivan said...

Not only our DNA.
I think I'm losing my server.
Hope this gets through.
Thank you, Tanya.
It's a balm, somehow.

Bernita said...

Thomas is perceptive.
Do bright men view bright women as dominatrixes?
How non-sexy.

ivan said...

I think it's a combination of my warped sense of humour (I really get off on SNL's old Dieter the Angst-Ridden German with a twitchy gay streak)and past experience with a Blue Angel while I was a non-tenure track professor. The lady was Hollywood beautiful, but a use of Cocaine gave her this sense of omnipotence and omniscience "I know you better than you know yourself." I found this charming at first, but I soon met her husband, who was totally enslaved by her dopey dominance and her out-in-the-open sexual and drug embroglios with her "friends", whom she'd bring to the house along with a goodly supply of crack cocaine.
Rococo, no?
Anyway,she was a mature student of mine and I somehow got entangled with her.
I soon had the key to the house, could come and go a I pleased; I was in some sort of circle, possibly witchy, druggy and pimpy and very much in a Whitney Streiber situation where I had to take some sort of heat, be the riduculed Jalbert out of The Professor and the Blue Angel and very much inside somebody else's
novel. I thought I had been "writing" her,while all along, she was writing me.
These head and drug games were soon sending me to a doctor who said it was "only your intelligence that was saving you"
and taking her up as a mistress in a polygamous situation would have me hung up on a rock by a Loreli and that I would be a very much f*cked up Cossack.
Something like that came close to happening as she gave me some sort of date-rape drug and I woke up not knowing whether I'd had the best screwing ever or totally screwed in the head. (Still want to get out of suburbia?).
In a word, I was in a sort of Mormon situation of polygamy and it was wrecking both my heads.
Most problems, however, can be solved by a good laugh.
I thought of poor professor Jalbert in that old thirties movie, the Professor and the Blue Angel with Marlene Dietrich, a screen dominatrix if there ever was any and the recollection somehow made me laugh. I also thought of poor Leopold Sacher-Masoch beaten by an ugly stick in front of the mistress' husband, who himself was wielding this really wicked Polo crop, waiting for Venus to get tired so he too
could lay it on poor Leopold.
Hilarious, no?
So if there is any masochism in me, it's in a guffawing vein, marvelling how obviously intelligent men can fall into the clutches of a
twisted dominatrix,who would
punish them whether they were good or bad. Actually, over here in York Region police broke u a club
where men paid up to $3,000 to have themselves tied up,humiliated and dominated. Still find the thing a huge laugh. Poor old Leopold.
Anyway, the plot did thicken, as I had a night job as an envesigative reporter, but found my small talents at this almost ineffective
as my uh, dominatrix knew all the morality officers up to the mayor of the town, a womb-mate unknown to me until I ran for office and he burned my house down.
Well, my "dominatrix" finally left me for the mayor. "I want a politician, that's the kind of man I want now."
I immadiately ran for mayor.
The story gets more and more bizarre.
I finally exorcised myself by writing a novel about all these goings-on, a roman a' clef.
This had strange consequences after the book was published underground hereabouts.
I must say that when I read any apocalypse, I feel some sympathy for the Whore of Babylon; I feel she is always unfairly treated.
But in this instance, the Whore of Babylon was charged with drug possession, her other husband jailed, the Mayor dead and her pimp also dungeoned, but in a real dungeon.

You stuck for ideas yet?

So yeah, Bernita, i't a combination of my warped sense of humour and life experience.
I am not Leopold von-Sacher Masoch, though I laugh like hell at this mad author's plight and at his novel, "Venus Wore Furs."
Ivan

ivan said...

p.s. to Bernita:
You really should read The Story of O if you want pointers to sex scenes in any novel you might want to write. It is the one novel I know of that women too, find erotic.
This is not me fishing. I just find that women bloggers are somehow more fascinating than men bloggers, who are all politics, it seems and might get laid semi-annually, or not at all.
Yeah, I know. Too much informantion.
I.

Chuckercanuck said...

ivan,

I can confirm what you say. semi-annually.

depression? thy name is male blogger.

ivan said...

Hi Chucker.
Been reading your blogs. They are not limp.

Chuckercanuck said...

ivan,

frustrating. I'm going to circle hear a thousand times until I spot something witty as a reply. I'll ride the lifts in the wind round and round - then swoop in on my funny joke and whisk it away in my talents before Bernita pounces on it.

Chuckercanuck said...

hear is here of course
talents is talons of course

ow. maybe I should circle the plains of intelligence before flying over the fields of funny.

ivan said...

Chucker,
They only let me do this blog because nobody's seen a drunk before.
I hope my belches and burps haven't scared off Bernita.
She digs you, though. Maybe she won't draw you an epigram.

Bernita said...

Ivan thinks I can't write sex scenes.
Chucker thinks I steal things, like Atwood's jackdaw or else I'm a harpy.
BTW, "funny joke" is redundant.
Ah well, "men were deceivers ever."
Don't know why I like them.

Chuckercanuck said...

Bernita,

all jokes are funny?

or, if an attempt isn't funny then it doesn't earn the label "joke"?

i guess you're right. that's why I like women - they right the ship when the ship is convinced its headed in the proper direction.

ivan said...

I think Bernita was trying to posit that the word joke iself needed no adverb.
But then they told me as a college teacher not to harp on grammar too much and I've probably lost the knack. I am now like W. Somerset
Maugham's grandmother, "How do I know what I mean until I see what I've written?"
Looks like Chucker and Bernita have a natural affiniy for each other. Chaperone, well, why not.
Erik Ivan James sent something in, but I think it got tangled in my security, which, like me, doesn't funcion half the time. I'll try to find Erik's comment.
All you guys are making think of things in a different way. Good stuff.

ivan said...

Eric Ivan James wrote:
To some He gave brains. To some He gave physical beauty. To a few He gave both. To the rest, He put on a collar and leash that the others might drag us along

Chuckercanuck said...

Ivan,

A man named Funny was asked his citizenship from a hawkish customs officer.

"Adverb," he replied.

"Adjective," the officer corrected.

Funny looked at himself, saw he was qualifying a noun, and admitted, "okay, I'm not an adverb."

The customs officer grabbed him by the collar and said, "not slipping past me today, Funny."

ivan said...

How about us gerunds?

Chuckercanuck said...

I am the only barbarian who visits this site for learnin'.

Gerunds. Didn't know it then. Know it now. Customs allows temporary visits for gerunds.

Aposite was another great word that I had to google to understand.

Depression, Ivan? You're a community service! The Sally Anns could use a man like you.

ivan said...

Circus strawboss to the unemmloyed
shot-from-a-cannon man:
"We could use a man of your calibre."

Anonymous said...

Jokes that bring a smile to the face of some, and a quizzical look to others. When is a joke a joke? If one analyzes it all, performance anxiety raises its ugly head,if one is lucky;-).

Steamy sex scenes, the living, and the writing of. (Performance anxiety again!) Steamy sex scenes don't last forever, but the ability, or the attempt to cause smiles, lasts for a long time, maybe forever, or at least until death do us part.

Then there is the wonder of it all when our intimates do something unexpected like flowers for a lady for no reason at all. Talking for hours, sharing thoughts that were only in your head, and tea and oranges that came all the way from China.

Say the things that matter to others before it is too late.

DoubtingThomas

ivan said...

I like "oranges that came all the way from China."
Is it Suzanne he had the daughter with?

Anonymous said...

Yes, Ivan, that phrase meant a lot to me way back when. Going from memory now, when I did some research on Lenny back when we last discussed him, the Suzanne that inspired the song never was one of his conquests. As a former president said, "he lusted after her in his heart." The Suzanne that produced an heir, or so, was another lady of the same name. Was she "there" because of her name?

I saw the movie "Blowup" (multiple times) whilst in college. It didn't entertain me while I sat there; it made me think! It was a movie on many levels. It questioned the accepted perception of reality, it showed "cool", swinging London, it showed some skin. Even recently, a guy dressed as the photographer has been seen roaming the London park where the murder scenes were filmed.

Saw the movie when it was first released, again in T.O. in the eighties, and last year on telly. The print was very good, as was the color. Sad to say, it didn't hit me like it did the first time. Neither does Lenny's clever lyrics. Why should they? The performances are the same, but I have moved on. Now Pavarotti's version of "Nessun Dorma." That still lives for me. Go figger!

DoubtingThomas

ivan said...

I was probably unfair to Chuckercanuck by more or less dissmissing Blow Up out of hand.I was certainly the big thing around Ryerson Institute with all the budding film critics in l966, certainly with Martin Knelman who was only just cutting his teeth at the Star. I barely remember it, though I did see a bit of it on tv the other night. I'm pretty sure Chucker knows a hell of a lot more about film that I do and I think I made some rather ungracious comments about it. Still the headline in the Daily Ryersonian read "Beware of .. ps Bearing Gifts." Gave me a chuckle in those irreverent days.
So there were two Susannes! No wonder I was confused.
You know there are times when I think this column may be a bit ribald, but I do recall, in Cohen's
"Beatiful Losers" a scene in which the mysterious "F" is driving in his car with the hero (+ -). They are both masturbating and just at about the time they are to come to their crisis, F aims the car straight at a billboard and the car rips through it at which time they both come. Saying to myself at the time, "This is high art, folks." Some blow up.
But then much later, Cronenburg and all the others.
But back to Cohen's talent. I thoughtI was a hotshot writer already in l965 until I came across Lennie's very first novel,
The Favourite Game. Yes, yes,there was the camping scene where a young man got his pipes Hoovered in a canoe, but the novel itself was very nearly perfect. I was going to give up writing if a guy just a few years older than me could come out with a beautiful novel about Montreal like that.
Anyway, in the past I'd never use bloggers' comments to get my ideas from, but all you guys are somehow
inslpiring me and I'd best get to work.
Cheers,
Ivan

Chuckercanuck said...

I left Blow Up! not exactly thinking, "this is a masterpiece."

What stays with me, only, is the scenes in the park (where the attempted murder happens). The wind blowing the trees. That's really it.

Then, there's a John Travolta version of the same thing. Glamourized, dummified - ravolta, Travolta.

As for Leonard, I know its unpopular to pick a recent hit, but from Closing Time, there's a line I cherish:

"She's a hundred but she's wearing something tight."

Tell me that doesn't make a person chuckle?

ivan said...

Chuck chuckling with Woodrow Charles here.

Anonymous said...

Chuck, I think the hook is very important, maybe the only thing. In Blowup, the viewer is aware of the wind in the trees and then realizes that it has come in gradually, as if a slider on a mixing pot has pushed it up. At night, when the photographer returns to the park to view the body, the camera shifts from the wind in the trees to a neon sign, or part of a sign that looks like a handgun. The director also dyed, or painted the grass in some scenes to appear greener, something that was done for visiting bigwigs, maybe for a G7 or G8 meeting in this country.

I was unfortunate enough to see "Blowout" with John Revolting. The hook in Blowup was the series of photos; in Blowout, it was a sound recording. The whole idea outclevered itself.

Lenny has some good hooks. Tea and oranges from China, "like a bird on a wire", rhymes with the unlikely, "a drunk in a midnight choir." Sticks with the hearer.

Ivan, glad to hear that there may be a stirring in your literary loins. Be true to yourself, and to your reader.

Bernita, have you read Anais Nin's Little Doves and Mound of Venus? Excellent stuff to get one through a cold winter night and to aid in your steamy scenes.

DoubtingThomas

Bernita said...

Thomas, to correct an impression left by the sex-obsessed, I do not write erotics.
I have precisely two sex scenes in my stuff.
Ivan has seen neither of them.
If he read something I posted, he is mistaking some preliminary fondling for the real thing.
I'm sorry if he thinks it deficient.
Thank you for the suggestion, but at the risk of sounding uneducable and unwilling to take direction, I really prefer to write such scenes from my own...um...experience.
It might ring more true that way.
Kind of you, though.

ivan said...

Bailiff, whack Thomas' pee-pee.
And while you're at it, kick Ivan's ass too.
You're right, Bernita. I have only seen snippets of prelude in your sex scenes.
I suppose, as I oven-heat the last dregs of this bottle of Old Bailey, tat you're probably just too nice a person.
Dare I say not twisted enough?

R.J. Baker said...

Never enough sex, Hennessey, and violence. As Raymond Chandler said when "things slow down bring in a man with a gun," and I extend, bring in a woman with.....

R.J. Baker said...

P.S. I go waway for a week and can always come over to Ivan's house for talk of sex and drinking.

ivan said...

Tertullus the heretic:
Natura venearandaes, no erubenscenda...

There is nothing to blush for in Nature. Nature should be revered.
When a man and a woman come togeher, the soul and the flesh discharge a duty together. The soul supplies the desire and the flesh the gratification....

Some of those old Latin cats still talk to us. How little has changed, including taunting graffiti: "Tibulsus eats it."

Anonymous said...

Bernita, I guess I got it wrong. That happens when I listen to that old goat, Ivan. A pox on the house of steamy novels. Why isn't anybody writing hard-boiled private detective novels? The kind with a picture of a lantern jawed hero wearing a trenchcoat and a gat, with a femme fatale by his side. And make my film and coffee noir, if you please.

ivan said...

Ha.Ha.Ha.
Doubting Thomas: Check R.J Baker's comment on these matters a' la
Raymond Chandler in Bernita's comments space.
....Hey, I never see you in Bernita's space...There must be a way to get you in.

Chuckercanuck said...

was Ivan quoting the pope's last press release?

ivan said...

Have you ever read Locke's Rape
of the Pope?

jeff said...

Angels with Silver Wings. Nothing is Procreatin. Simple Simon had a Dimple. Better life through chemical and liquid distillations?

jeff said...

I enjoy your open format, Mourning Star.

ivan said...

Ooh! It sparkles.

And the girl with colitus goes by.

jeff said...

Teach me your trade, Master Ivan?

I envy your broad mind base. Your capacity to inflict broad literary casualities. I was a Grade 5 author broad base, stroke rhythm mind assault affliction confirmation end of song.

I tend to envy the underdog. My broad 'base' will continue to inspect this constellation'

ivan said...

Chucker.
Thank you for the more than kind words.
You think Frank Lloyd Wright was influenced? Influencing?
I especially like that house right over the waterfall.