Sunday, September 30, 2007

Is there oral sex after death?

The frustration of suffering damnably to produce a good blog and suddenly having it snatched away from you in cyberspace.

Gone. Gone forever. Futility in hitting and hitting again the FIND NOW button.

You have somehow offended the god in the machine or maybe even God Himsell in your irreverence, and 750 words are gone, gone gone.

What is the sound of one hand clapping?
...I used to know this German typesetter with really big hands, and he showed me. His hand looked like that Starwars creature out of the sump pit. But he made a clapping sound all the same. One hand.

My first draft, now sadly lost had to do with a quarrel I've been having with Eastern philosophy.

A gnat flew up my nose tonight during a walk. It started with a sneeze, and then murder.
Never mind the reverence for all living things.
This bastard had been born to fly up my nose and he had to die.
Die, you SOB.

Like my vanished blog.

I had meant to say that we bloggers get so into ourselves, so addicted to a fascination with ourselves that is almost artistic.
We become like gnats flying up people's noses.

After a while, everybody gets upset with our constant bitching and bellyaching and a reader might react like a cartoon psychoanalyst--"You did what? Why, you little bitch!"

So I've decided this weekend to stop bitching and bellyaching-- lost blog and all--and not to be so hard on Eastern philosophy (Desiderata?) not so hard on oneself

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,be gentle with yourself.

This bit of apochrypha came to me while lunching with another writer.

How sweet, how radiant life can be while lunching on a sunny patio, under a parasol awning, gorgeous fleet-footed waitresses bouncing about at your beck and call. Odysseus tended by gentle nymphs. Ha.

It was somehow rising from the depths of compulsive blogging, puttting up a periscope, and like a recovered neurotic, seeing the world for the first time.

The blogging life reminds me of a cartoon by R.Crumb in the Sixties. There is a carricature of a man with his head somehow up his own major aperture.
Caption says, "The Solution to your problem ins perfectly obvious."

The moment of clarity made me realize what a hole I'd dug for myself as a blogger. Type, type, type, eh Ivan?

Still, blogging has its rewards. It can be a forum for writing, for philosophical discourse to rid oneself of one's awful self. It can me a drug.

Ultimate question are asked, some frivolous.

Is there oral sex after death?

And other deep enquiries.

Might be time to put up a periscope.

The yellow submarine might need to blow some ballast.



eric1313 said...

Sometimes there is before bed.

But I don't know about after death. If we go to Catholic heaven or hell, I doubt it. Or if so, we probably don't want it.

Oh. I should read more than the title...


Kidding I did.

Blogger has caused me to lose a few poems. That's why I write most of them in response boxes in various places. I can cut and past them wherever I want to after wards and always come back.

I can't write a poem in the post creator. It doesn't work for me, it changes lines all the time, forms things in ways I don't like, shrinks the font to illegible scrawl. The response box is perfect sixed to form lines.

now, a periscope... that needs different storage. Time for me to dry dock.

later, crazy Ivan


eric1313 said...

perfect sized.

x, z what's the difference at 4:50AM when you've been awake almost a full twentyfour? Time to go crash before I completely burn out. said...

What do you mean, I'm crazy.

Stay away from my eyes! :).

Good night, Eric.

Time for me to crash too.

...Or did I, just?


JR's Thumbprints said...

I used to be a perfectionist, until I realized that I have an addiction problem. My periscope doesn't come out as much, but I'm always interested in where I can get my next fix.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Interesting title.... hmmm... Morning Ivan, Morning everyone. said...

Nicely put togther, JR. said...

Morning Tara.
You're back.

Good on the watch. Must have seen the periscope wake. Aauuuga! Ding Ding Ding!
Sonar says directly underneath.

I don't know how many are going to join us this morning with wolfpacks about.

--Kapitanleutnant Ivan said...

John D.,

My son Steve has just put up your "John the Mower Man" piece.

I decided to put it in your regular spot, "Local Matters" here at

Shouldn't have any trouble accessing. Find the site and click onto" local matters."

Thanks for the company yesterday. Seems we somehow managed to meet everybody, even the Mayor.

I most certainly had a good time.


Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

I do not know if I am back. I am just here. Back to packing!

eric1313 said...

Morning Ivan.

Blogging isn't a bad thing.

It leads to friendships that can last a lifetime, people who would not have otherwsie had a chance to ever meet can do so.

That's what I love best about this--besides writing itself.

Gotta go. It's my brother's birthday. His visitng hours are limited, so I need to leave...


it's difficult...




Josie said...

Ivan, you old curmudgeon, stop yer bitchin'. We all love you and you are an integral part of our blogging community. We have all survived the full moon, some of us unscathed (some not...)

You would not believe some of the battle scars I have received through blogging, and every once in a while I have to turn off my computer and get away from it for at least a day or two.

But we're all here, and we're all friends and we all support each other. I have been going through some awful crap lately (no, not family related, thankfully) and without the blogging community, I would probably be over in a corner somewhere, sobbing quietly. Heh.

We're all on the same life raft.

Josie said...

I think I see a steamer on the horizon.

Josie said...

Ha...! said...


Packing for what? said...


Your brother sick or about to enter the jigsaw puzze assembly plant along with the rest of us?

Ivan said...

Had to take a walk.

Found a new business in Nemarket ON (Just perched atop Toronto).

Said "Al Porno's Pizza".

I presume that a pizza out of a place like that would just turn around and eat you.

...I think I need help.


benjibopper said...

sounds like you got attacked by some bad karma. you gotta watch that stuff.

BB: have you seen that canadian movie about necrophilia?

Ivan: which one?

BB: haha, toosh-eh.

this blogging thing is a curse and a blessing, if i may wax cliche for a moment. moment over, back to football.

the walking man said...

I made the 40th comment below and now I am making the 14 comment here ...goddamn state is shutting down the lottery tomorrow and i know, just know that 4014 is going to hit...goddamn it

fucked again the not depressed fool of fools

except for all them that are more foolish than me

I think I like the sex pistols a lot

is heroin my next stop

hubba hubba babay!!



the walking man said...

fucking post count was off and i made the 18th post so the number that would have hit would have 4018

i would have played 4014 and got fucked again



the walking man said...

Eric i write every thing on word and save it before i move it to the response box and then any edits i make after I post i go back to word and delete the whole thing because i copied it from the blog and paste it there.

tomorrows 4 digit number is 4014 hope the state shuts down for a day so I won't feel like such a loser said...


That's good.

I can't get over how Canadians can make world-class documentaries
but the worst of feature films.
"Sick Canada" indeed.

I sent something to the CBC and they told me the script was good, but I needed a producer.

I am muttering to myself: "Why the f*ck do you think I sent you my stuff? ...To find a producer, a**holes!

Ivan said...

I don't know, walking man.

Remember John, the druggie announcer at old WKRP, Cincinatti--the guy who went to a soccer field and startedto snort all the white lines?

Ivan said...

The Walking Man,

I'm starting to understand how you think.
I had a foreman who thought in numbers the way you do.
Kept beating me at scrabble and as a misemployed prof, I had to make amends.

I won a Globe & Mail caption contest and pinned it up on his wall.
The killer instinct takes many forms. :)

eric1313 said...


Brother Jay is in a worse place--long term care, one could say. Jim could've been his teacher, one could also say, except Jay-bird doesn't appreciate learning as much as I. Then I visited my unincarcerated brother, Aaron, to help finish building a deck on the back of his house, over looking a nice swamp. Chicken kabobs, beers and shots of swedish vodka for me. Oh yeah, baby!

Walking Man

I don't like word program, either, it capitalizes things automatically. When I was stoopid, that was OK, but now I consider it condescending (yes a computer program can be condescending) when it wants to make each new line of a poem capitalized. I know that is supposed to be 'proper', but I use words and lines beginning with a capital for emphasis. Or to de-emphisize something that should be capitalized. Method to the maddness.

Response boxes are OK with me--as long as they don't freeze up and lose something. It's the posts that bother me. When you put a picture in, it has a habit of putting double spaces in between the lines, or taking a few seperate lines and pulling them together, or changing the font size to illegibly small.

It's fine for prose, but not for poetry. Respons boxes are excellent for poems, however.

Shesawriter said...

The key is to control your blog life while not letting the blog control you. :-) said...

Hi Tanya.

It is absolutely controlling me.

I crank out about seven hundred words every second day and that makes for a Russian novel!

No wonder my material is getting a bit wonky.

...I justgrealized that Josie does the same thing.

What an addiction! Ah well. My Quarks tell me to keep going.
Going. going.

Ivan said...

Ah, the Brothers 1313--at least one of them.
White Stripes. My favourite group.

eric1313 said...

State Blues, actually...

The Brothers 1313. There's a Russian novel...

Or a rushin' novel, maybe. Seems I write 7000 words a night these days. Blogging isn't bad, at least for that... said...

Ah, what do I know?

Just Mark Humvee, blowing his horn.

eric1313 said...

You know plenty! Stripped suits/State issued blues, it's all the same. Sorry to be a downer.

Keep blowin' that horn, too. I thought I chased you off. I felt bad! Chased a guy off his own blog.

That's a sign I type too much if ever there was one.

eric1313 said...

Don't mind me--I keep three to five tabs open at a time, reading and commenting and making a lot of e-noise. e1313 noise... said...

You're not a downer.

I have been drinking intermittently
during this period Benjibopper has chosen to call bad karma.
So times I have been silent, I have been plooshed.
There are real things afoot that need tending to.
In a word, this is going to be one of a month.
For the 33rd time, one has to pull oneself together.
The old Biblical "When will thou awake, O Sluggard?" kind of thing.
Already lost the car, the apartment is in jaopardy and Scrooge coming to collect. Friends are tired of my financial requests.
Living a champagne life on a beer income sort of thing.
Strangely, the answer is not "he" "she" or "it".

Existentialism, I suppose: The absurdity of society and the madness of the self.
Or does that come from having been hit on the head once too often?

...Much overrated barroom figher.

But, like Alanis Morisette, might say,
"Everything's just fine, fine, fine
"I got one hand in my pocket
And the other is swingin' on a cigarette."

There is a sign on my sliding
liquor cabinet.
"In case of emergency, break glass.

Can't sleep.
This ia an emergency.
Rum and Coca-Cola. Might sleep.

Is that like pathos?

Like maybe Pietro Di Donato said to Hemingway. "Your mother's head on your father's body."
Ah well.
Mental illness, strangely, makes you live longer.
My mother is 100. And is still nuts.
No wonder I feel eighteen.

Aw, screw this. It isn't copy.
Anything that isn't copy isn't worth writing. Words are gibberish and squibbly onless they are disciplined, placed in the right spot, the only words for that spot.

Maybe if I end up in jail, I'll be disciplined. Ha.

Uh, Cheers,


eric1313 said...

I know what yuo mean. I can't find a job because I work hard at the one thing I can't get a job doing: writing.

And I'm not working that hard at it. Maybe I could produce something bigger than raw empty words and flowery verse. Maybe I could be a grease spot on the highway, too. If ever I felt suicidal, I'm not very good at it. I take the slow approach. By writing.

Not good at love, either. But I write like I might be.

I know what you mean.

I feel that everything murderous, deadly and conspiring is spiraling in toward me.

My favorite woman is lost in Detroit--to me, she is. Her phone is dead--to me it is. The message says she'll call me back next leap year.

I have one more cigarette left and it has to last until morning.

My buzz from the vodka is gone, there's no liquor here, and I haven't smoked a joint in a month. Write a tiny haiku on a zig zag paper, one that goes:

the smoke circles rise

halos of dying friday

I mouthed her goodbye

I'd roll it up with some mean greens, a left handed marlboro we used to say, and let fly the mind that holds the words like theyu were it's only friends left.

The party should last forever, but everything is empty.

I look at the bottle and wonder, who will set me free. said...


By George, you're getting it.
You are right in saying your best writing is on other people's blogs.
But there's more, much more.

I may blog about this after some pressing non-writing concerns are dealt with.
At 32 a man stops dead.
Seems to me, from my Seventies experience, that only a woman can get him out. But today, women have changed. They are, for some reason,even less happy than we, no matter their professional accomplishments.
They have so much on their plates,
and to do a rescue number on a guy takes so much energy!
Well, here's to luck, which is almost always a woman.
But as I say, there is more

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

The cranking top turns as the heart drips in solitary emotion..

wake.. wake me now and let the gray sky open up and shine on me please!

Morning everyone... Ivan. said...


You are so right.
I just did some work on an old Remington and I am wrung out.

Good morning all, and good morning Tara.
I will be away from the machine for a bit, but let thc chanticleer
do his thing.


eric1313 said...


They don't want to talk to me...

You're the life of this party!

I'm just a scribe in the corner!

ivan@c said...

Hi Eric,
Clink indeed.

I have been using my manual typewriter all afternoon (for some nostalgic reason) and have realized that if I'm crazy, there's a reason.
Six million published words on that goddam thing and don't you get frantic when there are so many strikovers, and the top of the machine almost painted gray with whiteout.
How in hell did we ever do it with typewriters? The manual I got is a real crazymaker...skips and jams.
And so, like a party pooper, I suddenly need a drink (again).
And so, into the fridge for some wine dregs and bat curry.

Party pooper again.

Wine break.


EA Monroe said...

Hey, Ivan, saying hiya.

Hiya, Eric, I think there might be an option in Word to turn off all the grammar/sentence rulz stuff. I'll have to check.

Sienna said...

Well the post you lost must have been damn good because this is brilliant, funny!!

Is there oral sex after death? It's fun just writing that......excuse me while I go and..........

I've forgeotten what I had to say to you now, all train of spoken word and thought has turned into images that best be kept under wraps..

So funny murdering gnatter you :)

Pam said...

"mordering gnatter". LOL. said...


Here come the girls. said...


I never even got word.

I've been using copy and paste.

But thanks for the hi.


Eric says he is unlucky at love.
Many years ago, I got too lucky.
Frau beat the crap out of me once.
And, I fear, in her revenge, mindf*cked me forever.
Talk about the Fisher King.
Pawnbroker's got my balls. said...

Speaking of gastronomy, I went back to my old boss to borrow twenty dollars. Some workers had read my blog title.
There was a girl from Newfoundland working the polishing machine.
She said she had heard of oral sex, something about "people sitting around and talking about it."

eric1313 said...

Thanks for the words at my blog, Ivan.

Law enforcement everywhere tends to be as ignorant as the ruffians they are supposed to protect us from. Worse. They feel they have a right to do what they want to do.

To use their words, they often have "criminal minds", since it takes one to know one.

eric1313 said...

No offense to Jim. He's a teacher, not a cop, thank God.


I've looked around, but can't find it if it's there, but I must admit, I'm not the most technologically inclined, either. said...


Yep, old writer Philip Wylie said the cop and the criminal somehow share the same yoke.

the walking man said...


the trick in word to not capitalize the sentences is to write them and go back to two of them and take the caps and lower case them then the rest of the letters on the first line will not cap on the beginning of a sentence.

it is almost 4 am and I have already been awake for three hours and I find that I have two choices:

1) do some drugs and go back to sleep

2) do some drugs and stay awake

God help me I can't decide which drugs to do,I could make pancakes if I wanted but I don't want to get any bigger than I already am.

more coffee I guess until I decide.

I think there is a rat in the kitchen or there will be if i go get more coffee, maybe i will just hallucinate that the cup is full even though I know I have already drank it empty...fucking conundrums. said...

What in hell are we all doing up at 3:30.

I think I'll take a drug myself.

Friggin' commuter train does a Casey Jones on me, like at about a million decibels at 5:30 a.m., just when the alcohol takes hold.

...Then up again, "One hand in my pocket
"And the other hailin' a taxicab."

I think Alanis Morisette had the feeling right.

"I'm drunk
"But I'm otherwise.

Jaysus, what I'd do for one night of undrugged sleep.