Sunday, June 13, 2010

"A pig is an animal with dirt on its face.."




It has long been a lonstanding maxim of mine to never take advice from a student. Last time, it was disastrous. During a dark night of the soul, I asked a mature student what would she do if her life fell apart and she could not go home again.

She had said, "Listen to the voice of inexperience. Go home and beg."

It isn't what my estranged one had aswered It was sort of Brooklyn.

Drop dead.

Seems one has indeed been dead these past thirty years, though there have been lovers aplenty, but not like the One.
"You took my bud of love and threw it into the dirt."

Oh Pig Pen! You got your pants dirty.

"A pig is an animal with dirt on his face
His manners are a terrible disgrace...?

"...And if you don't care a penny or a fig..."


Sort of a Greek cat. A peri oink-oink.

Swine Lake.
Bay of Pigs
Pigasus
Pork-ois?

Ending up in Reader's Digest land. Points to Ponder.
Man devolved into pig.
Well, pigs seem a lot like people. They will eat anything and they don't give a shit.

Seems to me, that is what a man is like when young.
Meaner'n' a Peach Orchard Shoat.

Older now, but not really wiser. When Miss Piggy comes around, you follow. Anything for her approval. Do anything, anywhere with anybody just so not to be alone. There is no wisdom here in this rut. And I mean rut!
One is now seriously considering the priesthood.
But there's dirty vicar here too, likely.
Drink! Arsepeck!

Oh to meet somebody from the past. Sane, sensible woman. We talk of making oxtail soup, and is it better with HP sauce thrown and pearl barley, and how is the family and all the normal supermaket things. Sanity.
No matter what is going on with you, you've got to shop.
And you'll meet more singles there than Lave Life.

One has let oneself go to seed. Eat out of cans. Get canned. No longer use deodrant. Who's around?
Last guy on the block to buy Playboy, for the articles, you understand.

Shades of Tom Waits.

Sitting there by myself.
...Took advantage of myself.

There is the possibility of romance on the horizon.

Says my techie, "Beware of what you want"

An Army parody of Tony Bennert's Rags to Riches is ringing in my head.

"Or will I go from bags to bitches."

The hell of it all is that none of the women in my life (well, maybe one) have been bitches.
"I tried to help you."
Well, maybe they did.
Say what you want.
The kindness of women.
Martha, I think I'm making it.

27 comments:

Charles Gramlich said...

An individual's bitchiness is sometimes in direct proportion to how much you need their help.

ivan@ creativewriting.ca said...

That's quite an insight, Charles.

Mona said...

I like the piggy song , At least it has rhythm...

...Not that I am saying that a stream of consciousness doesn't...it has its own peculiar music!

From miss piggy to missus bitch is a long journey truly!

Ps. Where does Reader's digest get its points to ponder from?

Is there a link? Piggy & aphorism?

All piggys are Bacon
All Bacon is Aphorism
Therefore
All Piggy is aphorism
All piggys are points to ponder
All piggys are Reader's Digest
All Piggys are digestible by readers only
& If some of the readers are writers...
Then all piggys are digestible by some writers too!

ivan said...

A segacious observation, Mona.

I worry about your syllogisms, your trios of proposition, seemingly aphorism themselves. Heh. I think you've Eschered me, like that well known kaledoscopic illustrator, M.C. Escher. Or maybe Hieronomous Bosch, though I think I'm getting carried away...

We "writers" seem to use aphorisms unconsciously. Unconsciously because if we were thinking of what we were doing, we'd probbly freeze up-- like thinking about typing while typing. Glatz!

I think I used a long aphorism in the epilogue of my novel, Light Over Newmarket. though I owe it to the guy with the pot belly and the Surangama Sutra.

Here is my epilogue


Arada the ascetic was sitting under a tree.


The tree is shimmering in the heat.


A voice comes out of the tree and says: "Arada, I am thirsty. Get me water!"


"I will, my Lord," says Arada


But on the way to the water, Arada meets a woman and her father. And the father is very rich.


And Arada soon marries and he is very wealthy. Pear trees grown in his fields.


But one day a great earthquake shakes the land. The ground opens up, swallows the wife, the child and then the second child lost in a fissure as Arada tries to pull him out.


Half mad, wandering, Aradoa is brought before the same tree.


"ARADA!" screamed the god. "WHERE IS MY WATER?"


Right here, dear god, right here. Take it. Take it now. Before the final humiliation. For you are a thirsty god and I know you're going to want more.

Until I learn.




Back to Title

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

PS to Mona,

Our late and great writer, Mordecai Richler once said, "hell with all that kosher food. Who can resist the taste of delicious bacon and eggs?"

Mona said...

Ivan, I worry about my syllogism too! :( these are the people who will let me down!

In my case:
Syllogism let you down
People let you down
Therefore
Syllogisms are people!

& I was thinking ( for I am no writer):

Statement:
If no writer is a thinker
And no thinker a writer

Conclusion:
Milton and Pope were always thinking Rhetoric and Prosody
So Milton and Pope were not writers!

;P

Mona said...

Ps. Your Epilogue made me think..truly!

ivan said...

Mona,

The original text from the Surangama Sutra, surely made me think.

Certainly the account of the errant monk, Ananda (nor Arada) who was always screwing up. I guess I could identify there. :)

TomCat said...

Do anything, anywhere with anybody just so not to be alone.

Wow! Did I learn that lesson the hard way or what? Now I'd rather be alone that with someone whose primary quality is availability.

Someday, maybe I'll find a gal who is not only right for me, but who can tolerate me as well. Maybe we both will.

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

TomCat,

Aren't those off-the-wall women fun?
And us?

JR's Thumbprints said...

I work on an animal farm.
I see lots of dirty faces.

ivan@creativewritng.ca said...

Probably glued to the bars looking out for Lady Gaga on the turnkey's TV.--and Lord Gaga?

Mona said...

JR's Comment reminds me of Orwell's novel 'Animal Farm'. Its so apt and symbolic!

Ivan, seeing Tomcat's comment My eye fell on the word alone and that pushed my 'preach button'. So here I go :

Aloneness is ultimate. There is no way to be anything other than alone.One can forget it and drown oneself in many things,but again & again truth asserts. Hence after each profound experience you will feel alone.Aloneness has to be accepted because it is ultimate, it is not an accident.It is the very way things are.

Your aloneness is not creating sadness. It is your idea that you should not be alone that creates sadness. Aloneness is beautiful because it is profoundly free; the absolute freedom.

Aloneness misinterpreted looks like loneliness. Loneliness means that you are missing the other : any excuse that helps you to drown your consciousness, any intoxicant : a woman, a man, a book, anything that helps you forget yourself.

Loneliness is a negative state where you seek the 'other'. Aloneness on the other hand is immensely beautiful; where the other is not needed.Where you are enough unto yourself. So enough, that you can share your aloneness with the whole existence!

Mona said...

Ivan , people on my blog were kind of doubtful about the use of word velvety darkness in my latest poem. I offered an explanation. I hope it is alright for the author to elaborate...

IVAN! I am going to fail in that stupid exam!!

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Mona,

TomCat's sad experience, probably with a Loreli, and JR's experience with the "home boys"
makes me think of Jack White, cheated on a musical contract and composing a song.

It goes,


I'm gonna fight 'em off
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back
They're gonna rip it off
Taking their time right behind my back

And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone

Don't want to hear about it
Every single one's got a story to tell
Everyone knows about it
From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell

And if I catch it coming back my way
I'm gonna serve it to you
And that ain't what you want to hear
But that's what I'll do
And a feeling coming from my bones
Says find a home

I'm going to Wichita
Far from this opera forevermore
I'm gonna work this job
Make the sweat drip out of every pore
And I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding
Right before the lord
All the words are gonna bleed from me
And I will think no more
And the stains coming from my blood
tell me "go back home"



Send "Seven Nation Army" Ringtones to Cell

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Mona,

I just had a look.

All, all the comments on your poem were complimentary.

But like Edgar Allan Poe used to do, you had to explain the image and technique you used.

(You should read Poe's explanation of The Raven...Goes on for pages and pages...But could he write! Even in his footnotes).

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Mona,

The exam.

Myself, I let the subconscious work it out. Before my own exam in Classics, I had this dream about finally passing Math....Don't know why. I had to use trigonometry in the Air Force.

JR's Thumbprints said...

Mona, I might as well be living in "1984" with all the doublespeak at work. A dutiful prison employee does what he or she is told from the folks on the otherside of the fence. Nevermind a promotion, just do what you're directed to do. Keep the little guy busy. Don't give him time to think.

Mona said...

Ivan, Thanks :)

JR. Your inhabitation sounds like my last Job.

Dystopian!

So I get it. Its Animal Farm in 1984 :)

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

And the rest of us living in our Brave New World.

"Get your beach body ready," says the weight-loss ad on my MSM home page.

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

BTW, Mona and JR,

Slide over to 8 Mile Love Graffiti, Eric Bachman. (Eric 1313)

He's got a pretty good poem up.

For god's sake, don't edit as you read. I do that all the time, and poets seem to hate that.

Middle Ditch said...

Piggies are interesting and so are all those comments here. You're okay Ivan? It was fun to get your e-mail reply two years later.

ivan said...

Moniue.

Thanks.

I think Facebood is a piggyface and me for answering email two years later.
Ah well. Can't say I ignored you, though, I might as well have sent my reply by floating bottle).

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Monique,

Durn, I think I have a touch of Old Timer's.

I misspell your name and then I try to get into your comment space on Middle Ditch and fail repeatedly.
I am getting kind of piddly.
Where is the washroom? :)

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