Sunday, October 31, 2010
It's Halloween, and I fear my art has come to this:
Old horse masturbating in his stall.
Doing he steel-toe quatruped shuffle.
Thwack of two-foot long penis against belly.
Oh to be prehensile, like a Houyhnhnm out of Gullivers Travels.
Holding between hoof and pastern.
Look ma, no hands.
Not hard to conjure for myself as the image of an old horse.
Or the image of a poet.
Which I are not.
To which I soon get a letter:
What is horse masturbating?
Just very curious lol.
Bcuz every time i get my gelding out and when i groom him and get ready to ride, his penis comes out and he bounces it on his stomach. It confusing me.
(Me in my degenerate old age):
That was no horse. It was me, the stall-stooper.
And if I catch ya.....
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I've always had trouble with balloons as symbols.
When in love, the balloon is a beautiful symbol of the moon being a balloon, of things going swimmingly, of you being David Niven in evening wear and she in a silk taffeta gown, the two of you in a brisk foxtrot.
Kinda gay, what?
Don't worry, it gets dark.
At least darker.
Little did you know that you were dancing with a witch. You had no way to prepare for this. All your science, all your degrees. She got you by your your female side that you could never see, could never see in a lifetime if you hadn't met this woman who had just written and published a Texas novel, "She's Gone", all about torturing and murdering her rival, her sister. Can a writer's worst enemy be another writer? But no. She seemed a friend.
In between drinks she is is telling you that you had been a clown all your life, a professional clown of course, but a clown all the same.
And even at this, you have already lost your touch.
So she slips you a book, The Clown, by Heinrich Boll, and you see, finally, that you are a clown who is fast losing his skill and it is only the booze, the alcohol and the drugs that are greasing your optimism. That and the blonde Texas girl with the Betty Grable bangs.
She has shown you a part of yourself, the clown part, old guy who'd lost his turns, has been losing them for years in fact, and only the alcohol and cigarettes were in there keeping up what was left of your wind.
You listen to her. After all, she'd just been published by Alfred A. Knopf. Borzoi Books don't come a dime a dozen.
The lady has class.
At least she had some till we reach my aparment,
at the front of which is a fountain with faun in it.
She leaps into the fountain, hikes up her bouffant gown, drops her pants and has herself a pee.
Ah, Fata Morgana. Morgan Le Fey. Witchie-Poo. Strange Cindarella.
In the apartment, she is not yet danced-out. All she wants to do is dance.
Dancing on the dining room table, almost hitting the overhead light, dancing on the end tables. Dancing on floorspace that I hadn't littered with my manuscript pages.
We get to the moment of truth and out of her purse she produces a vibrator, and I'm wondering what the hell I am there for. To be a courier for Radio Shack batteries?
The turn excites me.
She might need a soother through all that action.
Somehow, we got each other off. I was damned if I was going to put on her gown, her idea, but largely for a laugh.
"You like my gown so much? Why don't you wear it?"
Ah, the Night Full of Rain Syndrome. Liberated woman with antique Alpha male.
There is a strange song running through my mind, something from the time I had been in the service:
Her father was a brewer
But she was a ...ing hooer.
No wonder she wrote "Gone". Look what she was doing to me.
In the morning, she herself was gone.
I groped around for her...just the empty side. She had left a drawing on the Parson's table. A big red balloon.
And me on the shoosh end, hanging on for dear life.
I went on with my lonely little life.
The professor with the Blue Angel now so sadly vanished.
Jalbert in the clown outfit. Le Balon Rouge, chasing my balloon. Chasing her.
Crowing like a cock in between my juggling act. Cuck-a-ruck-a-koo.
Disoriented, half-mad,it was only a matter of time until I was fired at my college job.
I applied for a number of jobs, some with a circus. I even offered to be shot out of a cannon.
"We might be able to use a man of you calibre," the manager laughs. I could tell it was his favourite joke.
How does it come upon a man, so steeped in his philosophy, his physics, his science--that he has no idea at all of
the Bob Dylan line: "Don't put on any more airs when you're down in Rue Morgue Avenue
They got som hungry women there
and the'll really make a mess out of you."
Well, one Isis leads to another, and this one a bit kinder.
"She was going to kill you. But you somehow broke the spell, you little warlock you. And you escaped.
"Now I'll lie down with you, but I won't f*ck you." Migod. Another one.
Ah, easy conquests says old Herodotus.
Stay with the easy conquests.
Otherwise you'll be all on fire for the one you can't get, your whole being honed to get her, to get the unattainable.
I found an easier conquest, or, I suppose, let myself be conquered.
The obsession with The One was almost gone.
But the following morning, I peered out the window and say the most beautiful balloon, red-and-white striped, like peppermint or an oldfashioned barber's pole.
Fell into the goddamn rosebushes.
I used to know some wild guys who had been studying for the priesthood, something I was halfway now seriously considering. "Crown or no crown. Get the f*ck out of my rosebush!"
It is twenty years later. I had long ago given up my gig as a circus clown.
I had sensed for years that my Morgan Fey was probably on drugs in the first place, andl likely close to her supply-- in the clutches of the Mafia, like Richard Brautigan, who, some say, offed himself. Or was offed.
My hormones were acting up again.
Had to find Morgan Fey. I was in limbo, and needed to make a move--in any direction.
I had kept following her. Tracked her down. She was living with a Don. Beware of Italians bearing gifts.
I caught her with the don and took a swing at him. Strangely, Don Corleone dropped like a stone.
The next night the phone call. "You'got a problem, Ivan. If you don'lt fix the problem, I will." Musta been high on something. A few minutes later, the ring of the phone. "You got a problem, Ivan. If you don't fix the problem, I will."
"I will, Ivan."
One night the don rang again.
"You've got a problem, Ivan.
"If you don's fix the problem, I will.
"I will, Ivan."
That evening, just as I went out for cigarettes, my aparment exploded.
What is it with middle-aged men?
You set up triangles--and even rectangles.
You can die of it.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Suppose a Martian were to write this blog.
Supposing he saw "spots" out of his saucer window on his way here, and that would have maybe even scared the average alien.
Migod, this is extraterrestrial!
What would he say?..."Well, it's a typical earth-specific phenomenon. Some earth astronauts in their crude analogies for spacecraft have seen 'spots' outside their capsules, and when debriefed by psychologists, they would be asked..."And what did the little spots say?
"Ah, little did they know that those spots 'R' Us ."
"But how come I now see them as spots?
"Likely the ashes of the cremated, now in orbit, since the recession on earth has hardly left any money for anybody to be buried any more. Nobody down there seems to have any Herns, not even change for a Gloopel. And even funeral pyres are expensive. Hindus in Haiti have a hard time. There ain't no wood. And that's not so good. In poor, denuded Haiti, everybody now, has the shits. And there ain't no trees fer to make the toilet paper. So the poor Haitians get worse things, like the awful C word. It's a good thing I have no feelings. I am an alien.
The Martian is my alter ego, I suppose.
In my perfervid imagination, I can see the Martian.
Predictably, he is is vaguely of mongoloid appearance, though very large-eyed, more like a bug's eyes.
He appears to be wearing some sort of cottony white Wookie- weight band on his silvery body, but it extends all the way down to his crotch and his nether quarters; it could well be a kind of shoulder-to-ass diaper. An incontinent Martian?...Well, maybe something here on earth gives him the shits.
He comes out of his craft already yelling and complaining, perhaps like a Canadian immigrant today
Act and don't react. Your planet is shit.Your culture is shit. Earth gives me the shits. And fuck-off."
He taps his hollow chest. " Important Documents! All the way from Uranus.
"At least on Mars, we have communal relief. You guys sit alone on the commode, usually thoughtful.
We sh*t and stink communally.
You have no such thing here. You only shit communally on smokers. And local muslims-- if redneck radio that I hear naturally, with no antenna, is any example.
The Martian has actually landed in Toronto, Canada.
"I see by all the day-after-the- election headlines all around that they now have a new mayor.
Well. It's about time. An overtaxed, fascist city in a Canadian culture obsessed with homosexuality. Even the heir-apparent to the Liberal Pary has a cupid's-bow mouth. What is this planet coming to? Is this the only way to fight overpopulation? Ask. I will tell! And baby, who are you? That's some Halloween outfit!
It may as well be Halloween in this culture. Waiting relatives at Pearson International Airport greeted with a "You-Hoo", as if they were in San Francisco, where eveybody is already airborne, hardly needing any airplanes.
The story is apochryphal, but someone swears he saw former Mayor Miller shopping for puce-cloured chaps down in Yorkville, where all the stars come from Hollywood.
But Sam, you left the ass-end out!
A society gay, and proud of it. And turned intellectual.
"My ancestors were already homosexual while yours were still in the trees."
Giggling cops and U. S. Marines, eager to tell, and even show, break up couples.
People are still snogging!
The emperor has no clothes and is looking for little boys.
The defeated candidate is in a gay marrieage. "Well, yippie shit!" says my Martian.
"No kind of spouse spouse left behind."
But oh, Toronto now has a new mayor.
His name is Ford. He is not sexually mobile.
"Fordy!" says the retard on the elevator.
Says the Martian, who is a hermaphrodite,"They've got it all ass backwards. At least until Oh Henry here got elected. I'd tell them all to go f*ck themselves, but then they would know things, and become like us."
And with that, he scratched his big left ear, and almost had an orgasm.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I am trying to write some SciFi.
Nice work if you can get it.
How do you top Bradbury, Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Arthur C. Clarke, Anthony Burgess or even Kurt Vonnegut Jr. when he gets the wind up.
Ya don't. These were extremely versatile people capable as much of writing a symphony as a novel...And they probably would have written in either novel or song format--hell even Cobol or Fortran if asked by some publishers, Martian or human, to do so.
And inventiveness, sometimes ever playful inventiveness. Who can forget the ubiquitous Killgore Trout, comical master science fiction writer out of Vonnegut's ego as he haunts the pages of almost all of Vonnegut's later novels. The ghost out of Vonnegut's writing machine. Kilgore Trout--Theodore Sturgeon?----and then Killgore's son, Leon Trotsky Trout. And Killgore eventually goes to live in Cohoe, New York.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
But I'm trying to craft myself a Martian...If he were to land hereabouts today...Hardly original. Voltaire did it with a North American indian named Zadig. Swift and his Gulliver travels, and today all the ET--type movies.
My Martian, I think will be different.
He is capable of taking on human form, in every respect, save one. He has this terrible case of the runs--something incompatible with his digestion on earth--and he has to very nearly wear a diaper to keep clean.
We can imagine our Martian socializing with humans. The Martian out on a date.
"Lars, there is suddenly this smell in the room...You know there are these little animals in this cottage. Sometimes they just crawl into a hole and die."
Lars says nothing. Even his grandpappy, whenever he visited earth, would get the runs.
"What's the matter Lars? You seem in pain, as if you were holding something back."
Lars avoided saying, "I am trying to hold back" out loud for fear of projectile crappping.
There had been earlier visitations of Martians on earth, a whole colony of them on the Japanese island of Hokkaido. The Japanese called them the Ainu*. They too wore loincloths in summer, largely because they would get the runs from the processed Japanese food traded to them for perfectly good game and fish. The Japanese always said there was somethlng extra-terrestrial about the Ainu. They seemed almost human, but they kept yelling at people, throwing things and shitting themselves. And they insisted on communal relief, almost as a religious practice. Small wonder they were called the Ainus.
The Ainus, like all Martians, knew what all Martians knew--that the seat of intellect was the alimentary system and not the brain. Humans didn't know this, so each rumble and fart of the digestive system seemed to lead to ideas and concepts. Take Voltaire. He knew. But he was probably part-Martian.
And Rabelais. Now there was a man who gave a shit. Likely part Martian as well.
And I wouldn't even begin to consider George S. Honda, well-known scientist and crap climate change prosyletyzer. As a bona fide scientist when young, he would train fruit flies to crap fer to get the DNA. And he, gentleman dapper, would be himself be much on the crapper.
Eschatology. Final causes. The universe has a shit. Big Bang.... Dante's Hell. Your dinner going from the stomach to small, and then the large intestine where De Debbil dwells. No wonder things seem upside down. Vicious circle, mouth to anus. Enter William Burroughs?
Of such is much philosophy, certainly particle physics.
In the beginning there was the Big Bang. Big Fart? Big Baumm!?--Baroque echoes of a Passage to India by E. M. Forster?
Most serious physicists are convinced the universe is queerer than you think. And with Burroughs, queerer than you want to know.
But I prefer Vonnegut, his last big novel (Out of Wikipedia):
Galápagos is the story of a small band of mismatched humans who get shipwrecked on the fictional island of Santa Rosalia in the Galápagos Islands after a global financial crisis has crippled the world's economy. Shortly thereafter, a disease renders all humans on Earth infertile, with the exception of the people on Santa Rosalia, making them the last specimens of humankind. Over the next million years, their descendants, the only fertile humans left on the planet, eventually evolve into a furry species resembling seals: though possibly still able to walk upright (it is not explicitly mentioned, but it is stated that they occasionally catch land animals), they have a snout with teeth adapted for catching fish, a streamlined skull and flipper-like hands with rudimentary fingers (described as "nubbins").
The story's narrator is a spirit who has been watching over humans for the last million years. This particular ghost is the immortal spirit of Leon Trotsky Trout, son of Vonnegut's recurring character Kilgore Trout. Leon, a Vietnam War veteran who is affected by the massacres in Vietnam, goes AWOL and settles in Sweden, where he works as a shipbuilder and dies during the construction of the ship, the Bahía de Darwin. This ship is used for the Nature Cruise of the Century. Planned as a celebrity cruise, it was in limbo due to the economic downturn, and due to a chain of rather unconnected events the ship ended up in allowing humans to reach and survive on Galápagos.
Kilgore Trout -- deceased -- makes four appearances in the novel, urging his son to enter the "blue tunnel" that leads to the Afterlife. When Leon refuses the fourth time, Kilgore pledges that he, and the blue tunnel, will not return for one million years, which leaves Leon to observe the slow process of evolution that transforms the humans into aquatic mammals. (The process begins when a Japanese woman on the island, the granddaughter of a Hiroshima survivor, gives birth to a fur-covered daughter.)
Trout maintains that all the sorrows of humankind were caused by "the only true villain in my story: the oversized human brain". Fortunately, natural selection eliminates this problem, since the humans best fitted to Santa Rosalia were those who could swim best, which required a streamlined head, which in turn required a smaller brain.
Well. Oversized human brain.
I maintain that that it was the oversized human orifice.
Humanity's need every so often to have a good crap.
They call them Renaissances.
I call them the rebirth of the Big Farts. Every so often the asshole of mankind,, usuallly a scientist, rises to take over. I posit that it is the major aperture not the cortex that is the seat of human intelligence.
The heroes of history as shitters, whereas mankind had heretofore been to them, reactionary, retentive.
But the shitters are of alien origin.
The Martian and his diaper.
Einstein and his relativity.
I am positive there is a connection.
The Big Bang.
Humanity going for a shit.
* There are about four thousand people of pure Ainu origin still extant on Hokkaido, Japan...They have been deemed by the Japanese government as an authrentic aboriginal people, whom I do not really want to slight. I probably used the Ainu badly in my attmpt at humour. Please don't sue me. I'm just trying to be cute.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
It was fun being broke and hopefully brilliant-- until what was left of the money died.
So I'm out here beside a supermarket dumpster that they have now sealed because they knew that old moth-eaten Ivan would be there one day holding vigil over the opening that had spewed out all the stale- dated steaks that had somehow escaped the whee-thump! of the automatic compacting process.
No longer can I stand beside the big dumpters and catch my steaks like the late pitcher/outfielder Satchel Paige.
They sealed it with hard rubber and one of the employees of Metro came out to tell me, "If you keep poking inside that machine, you're going to lose a hand."
Migod, I knew that Newmarket was now full of unemployed former camel jockeys, but what is this--the Middle East? Lose a hand?
I am a pilferer, not a thief. I usually poke the open hole in the dumpster with a stick...You can hear the rustle of the plastic as you snag a day-old T-bone. I am trying to avoid losing a hand. I am a stick man...Maybe that's how I got to be the way I am in the first place. Stick anybody. Sure peed off the poor ole lady.
Kicked out like a dog."Out, damn Spot!"
And now virtually kicked out of the Metro Dumpster area.
Rejection--even at this-- failure. Pain.
Migod, I'm going the have to hitchhike to Aurora, the next town south of here, where they have an open dumpster.
And along the highway, the cigarette trees.
What's poor hobo to do?
"Trailers for sale or rent.
"Rooms to let fifty cents..."
"I'm a man of means
and by all means
King of the road."
Ah, old Roger Miller.
And this morning, to paraphrase an old Hemingway book title,
"The Bum Also Rises."
I'm off to Aurora this morning.
The early bird gets the worm.
...Or I might get the worm from all that dumpters fare.
Ah what the hell. I seem to have the immune system of a starfish.
"You been chewing on rocks?" asks the dentist.
"Nah. Just a tough roast.
"They were so much more tender when I got them from the Dumpster in Newmarket.
"There just ain't no quality control any more."
To which, Tom Pearson adds:
You Are Invited! ..........Calling all Musicians and Performance / Artists!!
Oct 17 is International Day for the Eradication of Poverty - a day recognized by the United Nations and marked through events held world-wide on that day giving a voice to those in poverty.
York Region has been hosting an event since 2005, most recently at Fairy Lake Park in Newmarket where a mobile stage is brought onsite to the stone amphitheatre and used for the purposes of communicating messages to end poverty.
The event opens at 1pm with free hot food in an atmosphere of drumming and info tents followed by various speakers, including those with lived experience - using an "Open Mic" to voice their concerns. The event runs until 7PM.
At 5PM musicians & performance artists are invited on-stage, with "plug-n-play"for acoustical players and CD play capabilities available. Musicians and performance / spoken word artists are encouraged to create / perform original works that touch on the theme or pieces that reflect it. This is a growing and potentially door opening venue for original artists particularly.The event's design also lends itself naturallyl for "street performers" to set up along Fairy Lake's path and we encourage artists who do so to donate half the proceeds with the organizing group - Poverty Action for Change Coalition (PACC) to help defer event costs.
Thus far 2010's Int Day Showcase features Singer / Guitar/ Composer Glenn Marais - soon to be performing a concert in Africa - as well as Fred Joly, Brenda Bakos, Rappers Krhyme Syndicate, & Hip Hopper' Testament" - who are leading the way in creating an exciting new annual venue for artists to showcase original works - and at the same time help keep the message -to end poverty now- alive beyond the day through them.
If you have an original piece or would like to perform something that reflects the theme onstage contact the talent coordinator at firstname.lastname@example.org by Oct 7 2010.
Organizer, International Day for the Eradication of Poverty Day , York Region.
To which I reply,
What, you didn't ask for me by name, God's chosen?
I'm the bum with the fastest mouth in town! I am always talking about the poverty of the artist.
Anyway, I'll be there!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Actually, I had an unhappy childhood, thank God.
How else to be a writer?
But if one only had been born a toff!
Ah, what could have been. I could have been somebody.
I could have been Marlon Brando. I coulda been a contenda! I could have invented 3D!
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Durn. I meant to photocopy and display the image of Mark C. Durfee's receipt of legal deposit for Library and Archives Canada, now that Mark is officially published, at least in this country.
So I had to go the long way, viz,
LIbrary and Archives Canada Bibliotheque et Archives Canada
RECEIPT FOR LEGAL DEPOSIT
RECU POUR DEPOT LEGAL
Legal deposit number
Numero de depot legal
Date do reception
Durfee, Mark C.,1954
Stink: poetry and prose of Detroit/ Mark C. Durfee
Newmarket, Ont. : Island Grove Press, 2009
Island Grove Press
540 Timothy ST UNIT 304
NNEWMARKET ON L3Y 5N9