Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Greeted by what seems a pall over my
roman 'a clef about local politics Is it my blog's relative inacessibility to others because of my busted computer?...Or is my "true life "fiction" dull?)
Whatever the case, only the technologically adept true blue readers seen to somehow get past the near-inacessibility of my comment space. I know I should clean out my machine, but it's too close to a holiday when the beautiful young Royals are coming to visit here and I want to at least keep my blog space email capability before I apply a virus and spam "vacuum cleaner."
William and Kate are coming to our neck of the woods.
Aren't they just pretty as pips? And aren't they coming to Canada at the right time?
It seems we have all been in some kind of depression for the past eleven years.
In a word, over here,the shits have been killing us.
The funk was probably caused by the two Middleast wars.
Stupid and hopeless, with the wrong paradigm for success.
I would silently keen, There is no success here in cave man land. Get the hell out! Get out yesterday.
Get the hell out to anywhere but the Middle East.
Go to Wichita of you have to. Go to Canada.
And at about that time four years ago, out comes Jack White with his remarkable CD, Seven Nations Army. With its refrain, "I'm going to Wichita."
Well, the Royals are going to Ottawa.
Previously, I'd believed in another kind of royalty. As an old rock columnist, I believed in the baroque kindom of rock and roll. There was, oddly genius here at times. Certainly the Beatles, and arguably, The Rolling Stones. But I also had my own heroes, Jack and Meg White.
Genius is an an awareness of the spirit of the age, accompanied by a richness of human content, and Jack and Meg White certainly had it with their old band, White Stripes.
I first heard the work of Jack and Meg White ( who now seem in their own depression as the band has broken up) heard SEVEN NATIONS ARMY on radio. I pulled my car over...I just had to get that CD!
But what lyrics in the song. What biblical and even Native American references:
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"
Seems lately we all want to go to Wichita. Maybe vast Canada.
And, soft-hearted sentimentlist that I am, Heh, I'm glad that William and Kate are coming over this way, in the relative sticks.
Hey, it can't hurt. The wonderful Duck and Doochess are bigger than any rock star.
Even larger than Jack and Meg White. Almost bigger than the Beatles.
Aw, I am a sentimental sucker.
Note to readers:
Ignore what follows. My copier is busted so I am setting up this quasi-letter to my newspaper editor to get properly prnted at my local library.
Present position: Demagogue.
Position sought: Canadian Senator (A real good Demagogue).
Experience. 1955-l956 Student pilot. (Air Cadets) 1957-1963: Royal Canadia Air Force, full time; air control technician. l964-1967. Journalism student, Ryerson Polytechnic University.
1967-1968 Graduate student in Writing, Instituto Allende, Mexico (Universiity of Californa. Wrote novel The Black Icon. Got tuition scholarship on basis of novel.
1969 Staff writer, Metro Mirror then Star Weekly 1969 Staff writer at Star Weekly while also contributing to Toronto SUNDAY SUN.. 1970 to l973: Wrote novel, The Hat People, and freelanced for Reader's Digest to support myself..
1974-1975. Teacher, then Columnist TOPIC Magazine, Bradford, Ontario; freelancer TORONTO SUN. 1974-1985. Professor (untenured) Seneca College of Applied Arts and Technology, King City, Ontario.. 1985-93 Politics. Ran for Mayor and Regional Councillor for Newmarket, Ontario. Wrote new novel, Light Over Newmarket and a monograph, "Storm and Stress on the Campaign Trail--The l985 election in a small Onario Town." --Published by the Newmarket Public Library.
Novels written: Four --and the monograph on Newmarket politics. All novels published by the Bradford Witness Publishing Company, Island Grove Press and the Newmarket and Aurora, and Uxbridge Public libraries. Number of words in print to date: Three million. (Now that's grounds for demagoguery, no?)
Career Objective: To be the best damn writer and politician in Canada, and the first New Democrat Senator (I don't belong a party right now, though definitely a party animal, but I know the New Democrats, like Catholics and Communists, will take just about anybody! 'Hey, Jack Layton. I am your man. I want to be the first New Democcrat senator ever...and I'm electabble, even though in nepotist Canada, senators are appointed. So appoint me, Jack when you become Prime Minster. It is time I got a job after too long a retirement. Hell I could start even tomorrow. Whatta ya say, Prime Minster Brian Mulroney? How about a Looney?
Another draft of letter to the editor:
Letter to the editor
In my recent dotage and dyslexia, I have framed a letter, not all that well titled, "My awful locomotive doG."
I am convinced that a locomotive doG with his piercing whistle and growl, can make even a Fairy Lake goose go all feathers.
The locomotive doG barrels past my window every workday, four times a morning, and four times in the eve.
I think I am losing my mind.
Bark, whine, goes the locomotive doG.
Honk go the geese.
Jangle, jangle, go my nerves as I spill the morning coffee.
Trains gotta GO. And I get a flow...all over my shirtfront.
"Why do you live on the railroad track, " asks an ERA reader. "Because I'm old, crazy and dyslextic," I say." It's the railroad track or that big Porter Place for the homeless out in the Bradford styx."...See, I told you I was dyslexic.
I try to relax with a movie. Wouldn't you know it?
Honk. Comin' atcha.
Rumble, rumble. Blast!
A forties song is in my head.
"Oh the railroad runs
in the middle of the house."
I must go where the wild goose goes, maybe even sit on the edge of the old milllpond dam like the geese..
The tame geese sit on an inch of water on the lip of the old dam.
They don't seem to get cold feet, do not become startled any more, whenever the go trains come, certainly not in July.
And by the time the fourth and final train screams toward the Big smoke, it is just greeted with an indifferent honk.
But myself, I still go all feathers with the noise.
Old, dyslexic and dyspeptic.
Threw my cane at the train.
I think I saw a goose duck.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Roman à clef. Roman à clef or roman à clé. French for novel with a key, is the term used for a
novel describing real life, behind a façade of fiction...
Impatience. Old problem. My prof, years and years ago, saying to callow me, "You're trying too hard to show how good you are."
Trying now, I supppose to show how sloppy and perfunctory after too many kicks, some badly aimed, at the local old political process. Impatience. There isn't much time now as a formerly bright boy becomes a shaky, irritating garrulous old man.
On a wet steamy morning of November 12, Buddy Walford died. Figuratively. Died without a trace of remorse or self-pity, died politically like the member of the Fine Old Ontario Family( acronymmed FOOF) that he was. There were not too many FOOF's around nowadays. Birthrights were sold as fast as the expansive corn fields topping the rich natural aquafers and fountains just past the Oak Ridge Moraine north of Toronto... The hills and drumlins had been left alone, the old FOOF farms stopping just short of the rise of the Great Canadian Shield. All the FOOF cornfieds sold. But it was all so tempting to try and build now among the lovely
lakes, hills and moraines, the natural wells and streams. What budding yuppie could not resist a home in all this paradise where the deer and the racoons played?
A piece of the action. A bungalow in paradise. Better still, an entire subdivision in paradise. Build, baby, build!
The Mob was now laundering all its money into real estate, all the farms had been bought out. But oh those heretofore protected Moraines and aquafers. Eden just north of Toronto! Louigi gotta get. Put the money there. Yuppies will want those new beautiful homes on the moraines...But there was always the high-seated, omniscient police, who were following the money trail. I was becoming a joke around the not-yet smoke-free and politically correct taverns of Newmarket, Ontario that the new game in town was "cops and wops"....
(To be continued)