Monday, November 21, 2011
Tastes and sounds in the morning.
Fresh salmon fillets sizzling in a pan.
I had, uncharacteristically, had fish for breakfast. It was damn good salmon. It brought memories of Manzanilla, Mexico. Cheap hotels, lots of fish from the nearby dock.
Eating fish, which, of course is great for the libido...And you're in an illicit love affair. It is wrong. You know that it's wrong. You are somewhere between heaven and hell, on the edge of thinness and self-deception. You are a married man, but as the product of your generation, a somewhat naif man. If it feels good, do it.
She was lying face downwards on her terrycloth towel, a breeze toying with her fine blonde hair. I reached out to stroke that hair, so spanking clean, and the woman turned to face me with her full pale blue eyes, wide apart and a little crazy, the high California cheekbones and a mouth as wide and pretty as an idyll's.
We were lying in the grass before a Mexican spa, one of a dozen in the central plateau, the hot springs of Los Antes, lush and tropical in a benign late February sun. Before us steamed a pool, hot as a bathtub, fat old tourists squatting therein like latter day versions of souls being cleansed in Dante's purgatory.
What a far cry this was from frosty Canada, from the sense of hopelessness and death that comes every February, when nothing seems to break the gloom, the threatening darkness, the pallor of one's skin. Canadians are more like Finns or Norwegians, not at all in temperament like the "slow Americans" that someone had labeled them.
Like the Finn, the Canadian drinks to excess in the course of a long and oppressive winter; he entertains gloomy and destructive thoughts on the worst of the snowy or slushy days, building up slow, smoldering resentment against one's wife, one's children, one's dog.
I hope I didn't come to Mexico just to escape winters, I was thinking, my plans, my equations, my diagrams now not meaning very much at all. I was conscious again that I was in possession of a body, mine and that in the end, back there, no gain, no gain at all was worth the loss of one's health.
But how little it had taken to turn it all around. The sun. O that sun! No wonder the Aztecs had worshipped it.
And now I was a sun worshipper, at least, second hand for it was Valerie who seemed to almost thrive in water or near it, and I was in the presence of a Loreli, a Russalka--and, dumb cossack, too enamored to know I would soon be moored on a rock.
The truth, they say is often couched in humour and irony.
Joke out of Newfoundland:
A monk is frying fish.
"Are you the fish friar?
"No, I'm a chipmunk."
Ah, the stupid people that come into ones life. Heh, now that you've become a monk. And some of these folk are gorgeous, and make a fool of you.
I have been over the years been amused by old writer Norman Podhoretz:
"The higher your I.Q. the easier it is for people to 'take' you."
I was 38, not really into maturity, still a boy-man....And I don't know about the IQ.
And now the fish-friar.
Is it too late for reconstrucion?
Saturday, November 05, 2011
I am not too impressed with myself this morning.
To do a riff on an old Bobbie Gentry song, "You been drinking all morning
And you haven't touched a single bite."
It's deadline time again. This is the time when you've marshalled your words like an army and sent it out into the peaks and canyons of New York.
But where she goes, nobody knows.
Heisenberg's uncertainty principle.
Or maybe mad Kierkegaard. Either/Or.
God, I loved that dippy Dane. Consider him a great Dane. How anbout a line like "You are making mountains out of molehills...You are in love. You are supposed to make mountains out of molehills."
I am making mountains out of molehills because I have been in love with writing since childhood, going through the different cultures, avoiding the brickbats of my insane mother and a twisted sister.
From the earliest, I thought I had hidden talent and wanted to write.
And the dream came true way too early, in college, where it seemed to me they would print a football schedule if any student showed any ambition toward writing at all.
Then came the real world of the Toronto Star and Star Weekly, where at different times I felt as if I were caught in a sausage machine--say it on!--meat grinder, where your mind would have all the charm and ambiance of a public whore house. But like a good whore, you had to produce. Publish or perish.
But so heavily edited was The Star that only one tenth of what you wrote was printed. Durn frustrating to have eight hundred words of possibly your best essay or vignette discarded into File Thirteen.
Haha. The middle-aged chortle. And then the occupational hazard of alcohol.
....Well, I still drink. But I don't write so much.
Except today, when I harbour the illusion that brain cells can so come back, even when the writer is stewed.
But you've at least got to crunch on a sprig of celery, fer the vitamins--otherwise you might become Howard Healthcare at the local free hospital....Been there once or twice. Migod, no booze, no cigarettes. Object lesson: Do not go quietly into that darkened ambulance... At least, eat your vegetables when you drink-- for the vitamins. You might otherwise die.
So like the town fool, you drink, hunt for cold cuts, sausage to satisfy at least your ethnic quotient. So you start by boiling cabbage or celery.
What the hell. It's almost a dailiy reality, this ritual...Boil the cabbage, drink, and crack yourself up.
Bebido, ergo sum.
I drink, therefore I am.
....Well, enough of this stream-of-consciousness. I'm thinking of James Joyce's chracter, young Stephen Dedalus, who wasn't as good as either himself or Joyce, it sometimes occurs to me.
Still, I am intrigued by Joyce the man.
He had a weakness for women, some women.
The story is apochryphal, but I have heard it said, that one day a mysterious woman reached behind her seat in a theatre-- and into the pants of the creator of Stephen Dedalus.
The story goes that he followed that woman around for twenty years, like a half-fucked fox in a vast forest fire.
I have been following literature heh, and one certain woman for twenty years. And still she eludes me, while herself sometimes--I swear--laughing.
Laughing Lorelis seem to come. And they're all laughing at me.
This is the oddest, most self-defeating way of being in love. I am in Joyce country. I am in Soren Kiergegaard country.
And somehow, I feel I must raise a mug to old Kierkegaard.
"You are in love. You are supposed to make mountains out of molehills. "
Kierkegaard said most pepple can see the monster on your back.
I swear people can actally see the some godawful thing riding piggy-back over my neck. :)
Friday, November 04, 2011
Seems the older I get the more I am like today's physicists. They seem bamboozled by the "orneriness" of quanta and the unexpected ghost of a dark matter that seems to stand Einstinian physics on its head, certainly in a possible acceleration of the speed of light to beyond Einsteins absolute speed limit of 186,000 miles per second.
And synchronicity. Much synchronicity.
I am here and I am there at the same time. Might even stand old Buddha on his bald head. Seems it's no longer true that where you go, there you are. You or your hologram may end up in a thousand places at the same time.
I am half convinced what will one day emerge on the cosmos is an overlay of the back of the human brain,along with the picture of a hand. It would certainly give the evolutionists a boost. It would certainly give biology a boost, for that sad science hasn't much developed since DNA was discovered.
The back of your brain and a hand.
Creationists might be heartened. We are, after all, different from the apes.
The back of the brain and a hand with the wandering thumb.
Heh. Physicist, conjure me a beautiful woman.
Seems that after my last breakup, I have just been too handy. :)