Friday, March 30, 2012

Hallucinating like Clark Kent with the flu.

"I feel drunk but I'm sober
I'm young and I'm underpaid
I'm tired but I'm working,

I care but I'm restless
I'm here but I'm really gone
I'm wrong and I'm sorry
What it all comes down to
Is that everything's gonna be quite alright
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is flicking a cigarette"

--Alanis Morisette

Heaven forbid the talented lady should be playing with herself, but that's pretty well my mood on this full moon--got one hand in my pocket and the other is flicking a cigarette.

"Have you ever been crazy, Ms. Morrisette?" a Toronto reporter asks.

"Sure. Lots of times."

"And how do you deal with that?"

"You just walk through it."

Well, that was the wild and talented Alanis.

Well, over here its not just crazy, but one hell of a bout with the flu. I am, like a carricature of "Clark Bent" in vintage MAD Magazine, I am bent, old, coughing and hobbling from spittoon to garbage bag while seeming to obsessionally mutter, "Lois. Only you, Lois."

But like the lampooned Clark Bent, I too have some time ago been given a backhander from my own Lois Lane, with the explanation, "Get lost, creep!"

"But I'm sick with the flu."

"Die, Bastard."

Well, that's what happens when you cheat on Lois Lane, who even up till now, has no idea that you might be Superduperman. And would it make a difference? "Get lost, creep."

So, home alone. Sick and home alone.

Thankfully, there are still friends, but it's more like out of the Book of Job. I am figuratively sitting on my dung hill, more like "'bring-up mountain" as I leave flukers in the garbage.
Seems in my sick state, the next hill, might as well be Broke Back Mountain, since I've had no luck with women of late.

So, into the liquor cabinet for a rum and coke.

"I feel drunk but I'm sober
I'm young and I'm underpaid
I'm tired but I'm working,

Well, certainly not young and underpaid. More like not paid at all. I haven't sold a story in years, and my creditors are getting restless...And now feeling kind of dead. The flu is starting to give me hallucinations. I am in Mexico. I am in Texas. I am in Copenhagen with some great Danes. Oh for the taste of that ten per cent FAXE beer...And you can't get it in Nemarket today because I swear somebody has run off with the imported beer truck. I tell the lady at the beers store, "The FAXE, just the FAXE, ma'am."

And she says there ain't none. Somebody has held up the shipment.

"You mean I now have to drink Molson's or some other Ontario tribute to the chemical industry?
"You could try CREST, from England."

"But that sounds like a toothpaste."

"It works for me, she says as she very deftly throws a beer case to a top shelf.

So I settle for the big bottle of Labatt's the 1.16 litre one.

Settled in between couch and spittoon I wait for the flu to pass.

But this one is especially virulent. I am visited by hallucinations, time travel, images out of Deepak Chopra. I am in several places at the same time.

Man, this can't be the flu. I am having too good a time.

"Who do you work for, John?
"For the Grand Maison?

And who is Grand Maison?

Labatts, Labatts,Labatt's.

There's got to be some kick in that Canadian beer.

With the hallucinations and the strong beer, I feel like a Chicago heroin addict.

"When dad horse kicks you..."

I swear somebody has tampered with that big bottle of beer.

But what the hell. What a kick.

I hope it kicks the crap out of the flu.


Sunday, March 11, 2012

elegiac poem

It's a San Miguel Sunday morning in central Ontario.
Smell of woodsmoke, lonely bells, and someone outside chopping at something in the yard. Chopping wood, having a spit at hands and back to working on the block. A sound of a McCulloch chain saw. And then silence.
You can smell the smoke, but it is not pungent like the brush and mesquite in Mexico.. It is hemlock and pine (Ontario cactus and Chaparral?)

But it might as well be San Miguel this smoky morning, ageless Mexican hill town, my town in Canada old too with telltale Indian trails and still-standing hemlock trading trees, where once Chippewas had come along the Holland river in canoes, some still wet, from the rapids, stripping down, slapping their breechclouts against the old maple that had served as the trading post for Indians on their way to the big mart in Toronto.
There is somehow a sense of of lost continuity. Your continuity. Divorced, and living on the edge of the Canadian shield. The soul trying to catch up with the body, Christ untouchable because He is in- between dimensions. Cagier this time, but still trans-dimensional, oxymoronic somehow, like the Devil in Dostoevsky, who was a time traveller too. And had offered his excuses. "When God struck down all the rebellious angels, I at first applauded.
"But now I'm shabby and bourgeois."
Christ never shabby or bourgeois.

Sunday morning in Ontario.
I hear bells, but no. It is a jarring sound. There is a fire drill in my apartment building. Everybody lines up.
Sleep still in their eyes.

There are no fire drills in San Miguel.
Only occasional Sunday morning gunshots.

Sunday, March 04, 2012

Never having to say I'm sorry?

When a writer plagiarizes himself, he's in trouble. So I'll save myself trouble by plagiarizing somebody else.

Here is something tragicomic I stole last summer from a blog titled Sex, Drugs and Bacon Sandwiches.

I is very, berry sorreeeeeeee... Forgivz me?

I’ve been a bad girl. A very, very bad girl.

Dear Los Squangeles,
We met after some random texts and a long train journey. It wasn’t long before we’d shared some scarily crazy nights out, a bed, a hangover and a hatred for crappy lesbian porn. Our friendship was cemented.
The last time I came home I promised that we’d meet to dabble in some more of the above. After you arranged to take the day off work you checked with me a squillion times and a squillion times I said I’d be there…
However, when the day came I did what I do best - A disappearing act. I got completely caught up in whatever woman I was doing at the time and totally forgot about the woman I should’ve been meeting. I was a cunt.
You sacrificed a days holiday which I’m sure you would have appreciated taking on another day, you cancelled plans with your friends and to cement my cuntness I did this to you on your birthday weekend.
I nearly wrote a paragraph of excuses but I have none that suffice.
I’m sorry. A LOT.
Sex, Drugs and Bacon Sandwiches