Wednesday, February 27, 2013

That Fokker was a Messerchmitt

As a writer, I am chary of tinkering with my subconscious, for that is where your inner radar comes from.
You don't want to sell your "navigation equipment" to the world, like the lady who did not know she was sitting sitting on a fortune, until she began to sell it piecemeal, and was soon learning ghetto.
 
But an image out of the Second World War comes to mind.
 
An American pilot, eerily  named, Charlie Brown, was in a  B-17  with the 379th Bomber Group at Kimbolton, England. His Flying Fortress  was in a terrible state, having been hit by flak and fighters. The compass was damaged and they were flying deeper over enemy territory instead of heading home to Kimbolton.
 
The Germans, seeing the crippled Flying Fortress apparently going around in circles sent an ME-109G fighter to shoot the bomber down.
 
The german fighter pilot, whose name was Franz Steigler, caught up with the errant, heavily damaged bomber, most of its plexiglass shot away, one engine dead, and a half-missing rudder. 
He saw that the crippled Fortress was going east instead of west, towards England, which was the way the B-l7 should have headed if it had had a compass. 
Pulling up, alongside, Stigler signalled through his canopy to the blood-smeared Charlie Brown to do a one-eighty, to head back to England, and not occupied France.
 
Charlie Brown got the message and though ruderless,somehow  managed to turn his bomber around.
The shot-up B-17 Got to  land in England. Barely.
 
None of the surviving crew would talk about what happened. There seemed to be honour among airmen.
............
 
Well, I keep having the same dream about this true story. Over and over again. ..The German fighter pilot gesturing to me, to turn it around
and go back home, and not into heavily armed German airfields.
 
Is this some kind of cautionar tale?
 
Turn it around, Ivan or there will be more fighter and flak?
 
Is the best decision to not make any decision at all?
 
Is there an angel piloting an ME-109 not wanting to blast you with his cannon, but showing you the way home?
 
I had to look up the name Stigler, at least on this continent.
 
Stigler, professor of eponomy (natural names for places). Like New Market?
 
Seems to say, turn it around and bring 'er home. 
 
I've got to dig up my old Dylan vinyls.
 
"Something's happening here, but you don't know what it is
--do you Mr. Jones."
 
                   -30-

 

Monday, February 18, 2013

a black apple is rolling
stopping amidst a field
and a soul of a suicide rides up
on a grey horse of smoke
(Ukrainian poet)
 
(A little more stark than Tennyson, but something broke in my family recently):
 
My niece was found dead in Cancun last month. I loved my sister's daughter, yet she has been troubled for the past 25 years, mentally ill since that divorce that seemed to drain her life away, and finally, there seemed no life left to offer.
It was, unfortunately, a Ted Hughes-Sylvia Plath configuration, the rich libertine who would give her an Anglo-Saxon name and the little "Polish" girl who would suffer in the drawing room with her silver threads and golden needles-- and one eye on the oven.
 
The savage god won.
 
Myself  a musician  with a Chet Atkins bent,I am haunted by a country song by the late Harvie June Van.
 
"And I'll no longer be a burden.
And so, my loss will be a gain.
And I'll no longer need your loving
'Cause where I'm going there is no pain
God has taken all my troubles
'Cause He knew I couldn't win
 
For you, the lights are brightly shining
For me, the lights are growing dim.
And I can hear my maker calling
From the pearly walls within."
 
There is a pall in my apartment.
 

Saturday, February 09, 2013

The February blues of a long distance lothario

February Blues.

The cliche is true.
You feel blue.

It is a dark, cold, stormy February night.

I am, as they used to say in the Air Force, lying "tits-up" on my rumpled bed with its sleeping bag for a duvet. Daydreaming.
There used to be hot and cold running women under that bed, but now in February, all I can look forward to is the semi-annual event of my erection, which, even now in this February night, will probably be the last one. Never mind finding the compatible woman. What're you gonna do when you find her? And with what?
I have a lawyer friend who used to vacation with Charles Shultz. He tells me of Mr. Schlultz' wonderful, celebrated art.
Oh how that Charles Schultz could sublimate his broken heart, his libido. And in the process, enthrall the world.
I imagine myself as a Peanuts character.

Snoopy holed up in his doghouse. Snoopy's nemesis, The Red Baron dasn't fly in today's February storm. It is snowing heavily. It is quiet in the barracks. There may as well be skis on the undercarriage of Snoopy's Sopwith Camel.

There had been a raid on the barracks in the better weather leading up to this storm. The Red Baron helemeted and long -scarved in the propwash. Richthoffen's Flying Circus. .
Snoopy had been caught lying down atop his doghouse, cutting zees.

...Strafe marks all round the doghouse. Snoopy rudely awakened. "Curse you, Red Baron!...Are those Fokkers?
Someone from he barracks answered, "No, those Fokkers are Messerchmitts!
Snoopy yawns...Wrong war!

Like Snoopy, like many another old dog now nearly reduced to chasing imaginary Fokker Triplanes, or worse-- cars-- I am now reduced to sublimating, at best, dreaming...

I am Walter Mitty, romantically unemployed. Dead Thulu liies dreaming? No, nothing as morbidly mad genius gay as that.

...More like Freud.

But my fantasies seem along the lines of aeronautical engineering, probably the result of a technical university education.

The Messserchmitt l09E had a 20mm cannon that could fire through the propeller hub, because the engine was actually hooked to a higher -ratio spider gear which left an extra driveshaft though which you could fire a cannon. The cannon was shot almost pistol-fashion, actually placing your hand on the pistol grip and blasting a Spitfire out of the sky...But because of engine heat, the cannon would often jam, and you would be ambushed by the other Spitfire behind you and peppered with eight rifle-calibre .303s from his wings...But you had steel armor behind you; the Spits had not yet acquired their 20mm cannon and it might as well have been buckshot hitting your tail.. You were at least alive to bail out.

I wanna bail out of reality on this February night.

...And what's with that 20mm cannon fantasy?
Old Freud might say, "Ach, that is not just a mere fantasy. Das is Ganz Schlecht! Psychopathia sexualis!"
.
A cannon that could drive right through a propeller hub. German technology, synchronization.
Durn. Maybe I've got occuaptional hazard. Too much specialization.

I definitely need to get out more. Certainly to find another job, not one of placing black marks on white computer screeens.

I go to the employment agencies. I fail Roscharch Inkblot tests. I keep seeing vaginas, not bats, as the personnel shrinks expect.
And yet, psychopathia sexualis.
This blocked lothario simply isn't me.

I have probably had more sex, laid end-to-end than anybody my age. This is not braggacio. But like for a character in a French novel, probably Picasso at seventy, the world has passed me by. "Get lost, creep!"

Ah, they're not making the girls the same this year.

Think I'll turn queer?

Oh godawful February. What're you going to do with an umemployed sexual acrobat, or, at least one who had thought himself so.

What's with that Messerchmitt pilot fantasy and his not alway reliable cannon which, because of engine heat, wouldn't work half the time? Oh Mr. Freud!

Seems one is I'm not just over the hill, but on top of everything else, turning gayer than Richard Simmons in a sportswear display. What is happening to the old libido?

Nothing coud be finer than to shack-up with a miner?...Worse still, a minor?

Frantically, I go to Google for information as to my condition. Is there hope? Could this at least be a leap year? That could explain the Richard Simmons fantasy. I check the Farmer's Almanac.

Oh-oh.
 It is not a leap year.

And I am in another fantasy.

Today, I am Dashing Pierre of the Lafayette Escadrille.

When Dashing Pierre goes down, he goes down in flames.

##

Monday, February 04, 2013

Egad.

Serious family anxieties coupled with a part- failure in New York-- have made me feel  darn insecure.

I ain't got much as a writer, but I got  some, so I'll list my releases (escapes?)


Google Books by Ivan Prokopchuk.


The Black Icon: A Story / by Ivan Prokopchuk
by Prokopchuk, Ivan - 1992
No preview available - About this book - Add to my library

The Fire in Bradford: A Novel
by Ivan Prokopchuk - Fiction - 1996 - 101 pages
Cover title.
No preview available - About this book - Add to my library

The Black Icon: A Story
by Ivan Prokopchuk - 1969
No preview available - About this book - Add to my library

Light Over Newmarket: A Novel
by Ivan Prokopchuk - 1991
No preview available - About this book - Add to my library

Storm and Stress on the Campaign Trail: The 1985 Election in a Small Ontario ...
by Ivan Prokopchuk - 1986
Cover title.
No preview available - About this book - Add to my library

The Hat People: A Novel
by Ivan Prokopchuk - 2001
No preview available - About this book - Add to my library.


Well, well, well. No previews available.

But at least I'm listed.