Tuesday, October 22, 2013

My little apochrypha

I am something of a cultural hermaphrodite. Name any culture (though not all cultures)-- and I'm there.
 
In Denmark, I'm great Dane, ordering an "Ein hof" with the rest of them in the swell, woody  bar, where people stand up on wppden benches and salute each other.
 
In Germany, I'm "ein  prositing" with the rest of the lederhosen set, demanding fire.
 
In Greece, it's raising the philosophical question, 'To Ti?" as I shine flashlights in caves.
 
In Egypt, I am black, always have been black. It is black cuture, really, is it not.
 
I Crete, I wait for earthquakes, even now.
 
In Tel Aviv, I am Hebrew, pondering the mischief of chutzpah.  "I have killed my mother and my father. Pity me now. I am an orphan."
 
People say a split personality is the result of early childhood abuse. This is true with me, as I seem to have been abused by friggin' near everybody in the course of The Second World War, that great F-up, resolved only by nuking civilians.
Now we are still nuking civilians. I think I myself have been somehow  nuked.
 
Over this wr this way, one foot in the grave, I am wondering how, so far, I have outlived it all. Do the mad live forever?
 
The closest clue as to my condition comes from an obscure note in Carl Gustav Jung.
 
Dare I write it?
 
It is the image of God shitting on a  cathedral.
 
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Saturday, October 12, 2013


My original intention was to write "Diary of a Newmarket Madman," following my famous countryman Nikolai Gogol, whose play adaptation of his famous book is now making huge waves in St. Louis, Mo.
What came out instead was my"Light Over Newmarket," a nutty enough book in its own right, but nowhere near the great Gogol.
Nevertheless, LON was reviewed by the late Dick Illingworth in the ERA and I managed to cop an Ontario Arts Council grant.
Yet I was still Ivan and not Nick Gogol, who was a Ukrainian, and probably the father of all Russian 19th century literature.
And in York Region, there were other, bigger guns.
So I had to stop running for being Nikolai Gogol of Newmarket, settling instead for maybe Roy Green.
And what the hell. Today I was so proud to learn that the wonderful Alice Munro got the Nobel Prize for Literature!
(I myself have never been a fan of the Canlit crowd, and neither, probably was Ms. Alice.
She did it all on her own. In her own way.
And good on her).

But as for me, what to do?
I can't nearly write as good as Alice Munro. I don't think anybody in Canada can.
Is it too late have a sex change?