Thursday, November 30, 2006

Song of the Day

Dust in the Wind by Kansas


A rather Buddhist expression of pop wisdom, now that I think about it.

(I close my eyes
only for a moment then the moment's gone...)

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Santa Baby

The truth is, I'm not much for Christmas, music sentimentalling all over the airwaves for weeks before it's even decent. But this tune by Eartha Kitt is just too hip. (Like Mel Tormé, I was hep before hip was hep...) I don't know about Madonna's version, but Eartha Kitt's delivery of this tune is priceless.

Check out these lyrics:

Santa Baby
Eartha Kitt

(baboom baboom baboom baboom)
(baboom baboom baboom baboom)

Santa Baby,
Just slip a sable under the tree
For me
Been an awful good girl
Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa baby, a '54 convertible too
Light blue
I'll wait up for you, dear
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight

Think of all the fun I've missed
Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed
Next year I could be just as good
If you'll check off my Christmas list

Santa Baby, I want a yacht and really thats not
Alot
Been an angel all year
Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa honey, one little thing I really need
The deed
To a platinum mine
Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa cutie, and fill my stocking with a duplex
And cheques
Sign your 'x' on the line
Santa cutie, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Come and trim my Christmas tree
With some decorations bought at Tif-fa-ny
I really do believe in you
Lets see if you believe in me

Santa Baby, forgot to mention one little thing
A ring
I don't mean on the phone
Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight
Hurry down the chimney tonight
Hurry...tonight

Please, is there anybody out there...

who didn't smoke pot?

All right. I admit it. I experimented with marijuana from time to time in the past.

"Why?" you ask, "Why, Larry, did you never tell us about this before?"

Because the results of my experiments were inconclusive...

The Lancet turned me down flat. The New England Journal of Medicine scoffed at my slipshod approach. Georgia Strait snubbed me. And High Times said, "Get a life, Larry..."

"Guess I showed em all..." (says Larry bravely as he gazes through the bars of his tiny, yet poorly-padded, cell in Z Range at the Yoni School.)

Monday, November 27, 2006

Michael Chong Resigns

OK, I'm just cribbing from the Mothercorp, but the salient quote is this:

But Chong, who was responsible for federal-provincial relations, was left out of the loop when Harper was deciding on the wording of the motion. Instead, the prime minister consulted with former intergovernmental affairs minister Stéphan Dion.

In other words, Stephen Harpie bypassed his own Cabinet Minister to discuss and make decisions with a member of the Official Opposition (and, by the way, a candidate for the leadership of the Gliberal Party.)

Chong can talk all he wants about his philosophical opposition to this nationhood notion. He probly ain't lyin' neither. But you gotta know a snub like that from his own leader can't go unanswered.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Hugh MacLennan

OK, so I have this other book. That makes two now. Another book I've had for a long time. Since 96. But published in 88. I've had it since 96. It was remaindered in some book store. Possibly Coles. Remember Coles? Since 96, without ever really looking at it.

The book is called Strong Voices: Conversations with 50 Canadian Authors, by Alan Twigg. The interviews go from A to W. No Z. Or X. Or Y either. Canada has no Z authors, apparently. Four Bs though: Berton, Birdsell, bissett and Bowering.

Each interview has a photo of the author. They're funny. Many of the men look like farmers, bearded, goofy, wearing what Fotheringham used to call tractor caps. (Not cool baseball caps like they wear nowadays, but clunky spongy tractor caps with John Deere on the forehead...George Bowering actually is wearing a tractor cap, but it's an old style Montreal Expos cap. So it's a baseball cap. I guess in those days even baseball caps were tractor-like.) There's a shot of Patrick Lane playing pool. bill bissett behind reflecting shades. Robertson Davies with billowing beard and glasses one eye black the other transparent. Leonard Cohen when he still had his somewhat boyish voice. Marian Engel looking thoughtful in the middle distance. WP Kinsella (wearing, believe it or not, not a tractor cap or baseball cap but a visor which might as well be a tractor cap) resembling some scraggly Muppet. WO Mitchell doing his Colonel Blake (from MASH) impression. All in all, an interesting read, given that all the interviews were done in the 70s and 80s. It's an historical document now.

Which brings me to the title of this post. Remember, I said DH Lawrence predicted the future. Well, Hugh MacLennan does too, in this 79 interview. Here's what he says:

The Arabs have such fantastic money power they will soon have A-bombs. They can very easily get the plutonium. There's no problem in hiring the technicians. That's all such a terrifying prospect that it makes what's going on in Canada today utterly trivial. I'm not sure the world will survive it. It's very, very dicey.


This was six years after the first OPEC crisis, of course, so Arabs were probably still on our minds. But here we are in 06 pondering Iran's acquisition of WMD. (I simply had to use WMD. It's now part of our lexicon, just as A-bomb was part of MacLennan's 70s lexicon.) Technically, the Iranians aren't Arab. They're Persian. They are, however, very much Muslim.

So we're not looking so much at an ethnic diciness, perhaps, as a religious one. Nevertheless...Notwithstanding...Albeit...(I heard a guy on a call-in show pronounce this all-bite the other day.) We're still talking about the same general geography. And you can bet the real Arabs are also in there like a dirty shirt, trying to play catch up with those Semitic Sephardic Hasidic Ashkenazi Cabinet Ministers in that land formerly known as Palestine.

And what are we talking about in Canada? A couple weeks ago was the firestorm raised by a Cabinet Minister's reference to canines. Last week it was that female Cabinet Minister's hairdo interfering with global warming. This week it's that other thing, what is it? Oh yeah, that Québec nationhood thing. Let's get over it, shall we? If we all suck it up and say, "OK, Québec is a manly man's province, you have your nationhood proudly at attention, you don't need the national erection of a CN Tower to prove your cojones," can we get on with the division of Alberta's oil wealth?

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Friday, November 24, 2006

Bookmark This Page!

And then back it up. Put it in your backup pocket. Mark it with magic marker. Catalogue. Categorize. Plagiarize. Damn yer eyes! Give it to the Search & Rescue. To rescue yer bookmarks.

I found all my Firefox bookmarks after diligent & intuitive searching, which the little Windows Search Wizard couldn't seem to do. And Spirograph below was one of the bookmarks. Hope it works for everbody. Works fine on Firefox. Although it does spill over the borders.

Grade 11 English teacher...of me...once...in Grade 11...said to me in email a couple of years ago that she remembered me as someone who refused to stay in box. Trouble also colouring within the lines. Spilled over borders. Souse of the Border. Two Lips From Amsterdam. Take the Eh Train, eh?

Spirograph












Created by Anu
Garg.


John Allan Cameron

So John Allan Cameron died yesterday. Another musical icon gone.

I actually got to play with him. Once. In Farguess at the Highland Games. He played Lord of the Dance and I was on the stage (such as it was) with him. Lord of the Dance is a great tune. Unfortunately, I didn't know it very well. In fact, even now, I can really only remember one line of it. So I played quite a few clinkers while John Allan played and sang the actual song. (Lucky for me, I've learned the knack of playing unobtrusively when necessary.) Cameron, being the professional that he was, just ignored the mess I was making and played right on through.

Forsooth! (That will be my word of the week.) Forsooth! I didn't really play all that badly, but there was one section where I couldn't quite figure out where the chord pattern was going. I invariably went in the wrong direction.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Impermanence & Loss

I had to take my computer into the shop for repairs. Turned out to be a hardware problem...power supply. Something which has been plaguing me for months. But other techies (who shall remain nameless) couldn't seem to find this problem. I think they weren't trying very hard.

Anyway, all fixed now. Except! Since they couldn't predict in advance what kind of problem...I agreed to let them reinstall Windows. Everything , data etc. got saved. But! Pretty much all my software needs to be reinstalled. Including my default internet browser: Firefox. That's OK. How else could I be spending my time, eh? Hours of installing is fun. It's FUN I tell you.

Except! It seems that the one thing that didn't get saved, retained, or cached somewhere...it seems...was all of my bookmarks on my default browser: ie. Firefox. Oh sure, they saved the bookmarks on my IEwhatever. I don't use that nearly as much. I had a vast number of bookmarks on Firefox. Gone now. All gone. As far as I can tell. Writing sites. Dharma sites. Music sites. (Including tech sites for repairs to electronic instruments which sometimes go awry.) Well, I'll survive I suppose. What I can't remember...maybe I didn't really need it.

The important thing, I'm sure you'll agree, is that I remembered the URL of Mental Blog.

Forsooth! I did not. After re-establishing my email page, I copied the URL from my "Compose Mail" signature line. That got me to the blog page. From which I was able to maneuver to the login & dashboard page. That'd be a hell of a thing if I lost my own blog, eh?

Digg! diigo it

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Breaking News: Louis Riel Hanged!

The Lunchbucket Lament has just received word via telegraph that the Métis rebel Louis Riel has been hanged in Regina for his role in the Northwest Rebellion of 1884. Members of the Northwest Mounted Police were deployed in force at the site of the execution and throughout half-breed enclaves all across the western territories to minimize any possibility of unrest or violence.

The Prime Minister in Ottawa, Sir John A. A. is reported to have knitted his brow, (the previous brow having become unravelled in the face of insurrection) and murmurred, "Hang the man! He's been no end of trouble to me!" When told, once again, that Riel had been hanged, Sir A. A. nodded and sighed, "Now, if we could only apply the same measures to the Honourable Leader of the Opposition..." Sir A. A. was later seen in the House of Commons, wearing his smartly-striped new brow and sipping ice water from a large tumbler.

Mr. Riel was asked his opinion of the hanging. He said, "I agree with A. A. The Leader of the Opposition has got to go." When reminded that it was he himself who had been hanged, he replied, "My lawyer thinks I'm mad as a hatter. But I've never had a problem with my knitted brow. It's the buffalo hair, you see..."

This correspondent fears that the execution of Louis Riel could well have repercussions that will reverberate far into the future, affecting many diverse aspects of the young Canadian society, from public art to the naming of schools to land claims to highways to the publication of histories and mysteries. Perhaps it would not be imprudent to suggest that the Northwest Territories be granted provincial status as quickly as may be practicable, since this will undoubtedly pacify the numerous savages and facilitate the discovery of wheat and oil.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Update on the Schneider's Sign

Well, I don't know if the hole thing's werkin yet. But I did check out what's actually on it. The top part is time and temp. Below that, the Schneider's orange background with Schneider's girl on the left and Schneider's in big letters to the right of her. Duh. Below that, Schneider's blue background with the motto, Famous For Quality. Then, the bottom scroll.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Elections Ontario

Plus ça change, n'est-ce pas?

Elections in Lunchbucket yesterday yielded pretty much the same results this time as 3 years ago. Almost no changes. Wassup wid dat?

Our grey burghers have so bored us and lulled us and stroked us and conned us and generally pacified us with their dull municipal management and complete lack of colour that we simply couldn't find them against the background of the institutional-whitewash walls to vote against them.

True, there has been some controversy over the last year. 1. Over a new libary in downtown Lunchbucket. Cancelled. Cowards. Philistines! 2. Over the demolition of an apparently Heritage building...an old shirt factory. The facade is now in storage, waiting to stand in for the real thing whenever they get around to putting something new up. Barbarians! 3. Our Lunchbucket Farmers' Market...Our market...as in Your Lunchbucket Farmers' Market (presumably cuz you paid handsomely for it with your tax money...is rather a white elephant. (As have been most of the City-driven efforts at downtown renewal.) Thieves! Rascals! (My own personal beef has to do, naturally, with regional transportation policy, or lack thereof. It's at least ten years behind the times. Incompetent bums!)

These are only minor blips on the municipal political horizon. Lunchbucket will survive, maybe even thrive, if the Schneiders ham doesn't go bad and have to be recalled...

What really concerns me is the voter turnout.

Get this: 23%

23%!

Apparently some people are, if not pleased, at least relieved, because it's a higher turnout than last time around. God help us.

This is a badge of shame, as far as I'm concerned. All around. The voters should be ashamed. We get what we deserve. But the pols should be ashamed too. How can you claim to have anything approaching a mandate when less than one quarter of the people have expressed their wills? They should all resign in shame. (Or outrage, one or the other.)

50th Anniversary of "Howl"

Allen Ginsberg - Howl

For Carl Solomon


I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning
their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol
and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless
world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings
and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal
in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy
and bop kabbalah because the cosmos
instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking
visionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma
on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other
skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle
and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings
& especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully,
gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors,
or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened
and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic,
leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy
occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul,
rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare,
bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room
emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination--
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time--
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent
and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul
to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream
and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements,
trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs!
Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!

III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're
free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

San Francisco 1955-56

***

I regret to say that the line breaks are not as they were. Oh well. What did Ginsberg know of Lines? He was howling. His line breaks occurred when he ran out of breath.

Referring to my previous posting about DH Lawrence: in his Foreword, he castigates the current (1923) crop of American writers. He says the earlier Americans (like Cooper, Franklin etc.) really were more original than those who came later, and insists that America has not yet produced its true voice. 1923, remember.

Dos Passos didn't do it. Lawrence singles out Sherwood Anderson as someone who didn't do it. I don't think Fitzgerald did it. Thomas Wolfe certainly didn't do it. Maybe Hemingway. Not even Henry Miller, who I love (although not carnally.) But I think the Beats finally freed American literature. Kerouac's On the Road could not possibly have been written by a European about anywhere in Europe. Howl is without a doubt American thru & thru. As was the obscenity trial that accompanied it.

The first reading of Howl at the Six Gallery poetry bash in San Francisco was a watershed event. An entire school of poetry & prose coalesced there. Kerouac described it. Others too. You wouldn't think a poetry reading would have such an impact on an entire culture. But that one did. It set the tone for a couple of generations (at least) of literary, musical, cultural and political rebellion and soul-searching and experimentation.

Ginsberg howls now in heaven, dead.
Safe in heaven, dead, as Kerouac would say it.
All safe in heaven, dead.
But strangely.
Living in the future electrons of this wobbly web.
Beat.
Dead Beats.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

D. H. Lawrence Predicts the Future

I have this book. I've had it quite a long time. A long time without ever really looking at it. It was written by DH Lawrence. Published in 1923, seven years before his death of tuberculosis. j

You know DH. That randy fellow. Wrote that scandalous book.

This book is not that one. Although I have that one too. Read it many years ago. I'll probably read it again. The virtues of recycling.

No, this book is called Studies in Classic American Literature. In fact, it appears to be a rant against the dry Puritan American soul, disguised as a review and analysis of early American writers: Benjamin Franklin, James Fenimore Cooper, Edgar Allen Poe, Melville, even Whitman. (I often think of the sign I saw in the rear window of a car a few years ago which read: There Is No Country In The World Called America) (I say, God Bless Amurrica!)

Lawrence enjoys himself in this book. He has a romp. I suppose he thought he was entitled, since he & his wife lived in the US for a period of time. In the first chapter about Franklin, he makes you understand why the author of Poor Richard's Almanack was indeed "poor." Poor Ben. Poor Puritans. Poor Murricans. Chained to their Oppositionism. Slaves to Moderation. (But perhaps only Public Moderation. Private inclinations are always another matter.)

Anyway, that's not really why I'm constructing this post. In the third chapter of the book, Lawrence starts in on Fenimore Cooper, but not without a parting shot at Franklin. I intend to quote the first paragraphs of this chapter, because this is where Lawrence predicts the future. Our future.

Benjamin Franklin had a specious little equation in providential mathematics:
Rum + Savage = 0

Awfully nice! You might add up the universe to nought, if you kept on.

Rum plus Savage may equal a dead savage. But is a dead savage nought? Can you make a land virgin by killing off its aborigines?

The Aztec is gone, and the Incas. [The Mayans remain, but clandestine. Tour guides for the ruins. LK.] The Red Indian, the Esquimo, the Patagonian are reduced to negligible numbers.

Où sont les neiges d'antan? [I can't find d'antan in my French-English dictionary. Babel-Fish, that next to useless engine translates this phrase as: Where are snows of antan? Duh. Now, Suzy Homemaker teaches French in her spare time & when her schedule permits. She tells me "antan" means "yesteryear." So there you have it. And I have it. And Suzy has it. Where are the snows of yesteryear? Dave Phillips, Canada's national weather weenie says there actually is less average snowfall over the last 20-30 years. So when you get all nostalgic about how you used to play King of the Castle on huge snowbanks overlooking the gritty streets of Lunchbucket or Kirkland Lake, you are remembering really and truly the golden age of snows....And now, back to our story...LK]

My dear, wherever they are, they will come down again next winter, sure as houses.

Not that the Red Indian will ever possess the broad lands of America. At least I presume not. But his ghost will.

The Red Man died hating the white man. What remnant of him lives, lives hating the white man. Go near the Indians and you just feel it. As far as we are concerned, the Red Man is subtly and unremittingly diabolic. Even when he doesn't know it. He is dispossessed in life, and unforgiving. He doesn't believe in us and our civilization, and so is our mystic enemy, for we push him off the face of the earth.
Well, there it is. Even now, the aboriginal chickens are coming home to roost. Or roast, as the case may be. And who are they roasting? All us interlopers. Ex-Europeans. Ex-Asians. Ex-Africans. The so-called Indian problem has never gone away in fact. The debacle down there in Malebonia, just south of Steeltown, is only the latest. In Canada, we have the shining example of Oka. Ipperwash. OK, so it's been a couple hundred years. The First Nations are patient, but unrelenting. And Lawrence is right. They don't believe in us and our civilization, our rule of law. They are following their own law, even if they have to make it up on the spot.

Here's the problem as I see it. Neither side has decided to recognize reality. The First Nations think they can still push us off the edge of the continent. Not likely. Coming waves of Asian immigration will overwhelm any countervailing force. The "new" North Americans have not yet recognized that they need to satisfy the First Nations. Whatever that means. What do they want? (What does Quebec want?) (It's the same question, probably the same answer: Mâitres chez nous...but difficult to qualify, fearsome to quantify.)

It's a dilemma, for sure. The Europeans -- English, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese -- usurped the entire continent and left the natives little corners. Somehow they must be recompensed. But the natives must also recognize that this is indeed the dominant culture here now, and come to some settlement that allows for this. The Six Nations protesters down in Malebonia have been flouting laws all over the place, thumbing their noses at the police and terrorizing the local population. (I use "terrorizing" carefully, but correctly.) That can't continue.

Land claims are all very well. But the First Nations people must know that we (let's say descendants of usurpers) are not going to just up and leave. Not anymore. Maybe 300 years ago. But not now. So, get over it, natives.

These days, the currency is money. Wampum, I guess. But we shouldn't expect the natives to be bought off any longer with trinkets. Maybe it's time to really pay.

On the other hand, maybe they can turn all the vices we white peeple brought with us to their advantage. Enough of being slain by demon rum. Turn it back on them. After all, I have lots of friends who go regularly to the reserve to get cheap tobacco. Casinorama is doing a fine business. Maybe the aboriginals can get their land back. Just feed us all the stuff we crave...alcohol, tobacco, gambling. We'll do ourselves in.




Saturday, November 11, 2006

Schneider's Sign Blow-Out

Anyone who lives around Lunchbucket knows the Schneider's sign along the 401. It's gotta be one of the most famous landmarks around. As soon as you see the Schneider's sign, you know you're only 15 or 20 minutes away from home. (Except that nowadays at rush hour you have to take Highway Late into town, and that adds 20 more minutes...)

I don't know how long that sign's been there. Seems like forever. Since afore ah wuz born mebbe. A long time.

Tonight, the sign was off! Or at least parts of it, the main parts. The top section was still lit up showing the time & temp. The bottom scroll advertising Red Hots was still on. But the main section, the colour section, was dark. I can't remember any time when the main part of that sign wasn't working.

But seeing that big black blank raised a riddle. What the hell is actually on that sign? Residents of the region drive past it every day. Hell, I probably drive past it several times a day (on my clandestine excursions from the Yoni School). And suddenly I couldn't remember what the sign says, what it consists of.

It's the Dutch Girl, the Schneider Girl, right? But what else? Who remembers? (No cheating now, driving out there at midnight to take spy photos infrared undercover mug shots...)

Friday, November 10, 2006

Vajrasattva for wt.


Vajrasattva (Vajra Hero, Tib. dorje sempa) "Dorsem" is the buddha of purification. As the "action" or karma protector, he also manifests the energies of all Buddhas.

Vajrasattva manifests in two forms: solitary and in union with consort. As in all depictions of deities with consort, the male represents compassion, the female represents wisdom. In Buddhist tradition, this union, known as yabyum indicates the unity of wisdom and compassion (or wisdom and method).

My "history" with Vajrasattva seems to be a tale of how a deity picked me rather than vice versa.

Now, just to make things a little more confusing, here's an image of a vajra, the hand implement used in Tibetan ritual.
I borrowed this image, believe it or not, from a Dutch website.



The vajra is also a thunderbolt. I guess you could say it represents (among other things) the cataclysmic flash which is the direct realization of emptiness.

Wikipedia says, "The vajra destroys all kinds of ignorance, and itself is indestructible. In tantric rituals the Vajra symbolizes the male principle which represents method in the right hand and the Bell symbolizes the female principle, which is held in the left. Their interaction leads to enlightenment. Also the Dorje or Vajra represents the "Upaya" or method Tibetans name Vajra as "Dorje". Made to be worn as a pendant, it reminds the wearer, and the viewer, of the supreme indestructibility of knowledge."

(Actually, the "made to be worn as a pendant" comment doesn't quite make sense. Unless it's a pendant, which most of the time it's not. It's an actual implement which fits in the palm of your hand.)

More: in Tibetan instructions, vajra is also the term which refers to the penis. The vagina is called the lotus, a felicitous expression if there ever was one.

Digg! diigo it

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Spoke 2 Sune

photos on & off
more off then on
slow boat to photo
slow read to blogger
could not connect
publishing may fail
saving may not save you
photos blankety blank
blankety blank blank failsaved

Thass better

No sooner bitched about than the gods of the blogosphere saw fit to put the heavens aright.

Hey man, where's my pitchers?

An interesting phenomenon...all the photos have disappeared from the blog. I'm assuming it's only temporary. Funny this should happen just as I was posting that previous entry...all about impermanence....transience....blog photos a flash of lightning...phantoms disappearing...of course, photos, even when printed are nothing but a record of phantoms...

Zen Poem

Like dew that vanishes,
like a phantom that disappears,
or the light cast
by a flash of lightning--
so should one think of oneself

Ikkyu Sojun
Ikkyu Sojun (1394-1481)
A Zen Buddhist monk who is supposed to have been eccentric even by the standards of Zen at the time.

Well, ole Ikky may have been eccentric, but the pome is straight ahead Dharma, no heterodoxy there at all.

Excuse me now, I have to go look up heterodoxy.

Digg! diigo it

Monday, November 06, 2006

The Names People Give Themselves

Larry is doing up a mailing list for his Buddhabuddies, a list compiled at the latest incarnation of the Relic Tour in Hamilton. He's amused by some of the names people come up with for their email addresses.

Here are a few (not fully completely...to protect the identitititititieess of those who would rather not be seen consorting with Buddhists?):

music_angel_06
xena_blue_bubble
starlady42
foxy28
gotta.be.doped
spirit_of_clarity
cougar001
nyghtryder98060
gordoon
helium21224
drive_by_pylon
supergotenk144

We are left to wonder what some of these mean.

Of course, Larry's email handle is vajrasattva1. But everybody knows what that means, don't they?

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Goering Tells the Truth For Once

I simply couldn't resist this. I picked it from a website called Wisdom Quotes:

Hermann Goering:

Naturally the common people don't want war; neither in Russia, nor in England, nor in America, nor in Germany. That is understood. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country.
quote verified at snopes.com

The more things change, eh? What have we been bombarded with since 9-11? On the airlines now, you have to take out your tube of Preparation H and put it in a plastic bag for all to see. Why? Because we are under attack!

All right. The US was attacked. Rather than dealing with that particular problem, however, the Bushwhackers decided to mount a general counterattack -- wide and sweeping -- and now we see the results -- gels and liquids are no longer allowed on your red-eye to wherever. Does this say something about the law of unintended consequences? Or was it intended all along?

Mental Blog Repair 1

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