No mention of the common cold

During elementary school we were taught the Baltimore Catechism. Being Roman Catholic. By objective standards you’d call it propoganda. We called it religion. It was filled with questions. And their answers. I remember the first question. It was “Who made you?” And the answer, “God made me.” The questions and answers got more complicated after that. To get a perfect mark on a test you had to give exactly the wording of the text. Not the meaning. The wording. My father kept me up many hours grilling me on this text.

I wrote a book of poems called The Baltimore Catechism. It was almost published in the early 1970s. But then the publisher backed out. I put it away. I found it yesterday. And decided to expose it to the free world.

The preface is a quote from Hegel, a very important German philosopher. Who I based my master’s thesis on. He is a very difficult man to read. In English. I can’t imagine he is any easier in German.

Here is the preface:

“Consciousness knows and comprehends nothing but what falls within its experience; for what is found in experience is merely spiritual substance, and, moreover, object of its self.

 

Mind, however, becomes object, for it consists in the process of becoming an other to itself, ie. An object for its own self, and intranscending this otherness.

 

And experience is called this very process by which the element that is immediate, unexperienced, ie. Abstract – whether it be in the form of sense or of a bare thought – externalizes itself, and then comes back to itself from the state of estrangement, and by doing so is at length set forth in its concrete nature and real truth, and becomes too a possession of consciousness.”

 

G. W. F. Hegel

Preface to the Phenomenology of the Mind.

Fun reading, eh? I struggled through Hegel for 8 months. Learned some things. About human nature. Like pretentiousness. Which I was tainted with. I think I’m still a bit of a snob. (I like Starbuck’s coffee.)

The first poem is called Antemath. Its supposed to be some overriding opus on the condition of man. How his journey into consciousness was a mixture of madness and accident. No mention of the common cold.

ANTEMATH

 our sires were sitting around a fire

pokin’ the ashes

shufflin’ the flames

mumblin’ rumours

just passin’ the time of day

when one jumped to his feet

and as bold as life itself, he screamed.

 

The others cast their eyes on him

in a mixture of surprise and contempt.

One spoke as if for all,

‘with your words it is plain

your destiny is not with us.’

 

shoulders huddled around a head bowed

he slipped into the darkness

on the border of their sight.

‘oh father’ he cried

‘what shall i do?’

the dust picked up

and carried his scent

and the creations of the garden

picking up the message

turned their heads toward him in fear.

 

And through the tall grass

his steel thighs carried his body

his hand like a vice carried his spear

and pounding after a fleeing fawn

he lifted the ground to her ear.

 

And with the night

he carried a torch

guarding his children against

the game that the darkness

transfigured into beasts.

 

Not fearing the haze he rode

his metal ships

their coldness memorized muscle,

carried on through echelons of time

til the future was lost

and the past was warped

and the maps ran out of lines.

 

Tired and weary he spread his spew

colonizing solar systems

filling the emptiness

with the hum of his lonely vessels

prodding and feeling their way into oblivion.

Through the ages the thirst had been spent

the drive that carried him so far began to wain

and the liquor heat turned bitter and sour

in his mouth.

The wilderness, homeless, seeped inside.

 

The newspapers carried the story on the front page

there was a picture

of a wailing man

his face against the rains,

slinging his arms at the sky

laughing

black to white

with surprise and contempt

the caption seemed to say

“These are the forms I only lend

just doin’ my job.

It is not me that formed these words,

only the bungling of chance

and some mad man’s lungs.”

 

Baker’s Man

There are characters in your life that remain lodged in your memories. And you hardly knew them. Nor cared. There was a girl. Lets call her Patty. (That was her name). She looked like my sister. They were often mistaken for each other at school. Mostly by teachers. Victor had a crush on Patty. (He was probably about 12 or 13) By 15 he went out with Patty. And then dumped her. (She was boring.) Or she dumped him. (Same reason). Then Victor went out with my sister. They didn’t hit it off. She couldn’t stop laughing at him. He’s a pretty funny guy. (A combination of Woody Allen and Ringo Starr.)

But because of this complicated story I couldn’t get Patty out of my memories. Remember, I’ve probably never talked with her. I heard that she later dated, married, and divorced a guy who became a doctor and in the meantime a jerk. This story has had no effect on my life. Patty has had no effect. It is of no consequence. To me. And yet there it is. If you put a series of these small stories into a movie it would probably be called ‘art’.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The End of Romance

Looking back. At these stories. (now over 30 years old) I recognized that so much of my dealings with life had to do with sex. I had a lot of trouble of separating it from love. Even now I’m not sure that in some cases that there was any difference. I do recall that sex without affection was very uncomfortable. Unless you played a role. The jokester. Or the drunk. Or the beach bum. Sex with affection was also uncomfortable. Especially if it was one sided. And affection without sex became physically nauseating. And bewildering. I was always afraid to come right out and say what was bothering me. (I need to get laid!)  Instead you made something up. (I need space.) Well the whole thing became a knotted mess. But I guess that’s what being young is all about.

 

……………….

The End of Romance

 

Laughter in crowds. The functioning of glasses. A rock group called PARADISE. Throb. Throb. Throb. The instruments of flesh. Teeth rattling piano keys. Music pumped out of house plants. A Party. Internal bleeding. I held my hand to my ear and listened to the sea.

 

Ray turned to me. ‘She was the kind of chick who made you feel personally responsible for the existence of boredom.’

 

Ray is an orphan. From Greenland. Abandoned on an ice flow. Moses of the Inuit. Ray says some day he will return to the North and part the polar cap.

 

Ray loved to plunder. The dresses of beauty. And rape. The vaults of women’s bank accounts. Ray has a tattoo. It looks like a scar. Divides his left eyebrow. He claims women. Are attracted to men who look battered. Ray winked. A lamb in wolf’s clothing.

 

Another rum’n'coke. From the flash he keeps in a drawer below his heart. I was humming Handel’s Messiah. Drinking Gilbey’s Gin. Ray leaned over. ‘Have you ever been in love? Felt the blood burning in your arteries? Your eyes drifting through the day like leaves in the fall? Not me. I’m wondering if love exists. And it exists, why? Tell me Michael, what is the end of romance?’

 

Modestly. Lit up a cigarette. Tried to remember. Something clever. ‘My affair with Monica. I suppose that’s love. The word must have been invented for something.’ I tucked a smile behind an ear. And shrugged.

 

Ray laughed. A cloud of rum. Streamed out of his nose. ‘Love is just a front. To launder our desires. To make our terrible longing palatable. To see cold cream. And life insurance. And a college educate. Love is an enema. Keeps everything moving.’ Ray licked his fingers. Looked at me from beneath his eyebrows. ‘Did you ever see THE THIRD MAN with Orson Welles?’

 

Ray leaned over. A table. Touched a girl by the hair. His ring got snagged. Apologized. ‘It seems our fates have become snagged.’ The girls was from Michigan. A fluorescent smile. A laugh too loud. Too many daiquiris. She said her name was Thetis. She was doing research on the possible nutritional content of seaweed. Then Ray turned to me. Muttered. ‘Do you think she’s beautiful enough?’

 

The far side. Of the room. A Chinese girl. An ultramarine see-through blouse. A mermaid. In a goldfish bowl. I set across the room. To find the mystical east. Fell into the music. With my semi-natural rhythm. A fellow with striped pants. His legs like escalators. Asked if I’d seen the exit. Felt like he’d been lost for weeks. Tapped a girl on the back. She was talking as she turned. Wished she had a dime for every man who had turned her. On. Someone backed into me. I caught a current. Drifted toward the rubber plants. Monica appeared in my arms.

 

Years ran out of her eyes. Streaked her hair with grey. Don’t grow old without me, I wanted to say. She put her hands in my back pockets. I placed each one of her ribs between two of mine. We danced. ‘I’ve got to see you alone.’ I whispered in her ear.

 

Outside the parking lot was filled. With cars. All their doors were open. The moon was yellow. Like a single headlight. The moon multiplied. In each windshield. The night was soft. I reached out for Monica. Monica stepped back. ‘Someone might be watching.’

 

Put my hands. Under her breasts. Nipples pointing through. Her silk blouse. I could feel. Her thoughts slapping me. ‘You’re doing it again.’ I apologized. ‘I’ll have a talk with my hands. Its the Algonquin in my blood. I want you back.’

 

I looked into her eyes. Tried to hold her gaze. This time I was determined. To listen. She bit off my hands. At the wrists. Stuffed them down the front of her jeans. ‘You’re addicted to the idea of love.’ I leaned back against a Studebaker. Lit up a cigarette. Felt like my feelings were being buried. Alive. A cloud passed over the moon. And then she was on me. Thrashing like a captured bird. Beating against my head and shoulders.

 

She began. I wish she hadn’t. ‘You fall apart. Just to make me feel wanted. Call out my name in your sleep. Just to make sure I’m in the directory. Want me to pump out your tears. But my right hand is cramped. Your legendary melancholy is just a trumpet. Your smile is a drum. Your life is a parade. You’re the happiest person I ever met. You don’t need me or anybody else.’

 

Closed my eyes. Concentration. This was like a quarrel between clouds. While the real world busied itself below. There was a reality that all of our melodrama chose to ignore. The bending of the long grass. The rustling of the silverware. The dissolving of automobiles in the melting snow. The movement of eyes. In the head of a pigeon. An abandoned farm house. Moaning like a loon. A hole wrapping its arm around. A snake. A coin passing through the mouth. Of a parking meter. A tape recorder turning. With nothing to record. This reality functions quite well without us. Invaded occasionally by those. About to die. By catastrophes and their survivors. Robinson Crusoes. Weight watchers. Monks who momentarily forget their prayers. Assassins reading People. The pope’s wet dream. God when he’s looking for company.

 

I mention this reality because. I was using it as a bulwark. Against Monica’s voice. Against her despair. Her resignation. I wanted to stop her. To scream out NO. No. No. I could feel something. Black. Gleaming. Coiling and twisting. Around my heart. I wanted to tell Monica about our moments of beauty. Smuggling innocence into each other. Touching each other’s private. Thoughts. I could not hold on.

 

I looked up. Monica glared at me. ‘You’re just like them. You think there is some new found land to be found. Between the thighs of each new woman. The end of romance for you is a tramp moving on. I want something more permanent.’

 

My eyes grazed the ground. A bus ticket. A candy wrapper. An apple core. When I looked up Monica was gone.

 

Cold. In the distance a siren. I walked across the parking lot. Toward the bar. On the way I found Ray. Sitting in a Dodge Desoto. With the back door open. He looked at me with glassy eyes. Stoned. Ray lit up a joint. Handed it to me.

 

Ray began.

 

‘I brought that chick from Michigan out here. She gave me half a tab. She was carrying in her purse. She called it Aspirin. Big joke. Said it was a sex drug. After I undid her blouse. Lifted her dress. I plugged in. At first… same old, same old. Then she changed into Marilyn Monroe. I crawled inside her. In a hospital. She was pregnant with me. Marilyn Monroe was having a child. Me. I could smell the iodine. And fresh paint. I could hear the air conditioners. Sucking off the air. Someone screamed. Marilyn Monroe was having an abortion. Air sucked up through a tube and along a black hose. And then. I was the hose. Alive. Turning and twisting. A house. Burning. Being swallowed by a television camera. A television burning. In a million living rooms. Sending its message into a million brains. Dissolving into death. The end of romance.’

 

‘And when I slipped back into consciousness. I was by myself. In the back seat of this Desoto. My cock in my hand. And when I looked around. I saw you. Standing in the middle of the parking lot. Arguing. With someone. Except you were alone.’

 

 

 

Vision of Death

I had a terrible vision of death. Tonight. It was a bus ride. Nothing special about the bus. Or the ride. It was daylight. Dinner time.  I couldn’t see the driver. Wasn’t too interested in the people around me. Periodically someone got off the bus. Or on. There were a lot of stops. It occurred to me that each stop had the potential to be death. Like Russian roulette. Finally the bus stopped at my street. I stepped off. Nothing happened…. So far.

The Help

Went to see The Help with my girl. Its a wonderful film. About life in the south in the 1960s. About the life of the maids of upper middle class white women in Mississippi. The maids are African-Americans. The writer and director have done a beautiful job of pulling back the reigns in telling their tale. It would have been so easy to mock and dismiss the white housewives. I did find them interesting. Because in the main they reflect a lot of people’s lives. They are blind to what goes on around them. They immerse themselves in matters that have no consequence. But to stop them from thinking. They think they are better. And act that way. This has nothing to do with their skin colour. I see a lot of people like that around me. They fight (inside themselves) between being mean spirited and being charitable. When times are tough it is very easy to chose being cruel. The women in the movie chose cruelty in good times. And for that one can have little sympathy.

My girl thought that their (white housewives) high school sorority type of attitude could not exist today. In a sophisticated city like Toronto. I’m not so sure. Too many people need someone to look down upon. Maybe their bored. Maybe that’s human nature. Maybe its the loss of religious grounding (my mother’s idea). I work in a high school. I meet many young people. Most of them are wonderful. But they don’t stay that way. Something happens to people when they step out into the world. They lose something.

They are aching

If humans had evolved without eyesight. What would be our definition of beauty? How would we sense change? Given that we had no extra senses without sight which of the other senses would dominate our faculty of taking in information? Would time exist? If so how would we measure it? I’m just suggesting this apothesis to get a better grip on our notions of beauty, change, time etc.

There are other abilities we do not have. For example we do not perceive all the rays in the light spectrum. We do not have radar like a bat. Or the nose of a hound dog. We see the universe in terms of space. Because we can see. Of course if we didn’t have sight, we would still bump into things. Like we still get a sunburn even though we don’t see the rays that give it to us. (Is that right?) But without sight our interpretation of nature might be completely different.

I’ve had trouble with my eyes lately. They are aching. That’s where all this is coming from. I was thinking about aliens. And whether another sentient life form like us could exist without sight. Or could they exist outside the visual spectrum? Invisible to us. Maybe I should just go and take a Tylenol.

 

Groking

Its sometimes difficult to imagine how useless we were at times. Getting stoned. Walking around the city like zombies. One eye open for the police. (5 to 10 years for possession). Sometimes I think we did drugs because we didn’t have a girl. Or maybe that was just me. We were bored. There must have been hundreds of young men wandering around the middle of the city stoned. And our drug taking escalated. From grass to acid to heroin. Although I never took heroin. Couldn’t find any. Crack didn’t exist. I remember when I stopped doing any drugs. Boredom once again. This little story was about me. Or someone. Just wandering. A friend of mine called it Groking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

………………..

The Wedding

They call me the Sunshine Man. I said. To the streetcar driver. A mannequin the city paid $10/hour to steer what has never been steered. I looked into his ear. Where the last 5 minutes of my conversation were still burrowing. Their way through the wax. Ever catch a fly in there, I asked. The driver turned his mind. Pointed to a small sign .That was hung from the ceiling. For crimes against the state. DON’T TALK TO THE DRIVER. Can you read, he asked. I sensed irritation in his voice. And nodded. And then added. Up my fingers. I felt cheeky. It says reincarnation is based on the law of averages. The driver stopped the car. This is your stop, he said. I thanked him. And stepped off.

High Park. How did I get here? I stared at the swans drifting around the pond. I looked at my watch. It was whirling around. Like an airplane’s propellers. Two hours had passed. Weeds were growing up around my feet. I now know how the astronauts felt. Circling a blue balloon and looking at their watches. Going nowhere. I wondered if they lost a half hour flying over Newfoundland. That could add up.

A kid was feeding pigeons. And gulls. Bread from a bag. I walked over to him. Thats not how you do it, kid, I said taking his bag. I took out a large crust. Aimed it. Hit one of the gulls in the head. Knocked him over. The kids started crying.

I consider myself a conscientious consumer. This was good acid. I wonder why they called it acid. Eats through your brain. Until it finds the dirty old man. In a room. Picking his toes. Who looks up and shrugs. Its a steady job.

There was a wedding. In the park. I stood under a tree. Suddenly and I seldom use that word. The tree began to sing Ave Maria. The branches swayed. Clapping their leaves. Tears running down the green. The bride threw her corsage. It stuck in the sky. The bride’s father left to call the fire department. I pulled out a plug. The tree stopped singing. The groom came over and asked me to leave.

The zoo. A camel stared at me. Chewing away. On the cigarette I’d offered him. The subconscious, the camel began. Exists. In our institutions. In our laws. In the design of our cities. In the infrastructure of civilization. We are turned inside out.

I never thought of it that way. I said and added. I never thought of anything that way. The camel smiled. Oh yes. Freud interviewed the wrong parties. He should have talked to the lamp posts.

I was going to ask another question. The camel spit. Trying to quit, are you. I said. I wiped my forehead. And beat my brow. There’s got to be a better way of getting out of now. A streetcar passed.

Time for glib

I just can’t seem to get off this political dish. Something I noticed. A lot of the new conservative (I want to say far right) spokespersons for the Republican Party are young, beautiful, smart, women. I won’t go through their names. Its those looks as much as their ideas that gets them air time. That’s nothing new. At least they’re a relief from the Brycreme ads of their male counterparts. Is there a mandatory hair style for Republican public figures? Throw the democrats in there as well. There was something about Robert or John Kennedy pushing their hair off their eyes that was so appealing. Reminded me of Marilyn Monroe.

Fear

My father had no sense of direction. My mother used to say that he could get lost driving down to the end of the driveway. During the war my father slipped off into the woods to have a leak. When he was finished, he found that he was lost. He wandered through the woods for hours. Several times he heard German voices. If he was caught by the Germans he  would have been sent to a prisoner of war camp. Or worse. Afraid that he might stay lost in the wood, dad finally decided to just step out of the woods and hope for the best. Luckily he walked into a British battalion. I think my father was terrified when he was in the woods. He was lost and there was no one to tell him in which direction safety lay.  I think that this must be the fear that many people feel in this recent economic crisis. If President Obama hadn’t signed that agreement with the Republicans, I can’t imagine what the repercussions might have been. The Tea Party was counting on that. I live in a different country, but it enrages me to think that a bunch of fanatics is determining the fate of millions of people.

Safely fiddle away their time

Reading around. Anger everywhere. People losing their heads. Screaming. Other folks stirring up the rabble. People with torches and rope. Something else is happening in America. Is it me? Am I reading into things? The Tea Party has created an atmosphere of ‘this or else’. It is not for nothing that they name themselves after an event that precipitated a revolution. Is this what Americans want? Do those who are rich believe that they can sit by and safely fiddle away their time while America burns? … the soap box has come out in me. I apologize.