February 28, 2012
I met Matthew Chambers in a cafe in a small village of Hamme, Belgium. We talked on several occasions and always I had the impression that he was a man who was being pursued. I knew not by whom. And then one day he was not at the cafe at our accustomed time. Weeks passed. No Matthew. And then one morning this manuscript appeared on my door step.
Its not the first time that I have written a book in another name. A fictional author. Distancing myself. One more place removed from the work. I didn’t invent the idea. Kierkegaard did it with Either/Or. I’m not sure why I like it. Maybe I thought I was being clever. The Box is followed by a second book which describes the author’s life. It is called The Moron.
The Box by Matthew Chambers is a book of stories written by Matthew Chambers, a visionary. People who are obsessed with their own view of the world. I studied one. Hegel. I lived through one. Marshall McLuhan. Hitler was one. So was Warhol. They are self-absorbed. And very uncritical of their own ideas.
They live in a world of certainty. That is why they are so influential. And ultimately boring.
Here Comes the Sun
A radio woke up, blurting out a Beatles’ song into the dark room. A hand reached out from beneath the bed sheets and slapped the radio. The music stopped. A low moan slipped out from beneath the sheets. A face moved out toward the radio, nose to nose, fluorescent numbers lighting up its dreary eyes.
“Oh!” Matthew moaned. The image of an atomic blast flashed through his brain. Hiroshima!
A middle-aged man sat up in bed, his eyes squinting, hair jutting out in several directions, his pajama top misbuttoned. His hand struck out into the darkness for his glasses, its legs wrapped suggestively around a desk lamp. Putting on his glasses, Matthew Chambers pressed his nose to the clock once again. He flicked the lamp on.
“Gads!” he cried. An image of Albert Einstein smiling flashed across his mind. Event horizon.
The clock radio showed the numbers 330.
Matthew turned and nudged the other body in the bed. The body was wrapped in sheets like a mummy. There was no flesh visible.
“Mumsy,” Matthew muttered and tapped her shoulder. “Wakey wakey.”
Martha Chambers moaned and rolled over, her head peaking out of her tent. She kissed the air where she expected to find Matthew’s cheek.
“Not now, dear. Later, I promise.’
Matthew smirked. He placed his hand on his wife’s hip and shook her roughly. She moaned again, stretched, yawned and in one movement, rolled out of bed into Matthew’s robe and sleep-walked out of the room.
“I had that dream again,” Matthew spoke unaware of his wife’s departure. “I dreamed that I got lost in a dream and couldn’t wake up. It was terrifying.”
He turned and looked to see his wife’s response. When he discovered her disappearance he leaned over the bed and looked for her on the floor. Martha! He fell back on the bed.
“What am I doing up at this hour?” he cried into the darkness.
“You love me,” Martha responded from the adjoining bathroom.
“One should never marry for looks,” he cried out.
“You married me for my money,” Martha’s voice found him again.
Matthew moaned, rose up into a sitting position, his feet on the floor, and looked around the room. He felt drunk. The face of an African warrior grimaced from the cover of the National Geographic. On the warrior’s chest sat a glass. Matthew picked up the glass. Thank you. Matthew attempted to drink its contents. The glass was empty.
“What are you laughing at?” Matthew scowled, addressing the smiling warrior.
Matthew placed the glass back on the bedside table and looked for his slippers. Here kitty. Bending over, he looked under the bed. There were no slippers. His head began to swim.
“Gads!” he cried.
Standing up, Matthew was temporarily overcome by dizziness. His glasses fell off. He sat down again and reached down for his glasses. He felt nauseous. The Theory of Relativity became suddenly clear to him. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much the evening before. Climbing to his feet he tramped over to the bathroom. Cold water would feel good on his face. The door was locked. The cat rubbed up against his leg. He tried to push the animal away with his bare foot.
“Get!” he muttered.
The cat persisted.
“Are you in there, Martha?” Where else can she be?
The cat licked Matthew’s bare foot. Sandpaper. Attempting to shoe the cat away, Matthew stubbed his toe.
“Gads!” Matthew cried out, dancing around on one foot as he nursed the other with his hand.
“Are you torturing that cat again?” Martha asked.
“Where are my damn slippers?” he cried.
“I’m wearing them, dear,” Martha explained. “The floors are like ice.”
The bathroom door opened.
“Why do you insist on locking the bathroom door?” he asked as he stepped inside. “And why are you wearing my bathrobe?” Carnal images.
Martha smiled as she stood over the sink brushing her teeth.
“I didn’t want to waltz around the house half naked. Allan is at a sensitive age right now.”
Matthew stood behind his wife, examining his teeth in the mirror. Terrorist plak.
“Are they all there?” Martha asked.
“Gads! You made me lose count. I wouldn’t worry about what’s his name.”
“Your son’s name is Allan.”
Matthew smirked. “Allan is fast asleep. You couldn’t wake that kid up if a bomb was set off under his bed. Cockroaches and teenagers would survive a nuclear attack. They’d sleep through it.”
“What a dreadful thought,” Martha remarked as she washed her mouth out with a glass of water and spit it into the sink.
Matthew stepped over to the toilet and began to urinate.
“Must you make such a racket?” Martha pleaded.
“Comes with the territory,” Matthew responded.
Martha began to wash her face with a face cloth and warm water.
“Look at how low our marriage has sunk,” she said. “You no longer have any respect for my female sensitivities.”
“I could have gone in the kitchen sink,” Matthew responded. “But last night’s dishes are still there.”
Martha turned to her husband. “That is disgusting!”
Matthew shrugged as he flushed. “I thought so too, but it was your turn to wash.”
As Martha continued her toilet, Matthew removed his pajamas and stepped into the shower.
“You’re going to steam up the bathroom,” Martha said. “I won’t be able to put on my makeup.”
“Shall I take another cold shower?” he smiled.
Martha pretended to laugh and left the room. Matthew showered, dried off, and then returned to the bedroom wrapped in a towel. Martha sat at her vanity, plucking her eyebrows. Matthew winced. The Inquisition.
“Gads!” he cried. “Must you do that?”
Martha ignored her husband.
“Why do women feel compelled to mutilate themselves in order to look beautiful?”
Martha glanced at her husband in the mirror.
“What have you got on your feet?”
“Towels,” Matthew responded. “These floors are cold as…”
“What time is it,” Martha said interrupting her husband.
“Almost four,” Matthew sighed. “Do you think they’ll sacrifice a virgin?”
Without glancing at her husband, Martha responded. “You know very well they’re not going to do any such thing.”
“Can’t find one?” Matthew grinned.
Martha took a deep breath. “This is a serious religious ceremony, Matthew. The Quinn’s have been our neighbours for fifteen years and I think it’s time we accepted one of their invitations. After all, they did come to Allan’s confirmation.”
“They stood outside the church distributing religious pamphlets,” Matthew muttered under his breath.
“The Cormier’s and McSherry’s will be there,” Martha added.
Matthew mumbled as he turned to leave. “I need a drink.”
Martha looked up from the mirror. “You’re not going to walk around the house naked, are you?”
“You’ve got my bathrobe,” Matthew said in his own defense.
“Wear something else. What if the neighbours see you?”
“I’ll wave.” Matthew grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around himself and exited.
In the living room, Matthew looked out the front window. Except for the streetlights, it was pitch black. Matthew stepped over to the bar and poured himself a scotch and returned to the bedroom.
“You certainly poured yourself enough,” Martha said scornfully.
“I didn’t want to have to make a second trip.”
“Don’t get drunk,” Martha pleaded. “I thought you and Vic Genova were going to have it out at the Cormier party.”
“The guy is a hot head,” Matthew said, taking a swallow of the scotch.
“You kissed his wife!” Martha cried.
“It was New Year’s.”
“It was eight o’clock!”
Matthew shrugged and sat down on the bed. He took another drink. A few moments of silence passed. Martha brushed her hair. Matthew smiled.
“What kind of party is this going to be?” Matthew asked.
“It’s not a party,” Martha sighed. “I told you that before. And there will be no alcohol.”
“No wonder Genova’s not coming. Gads! Am I to have no fun?”
“I’ll fall asleep.”
“Cloris said,” Martha explained, “that we would begin with some chants. And there will be a march around the fire.”
“I knew there would be dancing.” Matthew smirked. “The Quinn’s love to dance.”
“Just before dawn,” Martha continued, “Everyone will kneel down on the ground and chant as the sun rises.”
“Don’t be so narrow minded,” Martha said reproaching her husband. “Accept the ceremony in the ecumenical spirit.”
“Was Father Branigan invited?” Matthew asked.
“You know how conservative Father is. He’s up in arms about hot tubs. How do you think he would react to sun worship? Besides, he’d be bored.”
“Ah yes,” Matthew responded, raising his glass. “There’s no alcohol.”
Martha turned around on her stool and shook her fist at her husband. Matthew squinted his face and took another drink. His wife returned to her vanity.
“What is the appropriate attire for the ceremony? Informal or tails?”
“It’s on the chair in the corner,” Martha replied.
Matthew stepped over to the corner of the room and picked up one of the two long red robes that lay across the chair.
“Gads!” Matthew held the robe up in front of himself. “You don’t expect me to wear this? And what’s this yellow circle in the middle of it? It looks like a jersey for a Japanese bowling team.”
Martha turned around again. She looked at her husband.
“Matthew, this is important to me. Cloris really helped us out with Allan’s math. And I like her. Please don’t make a scene.”
Matthew looked at the robe and sighed. “What a man won’t do for the woman he loves.”
Martha smiled. Matthew pulled on the robe and headed for the living room. He poured himself a refill. A few moments later Martha entered the room dressed in her robe. Matthew put down his drink and took his wife in his arms.
“What are you wearing under there?” He smiled.
“If you’re a good boy,” Martha said laying a kiss on his chin, “maybe you’ll find out later.”
Matthew blushed. Martha took his hand and led him to the front door. As they opened the door, a bolt of lightning slashed open the sky. A brief moment passed before thunder shook the house. It started to rain.
Martha looked up at Matthew sadly.
“No sun,” Matthew said.
Martha sighed. “Cloris will be so disappointed.”
Matthew looked out into the downpour.
“The gods must be angry!” he said.
February 27, 2012
I’ve been working on a visual project. Its about the invasion of the RijksMuseum in Amsterdam. Not a physical invasion or so it would seem. But a spiritual. Not on the actual paintings but on the whole mentality behind museums. Or mausoleums. Its a visual satire. I’ve done about 20 or so pieces. I intended to do one piece for every letter of the alphabet. Imagining that the perpetrators of a invasion had been caught and tried. And the pieces were evidence. But now, I’m not sure how to present them. As a book in themselves. Or with poems. Or a story line. Well, its all up in the air.
February 26, 2012
I saw the scratches on the wall. Chauvet. The work of a prehistoric man. I saw a child draw. A simple box for a house. A circle for a sun. Stick men. With dresses. I saw a madman draw. Stick men. He was an accomplished artist. Who could have drawn a Rubens. He preferred to draw like a child. We see it in old people. In myself. In politicians trying to seduce voters. Looking back to some simpler time. There was no simpler time. I’m in love with Satchel Paige. He once said, ‘Don’t look back. Someone might be catching up on you.”
February 24, 2012
We used to sit in the theatre. Gangs of kids. For 2 movies. Eating popcorn. Drinking pop. Laughing. Sometimes the theatre had a clown. Or a magician. Other times they showed newsreels. From the early 50s. Maybe the late 40s. Black and white.
We’d hoot and holler. Whistle at the babes. If we could whistle. And our favourite was Lowell Thomas.
Maybe it wasn’t exactly like that. But I liked newsreel and so incorporated them into my book The Black Bird based on the John Huston/Humphrey Bogart film, The Maltese Falcon.
NARCOSIS therapy for schizo
use narcotic drugs to per
the patient to sleep.
with an overdose
complete recovery guaranteed.
logical positivists close their ranks.
new thomists increase scholastic fire.
naturalists & pragmatists under dewey
continue to march.
place in internment camps.
bodies and parts of bo dies
littered the beach.
eyes startled open mouths
gulls landed stealing thoughts
waves rolled in and out
rubbing salt in their wounds.
February 23, 2012
There’s something about being drunk. And trying to figure out the world. Especially with a friend. Like prospectors. Looking for gold. Fools looking for God. It is so common an experience. Like the Boy Scouts. Innocent.
Gerald sat carefully. Down in the middle of the parking lot. Not to spill. The glass of beer in his hand. Looked back at the stores. Lined up like criminals. Wanted in Japan. So lonely. In their emptiness. Thought of apples. Rotting in the compost. Thought of the last of the great plazas in the city. Replaced by malls. Fake villages of enterprise. Children painted with lipstick. Cars parked like patients in the EMERG. Waiting obediently. Some of them sporting clever bumper stickers. Others declaring their affection for the Supreme Being. And still others wearing faded messages long forgotten.
“Careful,” he said.
David stood over him. Waving back and forth. Like a flag. Handed his beer down to Gerald. Who set it down. Beside his own. Then David struggled. Set himself down on the pavement. First kneeling. Then sitting. He picked up his beer and took a swallow. He looked around at the parked cars, the large apartments in the distance, the planes climbing the sky behind him.
“So, this is life. I’ve known friends who came here. Sent postcards. Back. But I never really believed it existed.” David took a drink. Beer was flat. Tasted like piss. If he knew what piss tasted like.
“You don’t get it?” Gerald wanted to ask something else. But got detoured. By the postcards.
David looked around again.
“It’s flat,” he said. “Like the prairies. Except there’s no wheat. What happened to the wheat?”
“Man.” Gerald shook his head. He pointed to everything around him. “This is what we’re leaving to posterity.”
David looked at Gerald. He shook his head.
“Bet you can’t say that again.”
“Posterity? You dragged me out here in the middle of the night into the middle of the parking lot, huddled between these cars, to talk about posterity?”
“I left a woman in a bake shop. Thought she was in love. But she just liked the cup cakes. Isn’t it obvious?”
David looked around. He looked at Gerald and smiled.
“Of course it is. How could I miss it? You’d think I would have noticed it right off.”
Gerald smiled, satisfied. But he was wrong.
The smile on David’s face was replaced by impatience.
“What am I supposed to see?”
Gerald took a swallow of his beer.
“Like chocolate cake. Sweet to the eyes. Everywhere you go. Miles of miles. Beds of asphalt. A plague. Some virus spread on the Springer show. A kind of bomb. Blew up. Calling itself civilization. But destroyed just the same. We have fucked ourselves.”
Gerard raised his glass. And drank.
“Hell, I’ll drink to anything.” David raised his glass and finished it.
Gerald slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Fortunately he had put his glass of beer down on the asphalt previous to his performance.
“Nothing left. No mules. No goats in the butcher shop. No beasts in the wild. No llamas on the tennis court. A big black flatness. Acres and acres of parking lots. Driveways. Highways. Basketball courts. Tar and nicotine. Rots your teeth. And your sense of perspective.”
“Basketball courts?” David looked puzzled. He didn’t like the feel. Of thinking outside the bar.
Gerald glared at David.
“The point is that all that will be left on the planet are the ruins of our society. Like those cities high in the mountains of Peru. We’ll just be one big fucking mystery. Like a cue ball. The whole planet.”
“Mystery to who? You said that there’d be nothing left.”
“I think you’re purposely trying to undermine my point,” Gerald said.
“If we’re going to be a mystery,” David said, “we have to be a mystery to someone. The sound of a tree falling in…”
“Okay,” Gerald conceded. “For the purposes of this argument we would be a mystery to the aliens.”
“You didn’t mention aliens,” David said.
“I didn’t.” Gerald said. “Aliens will land in space ships and won’t find anyone home.”
David shook his head. Thought for a moment then smiled.
“Well, at least they’ll have some place to land.”
Gerald glared at David for several moments.
“You don’t appreciate me,” Gerald said.
“Are you going to finish your beer?” David asked glancing sideways at his empty glass.
“I’ve been trying to raise. Your consciousness.” Gerald gestured with his hands. Which he normally never did. It was the alcohol talking. “She was fat. But I loved that girl. With her stubby fat fingers. In the frosting.”
Gerald finished his beer. Stood up. Could not. Fell back down. Then proceeded on all fours. Crawled towards a car parked close by. Pulled himself to his feet. David had watched all this. Began to laugh.
Gerald wiped his mouth with the windshield wiper. Leaned against the car.
David tried to climb to his feet. Just as unsuccessful as his friend.
“If those aliens landed,” Gerald said, “we’d be quite an example of humankind.”
Gerald staggered over to David to help him up. The two men leaned against each other.
“Real ambassadors.” David laughed as the two friends staggered arm in arm back into the bar.
February 22, 2012
How soon after Gutenberg did pulp fiction, trash literature, pornography appear? Why is there a market for it? Trash literature would include all those magazines you see on stands as you leave the store. And the novels in the turntables. Romances, mysteries, science fiction. Most of the literature in Chapters. And now reality shows on television. Including royal weddings. Public executions. Talk radio. House renovations.
And then there is what we call ‘serious’ literature, art etc. And what does it deal with? Too often it deals with the effects of ‘trash culture’. You can’t seem to get your mind away from the compost heap.
February 20, 2012
Domestic violence. You hear so many horror stories. Not serial killers. Or crimes of passion. But just your everyday round. Of slaps. Or curses. Of resentments. That somehow life hasn’t been square. With us. That we have been cheated out of our dream. By her. Or him. Or them. Western culture has been corrupted by the dream. In other parts of the world it is enough to survive. But in the west we have to stand on a pedestal. To receive our crown of laurels. So much of our lives are consumed by our egos. Our vanity. Everyone laughs at the guy whose foot long comb over blows in the wind. In the wrong direction.
TOM PAYNE AND THE HAMMERS.
“Just had an encounter. With the most vicious of women.” Tom Payne’s teeth were bared. Like he was prepared to go for someone’s throat. Dumped his bags on the counter of Tom and Bob’s Hardware. The store was uncomfortably dark. Blinds on the front windows. Shading the store. Like death. Bob had tiny eyes. Kept the lights dimmed when he was working. The glare of sunlight gave him vicious headaches. Like that fool Van Gogh. Tom’s eyes on the other hand were large. He craved sunlight. Sucked it up like a tobacco plant. Had a tanning table built in the apartment they shared. Loved to ski. Both water and snow. Loved tennis. Anything excuse to be in sunlight. And so Bob waited. Knew that the comment about the place being too dark could not be that far down the tunnel. Bob Williams, a large man with thinning hair, looked up from the papers he was hunched over. Like someone’s kite in a thunderstorm.
Tom stood in the middle of the shop. Breathing heavily. Blood gorging his arteries. The shakes like old Jack Benny.
Bob had decided to ignore Tom’s emotional state. Tom was always in a state. Bob called it, problem du jour.
“Do you remember why we ordered so many hammers last spring?” Bob asked.
“I’m not sure she was a woman,” Tom continued, disregarding Bob’s question. “More like a shrew. Some mythological beast. I thought she was going to devour me. Rip into my chest and pull my freakin’ heart out.”
Tom looked at Bob.
Bob looked at Tom.
“The hammers? Do you remember?”
Tom pointed at Bob for a moment as he went over several thoughts in his head. There was that Christmas list. And his paper route as a boy. And the six things you need to be a success in plumbing.
“You thought there was going to be a renovation boom in the area,” Tom finally responded.
“A renovation boom?” Bob asked. “You’re saying it was my fault.”
Tom was looking through his grocery bags.
“I forgot to buy toothpaste,” Tom said. He slapped the counter with his open hand.
“Renovation boom?” Bob cried. “What would I know about a renovation boom?”
“You read it in the Star,” Tom muttered then looked up at Bob. “It wasn’t a fault of anyone. You speculated. It was a mistake in judgement.”
“But it was my judgement that was at fault. That’s what you’re saying.”
Tom bit down on his lip. “Does it matter, Bob? They’re only hammers. I was accosted in the drug store. Attacked. I’m dieing here. Could I get a little attention?”
Bob ground his teeth and nodded.
“I heard you. Some woman looked at you sideways and it upset you. You’re a man, Tom. Go back and beat the shit out of her.”
Tom took a deep breath.
“It was a little more than looking at me sideways. She accused me of stealing her cart. Pronounced it like cot. I wouldn’t do that. The cunt. You of all people know that, Bob. And then her reaction. When I denied stealing it. She was carnivorous. Went straight for my jugular.”
Bob stared at Tom. “Why would she think that you stole her cart?”
“I don’t know,” Tom responded scratching his head. “I found it in an aisle. But there was no one around it. Nothing inside it. It was just there. Abandoned.”
Bob laughed. “You stole it.”
“I did not,” Tom replied. “I’m telling you it was…”
“You get your carts at the front of the store. If you didn’t pick up a cart there then you must assume it was someone else’s. Now can we get back to the hammers?”
“You’re so cavalier,” Tom said.
Bob took a deep breath. “Who was the woman?”
“I’m not sure,” Tom responded. He described the woman to Bob.
“It’s Mrs. Newton,” Bob responded. “The banker’s wife. You don’t want to get her pissed off at us. We owe the bank a lot of money.”
Tom turned and stepped over to the barrel where a pile of hammers were piled. He picked up one. Bob came from behind the counter and grabbed the hammer out of Tom’s hand.
“Give it back,” Tom cried.
“What do you think you’re going to do with that?”
Tom grabbed the hammer back.
“I’m going to the bank to make a deposit in that woman’s pretty blonde head.”
Bob grabbed Tom around the waist. And nestled his lips in Tom’s neck.
“Come on, Tom. Why waste a hammer on that woman? We can find something more pleasant to spend our time. Doing.”
Tom gave in. He stepped away from Bob and handed him the hammer.
“Here. You go whack her.”
Bob took the hammer.
“I’m not going to whack someone because they…” Bob replied.
“Why not?” Tom asked.
“Because you don’t do things like…”
“You love me?”
“This is ridiculous,” Bob said placing the hammer back with the others. “Tom, get some perspective. We’re on the verge of bankruptcy and you want to do a lobotomy on some woman who was rude to you?”
Tom put his hands on his hips. He took several deep breaths.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Tom cried.
“You think.” Tom licked his lips trying to gather his thoughts. “It was my fault. That’s what you think. That we ordered all these hammers. When it was you that ordered them. You think that all of our financial problems are caused by decisions that I made. You forget the mistakes you’ve made. Everything is my fault. Is that the way it is, Bob?”
“Tom, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Do you think I ordered the hammers or not? Come on. Tell me.”
“Okay, Tom, it was you that told me to order them. I was against it. But no, Tom, you always think you’re some kind of friggen market analyst. And this confrontation with Mrs. Newton is only the latest of your social disasters. You invite trouble, Tom. You’re like a walking talking target for problems. A million little problems. You don’t see it. You’re totally oblivious to your friggen handicap. And I’m getting tired of it, Tom. I can’t take it anymore.”
Tom tried to respond, but he could not get the words out of his mouth. He glared at Bob for a minute, turned, and walked out of the shop. Bob hesitated for a moment before racing to the front of the shop. He opened the door. The white flash of the afternoon sun hit him like a stroke. He sheltered his eyes from the glare and quickly looked up and down the plaza. Tom was nowhere to be seen. Bob turned and closed the door behind him. Tom was standing there. Smoking a cigarette. His free hand clenching a hammer.
I would like to comment on this blog but I cannot. In case some future legislation is passed by Mr. Harper that prohibits my remarks. Mom is the word.
The Canadian government has been accused of “muzzling” its scientists. Speakers at a major science meeting being held in Canada said communication of vital research on health and environment issues is being suppressed…
Prof Thomas Pedersen, a senior scientist at the University of Victoria, said he believed there was a political motive in some cases.
“The Prime Minister (Stephen Harper) is keen to keep control of the message, I think to ensure that the government won’t be embarrassed by scientific findings of its scientists that run counter to sound environmental stewardship,” he said. “I suspect the federal government would prefer that its scientists don’t discuss research that points out just how serious the climate change challenge is…”
The allegation of “muzzling” came up at a session of the AAAS meeting to discuss the impact of a media protocol introduced by the Conservative government shortly after it was elected in 2008.
View original post 384 more words
February 18, 2012
We all think we’re on the better half of humanity. I don’t know where that idea came from. (Maybe the magazine I was cutting up for a new collage.) Does anyone ever think that they’re on the wrong side of life. That they’re part of something evil going on. Certainly the good Germans didn’t think so when Hitler was rising to power. Nor did the Americans who gathered in family like picnics to watch lynchings of black men. Nor do most of us who buy all this stuff that is destroying the environment. A friend of mine once said that humanity was a cancer on the planet Earth. Pretty strong stuff.
I don’t feel like a cancer. I have a fairly high opinion of myself. But are we doing the right things?
Why does no one feel the plight of the common carrot? First of all, carrots have no personality. And they aren’t cute. I have always identified with carrots because of my hair. It was orange. ‘Carrot head’. For years I didn’t have any personality. Then I saw an ad at the back of a comic book. Next to the ‘he man’ ad. It didn’t work. Then I discovered alcohol.
Along with the ethical treatment of animals–including the ones we kill to eat–should we mandate a code of ethics for the humane treatment of plants that are havested for food?
If we are to take seriously the notion that plants have emotions, like humans and animals, as suggested by German professor Dr. Gustav Theodor Fechner, then we would surely have to rethink that potted flower sitting on our desks or on the porch. According to the doctor, if one showers a plant with talk, attention, and affection the plant will grow healthier. We’ve all heard this. Talk to your plants and they grow fuller and look better. But have we really, really thought about what this means.
Can the energy we extend to a plant, showing fondness with touch and words actually be understood by the plant and if so does that blast of rock music we play…
View original post 186 more words