February the Last Day

It isn’t May yet but, if you notice, creatures are already acting funny. I saw a couple birds who must have evaded quarantine when they returned from wherever. Perhaps they were tired of the B and S of Covid compliance suggestions, tired of endless Netflix viewing and came home early. I guess the long, undefended, unfenced border makes it easy to just scoff at regulations. Perhaps these feathered ones are equally as well-feathered as Tom…no, Ted Cruz or any of the other North American politicos and wealthy turkeys who don’t have to stay home or quarantine. So, there they were…puffing out the chest, flapping the wing, hopping closer to objects of desire who sat, preening, on the garage roof next door. Oh, the sweet nudge and smile of delicious spring!

(The birds are scoffing at more than mandated regulations, having included social mores and customs in their scoffing. They weren’t wearing masks and I heard a teensy kerfuffle, noticed a bit of ‘menage a fowl’ going on for a moment. A little coupling or trying to was happening right there in plain view. My guess is that Facebook will block any posts including such bold avian love…although, I have only my supposition as evidence that what was happening was love. It might have been just routine. It might have been the, “Let’s get this over with!” attitude toward an ordained or pre–arranged coupling/marriage. Who is to say?)

Not ready for nudge and smile, the plants are quiet still. You can feel them saving their green for a brighter day. The little bushes I put in last year are straight and tall, looking eager but cautious. Maybe they know something about future exchange rates and are still waiting for an auspicious time to cash in. The colour won’t be out for an even longer time. Nope, there is no forsythia. I can see not much moving in the wood, either, only sleepy buds on the trees. One note: the squirrels (who are also on the trees) are pretty active. They have been breaking into vacation homes and watching TV on the big screens all winter. Now, they are ‘out and about’, tossing empty Tim’s cups as if they imagined mom was going to clean it all up. Of course, she will… she always does.

Mother Earth takes it all back in and sorts it for recycling. Over thousands of millions of years, stuff that breaks or wears badly and gets tossed aside sits, waiting for clean-up and re-use. Relentless, the good, useful stuff breaks because it weakens and gets rusty or sometimes it is just plain cheap crap to begin with. In any case, everything that ever was turns into crap. Crap is like a mandated state to change toward. Crap and stuff and change keeps Mother Earth feeling needed.

Everything changes condition like water in it’s cycle. All of the crap becomes food, gets eaten or used up, becomes crap again ad nauseum. Crap and water evaporate, condense, freeze a little, flow a little and, evaporate again. The same crap and the same water for ever. The same stuff. The crap gets squeezed by extra crap tossed on top and turns into oil. We burn that, making smoke or mirrors and putting out the resulting fires with water. It looks like the water might be running out or we might be running out of crap but all that is still here. It is a different shape when we are finished but it doesn’t go anywhere. We don’t go anywhere, either. That is the recipe.

Sweet Mother has a certain way with the little bit of a stove she keeps about 93million miles away. She keeps the thing lit although it’s anyone’s guess how. She has a magic source of pre-split wood from somewhere. She doesn’t seem to break a sweat chopping and it’s a good thing too, with all of her other tasks. The lady is pretty darn well occupied here and there, cleaning up crap, turning the lights on and off, warning all of the little creatures. “If I hear you kids messing around again, I am going to come in there and sort you out! Don’t make me do it!” I can see her with a ‘camo’ bandanna wrapped around her head and tied in front, her dusty apron flapping in the extra-heavy hurricane breeze as she tries to make life afraid to do anything except behave.

The birds today reminded me that Mother is busying herself about in other ways, pushing the romance and ‘get things going’ buttons as well as managing all else she does. I saw a young couple of human folk at the marina. Mother was pushing her ‘keep it rolling, time is a’wasting’ button and those folks started inching toward each other on the park bench. “mmm..hmmmm,” I thought, “Mama’s busy making more birds and humans out of recycled crap.”

Though she is always busy, Mother is busier at the moment of history we find ourselves in. It is our fault. I think she got pissed. Humans upset the balance because we learned how to kill and eat everything or turn it into a ‘smart’ phone. We started to believe in crap for crap’s own sake. Pink crap. Blue crap. ‘Luxury’ crap. More crap. MORECRAP. ‘New and Improved Crap’. All of the crap became too much and the noise of it’s turning from one phase to another woke up Mother. She was only resting and now we are going to catch hell because of our farting around.
A few of us will be swept away when she empties the wash pail. A few of us will be choked out when she dusts the broom. A few of us will get thirsty and die when she is delayed making rain. Some of the plants and cows will, too.

The changes are coming. Mom is awake and pissed. Funny thing is, being a mom means she doesn’t stay pissed forever. Some of our toys will be locked up and we might have to quarantine in the corner for a while but Mother will let us out eventually. There we will sit, edging closer to each other on the bench, watching the birds do the same thing…and the cows and the dandelions and the fish. All of it will come back at some point after it disappears. It would be nice if we could at least try to behave a little bit now, though.

Maybe it is apple polishing but I am trying to get on the good side and help out by not using plastic bags — walking to the market — planting bushes — pressing one for liquid and two for solid, etc. As to keeping things going, I always was a good one for sidling up to some other person who sat on the park bench. Ha ha. No trouble there excepting the ‘tab A and slot B’ part. Ooooops. ‘s okay, though. I see enough youngsters of different variety working away at the ‘moon and June’ bit. It will all keep going, we’re good. Ah yes, the nudge and smile of spring.

February 26, 2021

Some remarks made about Canada are wishful thinking in part but also a bit more than half true. Folks are more polite here, they do say “excuse me” and “oh, I am sorry” an awful lot more than other places I have been. Why this should be happening in a country that shares a lengthy, mostly unguarded border with evil (?) is a mystery. The grinning devil is ‘just over there’, complete with red tail and painted face. My brother will be angry for my calling a pitchfork a pitchfork but I lived in the U.S. a long time. I know those people. They are complex. Some remarks made about them are also, a bit more than half true. On the one hand, they can be arrogant, rude, demanding, surly — on the other, generous, loyal, open, friendly…it’s confusing. It is almost as though they can’t make up their minds about anything except apple pie and baseball.

All places, groups, societies on the planet have their specialness, identity, community. Some have a lot, some have a little. Here, where the border is long and ninety percent of Candians live within one hundred miles of it, the blend of cultures is a real thing. It is a sort of sfumato. As you get close to the border, there is less distinction in accent, ways of doing things. The further from the border, the more unique things become on both sides. Of western cultures, generally, I think you could say that the further from the melting pots or cities or mixing places, the more unique the folk. Folks are more relaxed, kinder? maybe. In Canadian’s case, the U.S. is like ‘big city’ and we the toothless ‘poutine with a daub of maple syrup’ fanciers are more relaxed, more gently human. We are in the countryside, after a fashion. We are different.

There are other unique things burrowed into the Canadian social ouevre. ‘Grabbing a ‘Timmy’s’ is one, passing it down is another. The passing it down is a new-ish paying it forward effort, though in the case I am talking about it is more a paying it backward thing. Folks pay for the next person’s coffee and donut order from time to time. This is actually a rising trend. It gets mentioned in the news. Today, I was gifted of a free coffee and bagel. I was surprised at the announcement from the grinning server and decided I would do likewise, passing the free coffee back to the next car-load of hockey fans. The server and I chatted idly, speculating on how long the backwardness would continue. She noted that it had been as long as fifteen or twenty cars in her experience. We shared a cheerful adieu and I eased my vehicle away from the window toward the outbound intersection. As I waited for the stoplight to turn green, my paying it backward recipients nudged up next to me and flashed hairy, winter-hardened smiles and thumbs went up all around. Off we went to our various days.

From Tim’s, I headed to the marina to watch nothing happen on the frozen lake. This is my ‘consideration’ hour, sitting with bagel and coffee and cogitating. I reflected on the backward paying incident and I counted the folks who each had a pleasant moment from one person’s effort. The server had a break, a moment’s pleasant distraction, I did, the car ahead who payed it back to me did, the two fellows in the car behind who received my donation did. So. Five or six people were lifted a moment from the grouchy fog of the mundane because of one person’s sparky, grinning impulse. It was brief but memorable. A little something nice to remember, to discuss over a coffee during a Facetime confab or Zoom meeting. That little crack of daylight spread faster than Covid ever could.

My leaning-toward-gruff mind was changed this morning by a free coffee. I saw, in that moment, how to carry forward toward all of the other moments. Vigor, brightness, life is brief and so bloody simple, maybe that’s why it is hard to understand. One, little, “Hola!” costs nothing, requires zero effort, cascades lightly. The same is true for a growl but the growl doesn’t feel as nice. It is a personal decision, easy and quick to make, a change for the better. There is always a choice which ripples to spread outward. Smile. Hold the door for an overburdened soul. Let the fool who is cutting you off go. Fahgedaboudit. It is not worth stewing about. Offer a toonie and respectful nod toward Aqualung from time to time, instead of crossing to the other side of the street and frowning. There you have it.

February 22, 2021

I haven’t commented in a little while. The vagarious world has continued apace, still spinning, still flying toward Wherever. There is still war, pestilence and cheap plastic everything. Whew. The upsy-downy world is heading toward the endplace, if there is one. There is one for us wiggly things, so I think Earth has one, too. I think we should call the endplace ‘Wherever’, don’t you? In that way, no one should be offended. There is a wealth, diversity of opinion on what happens there and exactly where, when it happens or what the place should be called. Heaven and Hell have an edge on place names but I just think it should be called Wherever and leave it at that. “He prayed real hard, avoided pork, fish, red meat – drank moderately, never engaged in sex outside of marriage, he didn’t help the poor but always voted conservative…and he is going to Wherever if anyone is…”. “He raped and pillaged and ate too much ice cream, he is definitely going Wherever!”

Yup, we are going Wherever Mother Teresa is or Hitler Abominus is. We are going Wherever President Kennedy or Little Barfy the dog is. We are going to Grandma’s new house, Wherever that is. We are going Wherever. It is unavoidable. We have to do the thing but we cannot know what happens or where we go at the end. Duh… this is not news, just call me Sherman Obvious. That we forget Wherever we are going and engage in fruitless excitement or worry about ‘the state of things’ is equally old news.

As creatures on Whomever’s good green earth we stand alone in our denial of or praises of and fretting about — Wherever. As creatures on Whomever’s spinning ball, we forget the end and crawl around looking for that last little something that is more important. As self ordained superiour creatures, we have discussed and discussed Wherever. We have denied it, acted as though it wasn’t a place, that we aren’t going there. We have focused on the transitory day-to-day as if it were crucial. We have kept our heads down and fought over what is free to each and all, always. We tried to keep Wherever labelled and owned by this group or that group who each have specific rules about entry into Wherever. We have tried to follow the rules but Wherever is so factioned and nebulous a place, that no one really knows it’s real name and how to get there.

Some folks get worried about Wherever and strictly follow the rules as they understand or interpret them. Adherence is the one true path. This makes for some unpleasantness from time to time. Families get left at home while there is work to be done. Folks tie each other up and send each other to Wherever, thinking they are doing a service to their own, personal Wherever. Pleasure of living is set aside while our tomb-horde is assembled. Every last penny is frugally spent or agonized over if not. Our imperfect selves get criticized and criticized. Either we are bitching or someone else is. Either you are bitching or I am. Still, no matter the noise, we are going Wherever…cannot be avoided.

I guess every soul who is headed toward Wherever has a sneaking suspicion that there are no high-end Hifi stores there, no vinyl records, no shopping around. There are no mansions, even if Jesus promised us. No virgins. There isn’t any ‘no, I shouldn’t buy it’ expensive stuff. There are no banana splits, no driving too fast, no sitting on the beach, wasting a day. There is no laying about in bed, smooching with a favourite someone else (or plastic doll). There is no just plain soul satisfying enjoyment of living. It is obvious to all.

On the way to Wherever, we will each do our best, no matter what. Some shit is gonna happen but Wherever is there, no matter what. Deep down, we know that. Nothing to agonize over. It would be nice to try a little sweetness and light. It would be nice to be pleasant and kind. It would be nice to save the money for retirement, but…we are human anyway and humans are pretty chaotic. From time to time, we will get it right and from time to time we will forget where we are going. The creatures who share Whomever’s world do this as well but they do it with a difference. They relax more. They don’t worry so much. They don’t call each other, “fatty!”

Ask a pussycat where he is going at the end. First, the pussycat will pique both ears forward, thinking, “Is there something you are not telling me about that last horrible visit with the vet? Was it more than just a hair-ball?” After searching your face for clues, then deciding that you are sincere and not predicting anything, necessarily, M. Poohsay Kaht will answer. He/she will answer with a yawn and a little self-lick of face, “…Wherever, man. I am going Wherever.” It will be said with a hint of condescension. It will be said in that voice only a so-called, in-name-only ‘owner’ would understand. At the same time the answer is given, the furry small creature’s inside voice will be mewing with, “These guys really don’t get it, do they? Whatever…”

February 18, 2021

Dear God;

1a) I am nearly seventy years of age
and began functioning as an adult
at age thirteen. How many climaxes
have I had? (I lost count)
and
1b) How many more are there in the box?

2a) How much credit do I have for
the good deeds so far done?
and
2b) Must I continue banking credits or do
you give folks a ‘best ten years’ average?
I am getting tired of telling myself “no”
instead of, “definitely, yes!”

3a) Where did we come from?
and
3b) Where the hell are we going when all this is
done? I hear are some crazy things that I hope
are not true. (Except the part about the many
virgins. I hope that IS true.)

4) Why did you let me get too drunk and say
mean things to that nice old lady who was
still crying about her son who died from
cancer all those years ago? You knew I
was gonna do it. You could have made
me pass out just in time.
Shit.

February 17, 2021

My so-called Valentine,
misguided valentine…
you hurt me deep,
to the heart.

My looks are…laughable?
Those words aren’t…affable,
you hurt me deep,
to the heart…

No, my figure sure ain’t Greek
and you should think, before you speak,
have a heart!
Don’t
say another word,
if, you want room and board.
Shush! Little Valentine,
please….
Val en tine’s had
his day.

Haha. My contribution to ‘cancel culture’. I am half-way off the fence on the current scene, being not quite certain what to make of tearing statues down. The tearing down happens in the lively arts as well and I am a little conflicted. My heart knows it is right to stop singing ‘Mammy’, even though I love that song for it’s sense of home and it’s rhythmic, melodic structure. Well, the song uses terms that evoke an unkind, disrespectful way to speak about black folk. It was written by a white person – from a white attitude of innocent? ignorance. It is also, a work of art reflecting the time of it’s creation. It is valuable as an artifact and valuable as entertainment but the social attitudes it regurgitates are abominable. How do we get around that, do we want to? Should we just shut it down and try to hide it away? Maybe, maybe not. I just don’t know.

What to do about and how to treat the unpleasant, sometimes dangerous attitudes reflected in works of art or in public speech is a real good question. Should we tear down the statues, the way Pharaoh did, and assert our modern notions on history? Should we shout down the band when they play ‘Mammy’? There is a movement afoot by hard people of all political persuasions to force art and culture, history, government to adapt to each specific worldview. What I think is worst about that is a direct challenge to the current social climate of acceptance of other colours, of other genders, of otherness than the straight, white, historically powerful. On another side, folks are trying to bury the past and restrict art, literature, culture, government to assuage particular offended groups. That isn’t good, either but has (In My Opinion) a more noble, misguided aim. In the so-called democratic societies, all sides are attempting to redefine free speech by stretching the bounds of what is free and what should be quashed. Which statues should go up, which be thrown away.

The smell surrounding Trump and his followers/mimics world-wide is a thick cloud. They argue at every attempt to educate about the abuse ‘heroes’ inflicted on their cultures, at every attempt to take down a statue. The rainbow crowd smells a little sweeter but is trying to tear down and remove history in a perhaps overzealous attempt to educate. All of these folks have abused freedom of speech in outrageous fashion. We are forced to deal with: When is a statement hateful and inciting to violence, when is just an opinion? When is a statue a symbol of hate, when does it honour useful achievement?

There is a Canadian stand-up comic who was sued by a young man (I believe he was 13 at the time of the incident at question) for ‘jokes’ that were definitely a harm to dignity and hurtful. The young lad had a chronic condition that left him deaf and disfigured. There was a procedure done that implanted a hearing aid and the fellow was able to speak and to learn to sing. Apparently, he doesn’t sing so well but in spite of that became something of a celebrity in Quebec. The comedian tore the kid apart in a most vicious manner, making jokes by calling him “…the kid with the subwoofer on his head.” Wow. Now, the comedian has been sued by the kid. The comedian lost in the lower courts and has taken the matter up with the Supreme Court of Canada. He is calling it an issue of ‘free speech’. Free speech? Really? Now, we have to draw a line. I hope the courts are able to do this well by not restricting speech but protecting human dignity at the same time. Maybe they will chicken out and refuse to hear the case?

In London, an actress was hired to play ‘Celie’ in a stage production of ‘The Colour Purple’. Celie is of course, a person with ambiguous sexuality that is at times homosexual, at times heterosexual. The character, as written, finds love and sensuality in a lesbian relationship with the singer, Shug Avery. The actress hired to play Celie spoke strongly against homosexuality on Facebook, in part saying she would not play Celie as gay at all. There was an uproar, of course…everyone weighing in. The theatre company fired the actress and she is suing with a focus on denial of ‘free speech’, denial of ‘freedom of religion’. Hmmm

So, If I am hearing this right, both the comedian and the actress are suing for damages or counter-suing because they believe their right to speak was restricted. They believe they have a right to speak, to say anything they like and not be sued or fired. You know what? I think both of them are way off base. You have to wonder when ‘freedom of speech’ became ‘freedom to speak without consequences? Would Mom let you call a kid a wicked name? If you bring infamy on your employer and refuse to perform your duties, usually…you get fired. Isn’t that perfectly correct? Mom would tell you to go say sorry and you would accept that, she is the moral authority, right? Your employer is correct to let you go if you don’t fulfill the contract and become more expensive than was agreed, right? That could be the easy discussion, the easy resolution. The hard discussion follows.

My Funny Valentine and ‘Baby, it’s cold outside’ always did bother me, lyrically. I couldn’t get away from the idea of the fella trying to persuade the young lady not to follow her better judgement. Also, I couldn’t understand how a back-handed compliment that denigrates, belittles a person could be considered a message for a ‘Valentine’. Further, you have Wagner’s magnificent music and abysmal anti-semitism. Woody Allen pulled a despicable trick by engaging in a romantic relationship with his spouse’s adopted daughter. I have to consider that when I see his films. What is a fella to do about separating art from the creator of, separating art from it’s content?

When does and when should speech stop being free?
The statues we put up as a society are to honour persons who performed well in some way for society in the time they lived. The music we revere reflects the times it was created. Are we to destroy those works when we change our mind about social mores? I am sorta thinking yes but leaning hard toward no. Maybe it’s best to just let things stand as they are. Go ahead, play My Funny Valentine, Baby, it’s Cold Outside, Mammy and Gotterdammerung. Leave Robert E. Lee’s statue up… If you do that, you gonna have to clean up the red paint (which is protected free speech) and try to press through the protestors outside the theatre (who don’t like the themes of certain songs – that is protected, too). If you viciously attack a kid and are paid for doing that, then you have to go to court and pay the kid. If you diss and refuse to create the character you are paid to play, then expect to get fired. Simple, but not simple.

February 12, 2021

The bear wakes, it takes a few moments. He is disoriented. Hair (fur) is comically disheveled, though the bear is, himself, not intrinsically comical. He is a noble beast, as all beasts are. The comedy comes from circumstances like those of today. Something is stuck in bear fur that appears as a leftover piece of carelessly cast off, unfinished caramel bar. Once again, no firmly affixed neighbourhood garbage can lid and now, that’s gonna be murder to clean. It will be further hygiene work to suit procrastination well.

This bear is that, a putter-offer. He has been lazy, this last few months of intermittent, enforced dozing. I say enforced because of Covid-19. There has been an attempt to eradicate the new disease. Social movement and gatherings have been seriously restricted world-wide by roque governments who wish to destroy their economies and reduce tax collections, while insisting that citizens wear silly outfits. As so many of Earth’s creatures have done, with the lockdown, Msr. Ours left things go a bit. No one sees him below the waist (on screen) so he often combs only the upper front part of his fur day after day. It is a little game he plays called, ‘Stink, Stank, Stunk’, a useful game for learning states of being. The game works in any language, even Dog. (woof-wharf-waaf)

The bear yawns as if it were spring. He would probably rub his eyes if it weren’t for the substantive claws that have only grown longer while he dozed. To rub one’s eyes with such a claw can be accidentally quite injurious to sight. This bear is a cautious bear and would never overstep the good health and prosperous life guidelines. It is not spring, though the days have lengthened. He, the bear (sorry girls, I am in a patriarchal language mode and having a female U.S. Vice President should appease, at least a bit) is restless. He scratches himself, sniffing for a cleanish place to begin a lackadaizical, haphazard grooming. He frowns, but in contradiction to the way legend would have it, he is not angry, grogginess and hunger are most of what he feels. “Grog…mmmmm”, he thinks, being constantly hungry and thirsty as he is. This bear is not the only peckish or parched bear. There are so many suffering appetites in the deep woods, that the growling is often mistaken for angry roar. It isn’t anger. No. It is a perennially empty stomach that announces or commands spring’s arrival with such a sound.

This bear’s home hemisphere is the northern-ish one. I shouldn’t make that as definitive statement, which hemi of the sphere you are in is subjective. As example: if it were not for science designating a north star, folks in Australia would probably claim status as being of the north. They are such big-shot smarties. They have even taken English and re-twisted it to suit themselves. It is so bad that I have to use sub-titles to understand Australian films. Now that I am thinking of this and forgetting about the bear, I wonder if there is a fixed South star? I never heard of one, did you? Perhaps it is yet another systemic prejudice? I checked Google and found Sigma Octanis as the closest thing known by some as a South star but it is very dim. I am supposing, if folks in Australia wanted to, they could claim that Polaris (the North star) is actually the South star and gauge all direction from that point. In which case, we could worry less about the arctic ice melting, because it would be antarctic ice instead?

Today I woke, earlier than usual. The neighbour had not left for work, I checked. I felt grogged for a moment. I am the bear. I briefly understood symbolism. Hahahahaha. I have become bear-shape and those days when my back is out, I remember that I even walk in a similar fashion to the bear. My shape is bear-shape and not pear-shape, as some others may be. I have, however, eaten many pears during the pandemic. (It is easier to eat a pear than to counteract Covid by stuffing it any particular other where.) In fact, I learned a recipe for poached pears that is simply delicious! Still, I am not pear-shaped, exactly. I have a sort-of friend/acquaintance who is. If (this person) were to allow ils chevaux to grow out a bit, the pear-shape would be less obvious but I am off-topic already.

In my case (as bear, not pear) I am thick all the way across, not thin at the top and largely round at the bottom. The bottom is there, of course, and large, of course but everything else is large also. I am more a 200lb potato-sack shape. This fact is because I have been too long in the berry-patch and too long hibernating. (what with soft places to sit, affordable berry pies and berry toppings for ice cream) I also caught many salmon or availed myself of the pre-caught variety. It is too easy to do…the blasted grocery store contents fairly leap into my mouth of their own accord.

So. I awoke this morning as a bear might from a lighter hibernation. I yawned, I stretched, I put yesterday’s clothes on and had something more to eat. I heated up some old tea and growled a bit about politics/religion, then settled down for a nap. It is so busy here.

February 10, 2021

My hands are cold today, as I type this latest entry for my new book (which will become an old book or ‘my last book’ by the time the work is done and I have sauntered off like a pussycat to some other sunny project). I am comfortably inside the house, warming my fingers at the hearth of, by the exercise of imagination. It is immensely satisfying to be a Mr. imagining human being. I have imagination as a hearth to keep me warm, as a magic carpet to fly on.

I compare and consider, today, our friend and companion the pussycat and my opposite, the woman. I am, presently, drawing satisfaction from being curious if a pussycat imagines it is satisfying to be a pussycat? I wonder if Mrs. human being is satisfied by imaging such a thing? Is everyone satisfied by being what they are and imagining as they do? It also satisfies me by imagination that a cat can fly. Do women do that? Do they imagine cats flying? I hear that Erica Jong wrote a book about being afraid of flying and explained there is a different imagination for women and for men. Flying is a different sort of imaginary satisfaction between the two. I wonder does Mr. pussycat find satisfaction in imagining flying, if that’s a thing they do?

I most often use the prepositions ‘he’ and ‘his’ and consider a male pussycat’s possible point of view since I identify with/as the male and have not much ability to imagine the elusive female points of view, whether animal or vegetable. Minerals seem not to be sexed, though planets are — witness ‘mother’ earth. It might be said that Mother Earth conceives immaculately, hence the flora and fauna we are surrounded by. It may also be said, to complete the halves of circles we know everything to be, that we have a Mother Earth and a Father sun? a Father air? a Father water? That is the more likely thing, to have a Mother Earth and several Fathers. Sun, Air and Water can be witnessed to combine in a fairly noisy coitus with Mother Earth.

I have heard pussycats at ‘play’ and am now projecting the image/audio on the activity of Earth, Air, Sun and Water. Whether this mixing of elements is noisy might be proved by a summer’s afternoon thunderstorm? All of it wet and wild, with clouds flying. I am nearly sure of this logical-to-me stream but more imagining will have to occur. I enjoy the work of imagining. Imagining is a part of being human that can be very, very satisfying. Imagination can solve the same questions that imagination asks. I am a male human and I do this, I have trouble imagining that a cat (Mr. or Mrs.) or female human does not or does so differently.

By my witness, the pussycat’s tail is not imaginary and controls his balance. Both male and female pussycats (unless altered by misfortune) have this tail ability. The way I see it, It is important that the tail provide correction and counter-weight when imaginary flying. A misdirected twitch during flight can have bad consequences since the wings, themselves are imaginary. At a moment’s untimely realization and then over-twitch to correct trajectory mistake, in fear, the most carefully imagined wings would certainly puff away into nothing, providing no support. I have often witnessed a cat flight/leap go awry, be aborted myself. One time I keep in mind was a pussycat leap for a toilet seat that was unexpectedly open. Said pussycat lost attitude control when surprised by open space where he thought something solid should have been. He (again, male) over-twitched and landed with one arm in the wet of the toilet bowl. He was not pleased, that much was obvious. I didn’t need to imagine that, I could see it in his face, hear it in his surprised out-cry. I can suppose that a she-cat would have done the same, even though I didn’t actually see that happen.

I have had a sister, a mother and a brief marriage to a woman. None of those events enlightened or convinced me regarding the female point of view and whether or not there actually is one that is different. I don’t know, If we are imaginary flying what our tail might be. Perhaps I was absent on ‘learning day’. I was watching TV and couldn’t hear the loudly voiced opinion. I have to assume that because everything is perfect that somehow women and men and cats all have tails for balance, if we are imaginary flying.

I was never married to a cat and never went to catch one and bring it home. They have been around me a lot but, again, I never learned what their imagination or opinions are, whether they are different than mine. I never found reason to believe that the female human has a point of view that is separate and distinct from the male point of view. My lack of understanding of the pussycat view is similar. Folks have sworn there are differences, that it is so but I cannot see it, in my mind’s eye. I know (outside of imagination) only that we all eat, sleep and poop. Who knows if all creatures imagine flying or going to London and visiting the queen? I prefer to believe we do.

The obvious difference between my imagination and the pussycat’s is that he actually leaps into the air. I do not, I keep it cool and imagine safely. One difference between my imaging that the pussycat is flying and a female human imaging it is that our breasts (if we still have them) are of dissimilar sizes. That’s what I see. The pussycat leaps, the female noticing the flight, like me, does not leap but is a different shape than me when I notice the flight. Still, the imagination is the same thing for all three of us.

Right now, I have this creepy imaginary feeling there is a Mrs. Pussycat typing away, seated on a cushion next to a register. She is wondering if humans, male or female ever imagine they are flying. Then, watching what appears to be clumsy staggering and ungraceful ‘flying’ as one of the humans walks by with only two legs to accomplish the task, “Are they always drunk?” she asks.

February 9, 2021

To every thing there is a season… and a time to every purpose under heaven…

and, at Ecclesiastes 3.9?

‘What profit has he that works in that
wherein he labours?’

(These quotes from the most convoluted and opaque collection of misinterpreted writing that I have ever seen, The Bible.)

The particular phrase ‘..what profit..’, is more than just one question, I take it to also mean: ‘What joy is there for a man who views his labour to be work/drudgery’. I say so because at 3.12 comes the statement – ‘I know that there is no good in them, but for a man to rejoice, and to do good in his life’, that sentence is modified by 3.13 -‘..and also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God.’

Ultimately, Ecclesiastes 3. tells the truth – that life is perfect, it remains only that we see life as perfect. There is a time (the right time) for everything… We have sorrow, we have joy, we have life, we have death. It is a perfect circle. Also, we have clever writing and we have an old, fat guy who types and stares out the window thinking about things that more astute folk already know…Haha.
Yeah.

I have been considering what I do to be labour lately. I am working. I am writing. I am engaged, I am finding joy (in one small sense, not the JOY that everyone seems to think we are supposed to have or to seek). I am finding completion. The completion comes from completing something. It is the same sense of completion that a pussycat feels by climbing up to the windowsill and edging into the sunny spot. So far, the financial value in what I am doing is exactly zero. That zero is modestly modified with the fact that I earned .34cents by monetizing my Youtube channel.

There exists value, there exists good in what I am doing. The good is here for me and, maybe, good in what I do can be found by others. At the very least, I am not simply existing but passing the time of living without spending it on total purposelessness. Ha. Don’t like that constructed word? Neither do I. It’s a useful word, though. Just existing is, as well, useful. Yeah. We don’t owe life anything and life doesn’t owe us anything. That is okay. We can do better, probably should but it’s okay if we don’t.

In the matter of useful, the labour I do now is better, there is more good in it, than the labour I did and was paid for. Let’s also say that I am doing something, not just lying about using up the air. I find value in what I am doing. I am using the parts that I have, they are not rusting totally. My fingers are moving, my mind is thinking, I am not exactly idle. Good enough, that, too is okay. Wiggle or don’t…whatever.

The career that I spent 40 plus years in was never an aim, a goal, a prized labour. I was very well paid for it but most often felt it had no other value. It was never a thing I wanted to spend my time doing, it was always just a job. There were some moments I enjoyed my labour. There were some moments that engaged and interested me. There were times, I did not ‘work’ in my job. There were times, I moved with the rhythm of a workday and turned toward the sun but… I was mostly a whore, a wage slave. I did what I had to do and did it for the money. I mostly smiled, turned my face to the wall, thought of payday. That was not a healthy thing to do. I suffered emotionally and spiritually, I sent those vibrations into the world around me. The little pebble disruptions spread, as waves of any kind do. I contributed to a wave of ‘more and more money, no matter the cost’. I was equally guilty as any other fool, as any other prodigal child. I spent my resources (my soul) recklessly.

Now, that time is done and I am not filled with regret. In a way, I sinned but don’t dwell on that. Have I forgiven the sin? Odd. I am in the shady part of life/living and I have no regret for the wasted part. I have no regret that I did not spend my peak working years in the sun. I made a mistake. Oooops. I can accept that now, I learned a little bit. I now understand that even in mistake we are perfect: To everything, etc. It is, as they say, all good – all a part of the whole. Now, I am able to labour and find the joy in it. I am able to set aside the measuring tools and be in the moment, each stroke of the key another breath of living, each wacky thought that spills out another wave of freedom. I am not a slave anymore, I am a willing accomplice. I am not whore any longer, I am just a slut. Hahahahahahahah

February 8, 2021

‘Relax, each hustling breath has worth’ I said in my latest finished poem. Yeah. I feel odd lately, friends. I feel that I am something I wanted to be for so long, do you? It’s a nice, crisp cold today and I have the furnace set on 68f…to save money, the environment and prove that it is fine – I don’t need more. I have enough, even if I do put four or five layers on and drink my coffee fast (so that it doesn’t freeze in the cup). Haha.

‘…each hustling breath has worth’. Yeah. Every one of them, no matter the condition they are in. The commonplace is where we really live. In… out… we live in the places we don’t see and aren’t aware of. It seems trite to say but I have to remind myself at times. THIS moment is the best of times and the worst of times and THIS moment will change…in a moment. Notice each breath. Count them. Now, I think I sound like Yoko Ono…haha.

Something that lockdown has brought me is to the realization that I always was a writer. I was already there when I first imagined doing it and began to type or scrawl. Being a good writer or a poor writer has no bearing on whether I am a writer or not. Whether being a writer makes me more or less than any other person has no meaning. The goal was not to be well respected or famous, the goal was to be a writer. I used to think that famous and well respected and published by a major house was the goal…it wasn’t. Those things are chimerical and have more to do with shifting fashion than to do with skill or inventive creativity. After all, correct language is only that language used by the majority of upper crusters. That’s how it gets decided. If the king says, “ain’t”, then ‘ain’t’ becomes correct. If I write to rhythm and step on the rules…It is just as much writing as anything Ms. Proulx or Ezra Pound would do. We are more alike than dissimilar.

To address quality in art is to be subjective. What the majority decides has value makes the rule but there are always exceptions, based on whim. Of course, accomplishment in your endeavor counts for something. It’s nice when an artist has control of his or her chosen medium but we can’t rule out those who may not be as well traditionally accomplished. I know one muscian who is not very good on guitar and doesn’t really play more than an occasional chord on piano. This friend has a musician’s soul and I love listening to the songs that are made. The songs are not pop-radio and I think most folks would be put off maybe at the rough edges. I am not, not at all. I could listen for hours, it’s an easy sound for the ear. I also know other musicians who are not trained but play and sing extraordinarily well – to any ear. I can listen to them, too. My English rock and pop star friend and his sister are pure brilliance and in all the technical aspects as well. They haven’t found a way out into the star category yet but that is a thing found more in chance than in skill sometimes.

So, yeah. We are what we want to be, what interests us…whether or not the Mayor and Council name a park after us. There is always someone who can see you as what you feel to be. I know artists who have unique approaches to visual art and have been visual artists their whole lives but never had a gallery show. I know musicians who have done all the right things, learned and become accomplished on their chosen instruments and never found a mass audience. They are still artists and musicians, they are still real.

You are real, I am real and it is real cold out. haha. Yeah, well, see. The problem is equating being an artist as producing something of financial value, something that will pay the heat bill and buy groceries. I think folks tend to dismiss their creative side when faced with the day-to-day real system of living. If it doesn’t pay the bills, it hasn’t value. Um.. no, in fact. That idea comes from a false sense of value. That idea comes from the other idea that the mundane and necessary is the prime goal. I guess, now that I am locked away from the world, that I have changed my opinion. Yeah. We need to eat but what good is eating if all you do is stay alive? We need art more and each of us who don’t do some kind of art have lost a part of being alive that really fulfills.

If you find release, the door to another kingdom by doing paint-by-number…there you are. You are an artist. If you plough an accurate row and that satisfies you, fills your time…you are a farmer/artist. If you don’t plough an accurate row but it satisifies you, engages you, opens the door to the kingdom…then you are that which you wish to be. There is plenty of room for wobbly cornfields.

(February the 6th, 2021)

On the way to somewhere,
having left the place
I’d been,
I met a guy who needed a ride,
inside,
out of the wind

so I stopped,
opened the door,
said,
“Where you goin’
friend?”

My carriage wasn’t pretty,
couldn’t get the radio
to work
and you had to sit quite
careful
at risk of getting hurt

so I spoke,
in chagrin,
said,
“…that’s a rusted through
part”.

He said,
“don’t be embarrassed,
man,
it’s not much breeze

and
at least your engine
starts.”