May 18, 2026

Oh my dears…

It is reflection time.

We are being chipped away at by His Royal Highness Of the South. An orange glow pervades world-wide media. An evil grin lights the sky. The man I speak of is not well or at least probably lacks empathy, I am not a doctor so cannot be certain. The fact being one man (actually three men) can interrupt the daily lives of 7 billion men, women, children is extraordinary. This one, the particular orange one, is a danger to the earth, to every beast thereon, to every nation. His cohorts on the other side of the world are no better. Putin and XI with their lesser-scale hoodlum friend, Netanyahu have the world by the sweet cheeks. On we go.

There is nothing to do at this point, save speak up, speak out, vote. I don’t hold out hope for the 2028 mid-term U.S. elections but I intend to try, that much I can do. Anything else that would be effective is beyond my scope, beyond my moral code. It is now time for us to ignore as much as we can. Social media has to be allowed to languish, that is difficult but must be done. The algorithms do not mean us well. The toe-in-the-water dip into so-called artificial intelligence is an equal partner, if not a prominent driver in our upcoming demise. Gotta let ‘er go. Naught can be done. Say-o-nara.

Now, for the real bits.

Let’s sing some stupid songs about love and birds and dogs and cats. Let’s watch old movies or new ones that lift, distract. “Hail Mary” is a good choice… Any of the almost slap-stick Bette Davis films are fun to watch now, with their melodramatic anti-heroines. Let’s have more Ray Bull home-made pop music and ditch the anger, the roughness of Drake, of Kendrick Lamar or the slick business and money only hollowness of Taylor Swift or Beyonce. Let’s dance and laugh with Lady GaGA. Let’s admire Banksy for the right reasons. Let’s write our own poetry, sing our own songs, make stupid tik toks and show them to our friends? Let’s go for a walk with a friend or two or lover or two. Let’s get out of the house, away from the TV, away from the kings for awhile. Those folks are burning it all down but Jeff Tweedy and Wilco have a new record out, Robert Plant is doing it for the love of it and he is damn good. Play your Willie Nelson records, your Tony Bennett, Celine Dion. Hey, drag out some Smokey Robinson, too. Play your guitar, play “How Much is that Doggy” on ukelele and really enjoy it.

Drown the Banshee with sunlight,

open the window. Cheers!

Whom Do You Believe

Rich and endless Bob Ross blue,

with dotted dumpling-shapes

is ceiling, anyway,

a limit

over ant-farm day.

The teacher’s mouth reveals

how water vapour

scatters light

in atmosphere,

makes it glow a certain colour,

offers up a boundary,

conceals the dark and million

stars – oftentimes, the moon

from me.

I have seen

some pictures and

suppose it true.

I trust the puzzled scientist.

Three books of books

discuss the odd,

with bold intent

convene a studied clue

toward where we come

from,

where we go

and what we’re passing through.

I trust the ancient sacraments, too.

Second Class

(Father has a business, strictly second hand…)

Second Class

Oh gosh. It happened again. Darn. I met someone, we started chatting… he says to me, “How about if we have dinner?” I say…”..Oh, yeah..” Then, after we set a date, exchange phone numbers, I start to think this could be something to pursue? Maybe. MMM. Then, as the date comes around, we are chatting and he makes it clear that his interest is platonic, exclusively. The de-gassing is subtle but real and I make a sound like some balloon that is retreating to its original shape. Ha. In my head, I had us in the south of France, married, a couple of goats and a windmill for energy…grapes growing, les fenetres s’ouvrent… etc. Sigh.

This scene reminded me of the last ‘date’ I went on. It was a Plenty of Fish arranged date. I was early and nestled in at a comfortable table with a nice glass of iced tea. Then, in strides my appointment. He frowns, visibly, sits down and immediately states that he is not looking for anything, not sex, not love, not friendship. Sigh. I have to tell you that my picture on the app was up to date, I looked no different in person. I just didn’t have that certain glow, in person? Yeah.

Second class

Oh gosh. New folks showed up this evening at choir practice. Much excitement, names shared, status shared… turns out one of the new folks ‘reads music, can sight sing well’ according to them. Uhoh. My brief turn as star singer at St. John’s is over, just like that. Sigh. Yeah.

Second class

I struggle, I rehearse, I argue with myself…I still can’t play to my satisfaction after more than ten years of piano lessons. It/they is/are complex, the reason/s why. I am never satisfied that I have applied myself properly (a hold over from youth, when a thing I couldn’t do well was because I didn’t try hard enough). No, actually, I am not very good. The arthritis is a real thing, it really does slow me but the inability to play is deeper than just that. I don’t want to believe it… but I think now that music is a thing I don’t do well and can’t do well. A ‘friend’ once told me that those who can’t play well shouldn’t play. This same friend once cancelled a song circle that I was part of ‘because too many total amateurs were soiling the event’. Yikes. Singing isn’t great, piano isn’t great, guitar is also not great. I suppose that it is possible I am expecting too much, too soon but when? When and how do you develop the confidence to hit the right position consistently for clean chords, clean notes? I can strum, but that doesn’t cut it. I can almost play easy piano but that doesn’t cut it. I can sing in a chorus but that isn’t enough. Sigh.

Second class

I was sort-of passed over as a soloist in both of my choirs. It was subtle, but real. It may have been accidental but it reflects the fact that I am not thought of as a quality singer. I am not a quality singer. Shit. Why does any of this matter to me? Why do I insist on perfection? Well, I don’t feel important – that is why. I am second class, always. It bothers me. I don’t know how to let it go. I could and should let it go and just do what I do. I can’t. There is a woman who does Facebook reels at her piano. She has an odd clothing sense and only plays chords in both hands on piano. Still? She plays more reliably and more relaxed than I do. She is successful to herself and far less than perfect. Somehow, I cannot relax and let people see me bashing away at a half-tuned piano. I am not sure what the source of my self consciousness, my perfectionism is. Was it growing up second class in a small town?

I said something to a friend of mine that really cuts to the core of how I feel about my music-making. I said, “Unfortunately, I have eaten fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil.” Yeah, I know what is good music-making and I ain’t there yet. When? I am getting long in the tooth and too fat for the piano bench.

April 17

Oh my. The writer/singer/songwriter/guitar playin’/piano playin’ has come to an interesting point. In very recent days, my efforts at art have been remarked upon, spontaneously, by persons whose opinions I know I can trust. A singer, a great singer, a trained singer, a music knowledge person that I know very well – just up and spoke the complete truth about an audition I did that didn’t go as hoped. Ha. (I sucked. It was interesting though, I got a sort of smile from the adjudicator that reminded me of the rejection post card you get from the New Yorker ((at least the one I got)) – very correct, non-judgmental, kind but firm. ‘Don’t call us and we won’t call you.’) This friend with the solid voice noted what courage it took for me to audition in the first place, noted my mistakes in matter of fact tone and gave me honest encouragement in a delightful way…then, as almost a passing thought reminded me, “You sounded good.” I wasn’t great but I can trust that it sounded ok/ wasn’t an embarrassment anyway.

Then, a new friend read deeper into my website stuff than I ever expected or realized would happen and mentioned something from a blog post of a while ago. My style, my voice was mentioned. The offered idea that I should be more bold with my voice than I am now struck me. I think I understand voice in ways other than I did before. I used to think it was a thing you worked at, now I am not so sure. I think now that your voice is a thing you just have. Sure, it is influenced by what you see, hear, read but my fear that I don’t work at voice hard enough evaporated. It is there, someone else heard it.

So. Rather than being a failure, I realize that I am just getting started. I am a modern Tillie Olson, or Malvina Reynolds? At my advancing age, I am just getting started? at what I wished to do and honestly have been doing all along. Shit. Time is almost up and I finally figured this out. Gotta stop and think on that a bit. Yikes. All of this new knowledge means that I am free, sort of. I am out from under. Burden-less. I don’t have my favourite nay-speaker on my shoulder any more. He is gone, dead as the latest cousin, the latest dear friend. There’s no time for evaluation now, only time to do and so much is to do. Well,

elbows up,

shirtsleeves up and ‘awaaay we go’.

P.S. Tillie Olson was a writer whose career was sidelined a bit by life and family obligations. She wrote the most marvellous short piece called, ‘I Stand Here, Ironing’ and a book called, ‘Silences’ which centres on how women are often stepped over or set aside in the very male-dominated world of art. How they are expected to do other duties and the guilt they must deal with when their souls are art.

Malvina Reynolds was a woman who came to the folk music world, very late. I believe her first record was released when she was 70? or so. She walked up to Pete Seeger at a show he played and asked him how to get into folk music. He later revealed that his first impression was, ‘Lady, you are just too old’, then he heard her songs. She wrote ‘Little Boxes’ and ‘What Have They Done to the Rain’, look ‘em up.

Horizon Is Illusion

Slap-lapping water, with

a little imagination,

can float the solid earth

we stand upon,

watching a loading boat.

Hungry, an eager ferry is big enough

to carry several cars, but

seems a shade too small for that

close-up.

Fresh-painted steel appears of grander stature

when the captain’s tower

takes an hour,

sinking at horizon,

near the witnessed,

teasing tips of an island’s stranded trees.

This boundless, timeless lake

that we depend upon,

can float you, them and me

with all our things and destinations,

none of which are what

or where dream says they’d be.

Accidents

Big water slaps two shores

and the birds don’t care,

one shore being as another

for those who travel without

documents.

I am paused to wonder,

how some are perfect-built for

flying and splashing about,

web-footed and well-oiled.

The feathered creatures

do not notice me

nor do I see myself,

though our shared water is mirror-glass still.

Recounting this scene,

some will bear witness to what’s divine,

others, accident.

That shores are bounded separate by design

can be no question.

Man’s conniving hand is on that one,

grubby and greedy,

but who/what drove/drives a man?

Was he accident?

and I don’t mean of the kind

brought me to the world,

or maybe?

Hello?

We are standing outside a bar that would be dingy if it weren’t so clean.

This is a dim building but tidy.

Inside, the floors are swept and the glassware gleams.

We are waiting for a man called

Henry S. Woodworth or Paisley or Brownley or

some other two syllable last name.

A cab slides up, eager but I wave it away.

Mary is smoking. No one does anymore.

I think she was in a movie I saw recently? Pamela was not.

Pamela is phony blond and bored. She is sturdy.

I marvel at the state of things, this peculiar evening,

then roll over and open my eyes.

It is the cleaning lady and I am late

out of bed.

A Box of Dream

A Box of Dream

There have been seven years

of steady work.

The tidy restaurant is busy,

people come and go.

We are starting to relax.

Sometimes, folks buy an

ice cream.

Ours is not unlike a mining town.

We are owned, we are antiquated,

but, it is claimed, we do our business

above the ground

and there is daylight.

While I worked, I didn’t see it.

I didn’t see or hear much more than screaming machines,

in a dim light,

where I held my nose to the

stone long enough,

I forgot my name.

Now, I have to sign my cheques

with an X.

I dropped dead asleep

in front of TV last night.

It might have been exhaustion,

or the cruel glow.

When I awoke,

I vague remembered a box being

lost,

it was all done up

in a colour whose name I’ll never know.

Evil and The Beatles

Good morning. Breakfast is cooling and I am thinking out loud. There is a brilliant frost about the roof next door, so white and pure. The earth is tipping back toward the fun part for those of us in the northern hemisphere. We will have green again, birds again. Colour returns to Pepperland. Sigh, I do enjoy the definition of seasons. I know that a Caribbean island wouldn’t do for me, I like witnessing change and change back. That change is almost a proof of life, a mark. I have seen a number of changes and changes back in the last seventy-five years. Imagine, twenty year old Robert, it is now fifty-seven years since The Beatles performed their very last concert, the one on the roof of Apple, at Saville Row, London.

I was late to the Beatle wave, the mania. I only saw the very last of three Ed Sullivan shows and vaguely remembered that one. The kids at school were talking about this new group and having seen them on Sunday night but I wasn’t really interested. I was much more caught up in Motown and The Supremes (oh, yes – Mary Wells and The Supremes had hits before November of 1963). Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and those sorts fuelled my ambition to be a writer and go live in New York City’s Greenwich Village. I was borrowing their records from the library, along with books from Rimbaud and Baudelaire. On Saturdays, I would get recordings from stacks at The Dale Carnegie library, rush home and devour them. I was enthralled by my folk-scare heroes and didn’t bother with pop groups. Then, almost as if it were a move into puberty, I heard ‘I Call Your Name’. It was a song from what was released in the U.S. as The Beatles ‘Second Album’. I either woke or fell into a swoon. It still grabs me. Simple, direct, clean, solid and electrical – alive. As soon as I could scrape, beg and borrow…I bought the album, parking it next to ‘Meet the Supremes’ in what was becoming a record collection.

Time passed, many seasons did their changes, I grew fat, I grew old. I had heartbreaking losses and minor successes. I did not live my dream life but I did live. I had enough sex with enough different kinds of people, I made a decent living, I drank too much sometimes and did good deeds sometimes. I deeply disappointed two persons, two spouses. All in, It has been, unbeknownst to me, an average life for North America. I didn’t go off to Greenwich Village but I did become a sort-of writer. It might be said that my writer life is a blessed one. I am able to write when and where and about what I want. There is no money or fame involved. I think that is a blessing. I certainly have witnessed, via the press, the ravages of fame and riches upon others. Time has been Okay for me. Most ordinary people have lived in much the same way. While having my ordinary life, during these many years, my little record collection grew to an unmanageable size. It now resides over two very large bookshelves that only fit in the basement. From time to time, I do play the records, still and just cannot let them go yet. They are still dreams, still emotions.

I recently plunked down a month’s worth of capital for a Disney subscription that will end in April. I did that so that I could finally see the re-worked ‘Let It Be’ film, the one that is called ‘Get Back’ and spans some six-plus hours of viewing. This converted-to-Beatle-fan couldn’t wait any longer to see it and did the whole six-plus hours in one sitting. I know, as an adult, that sitting in front of the set for six hours is not healthy. Ah well, I wasn’t drinking or eating potato chips (crisps, as they say). I had lots of feelings, lots of thoughts. Perhaps it was just the right time in my life to see this film.

I should leave analysis of Beatle films, music to the pros and I will. I do have my opinions, though..as well as an asshole, just like everybody. It was lovely to see those Beatle Boys as young men again. Clean skin, bright eyes, trim frames. They must have changed clothes fifty or sixty times in the twenty-two days worth of filming. I see where they spent the rock and roll money! Ha. Nice shoes, John! The shock, the revelation to me was how much their creative work flows as my own does. It was from one thought to another and ended up being something totally different than the original idea. My guess, now, is that this is the way of art… it is a thing, plucked from the tree of imagination that gets toyed with until it becomes itself.

‘Get Back’ seems a fair representation of the Beatles at work. ‘Let It Be’, the old film, had an agenda, apparently. Comparison of the two films tells me that. This film is much more an art piece, with a solid direction and an undercurrent, a foreshadowing of what was to become of the group. That sad end appears inevitable when Allen Klein’s unscrupulous head pops up.
He was a man, like Trump who appears near the end of everything. Comparing the press of the time to the film, I am now fully convinced, even without the film saying a word negative, that Klein was totally responsible for the end of the Beatles as a group. Sad. The power of evil is quite remarkable.