Just returned from a nice brisk walk. Everyone should return from a nice brisk walk every now and again. Feels great to get out there and walk as fast as you can as far as you can until you puke. Get the heart thumping and those legs burning. Sometimes I get all the way to Belleville. So tonight I went out to return two DVD’s at my “local” video store. “Local” meaning all the way to Ridley. That’s almost Avenue Road. That’s like a brisk 10-minute walk. Like shinsplint-inducing brisk. Leisurely, it’s a 16-minute walk. I chose brisk. So there I am walking under the 401 bridge and then along the grass on the north side of Wilson Avenue, few cars, no pedestrians, just me. Walking briskly. I prefer to walk on grass rather than concrete. Softer surface, less impact stress on my back for each step my 215-lb frame takes. So I’m walking along the mostly deserted street, coming closer to the lights at Ridley, and on the other side of the intersection, the northeast corner, on the sidewalk there, beside the bus stop, I see something. At first I can’t make out what it is. It looks like two people on a bench. But I don’t remember a bench being there. Finally I’m close enough to see. A person in a wheelchair. Not moving. It kind of creeps me out. A person in a wheelchair on the sidewalk, all alone, no other people around, just sitting there as though waiting for the light to change. But the light changes and the wheelchair person doesn’t move. Just sits there all alone at midnight on the side of the road. I come to the intersection and begin crossing Ridley. Presently I notice that the person in the wheelchair is a woman, old and large. Reminds me a bit of Gramma from Stephen King’s story by that name. Big bespectacled lumpy face that looks like it’s starting to slide off her head, toothless sunken mouth, eyes big and venous behind cokebottle specs. She’s staring out from her oversized wheelchair across the intersection toward the southwest corner. The wheelchair looks part-ATV, with gearshifts and big fat mag wheels. Good low centre of gravity. She doesn’t look my way, which suits me fine. Then I start to wonder if I should ask if she’s okay. I mean she’s in a wheelchair, all alone, not moving, on the side of the road in the middle of the night, looking out across the street. Surely at least some of these signs point to her needing help. Like a sinister version of the old lady needing a hand crossing the street. But I’m creeped out enough that I don’t want to even acknowledge this creature, lest she (if indeed it’s a she, this wheelchair goblin) turn her placid gaze on me and smile and open her mouth in a grotesque continuation of that smile to an insane, impossible, face-consuming degree of openness, and out of that over-open mouth slither tongues, many of them, along with a slow-building banshee wail, not tongues but hands, hands of ectoplasm growing and stretching, reaching for me and wrapping their oozing ectoplasmic digits round my pale gulping throat . . . Wouldn’t want that, no sir. Dodging a car and making it across the intersection, I pass the wheelchair woman on my right, passing sort of behind her, in her peripheral vision. Her hair is that of a fitful sleeper who’s just risen. I pull the DVD’s out of my shorts pocket. As I’m pushing them through the storefront door’s mail slot I tell myself to get over my creeps and just ask the woman if she’s okay, if she needs any kind of help. But then what if she’s offended by my assumption that she needs help? Hmm. I turn and retrace my steps. There she is, in my sights, sitting in the same position, unmoved, her back to me. At the last possible second I instruct myself on what to do. Beside her I stop and say Hi there!
Ahh! she cries and jumps halfway out of her wheelchair and thumps back down again.
Her reaction makes me almost shit my pants. For a nanosecond there I thought I might see hands reaching from her open mouth, sinister digits oozing and stretching toward me. I grab my chest and try to calm my breathing.
Jeez, she says in a smoker’s gritty voice, you scared me half to death there, eh?
Yeah me too, I say. I’m sorry about that, really. I didn’t mean to scare you. Actually I was just going to ask, are you okay out here?
Yeah sure, she says, smiling a toothless leer. I’m just waitin’ for my sister to come home on the bus.
You sure?
Yep. Still smiling.
All right then, cheers, I say, smiling back at her. And I turn and head on my way, still smiling. Mainly at our exchange of surprise, two strangers sharing the jarring shock of interface, but also because that jarring shock of interface was for me the release of accrued tension, that creeped out feeling I’d had in approaching the wheelchair goblin. And thus the monster became human, right before my eyes.
28.7.08
Impudent Hackese: On Writing
I don’t know what I’m going to write because I haven’t written it yet.
Still.
Every great writer has written on writing, and said probably everything that needs to be said. Yet impudent hacks like myself continue to try to muscle in on their territory. Why? Because we’re impudent hacks. We think we have something to add, something fresh and vital. And perhaps we do. Usually though it’s the same old drivel, variations and permutations of impudent hackese, the kind of writing that would never see the light of day if it weren’t for cyberspace. So without further ado, here’s my nickel’s worth (adjusting for inflation and gradual eradication of the penny).
Writing is an exercise that seems simple and straightforward, but is actually a collaboration of various disciplines. First and foremost, writing is a literary endeavour. Without a fair grasp of the history or trends or rules of the written word, good luck. Although many a piece of popular writing has been perpetrated by, well, illiterates (see, for example, L. Ron Hubbard).
Second, writing is a communicative endeavour. Not only must a writer have something to communicate, but also an interesting angle from which to communicate it. Not to mention an audience to receive the communication. Ideally the audience is delighted. Occasionally though the audience dismisses the writer’s work as experimental.
Third, writing is an exercise in observation. Look around, notice details. Situations. Personalities. Responses. A and B come together to produce X. Notice it all and steal mercilessly. Take whatever serves your literary purpose, forget the rest, or file it for possibly later. Appropriate reality, translate it into words and communications.
Writing also delves into psychology. People, their motivations and ecstasies and disappointments, how the psychologies of character shape and intersect plot to advance theme. Main characters, secondary characters, even the ornamental bit player. That fleeting pedestrian’s solitary line of dialogue should evoke at least some sort of cultural dimension, some sort of psychological dimension, some sort of pathological dimension, some sort of dimension. Otherwise what’s the point of the ornament? Psychology is the human dimension within the words.
Writing is definitely a form of self-excavation, for those who use it as such. A way to orchestrate an internal dialogue. Story, poem, editorial, journal entry: all forms in which to explore personal boundaries. To give fair warning, one’s discoveries are not always pleasant. Though unpleasant discoveries make for entertaining and enlightening material. If you can summon the courage to honestly write about them, you’re halfway to being a writer.
Writing may also incorporate a degree of philosophy. The meaning of life, the meaning of meaning, the life of meaning, the Dalai Lama’s Swedish levitation coach’s existential dilemma . . . The larger questions are best addressed in print, and considering how dry and difficult some of these philosophy texts read (see, for example, Jacques Derrida), what better way to ingest philosophy than through a novel of fiction (see, for example, Ayn Rand)?
Finally, writing permits the insanity that is censored and censured in the minds of non-writers: the visualisation and actualisation of another reality, however divergent it may be from the “real” reality. This is where the real fun begins.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to chop off my pliskapoo.
*
Writers in the throes of writing tend to isolate themselves, and sometimes forget their audience, which can produce disastrous consequences. When a writer becomes his or her own audience, exclusively and without exception, it’s time to call in the legbreakers.
Still.
Every great writer has written on writing, and said probably everything that needs to be said. Yet impudent hacks like myself continue to try to muscle in on their territory. Why? Because we’re impudent hacks. We think we have something to add, something fresh and vital. And perhaps we do. Usually though it’s the same old drivel, variations and permutations of impudent hackese, the kind of writing that would never see the light of day if it weren’t for cyberspace. So without further ado, here’s my nickel’s worth (adjusting for inflation and gradual eradication of the penny).
Writing is an exercise that seems simple and straightforward, but is actually a collaboration of various disciplines. First and foremost, writing is a literary endeavour. Without a fair grasp of the history or trends or rules of the written word, good luck. Although many a piece of popular writing has been perpetrated by, well, illiterates (see, for example, L. Ron Hubbard).
Second, writing is a communicative endeavour. Not only must a writer have something to communicate, but also an interesting angle from which to communicate it. Not to mention an audience to receive the communication. Ideally the audience is delighted. Occasionally though the audience dismisses the writer’s work as experimental.
Third, writing is an exercise in observation. Look around, notice details. Situations. Personalities. Responses. A and B come together to produce X. Notice it all and steal mercilessly. Take whatever serves your literary purpose, forget the rest, or file it for possibly later. Appropriate reality, translate it into words and communications.
Writing also delves into psychology. People, their motivations and ecstasies and disappointments, how the psychologies of character shape and intersect plot to advance theme. Main characters, secondary characters, even the ornamental bit player. That fleeting pedestrian’s solitary line of dialogue should evoke at least some sort of cultural dimension, some sort of psychological dimension, some sort of pathological dimension, some sort of dimension. Otherwise what’s the point of the ornament? Psychology is the human dimension within the words.
Writing is definitely a form of self-excavation, for those who use it as such. A way to orchestrate an internal dialogue. Story, poem, editorial, journal entry: all forms in which to explore personal boundaries. To give fair warning, one’s discoveries are not always pleasant. Though unpleasant discoveries make for entertaining and enlightening material. If you can summon the courage to honestly write about them, you’re halfway to being a writer.
Writing may also incorporate a degree of philosophy. The meaning of life, the meaning of meaning, the life of meaning, the Dalai Lama’s Swedish levitation coach’s existential dilemma . . . The larger questions are best addressed in print, and considering how dry and difficult some of these philosophy texts read (see, for example, Jacques Derrida), what better way to ingest philosophy than through a novel of fiction (see, for example, Ayn Rand)?
Finally, writing permits the insanity that is censored and censured in the minds of non-writers: the visualisation and actualisation of another reality, however divergent it may be from the “real” reality. This is where the real fun begins.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to chop off my pliskapoo.
*
Writers in the throes of writing tend to isolate themselves, and sometimes forget their audience, which can produce disastrous consequences. When a writer becomes his or her own audience, exclusively and without exception, it’s time to call in the legbreakers.
25.7.08
An Open Letter to Proud Aryans Thinking of Moving to the Calgary Region
Now then, I know you folks have gotten a lot of bad ink in the way of your intolerance and violence, that you “don’t play well” with certain “kinds” of people, particularly Jews and blacks and gays. Yet I’m willing to give you the benefit of certain doubts re: your relocation plans, especially considering the Aryan Guard’s desperate promise of rent subsidies. But might I make a suggestion or two. First: I know you proud Aryans are an industrious people, you like to work. And no one likes a long commute to work. Yet Calgarians suffer the fifth longest average commute-to-work distance (in kilometres) of all Canadian metropolitan dwellers. Kind of a bummer, I know. But you deserve to know all the facts. Second, and perhaps more important: according to 2006 StatsCan, Alberta has the third highest visible minority population among Canadian provinces, the vast majority of it settled in Calgary and Edmonton. Not only that, but Alberta’s visible minority population is growing three times faster than its general population, meaning that for every one of you proud Aryans that moves to Calgary, three nonwhites will show up too. Since 2001, Calgary’s visible minority population has increased by almost fifty percent. It is now the Canadian city with the fourth highest such population. Soon the place will be as colourful as a rainbow. I’m not sure about Aryans’ feelings on rainbows. Which brings me roundabout to my second suggestion. Now, while I imagine some of the stories about your intolerance and violence toward certain “kinds” of people may be a tad exaggerated (by both sides) for propaganda purposes, I also imagine there’s some truth to the notion that — for whatever reason — you don’t particularly like these certain “kinds” of people. So why not avoid them? Instead of Calgary, try a place like Trout Lake, a town about six hundred miles almost due north of Calgary, a quaint and culturally homogenous locale with beautiful hiking trails and great fishing. On the other hand, if I’m being utterly naïve and you are in fact interested in Calgary for its booming immigrant population — for whatever reason — might I suggest some places where Jews and blacks and gays are even more prevalent, such as Tel Aviv, Israel; Harare, Zimbabwe; and Provincetown, U.S.A. I hear they all have breathtaking sunsets this time of year. Though I should tell you that Zimbabwean inflation and unemployment are a tad high at the moment. Caveat emptor. And happy househunting.
22.7.08
Thank Odd I Still Have My Sense Of Humour
I am sown soil under mounds of manure. The flower under the shit, with the crushing weight of heartbreak the impetus for my blossoming. I’ve dragged my mind through the shit and muck of mental dystopia for months now, my beleaguered body along for the ride like a child stuck in a car with a smoking, drinking adult. I’ve surrendered completely to neurosis and paranoia and yes even anger. I’ve punched myself. I’ve punched walls. I’ve trashed bookshelves and overturned desks and engaged in suicidal ideation and generally done everything I’d hoped not to do. But anger issues can bare their fangs when you least expect, and also when you most expect. The trick is to not give in. I have not learned the trick. Sure, I’ve learned how to do the trick some of the time. But this isn’t the major leagues, when you can fail seven out of ten times and still be a star. This is real life, when one slip-up can lead to fatal stupidity. I know this because I’ve seen it in visions. Not like supernatural or psychic visions or even psychotic delusions. Just visual imaginings of situations I’m familiar with taken to perhaps gruesome and far-fetched but by no means illogical conclusions, based on levels of anger and fundamentals of physics. Scars the shit out of me. Ha, that was supposed to be scares the shit . . . Great typo, Freudian and everything. My anger sure has scarred the shit out of me. Anyway, I feel like a pitcher who’s struggling with his stuff in danger of losing the lead but guts it out and there’s runners on second and third with two out and their three hitter at the plate with a three and two count and this next few days or weeks or months is that three-two pitch for me. I can’t miss the plate, can’t walk the bases loaded for the cleanup hitter. But I can’t just groove the pitch either. I must be sensible with it. After all, I can strike the batter out and get out of the inning. Shit happens, runners get on base, runs even score. But I will protect the lead. I am sown soil under mounds of manure. The flower under the shit, with the crushing weight of heartbreak the impetus for my blossoming. I will burst forth into the open arms of sunlight and warmth and love and I will make peace with my neurosis and paranoia and yes even my anger by cutting my pinky finger off. That should really scar the shit out of me.
18.7.08
Greeting Cards You'd Rather Not Receive
(cover) Sorry For Your Loss
(inside) And for the damage to your window and door. But we appreciate the DVD and stereo and plasma TV set! Thanks a bunch!
Signed,
Anonymous
(cover) Thank You!
(inside) Your girlfriend was very hospitable and warm. And moist. An absolute pleasure to ravage in a drunken one-night stand. Thank you for arguing with her earlier that day and calling her a boring wallflower.
Signed,
One Guy You’ll Never Meet
(cover) Everyone Has Problems
(inside) But you can never seem to handle yours! And it’s so much fun to watch, we all agree! Thanx for being such a fuckup!
Signed,
Your Co-workers
(cover) Happy Confirmation
(inside) Now you know, now we know: you have lung cancer, you smoker you.
Signed,
Your Life Insurance Company
(cover) Congratulations Daddy!
(inside) Remember me? No? That’s okay, I remember you! That night in the empty subway car. Well, empty except for us . . . We need to talk. Call me. 89 86 43 1
Signed,
Fulda Burstyn
p.s. I have loads of the necessary antibiotics.
(cover) You’re A True Friend
(inside) The kind who doesn’t realize he’s being robbed blind.
Signed,
Anonymous
(cover) Printemps [colour image of blossoming magnolia tree]
(inside) For some reason the time of year you fucking frogs are rudest.
Signed,
We English Pigdogs
(cover) God Is Beautiful
(inside) But for some reason he chose to steal your beautiful, loving, uninsured wife ripe with child via gruesome auto accident. Suck it up, buttercup.
Signed,
Your Life Insurance Company
(cover) Merry Christmas
(inside) You fucking Jew.
Signed,
Mel Gibson
(cover) Felice Año Nuevo, Peace On Earth
(inside) And peese on you, Señor Gringo
Signed,
Every Local Who’s Ever Smiled At You
(cover) Happy Anniversary!
(inside) Bet you never expected to hear from me again! One year later and I’m still glad I dumped your sorry ass! Hope you’re still breathing and heartbroken!
Signed,
Evelyn Icee
(cover) Thinking Of You
(inside) Constantly. Obsessively. Neurotically. Can’t get you out of my mind. Can’t perform basic tasks. Can’t focus. Can’t go ten minutes without wanting to talk to you and see what you’re doing and ask if I can come over and maybe we can work things out and if not today then maybe tomorrow and why won’t you return my calls and I don’t even know why I want you anymore but for some reason I still do. Won’t you have me back?
Signed,
Fulda Burstyn
(cover) You Are Invited!
(inside) But you’re not wanted! Come, but expect no hospitality. Participate, but expect no cooperation. And then leave, knowing you were invited!
Signed,
Several Of Your Peers Who’d Rather Not Be Named
(cover) I’ll Never Forget The Day I First Saw You
(inside) I’ve jacked off to you every night since.
Signed,
Another Guy You’ll Never Meet
(cover) Happy Chanukah
(inside) You fucking Gentile.
Signed,
Every Orthodox Jew Out There
(cover) Congratulations On Your Baby!
(inside) Too bad it’s dead!
Signed,
The Guy She Left For You
(cover) Holiday Greetings
(inside) High time for suicide!
Signed,
Your Psychiatrist
(cover) I Love You
(inside) But I love him more.
Signed,
See ya
(cover) Get Well Soon
(inside) Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re terminal. Sorry.
Signed,
Your wife
(cover) I Want To . . .
(inside) Rape you.
Signed,
Your Samesex Boss
(cover) Happy Birthday!
(inside) Too bad you’re dead!
Signed,
The Guy Who Killed You And Stole Your Wife And Kid And House And Job and Car And Dog
(cover) Happy Haemorrhoidectomy!
(inside) It may have hurt at first my friend, but things sure worked out in the end!
Signed,
All Your Nosy Colleagues
(inside) And for the damage to your window and door. But we appreciate the DVD and stereo and plasma TV set! Thanks a bunch!
Signed,
Anonymous
(cover) Thank You!
(inside) Your girlfriend was very hospitable and warm. And moist. An absolute pleasure to ravage in a drunken one-night stand. Thank you for arguing with her earlier that day and calling her a boring wallflower.
Signed,
One Guy You’ll Never Meet
(cover) Everyone Has Problems
(inside) But you can never seem to handle yours! And it’s so much fun to watch, we all agree! Thanx for being such a fuckup!
Signed,
Your Co-workers
(cover) Happy Confirmation
(inside) Now you know, now we know: you have lung cancer, you smoker you.
Signed,
Your Life Insurance Company
(cover) Congratulations Daddy!
(inside) Remember me? No? That’s okay, I remember you! That night in the empty subway car. Well, empty except for us . . . We need to talk. Call me. 89 86 43 1
Signed,
Fulda Burstyn
p.s. I have loads of the necessary antibiotics.
(cover) You’re A True Friend
(inside) The kind who doesn’t realize he’s being robbed blind.
Signed,
Anonymous
(cover) Printemps [colour image of blossoming magnolia tree]
(inside) For some reason the time of year you fucking frogs are rudest.
Signed,
We English Pigdogs
(cover) God Is Beautiful
(inside) But for some reason he chose to steal your beautiful, loving, uninsured wife ripe with child via gruesome auto accident. Suck it up, buttercup.
Signed,
Your Life Insurance Company
(cover) Merry Christmas
(inside) You fucking Jew.
Signed,
Mel Gibson
(cover) Felice Año Nuevo, Peace On Earth
(inside) And peese on you, Señor Gringo
Signed,
Every Local Who’s Ever Smiled At You
(cover) Happy Anniversary!
(inside) Bet you never expected to hear from me again! One year later and I’m still glad I dumped your sorry ass! Hope you’re still breathing and heartbroken!
Signed,
Evelyn Icee
(cover) Thinking Of You
(inside) Constantly. Obsessively. Neurotically. Can’t get you out of my mind. Can’t perform basic tasks. Can’t focus. Can’t go ten minutes without wanting to talk to you and see what you’re doing and ask if I can come over and maybe we can work things out and if not today then maybe tomorrow and why won’t you return my calls and I don’t even know why I want you anymore but for some reason I still do. Won’t you have me back?
Signed,
Fulda Burstyn
(cover) You Are Invited!
(inside) But you’re not wanted! Come, but expect no hospitality. Participate, but expect no cooperation. And then leave, knowing you were invited!
Signed,
Several Of Your Peers Who’d Rather Not Be Named
(cover) I’ll Never Forget The Day I First Saw You
(inside) I’ve jacked off to you every night since.
Signed,
Another Guy You’ll Never Meet
(cover) Happy Chanukah
(inside) You fucking Gentile.
Signed,
Every Orthodox Jew Out There
(cover) Congratulations On Your Baby!
(inside) Too bad it’s dead!
Signed,
The Guy She Left For You
(cover) Holiday Greetings
(inside) High time for suicide!
Signed,
Your Psychiatrist
(cover) I Love You
(inside) But I love him more.
Signed,
See ya
(cover) Get Well Soon
(inside) Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re terminal. Sorry.
Signed,
Your wife
(cover) I Want To . . .
(inside) Rape you.
Signed,
Your Samesex Boss
(cover) Happy Birthday!
(inside) Too bad you’re dead!
Signed,
The Guy Who Killed You And Stole Your Wife And Kid And House And Job and Car And Dog
(cover) Happy Haemorrhoidectomy!
(inside) It may have hurt at first my friend, but things sure worked out in the end!
Signed,
All Your Nosy Colleagues
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