The battles within

“Kind words, kind looks, kind acts, and warm hand-shakes, - these are means of grace when men in trouble are fighting their unseen battles.”

John Hall, pastor (1829-1898)

Green shores

Soon I shall cross the sea
to the land I call home.

Following butterflies
gliding across the storms.

Palming the charming stones
which long ago touched me.

Breathing cat’s paw spindrift
an air like no other.

Treading a hallowed ground
locked by an eerie bond.

Soon I shall be listening
to a daunting language.

Probing ancient wonders
watching gripping sunsets.

Unearthing parts of soul
I didn’t know I had.

Sealing a betrothal
which needs no Claddagh ring.

Soon, at last, I shall be
back where I left my heart.

Finding a home

I tried to find a home

in novels nobody read

in books no one got

I got lost in stories

I longed to live

when I realised I wouldn't

find my story in any tome

I started writing my own

I tried to find a home

in the drugs everyone took

and I got hooked

I got lost in realms

nobody ever heard of

and nobody ever would

when I realised I was alone

I tried to find another home.

I tried to find a home

in booze and blackouts

drinking games in which

I lost speech and movement

I got lost in hazy nightmares

which I knew not to hate or to love

when I emerged from this foam

I walked out into the unknown

I tried to find a home

in the loudest music

in the weirdest concerts

my body absorbed sounds

and vibrations till it was lost

when I danced till

I broke all of my bones

I tried to find a new home

I tried to find a home

in all types of food

I starved and stuffed myself

till I could no longer eat

to then eat and hunger again

when nothing more existed

which could be grown

I decided to go roam

I tried to find a home

in sex and pain

I got lost in pleasures

in body-arching agony

thrilled by likely irreparable harm

long it lasted but when I had

no sins left for which to atone

I tried to find a different home

I tried to find a home

in places and things

I loved too much for my own good

in the process dying several times over

always looking in all the wrong places

seeking myself where I couldn't be

I realised happiness needed to be sown

to be reaped, and this would be home.

 

All peace and quiet

"Television's perfect. You turn a few knobs, a few of those mechanical adjustments at which the higher apes are so proficient, and lean back and drain your mind of all thought. And there you are watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze. You don't have to concentrate. You don't have to react. You don't have to remember. You don't miss your brain because you don't need it. Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally. Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. You are in the man's nirvana. And if some poor nasty minded person comes along and says you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind. He probably hasn't got the price of a television set."

Raymond Thornton Chandler, American-British novelist and screenwriter (1888-1959), in "Writers in Hollywood" (Atlantic, November 1945), reprinted in Gardiner D., and Walker, K.S. eds., Raymond Chandler Speaking, London, 1962.

Sunset à la Turner

Click to enlarge ;-)

Soft fire

Click to enlarge :)

Composition

As if I knew how to orchestrate

my own death by stretching the lifeline

until it snapped due north of nowhere

all things once dear are lost beyond reach

nothing on offer beyond the pale

reasonable epiphanic truth

–––––––––– –––––––

deepbreathing through nightlights and darkdays

chaoscontrolling like a necromancer of the soul

the blooddrops of the hummingsong heartkeys

nothingless pervading the wavespace inbetween neutrinos

to hit the silence, the absolute braincracking silence

to vibrate the music anew

perhaps on a bluemoonday

things will get better enough

to pass the baton

 

How far I've run

Look how far I've run, dad.

You always rehashed how slow I was.

You had spawned the fat kid at the back –

you hated me for that. How much you hated me.

Thirdpersoning me in my face,

setting the table for three

you, mom and sis.

If only you had noticed

the lightness of foot

the startling capacity to swerve.

What you couldn't possibly perceive

was the purpose you were giving me,

the fire you had started inside

and kindled – that rage,

that rage still burns wild, dad.

Look how far I've run

look at all the people who gave up

look now who's still running

look who's left in the dust

panting, their chest burning

by the wayside, defeat in their eyes.

It's you, dad. It's everyone else, dad.

Look, look how far I've run.

For I have never, ever stopped running.

 

Bow to no one

for him ever so humble

that lone rose given

for a lifetime of service

was the greatest gift –

he bowed to the little girl

No country for young men

"I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in."

George McGovern, historian, author and US senator (1922-2012)

I couldn't trace the quote, even on QuoteInvestigator. Here is, for what it's worth, it's in the Wikiquote.

One evening, three atmospheres

Click to enlarge :)

The best parts

The best part of the day

was walking you home from school.

I was again too scared today

to jump into the pool –

every pupil mocked and riled,

except you who smiled.

You knew all about my woes

and I knew all about yours.

The best part in high school

was when I held your hand awhile.

I told you to stay cool

and made sure no one would rile.

Of course you never knew that:

you’d have hated and loved it.

We always stayed together

till we were called for dinner.

The best part of us through college

is that, though we met less often

because we had taken different subjects

and had fewer friends in common,

we still hung out in malls and called

and wrote letters as in days of old.

Our dads still told us they’d met one another,

And we’d say we’d plans to meet, always later.

The best part starting our new jobs

and had gone each on each coast,

we still emailed our laughs and sobs

and texted – yet started to ghost –

the other's voice lost its familiar sounds

but still we proffered to be best friends.

We weren't worried by time and space,

we had always been outside any race.

Then we had other best parts of days,

we dated and got married and had children,

we gave middle names in lieu of praise

but hushed why we chose these to christen

our kids. We tried to call but the number was void,

and emails straight to spams were destroyed.

Certainly we did dream of one another,

yet at dawn our brains didn't seem to bother.

So when we finally replied to a stray email

we decided to meet in person;

we told and listened to each other's tale

of betrayal, divorce, abortion.

Yet the worse was to come, because cancer

was eating one of us, the other anger.

This wasn't a best part in our life, we thought,

trying to ignore the knot in our throat.

But we were together, nothing else mattered.

We reminisced our best parts,

glued back sounds which had scattered;

and while we opened up our hearts

we sensed we had missed something important,

something which had always remained dormant.

It was meaningless now to resist

so we faced one another and kissed.

Sciamachy

"There are stars whose radiance is visible on Earth though they have long been extinct. There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world though they are no longer among the living. These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark. They light the way for humankind."

Attributed to Hannah Szenes, Hungarian poet, playwright and paratrooper (1921-1944).

Here's an interesting summary of her life.

Finders keepers

You’d think he is trying to flatten the entire beach

Swish-swooshing left and right and back like a flat pendulum

Or a fallen longcase clock that would defy gravity

Tirelessly penduluming the length and width and breadth

While the sun finishes his course and the moon begins hers

Only because the ocean deigns wane for a few hours

Only when those powers at bay forcing everyone home

But the odd flâneur with a keen eye for oscillations

— all of a sudden the sweeper stops because the clock clicked

Even though this may have only been his mistaken heart

Going wild over treasures which are both here and not here

But all he wants, really, isn’t finding the lost trinket

But digging the magic buried between the grains of sands.
 

Obnubilation

Click to enlarge ;-)
 

Ongoing ruins

"The fastest way to ruin your 20s is thinking you need to have it all together by now."

The OP's aunt as seen on Reddit.

First comment? "It can ruin more than your 20s."

My comment? "It will ruin more than your 20s."

Make it what you will :)

Year-ning

Comes the dry summer wind

now I'm keenly biding my time for

the appoggiatura

 

Billboard

“[...] and we're telling you again: the end is nigh! Ye must be blind not to see! The plague is upon us – Men have given it the name of Cancer – the locusts are upon us – look at the Banks ripping us off! Watch the Pharmaceutical companies drugging us! We have but a few months left to live! Soon the last of Antarctica's glaciers will detach and flood us all! Wars are spreading, brethren at brethren's throat, mothers eat the fruit of their womb! Every day tornadoes blast through our homes and fires sweep away entire cities! Yesterday an earthquake struck another sinful city in California! All around us there's blood, devastation, death, war and horror! Now is the time to repent! Ask for the Lord's forgiveness, and He shall give it! Expiate your sins, make amends and He shall save ye! It is not too late! It is n– ” The vein on his temples were near-bursting when the lank figure of a red-headed man manifestly strode within his personal space.

“Hello Mister! So sorry to interrupt.” He sure was sorry. His face was a shade redder than his hair. “I'm working in the store around the corner, and my co-workers and I all chipped in some money for you. We'll give you 10 dollars and...98 cents if you shut up or if you move away to the next block.”

He had time to compose himself, and even though he wished the young man had stepped away from his personal space into his social space, he wasn't one to bravely run away. “That's very gracious of you my lad, but the Word of the Lord has to be heeded.”

He had clearly awaited a different answer, but he could tell the ginger man was on his toes. “But should the patience of Man be thus tested in the process?”

He couldn't help smiling. Clearly he was more used to “the talk” than the youngster. “I see you jest, enquiring friend, but the Apocalypse is no laughing matter. Do ye believe?”

This time he didn't even take time to think. “I believe in Man's right to live and die according to their own design.”

“There is no other design but the Lord's.” He suddenly realised how to get the upper hand and put an end to this absurd conversation. “How long have you been working in that yonder store, young man?”

The redness of face had abated, but it came back like the blare of a sun after being briefly concealed by a cloud. “That would be my first week.”

“I see. You don't need to follow anybody, you've got to think for yourself. Tell your colleagues it was base and evil to send the meek out on a fool's errand, for this and their other sins they should repent.”

He suddenly became very defensive. “Listen, I don't want to be in any trouble. I'm just doing this job to pay for my studies.”

“And what is it this mind of yours seeks?”

“What?”

“What do you study?”

“Philosophy.”

“Tell you what, lad. Keep the tener, and tell your colleagues you gave it to me. I'll move away and you can get some beer later on and ponder on the mutating nature of sin.”

“Wh–

“Do as I say, and ye shall know. Good day to you, laddie.”

Arthur didn't look back. He knew the lad would remain dumbfounded on the pavement with the money in his hand for a few more seconds, and then would pocket it and get back in, much to his co-workers' elation at having both gotten rid of the pain-in-the-arse sandwich man and hazed the newbie.

He was used to it, that was part and parcel of his new job. Every day a new spot, every day the same words of wisdom, billboarding his way into shaking up the tentacular city, every day being told off to spew his bile to some other place, preferably Hell according to many of the tellers-off.

He was lucky when “the talk” actually ended the way it did just a moment ago. There were great and hazardous downsides to this job: one day someone had started to push him and even though he wasn't the brawling type he had pushed back, and in the scuffle which ensued the man had sunk his teeth deeply in his ankle. The medics had given him a rabies shot, just in case. Another time he was pelted with...well, he wasn't certain with what exactly, but perhaps some truths were best left unsaid. And this one time when he would have been punched in the face by a bellicose barber had several of his clients not intervened.

In any case, even though it was a bit early to call it a day he wasn't really feeling this neighbourhood. His perambulating with the sanctimonious board had garnered a lot of sinister looks. It was time to pack, and get a bite too. Experience had taught him that carrying the sign on his back or under his arm was much more cumbersome than to simply wear it. So he wore it from the door of his building to whichever part of town he was assigned and back.

Right now he was patiently queueing up, his wafer-thin hoagie in hand, catching some amused looks, some frowning brows, some I-don't-care-even-if-I'm-looking looks. He himself couldn't care less, all he was relishing at the moment was the deep irony of eating a sandwich while on this job. When the cashier asked him with a smirk when the apocalypse was due, he replied: “Soon, sinner, soon. The Apocalypse is meant to catch people unawares, so unless ye cleanse yerself of yer impurities ye'll catch it good.” He scooped up the change, winked and left. He loved that part of the job, he could say stuff which ought to offend people but he was shielded by the almighty First Amendment. The fire and brimstone tone and the near-perfect Irish accent, honed binge-watching Father Ted, also befuddled people big time.

Subwaying his way home, he wondered if these shenanigans weren't getting to his head. In order to know the intricacies of the Bible quite well, he had had to read it cover to cover. His mind was infused with it. Also, being given almost free reigns for the writing of his speeches was both a boon and a bane. He never had been much of a believer, but he knew he was a heck of a writer. Somebody snickering near him – clearly mocking him – pulled him out of his reverie. He was sandwiched between people so he couldn't look around and show them how tasty a sandwich he was. He was the BLT of sandwich men: Bible-Laced Terror. The name made him chuckle. A middle-aged woman pressed against the board saw him smile and tried to back away but realised she couldn't, so she just turned her face the other way. He thought it was what a lot of people were doing – looking away and not facing issues – exemplifying why everything in the world had gone awry.

He got off, went to the local grocer's to buy bread and cat food, gave alms to the needy, and trudged up the stairs. When would they finally fix that darn elevator? He was also tired because of all the tramping around he did.

“Maggie, I'm home!” He had no sooner shut the door that Poppy, their copper-eyed red tabby, came slithering between his legs. She even had a ritual: one infinity sign meant “Hello there hooman whom I happen to like, you've been gone a while”; two or more infinity signs – depending on your capacity to balance whatever you had in your arms – with or without meowing – was her way of saying “Hello there hooman with useful front paws! This is a redundant reminder – please don't mind me – that if you happen to walk as far as the kitchen you won't fail to notice there's a spotlessly clean plate beneath the dishwasher which needs filling with that same nice munchy food you put on it last night.”

“Good afternoon honey, you're home early! Is everything okay?” You could tell there was that almost undetectable accentuation of concern in her voice. He had never seen her this worried as when she rushed in the ER room where he was getting his stitches done on his ankle, her face flushed from the running, which quickly prompted the following mordant question: “Arthur Pewtey, are you waiting for the Messiah to rise up from the dead to tell you to drop that dratted job, or will I suffice?”

“Yes, yes, everything's fine. Just the usual telling-off, and the lad was even nice about it. ”

“Good, good.” He could tell she had said this with pursed lips. She had resented his decision to pursue his billboarding career, even went as far as not talking to him for a full hour. “A new board has arrived, it's right by the door.”

Every other week he would receive a new sandwich board. He unpacked it. They were really paying attention to his suggestions, such as reinforcing the shoulder straps or selecting a different font and using more crimson ink. This one was sturdy, made out of light wood and not plastic because it was more eco-friendly. Both the front and back bore quotes from the Bible, in fiery red letters on a black background. The front had Isaiah 66:15 “The lord will come in fire and his chariots like the whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.” The back had Matthew 24:29 “The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from the sky, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” Now he had a week to come up with a speech he would have to deliver at various locations all over the city, which would be sent later on via email.

He pulled the old sign off his shoulder and down next to the new one, went to the kitchen to fill Poppy's plate. Maggie came in from behind, locking her arms around his chest.

“How was your day, honey? Any public display of contrition?”

“Pah! Ye be mocking, but ye shall see, sinner!” He then buried his face in her neck for their daily, early-evening, back-from-work hug. He didn't know how he would have coped with life without those. When he had been laid off after working twenty years for the same local newspaper, he relied heavily on those hugs. She had said writers always found the odd job. And she was right: he eventually did.

Fact was, even though he was no longer unemployed, he didn't know who his employer was. The Agency had called in one morning, saying someone from the newspaper had given them his number, and they had offered the job. He had decided to give it the old college try because it didn't seem overly complex, the pay was good, no prior experience nor any church affiliation was needed – and that was something completely different. Just show up and harangue the rubberneckers. Be innovative, responsive, engaging. He recalled how a few months back he had felt pressured by the bills, the fact that Maggie was working her arse off to pay them, his own powerlessness at no longer being the bread-earner. He had learnt a lot since then. The Lord in whom he didn't believe had, in a way, saved his butt and his dignity.

They unlocked, and kissed. He put Poppy's plate down, stroke the cat, went over to the couch, sat, opened his laptop.

“Awww...are you working tonight, honey? Could you take a break from work for a bit? I thought we could watch the telly some...there's a Monty-Python-athon starting tonight.”

He sighed, rubbed his face and neck. “Well, I guess you're right, again. This job is really getting at me.”

“You should relax. The Montys will do you good, you know. Where are you off to tomorrow?”

“Somewhere off in Queens, between Bellerose Terrace and Floral Park if I remember well. Need to google it, I don't think I've been this side of Queens before. I'm not even sure it's officially part of it. I don't want to make any faux-pas, you know Manhattanites, Brooklynites and Queens...ites? Hey Mag, how do they call the residents of Queens?”

“People who don't want to be called stupid names shouldn't give themselves a name in the first place.”

“True story. Amen!”

“When men don't care about limits, they are sprawling like ants before a wildfire. It's all the same ant hill.”

“Oh, that's a good line, hun. I'll find a way to use it next week.”

“Royalties, hubby, royalties!” She grinned. “Come, let's make a devil's pact: what do you say to us making some dinner together and then we watch the first few minutes of the Life of Brian, see if it takes your mind off things. You might even find some material for your speech.”

“Oh you really know the ways of the Devil, don't you Maggie. So be it!” Perhaps he was taking his job a tad too seriously – he had even practised in the mirror his redness of face and bulging arteries on the neck – but he knew the Agency was kind of watching him, because they offered some carefully-worded advice from time to time, as if they knew he was touchy when it came to writing. He took pride in the only skill he knew he ever had. Yet a small voice inside him said that the shame of losing that job should overcome the pride of writing incendiary pamphlets. In any case, he had to make sure the job was done, but he could take tonight off as his speech was ready. Tomorrow would be another day.

When he woke up next morning, the evening came back rushing in sudden flashes. They had laughed and laughed, they loved old-fashioned British humour. Maggie had been right to nudge him into taking the evening off, as this had been one of the best evenings in the past couple months. He couldn't say life was perfect, but it certainly was interesting. He needed more time to settle down in the job, improve his scansion and the occasional Americanism which cropped up every now and again.

He quickly checked the itinerary on his phone: he had to dash to Penn Station, take the Main Line to Bellerose station. Quite the ride. Which it was. He had made quite an impression in Penn. He had been asked to remove his board a few times. The security guards didn't even want to hear how cumbersome the whole shebang was. But he had gotten there, and it was a quite pleasant area: a few barbecue restaurants, a wine retailer, a couple florists selling vibrant magenta rhododendron wallopers and dazzlingly bright carnations, a spa. And smiling people, lots of them.

He positioned himself at the corner of Jamaica Avenue and Colonial Road as per the instructions. He cleared his throat. “The Lord is benevolent. The Lord is omnipresent. The Lord is forgiving.” He liked the concise opening which felt like a sermon. “We who put our trust in the Lord's care shall be rewarded when the time comes. For trouble lies ahead. Trouble is brewing.” It was time to raise his voice a little, but already some people had turned their heads his way. “My brethren, we live in a state of sin. Yet the end is nigh! Nigh, I'm telling ye! The Apocalypse is almost upon us, and the devils are set upon our destruction! Those who will not be ready shall be doomed to an eternity in Hell!” Several people, including schoolchildren had stopped in their tracks to listen to him. He knew he ought not to make eye contact. “These are difficult times ahead of us, my brethren! Do ye not see how the world is bleeding from wounds evil men have inflicted to it!” Admittedly, not the best part of the speech, but hang on in there passers-by, ye shall hear wonders. “Ye are born in sin, but ye may not die in sin! Ye have a choice, and the Lord in His infinite grace shall welcome ye in His forgiving lap! Ye can fend off the Forces of Evil, stop committing sin! Cleanse yer soul and ye shall abide in Heaven for eternity!” And now for the clencher. “Do not think ye have time before Apocalypse strikes! We heralds of the Lord have told you once and we're telling you ag –”

“Oh no mister, we won't have any of this here!” An imposing woman in a cerise shirt carrying bottles of wines in a basket strode up to him. “You will pack your stupid ideas and your stupid board and get the hell out of here!”

“Come on M'lady, I know the people from Queens wouldn't – ”

The woman first became livid, as if all the blood had suddenly been drawn off her face, then flushed right back in to a vivid scarlet hue. She blurted out: “THIS – IS – NOT – QUEENS!”

Nothing could have foreshadowed the sudden, violent comedy of all comedies which ensued. He had no idea why people flared up so quickly and so viciously. All he knew is that next second a human horde was upon him.

The massive brawl started when a woman with fiery eyes darted between his legs to make him trip up and as he regained his balance an old woman purple of face tackled him in the chest from behind. He heard a loud crack and he thought his spine had just snapped. Some people had started to look away and pretended not to see him being beaten up, but when they saw how it was going to turn out, they joined in.

“He says it's the Apocalypse!”

“I'll apocalypse your butt to the gates of Hell!”

“Let go of my ankle!”

“Long live the First Amendment!”

“Shut up!”

And all of a sudden, the brawl seemed to clear up. As soon as he saw the opening, he ran for it.

“Running away, he's running away! You yellow bastard!”

Then he heard a voice behind him. “Come with me!” He instinctively followed the man who had called after him. They went round a couple blocks. “In here, quick!” He spun on his heels, went in right after the man who had in the meantime grabbed the hem of his sleeve. They walked as composedly and hurriedly as they could in what appeared to be a diner, right up to the restroom. When they were both in the man locked the door behind them.

Arthur was out of breath, panting as if he had run a marathon. He suddenly came to and realised the back of the board had been snapped in two, and the front bore three sole-shaped holes. He pulled the wreck off his shoulders, dropped it with a loud bang on the ground. Then his knees gave way under him and he crumpled on the floor, his back against the wall.

“Lucky I was there, eh?” Seeing he didn't quite understand, the man added: “I took two of these bastards off your back, that's how you escaped. You and I, actually.” His nose was bleeding.

“I guess thanks are in order. Thanks, a lot.” Then he saw a large red and gold badge sewn onto the sleeve of his vest. “Who are you?”

“You are perspicacious, Mr. Pewtey. I am a Watcher of the Agency. “Are you ok? How's your head?”

He felt his scalp, it hurt. A few drops of blood were on his hand when he looked at it. “It's okay, 'tis but a scratch. But that old lady who tackled me from behind? She's dynamite.” He felt his back, it was sore but nothing seemed to be broken. “When I enrolled I didn't know violence would be involved.”

“Well, there were a lot of red flags, Arthur.”

“I guess there were.” He stretched his back and winced from the pain. “Anyway this Agency, does it have a name?”

“It has, yes indeed. It's the AAARGH.”

“Sounds like the famous last words of many people. Could've been mine back out there.”

“Ah, you don't say. It stands for the Agency for the Advancement of Atheism and the Revocation of Godly Hocus-pocus. Our motto? Always look on the bright side of strife. Clever, eh?

“But why? Why did you need a sandwich man for this...nonsense?”

“Because nobody expected the atheist inquisition! Also, instead of endlessly discussing the existence or non-existence of god, we decided to fight for it, and we were hoping to spark some sort of controversy...and look how well we did. What a mess, my friend! Now people won't want to hear any of this balderdash any more and throw everything to the devil, so to speak. I mean, what has religion ever done for us?” He wasn't sure the man was still talking to him, so he waited a few seconds, and sure enough the Agency guy went on talking. “Sure it was the precursor to philosophy, and the early stages of science, and it's convenient for the poor, the sick, the elderly, and it's perhaps the greatest placebo effect of all times. But still, the question remains up in the air.” He stood up, walked casually to a sink and cleaned his bleeding nose. “We thought of coming up with the funniest joke in the world, but we unanimously decided to be against killing anyone. And the collateral damage would have been of more epic proportions than the crusades.”

“You still haven't answered my question.”

“In a nutshell, we wanted to refine a technique which, if successful, would be extended worldwide to fight religions and the violence inherent in their system by using their own methods, by turning their own violence against themselves. And it works just fine. Thank you, Arthur Pewtey, for standing up to them. You really were a man out there.” He dried his hand on the back of his jeans.

“Happy to be of service.” A thought occurred to him. “Hang on, does that mean I'm out of a job?”

“I'm afraid so, Arthur. But you have talents, my friend, which you should put to grander uses than just writing in a local newspaper, than just helping causes such as ours.” The man unlocked the door, darted quick glances through the opening, then closed the door again. He extended his hand towards Arthur. “Sir, this is where our roads part. The AAARGH thanks you for your service, and wishes you the best of luck in your future endeavours.” He shook his hand and in a second he was gone.

When he came home, all battered and bruised, Poppy silently infinity-signing round his legs not even begging for food, and told an incredulous Maggie what had happened, she hugged him closer than ever, and told him that he would find another job, that everything from then on was all uphill. And he knew that Maggie was always right. And she was.

 

The open hand

There used to be a damning fist

clenched round my gasping heart.

Today it lies in my open hand:

I no longer need aching love,

nor madness, nor unreason.

The strength of openness is equal:

this goes past unclenchedness,

past the gripping abysses,

past the urging brightness

for I have conquered my heart.

When I now feel the pain of love

I show it the palm of my hand

for it to nestle within

and curl up into a globe.

Keep still then, heart. This way is best to live.

I have to thank V for directing me to Derek Walcott's poem The Fist.

 

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women, Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night, Part 9

Greetings, dear rant aficionados.

I know it's been a while, but I won't apologise. I do what I fucking want, don't I. Well, perhaps I am more irritated than I thought. In order to appear a tad less irate, I'll let you be my confidant for the night: collecting material takes time and energy, mainly spent in the form of trying not to flare up. Patience is the mother of all virtues and godmother of madness, as Carlos Ruiz Zafón put it in his novel Marina. It's even more time-consuming to sift through all the material I collected over the past few months because I discovered that nothing can be discarded. One teeny-tiny irritating detail you observed once and not any more after that one occurrence may resurface full blast when you least expect it. I'll give you one instance: pen-clickers.

I recall noticing that bothersome behaviour at a meeting during which someone who was particularly vindictive couldn't stop clicking his pen, much to the annoyance of many a colleague. And for months after that, nothing. Even the pen-clicker had stopped clicking pens, probably because he had curbed his ardour. Yet lo and behold, two came up my way not an hour apart, just today. I didn't chat with the first one because he seemed surlier than me, and this is never a good sign. He not even once unfrowned his brow, kept on jiggling his knee up and down in a frantic manner, and clicking his pen for no other possible reason than to calm his nerves. He also chewed the existence out of a piece of gum. He didn't write, nor had he a piece of paper around him. Not sure why he would have a pen if not for the reason mentioned above. The second one did have a piece of paper, sat next to me on the train, and occasionally wrote on said piece of paper. When I asked that person, after about ten solid minutes of continuous pen-clicking, why he would do so, he said he did because he didn't like the silence around him. I blinked several times before I suggested putting the humongous headphones around his neck on his ears as a potentially more viable and less galling-to-others option.

Let me break the situation down a bit. We're on a packed train and there's kids yelling, mothers yelling at them to shut up, people laughing, people flipping the pages of magazines as if they wanted to rip them off, people having loud conversations over the phone, people watching videos without earphones, and of course the frequent screeching of the train on the rails. Where the hell did that guy find silence, I can't even begin to imagine. Yet the funniest of things happened: he humoured me and did what I suggested. He even thumb-upped me after a couple minutes, with the kind of beaming smile which says: “Dude, that's an awesome idea you got there, thanks!” ONLY TO RESUME HIS PEN-FUCKING-CLICKING FIVE MINUTES LATER. I remembered Zafón's quote and prayed the god of patience above to give me the strength not to strangle that guy. At that very moment, I wished I could click my pen. I'd have ripped his headphones off his ears and clicked him into madness, half an inch away from his face.

Anyhoo, I wasn't at the end of my tether just yet. For I would meet, hours from then...the athleisure fashionista! Yes, that's a word. When the woman I saw decided, for a reason unknown to either fashion, good taste or common decency, to wear a track suit and high heels, I wanted to hug her and ask what on earth had happened in her childhood, tell her that everything would be OK...when she would come back to her senses and choose a style, not pick 'n' mix. But there were other sartorial surprises in store for me.

As John Oliver would say: And now, this. Heelless shoes. If you have no idea what it could look like, take a peek here. I was flipping through a magazine which had been left on a seat when I saw this...thing. I didn't know they were a thing, or even could be a thing. You must have noticed when women realise they're making a heck of a noise when their heels, high or low, ferociously strike the wooden floor or grate it like a pack of rusty nails, and they suddenly walk on their tiptoe (with a gait not unlike that of a flamingo walking). If so, you must also have noticed some women who only walk on their tiptoe when walking inside in heels, which defeats the purpose of dignity...but whichever psycho came up with the idea of removing the heels entirely should be made to wear them exclusively. You find them cool? Let me ask you one simple question: which part of the foot do you put down in order to rest? Mh? No heel, no rest. We came up with the expression “standing on your toes” for a reason. Please, fashioner designers, stop hurting women. The only statement you're making is that you hate them.

Speaking of people hating people, those who let their trolley run wild on the parking lot of supermarkets make the exact same statement, albeit more generally. “We couldn't give less of a crap about you, person giving us the mean look and taking our trolley back to the trolley bay, because once the last item we bought is out of that trolley, it no longer belongs to us, even if we put a plastic coin to unlock it. The next time we'll be at the gas station we'll ask for another one, simple. Suck it up, buttercup!” I hope there's a special place in hell for them, where they have to put trolleys back into the bay or their limbs are hacked off them, but imps keep on dumping trolleys left and right.

One last thing before I move on to our favourite bit of my vitriol. Dating apps are a treasure trove of gems of all sorts, so much so that it's difficult to choose one item in the list. I don't want to devote one post entirely to this as it quickly becomes boring, so I sprinkle every now and again what I deem to be fit in such and such entry. Today I want to talk about pictures, and the supposed powers vested in them. A common saying stipulates that a picture is worth a thousand words. I am of the opinion that some of them are, indeed, yet if you spend any amount of time on dating apps, you'll find yourself confronted to head-scratchers. Case in point: the portrait with a duck face. How in the name of all things goaty is this worth a thousand words? Perhaps as a diatribe against duck faces, sure, but in itself? Meh. Add to that a Snapchat filter, any of them. (No, you can't possibly believe, in your heart of hearts, that even a few of them are okay. Fathom thy soul, heathen.) Add to that the V sign with your fingers, in a swanky car, showing your abs, legs, or other unseemly part of your anatomy. Add, finally, the emojied faces of your kids sitting at the back of the car and you'll get, let me check quickly, exactly 237 words total. Quite far from a thousand words, and even if this picture was worth this much, you'd still look pretty fucking moronic. You're welcome. Moving on.

Now I suggest you read the next bit carefully, and remember it for a long time, for I'm going to side with poodles. Yes, I'm right about doing that: to honour a breed of dog I resent with (almost, now) every fibre in my body. Today I learnt that in 1988, some daft, idiotic, nincompoopy son of a motherless goat ran the Iditarod race with a pack of poodles. For those who don't know anything about this race: it's a 938-mile (1,510 km) sled dog race from Anchorage to Nome, in Alaska, run at the beginning of March. Participants, called mushers, usually complete it between eight to fifteen days, with a team of 14 dogs. So this nutter, called John Suter, and his team didn't complete this insane race just once, but four times, placing in the lower middle of the pack. The which is, all things considered and it doesn't even pain me to write so, a freaking admirable position. He raised the poodles alongside huskies to develop the “urge to pull”, which is smart, but he should have factored in the fact that poodles aren't dogs initially bred to resist whiteout conditions, blasting blizzard and -70°C wind chill. I have to give it to them though: this is highly commendable. Only the Yukon quest is longer at 1,000 miles (the Hope race covered 1,200 miles but it's no longer run), yet it is a crazy thing to do, putting oneself and dogs through such terrible meteorological conditions. Inasmuch as I hate poodles, these ones were brave, or John Suter as thick as a regular, not-bred-with-huskies poodle (which I don't think was beneath him). The story can be read here. 

Incidentally, the Iditarod race was created to commemorate the 674-mile race against time by 20 mushers and 150 sled dogs, run in five and a half days in 1925, to save the town of Nome from diphtheria as they transported the antitoxin which eventually saved the town from an epidemic. Since the page recounting the story doesn't exist any more on the Iditarod website, here's the Wikipedia entry.

This has been fun, as per usual, but we need to part. I can't be raving and ranting until the start of day, because my doctor says it's bad for my health. I asked her if it's as bad as the doctors' handwriting for the eyes, and she said yes, so I knew she wasn't kidding. The which reminded me of a quote I was told ages ago, the one with which I'll leave you, which applies to everyone, even to the best of us. That quote was given me by my gastroenterologist who said I should never forget it:

“I feel fairly certain that my hatred harms me more than the people whom I hate.”

Max Frisch, Swiss architect, playwright, and novelist (1911-1991), in Sketchbook 1966-1977.

That's why God created antacid medication, so we could keep on berating people. True story.

 

A blue day

Click to enlarge

 

Today was a blue day. Of this hue which sends you driving across the country, from coast to coast. The picture you have here is one I took mid-morning, on my first step on the beach in more than six months. On that account this is an actual picture of the sky, not some random one siphoned off the Internet. There was not a wisp of cloud to be seen, not one.

I was eagerly looking forward to contemplating this sky, and I was lucky enough to get it on day one. With this, feeling blue acquired a new dimension, put a spring in your step. It didn't efface all the loneliness I have been feeling lately, but it laved some of it off, and appeased the restlessness. Even more so than the sound of the surfs breaking on the skerries.

I could almost feel the colour. And after months of waiting which felt like centuries I could finally say that I was home, home in that blue.

 

I do not fear fear

"As a child I was taught that to tell the truth was often painful. As an adult I have learned that not to tell the truth is more painful, and that the fear of telling the truth — whatever the truth may be — that fear is the most painful sensation of a moral life."

June Millicent Jordan, political activist, writer, poet, essayist, and teacher (1936-2002), in Life After Lebanon (1984) (also in Some of Us Did Not Die: New and Selected Essays of June Jordan (2002))

Golems in the closet

For some time now I have been preoccupied by and writing on the ordeals and atrocities women face, ranging from the banal which should never have become banal, to the downright inhuman. I wrote several pieces on marital rape, on the various trauma men inflict women, consciously or not, throughout their life. With this new series, Golems, I deliberately chose to always open each poem with the same line, and to always narrate the story from a male point of view not to highlight the fact that each issues tackled is the same or of the same importance, but that's it's a generic, standard masculine reaction.

Above all, I wanted to show how these behaviours, and most people's reaction to them, are normalised. Frequently people don't bat an eye when a women is raped by her husband. I've heard some men say that “a wife raped by her husband” is antinomic. Notice the 'some men'. Of course it's a minority which tends to exert its need to be vocal, but many men won't know the difference, and think consent once given is thereby always granted. I'm not saying a husband should ask his wife's permission to have sex every time he feels horny, but I'm saying that if his wife says 'no' then that 'no' shouldn't be debated, debatable. Same goes for unmarried couples, sex buddies, one night stands, whatever.

In my previous pieces women weren't the only focus though, as their fate is almost always entwined with that of their children. In these new instances I have tried to focus on women to shine a single light on their plight so we realise that their basic rights are regularly denied, that they always have to fight against something. We men have it easy, as we made the laws long ago, when our grip on women was even stronger than it is now.

We need more accurate, more targetted, more up-to-date, fairer laws addressing these issues, but in order to root out the problem we also need a different type of education. We perpetuate the stereotypes we are inculcated and it seeps through everything, it even infects our language, especially in French and languages which differentiate gender by using the male pronoun and nouns most of the time. We condition boys and girls alike, and funnel them into a frame of reference and a format which go against the notions of equality and of justice. We take it for granted that as our parents were this and that, we necessarily have to be this and that. Lots of balderdash to me.

I'm a man who was raised with these precepts. I do not remember any specific occasion, but I must have been guilty, early in my twenties, of importuning a girl when drunk, of making her feel uncomfortable, therefore abusing the position of power I didn't know I had. I am clean out of it, been so for more than a decade and a half. As a teacher, I participate in and witness slow but steady changes in mentalities, a slight shift of the paradigm, but it's much too slow to be effective. We need to address this frontally, we need to go nationwide, without taboo, and believe me: there won't be any nut-kicking (for most of us).

To wrap up this already-too-long post, I'll just say that the title to the series stands for all the various monsters we can encounter in mythologies and legends, and is very meaningful to me. I'm not going to break down each poem, or give an overarching analysis of the series, but of course they each do have a particular signification, as have many elements within the poems, their structure, their patterns. I do hope you “enjoyed” reading them, that you found them engaging enough, that they gave you food for thought.

For more comfort, you can access the series right here (start at the bottom).

Take care,

Rodolphe

 

Jörmungandr

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

one of those times she couldn't but lose face.

The verdict out, the judge would soon adjourn

and she'd be trapped in her own emptiness:

hysterical, a custody transfer

would be granted to that sozzled disgrace

of a husband; joblessness a concern

she'd have endless periods to address.

Like her black hole of a heart that would spur

cycles of anger after which she'd space;

with her children silent, distant, and stern,

the jury ruled her unfit to progress.

Sure, he'd cited her rape by a teacher,

and her mom gone missing without a trace.

His job's done, no reason his guts will churn,

tonight he's home with a wife to caress.

For her all this will happen in a blur –

orbiting nightmares she'd better efface,

and shed the memories that give heartburn –

with no choice but to mull over the mess.

Amarok

 

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

birthing in a hut reeking of resin?

How could they live in a place caked in crud?

Plainly not the first time she was pregnant –

even more plainly she needed succour.

Clutching on the crucifix to lessen

the pain – also biting on that bark spud –

the outgush of humours was incessant.

After a moment he had to demur –

she had to hush for he had to listen:

only the carmine dripping on the mud

could be heard: the babe had fallen silent.

'Course death in this hovel had to occur,

with food not even fit for a raven!

The last straw was this unending red flood –

the master'd tarried helping his tenant.

He grimaced sullenly at how things were –

there was no way on earth and in heaven

his wooden clogs weren't spoilt by black blood –

God his witness he hated this peasant.

 

Kraken

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

something along the lines of c'est la vie,

that there is prestige in being a bride,

that she need not the fate of boys envy.

Some girls are born without any favour,

some women are sold into slavery,

she should feel lucky, not feel mortified:

tonight at last she'll be worth each penny

her folk saved for her, for land is silver.

She should see too the fate of the slutty,

she should ask her folk: there's nowhere to hide,

and less favoured than her have no dowry.

He'd seen men swap coins like a connoisseur

for whores for no one likes an amputee –

no woman was by nature dignified –

she ought therefore to take marriage gently,

she ought to see it as a life-saver,

life here for eight-year-olds can be shitty.

Besides, it wasn't for her to decide.

Tonight, she'd no choice but to be ready.

 

A poet's job

"Voilà bien la seule création permise à la créature. Car, s’il est vrai que la multitude des regards patine les statues, les lieux communs, chefs-d’œuvre éternels, sont recouverts d’une crasse qui les rend invisibles et cache leur beauté. Mettez un lieu commun en place, nettoyez-le, frottez-le, éclairez-le de telle sorte qu’il frappe, avec sa jeunesse et avec la même fraîcheur, le même jet qu’il avait à sa source, vous ferez œuvre de poète. Tout le reste est littérature."

Jean Cocteau, French poet, playwright, novelist, designer, filmmaker, visual artist and critic (1889-1963), in Le Secret professionel (1922) p. 509.


"Here is the only true creation allowed to the creature. As it is true that statues are worn out by the multitude of gazes, the commonplace, though eternal masterpieces, are rendered invisible by a covering grime which masks their beauty. Take a commonplace, clean it and polish it, light it so that it produces the same effect of youth and freshness and originality and spontaneity as it did originally, and you have done a poet's job. The rest is literature."


Precisely my point developed here.