Everything can and should be Swedish

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and a lot of that thought has gone into some pretty intense contemplation. For example - why the hell doesn't everyone live in Sweden??

For instance, this country totally kicks ass. Sweden that is. Canada is ok but it is no Scandinavian paradise, nope not by a long shot. Canada does well when it comes to hockey pucks (well, not lately!) and Trans-Canadian highways, but if you've seen one beaver you've seen em all, so wrap up that poutine Msr le Mountie and open your eyes to the Euro Valhalla of kickassitude I like to call Sweden aka Sweetland.

So what gives; whither such enthusiasm? Well here's an example of Swedish rockativity: Ikea rules the world, not just the furniture world but the monetary one, because when you strip away all those allen keys what you've got plain and simple is a trans-global manufacturing and distributing clout on a par with no other conglomerate trans-nat the like of which this fair old planet hath rarely seen. That's Ikea my friends, Swedish for global hegemony.

Another fair reason to move to Sweden is the hair - ie precisely because it's fair! If Bob Dylan released an album in the 1960s in the middle of Sweden I bet he would have called it Blonde on Blonde on Blondie! And Dylan was no exaggerator but a great Euro-appreciating sage-cum-guitarist whose visionary predilections we ought to heed as rote, ie what's the deal with Mr. Dilly? Double ie - What's the Dilly-o? Simply put I rest my case and move on to point number three:


Eat love em roll around in em. Whatever you do with them, thank the Swedish.

Key question: have I ever been to Sweden?

Nope. Not on your life.

That's what the internet's for, turkeys.

fuzzy rhymy thing

Happiness is easy, a breeze, just say please and it comes, the numbness runs for cover, the drugged sullen dullness, not so much fun, vanishes and the remaining lake of sparkles twinkle shinily, a zesty fresh lightness, an airy knowing politeness. An experiment in symmetry, a happy breath of kundalini yoga, a fine and gassy soda, a helmeted hula twirl, a vanilla chocolate swirl. My tongue and my fingers long for each other, smouldering glances linger, life sentences, trading zingers, I am a flinger of artistic martialed word-woo, the sworded sordid heir of do, it’s such a wilde beest, nothing gnu under the sunny delight, a mashing happy slap, a frozen map takes you through hades, the darkest hour of night. We are tall and tender, lovers slender on a brain bender, philosophic trees like Anaximander speaking Greek to lizards, Tyrannosaurus Lex, salamanders, luddite lizards fossilized on Pyrex. I am keen to believe this is no dream, not a swine’s moment in an ominous afternoon before piggish executions; my elocution electrifries your fascist search, your final solutions. No fresh face can take its place, my grace is etched on a lithograph, a sail set upon a mast, a golden figure in hourglass. So drink the wine and celebrate as crystal goblets oscillate, your tuning fork cuts like a blade, your voice sets fire to the Ever glades.


Shot in the leg by a midget

(written in 6 minutes)

This world is a touch of silly and whole lot of dirt.
That’s what I used to say back when I was killing time; swatting flies, eating huge kielbassa sausages and letting out belches. Then a man came and hired me for his casino. And what a place it was. The casino was made of marble; beautiful women stood outside; all kinds of wild animals were in there too, a haven for exotic pelts. I was the blackjack dealer, I wore a pinstripe vest and slicked my hair back real good. I was tipped handsomely by the dapper gentry and that felt just fine. But one day I was shot in the leg by a midget, name o’ Bradley Oswald Snurch. It was a raw deal or sucker punch. Snurch, that low-rise bastard, was sure jealous of my height; he came in from the slots and saw me ogling his woman, Contessa, a non-midget socialite, and he got upset. Never provoke a man with a firearm. Snurch's gun had the sweetest smell, and it sounded like the whistling teapot of destruction. The dwarf smoked a two-inch hole into my thigh. The midget-man was chased by cops, but Snurch's skill with a grappling hook was unmatched by the flabby police. They never found Mr. Snurch, and I never got an apology. To this day I cuff every midget I see. Those bastards - I dish out vengeance on their kind, with compound interest. Still, casino life was better than life outside the sausage cart. A casino is run on certain principles you see, and I am a man of certain protocols. I fit into that lifestyle like a sturgeon slips in a river bed, or a haddock shoots down a babbling brook. In fact my sea-creature analogies don’t do it justice: I was loving every minute of the casino, even after my flesh wound, and I swore often, lengthily and out loud that life as a wheeler-dealer was one glitzy golden paradise.

Digging in word dirt

We need a new excuse to do this; this is the easiest thing to do.

I am not just blowing smoke. The worst is almost over.

You were the best part of my day. You were the only thing I could write about; I was blowing my life away.

Moments of weakness don't last.

I was every last fear you had, I was the worst of you that hides in darkness; I was the evil laugh and tiny nasty bits inside you.

I was about to call game over, throw in the towel, but there is a better part of me.

Discipline is necessary to be in uncomfortable situations all the time, to handle any novelty.

I was the crawling man in the ocean; I was eating feathers and wishing I could fly, I was letting off steam and breathing a loud long sigh.

You and I are beasts of light.

The underground cave - I live in this cave.

Everything for a higher purpose.


what happened to me?

So... I was reading old emails again.

Question: What ever happened to me?

When did I lose the ability to talk about myself?

Not that I ever possessed it, mind you. But for a while there, it was fun just to be me, and not the gnu-headed Oracle of Whatever.

This thing, these words - all these words belonging to other people, stolen by me, uniquely expressed on this frankensteinian platform - ate me alive. I confused them with me. They're not me. I was eaten; I've been digesting myself for over a year. Literature as bowel movement. Go figure.

It set me loose, hi fibre catharsis or somesuch. But my legs are numb from sitting on the pot. I have to learn to walk again.

When you remember too much, too many details, too many dictionary entries, you need constant reminding of what's important. Love and be loved and all that jazz. I guess I'm a crack baby for distraction. I have far too many seductive inklings. Did I ever tell you about my 50 latest book ideas? I swear at least one of them will make me famous. Yikes.

Also - I'm so close to telling you about my nervous breakdown. Everyone has one at some point, and mine was a thing of beauty. Highly unoriginal, yes, but artistic in its existential melancholia. Actually, if you want, just re-read Ms. Rhythm's Revenge (april and may)- it's pretty much all there, in a catchy rhyming waltz.

(Some advice: if you're going to have a nervous breakdown, at least be interesting about it. I'm still trying, and hence Ms. Rhythm. Aren't we all, trying to be interesting with our neuroses that is... how I love every blogger on God's green internet)

I guess I should save the NB for another blog and leaves these twisted cupcakes to their yeasty frosty devices. But with cupcakes there's always this nagging egotistical urge to expose the Wizard. I think the cupcakes are great; I have a lot of respect for the cupcake ethos, but hell--cupcakes sure do mess with a man's life story. They taste great but they leave me unsatisfied in the end. Pure mind sugar.

I'll tell you one tidbit, tangentially related to my NB (although the NB took place before that):

I took a trip far away, to chase after a woman. (How original) I was in love and we were going to be happy together. Until the piano dropped on my head. It was like 'God smites Job' , bible wrath meets loony tunes. I did a double take and fell splat into the grand canyon. I was shot down from the sky. Like Icarus or maybe that was Phaeton's downfall. I got kicked in the face, stomach and head all at once. Things happened that I'm not too happy about. I was robbed of something and it was awful. Bad things aren't supposed to happen to nice people.

But I'm over that, really. Chalk it up to experience.

And I'm ready to tell you all about me. I got confessions on the brain.


what do you want to know?

*Scuffle, shouting*



paranoia on the internet

...you're not what you are. you're what you say you are.

the need for explanation, self-justification, dredging up atomic indestructible details as you fling them against a silent blank wall of global consciousnss - is omnipresent. that insecurity never fades away.

we are here, purifying ourselves into brain vapours. why?

we are two lovers separated from each other by a firewall. we die of old age on either side of the brick, banging at cracks in the mortar. and pop music is like morphine.

I read what you wrote. It was good, real good.

how does that make you feel?

it's so subjective, self-publishing

when you tell a story, does anyone believe you?

when we see all these details we have in common, do we not keel over from the boredom? are there people out there who actually feel joy in fitting in?

in a few decades, when the whole world is finally connected (most people on earth still haven't made a telephone call) our formative intellectual experiences will be taking place on the internet. there will be no real world to act as a check or balance against imaginative fiction.

what then, will be real? where will our allegiances lie?

why should anyone believe a blogger profile or resume? why should anyone believe what they can't see? three times removed from 3-d reality. lies and embellishment. the burden of proof is on whom?


I'm just going to be what I am. I hope that's good enough. It was good enough for him, who is who is.

Wondering so close you can't even see. and if something sticks in you after turning this off then maybe I exist.

when the power goes out, we are alone alone alone. digital existence depends on a power source. 10 fingers on a keyboard. all life comes from the centre of the sun.

we want to live eternally. that means nothing can ever be allowed to be erased. memory grows like a crystal, we navigate it with this electricity. we will become its slaves - our entire life devoted to keeping memories alive. fewer and fewer new experiences will take place, the cost of each memory is far too traumatic. when the universe is pure crystallized memory there will be no more growth, no more change, we will freeze forever, longing lovers staring at each other in the perfect painting. art and life fused into the perfect crystal. oh, the horror.

for now,
we sacrifice civil liberties for collective security
because 'the public' no longer exists

all of this has been said before. A google elephant never forgets. the proof is in the cold hard cache. the universe was made out of pure information. let there be light.

in the future all innovations are instantly assimilated and the innovator is chewed up and spit out.

in a few years the thought police will be coming to get you
they will tell you
"this is for your own good"

"we've been watching you on the tapes"

actually, the truth is - "you've been watching yourself"

they don't have to throw anyone in jail - we're lining up in droves to confess, to turn ourselves in. each one of us walking around in a mental prison.

"we're glad you've come to your senses"

why, when faced with blank silence, do we feel like confessing something?

all binary digits are interchangeable

I can switch you off so easily

so -
don't ever be
an individual
on the internet.

ps as a final act of analysis, you should ask - as Holmes did - "what was his motive?"

unmoved mover
uncaused cause


remembering november 13, 2003

(a memory as good as any)

I looked at the toaster across the room, afraid little bugs might crawl out of it and ask me for money to buy toys for their kids. Insects have children too and they like Christmas just as much as we do. I turned off the kitchen light and lit a candle. My vigil was lengthy and I got sleepy and faded. When out I had a dream about a sailboat in the sea. We were standing on the deck and the spray got all over our shirts, exposing your nipples. I laughed and I laughed. I was eating a pomegranate.

It was the day I saw the man die.

The day my prime minister made me cry

I was sitting in the subterranean vault

And you were being shown the door

By the party you owned like a despot

You didn’t speak either language

But you made your point.

(Belinda good luck)


More Ms. Rhythm

(far more than anyone needs...)

She was ready but I was steady; in time I'd be dead, but today I'd strike, smite, bare teeth and bite. Ms. Rhythm was an ugly sore, a spot on the earth, a stain, a man-claiming harpy, a widow-making woman, face so bloody and white, this lethal demi-deity, this dark lady knight.

It was a narrow black alley, soot begrimed and foul, a howling mangy dog and cobras crawling in thick fog like gas-and-acid soup, a spot for deeds of ill and guile, a hole of rotten jive, Ms. Rhythm was here at home; both of us were here alone - but one would not leave alive.

Ms. Rhythm had eleven souls, a leash on death and more, she sold hot blood by the bucketful, was a trader in the gore; she minded men at markets, and took their spirits in her store. Her lies were sweet seduction, sexpot shapeliness, surrealism sublime, a crime in her thighs, eyes blank and swirling, voice like a screaming cannon, the water in her veins was salted ice, or toxic Satan's brine.

Ms. Rhythm, jealous, knew my mind, but its secrets were not hers to find, she mined its crevices in vain, striking out in shame, so eager to blame. Each devil's day she took vengeance on my body, ate my bones, broke my neck and crushed my spine. She laid me low long years ago - but I healed somehow each every time.

Bobby had trained me, said 'be good and seek food,' gave me speech, uncoiled a tongue and offered the precious rung of a silver ladder, to step above this Madame Adder, that snake and soul-stabber. Ms. Rhythm born of gutter-dust, mud on her face, a skin-sore waste of ugly foul must - if she was alive inside it was a lie; there could simply be no middle ground, it had to be my town, my sundown, my time to throw down.

My nerves were quick at last; I smiled sly and slow - I smiled, and she gasped.

A flickering knife and thrill of sweat, she looked me up and down the chest, ready to grab and plunge, rent me twain, feast on my fertile brains. I was set for something far from tame, the memory of her torment fomenting fear into rage resilient, my inner crystal twinkled, I had the grace of something greater, hastening me to this fulfilment.

I shook my head, my lips of sweat and salt, knees pressed and steady breathing, incanting upon heaven, ready for Ms. Rhythm's assault.

She lunged and was true, her iron blade near made me two, its edge in an arc kissing the skin atop my startled heart, it was a sally with intent to kill, her aim to make me glue; she was not delaying, she'd have butchered me 'fore the moment's through.

It was heaven spared me, a ghost delivered me, my body was dangerous music, minor chord, angry harmony, breathed with Bobby's wisdom, yearning decked in a platinum sword, earning this moment evermore.

I was full of piss, hand upon a knife, set to cry murder and make her goo for good. Rhythm deep inside, courage conjured to my hide, my mind-soul elided, disguise evaporated, penetration and elation, frustration crumbled - it was wrong where I was going, so I'd set it right tonight - I had her in my sights, it was going to end everything, this fistfight by the firelight...

(to be continued)


Forty-one minutes of agony (part I)

(a continuing experiment of writing without breathing)

Minutes 26-30:

"There is no reason why two things that are disparate when you stick them together on the page, there is no ultimate reason to reject them as incoherent. You say you like organically grown vegetables, but how about some organic thought processes, these are not manufactured, tightly controlled and pesticided thoughts, these are naturally occurring thoughts harvested from the fertile free-range groves of one person’s mind, and hence you’ll forgive me if I charge a cognitive premium on them, after all it’s perfectly ok to spend an extra 80 percent on super-wholesome all-grain soy products when 14 years ago you just bought the factory brand pasteurized chocolate milk and then wham there's the end of the discussion... The problem with variety, choice, is that it kills depth, a finer appreciation, a dedication and sense of ownership, not just the sensual fly-by-night tourism of the point and click traveler - laugh it you like it and throw it away quick - current. There were such great geniuses in the past because the number of activities were so few, all that energy could be focused, a mind of great general capacity unleashed in a particular direction which is the best recipe for 'greatness', the best way to be known and make a name for yourself and almost certainly a guarantee of tremendous unhappiness, so maybe if someone came along who could do anything he wanted, he would show how silly it is to be a specialist to be a expert how unhappy it makes you, and here we are the in the society of the idiot savant, Rain Man not just a cute story, it is the reality, Dustin Hoffman the everyman, the expert, Tom Cruise the frustrated deliverer, the Cassandra, the rock star. I used to be like Rain Man, I used to fall into his traps. Nobody should stay up nights reading the phone book, but when I was boy that’s pretty much what I would do, I would add up numbers to see that they added up, I was looking for some certainty, not trusting calculators that came before me, I was going to keep going down that path, I was a mathematical machine, I was keen on the movement of the mind, the easy answer and the thoughtless soulless nonjoy of always being right in a black and white world with no room for nuance and beauty."

(conclusion: If you don't breathe, you will go crazy!)


Bakuta Lady (completed)

(continued from Bakuta Lady I)

The doormat is brown and ragged, stomped on by too many winters, somebody’s trying to save money, and look at the carpet ragged beneath the long oak table, scored from ten thousand cups, crying for a coaster. Ah, his name's Louis, that man, maybe he and Bakuta lady are going to the back for sweet sweet lovin’' hey you got to forgive a lonely guy, these sentences come back to the same theme always, a consequence of keeping this level of energy, it flows by itself, I wish I could unlock that rhythm every day. Those who are purest can make the world come to them with their minds; my mind moves these fingers, this conscious or unconscious rhythm, the Freudian the Jungian the psychobabble the motion in the room that reeks heavenly of empanadas. Where are the new recipes? Why no veggies or delicious salads to offer me? I could go for something with fibre, this coffee makes my skin yellow; this coughing makes my lungs blue. I will write for the next hour, I will stumble atop this keyboard, but I keep censoring myself I keep shutting out that light, the principle of growth is being strangled, the mirror on the wall reflect photos from some Central American nation’s art, eagles and horses and trees painted by the descendant of some massacred Aztec. The tables in here are the perfect size to lay a book, and you got to shift your feet or else they go numb, I’ve never had that feeling in my tongue, the buzzing and flapping so useless, and I don’t dare check the word count yet, I haven’t been on a roll like this in months, and I think about all the stuff on my blog that drags me down and is chained to me like some hunk of rotting meat, and I think maybe I stole that line from Dylan, but it didn’t bother him to rip off Woody Guthrie so why should it matter, bad poets borrow, good poets steal , and TS Eliot didn’t say much to impress me but that was one thing. Man, all you have to say ‘April is the cruelest month’ and then 40 pages of impenetrable screeding and they’ll quote you in newspapery superficialisms well nigh into the next century. I’m really working up to the big finish and it’s something I always forget how to do, to start from scratch to heal myself with this screen, the track lighting overhead is a bit too ‘high school’ and the pussy willow behind me makes me think of cold windy marshlands. Every line ought to be loaded with dynamite, just like Robert Johnson - I gotta make sure to buy his records - I got to make sure I’m still painting and I gotta refrain from typing too long, I have to recommence this plan, this project, I have to make it gel it will be responsible forever for feeding me, I need to make it clear that I too need to be fed, I refuse to perish like Tibor and the ‘Man Who Could Not Eat Himself.” What a ridiculous story, I wrote it when I was 19. I think it’s bloody brilliant, but now the fingers move to fast, but they are cramping up, and I need to stand up, yet fear loss of momentum, I still haven’t finished cataloguing this coffee shop, there are assorted glass cases housing the sweetest desserts my Bakuta beauty can bake; she is a firebrand, she possesses some kind of secret, I feel an aura of goodness around her, she’s one of those people who don’t need to be told how wonderful they are but you feel like it anyway. Why am I taking a break? I need to be slapped sometimes. I need to buy a plane ticket so I can live life as I read about in Lonely Planet because god knows I don’t want any surprises, this new philosophy of tourism, going only where others have gone before, with a decent internet connection too. She must think I’m some sort of writer, can you believe people actually get paid to write? What an atrocity, what a possibility only in the big city, where there is so much superfluity. Oh oh a rhyme I sneaked in, and the coffee decanters and cups inviting yet aloof in the middle of the room beside the main counter, I wonder how much that table underneath it cost? I wonder what the rent is in this place? I wonder who she gets her money from to cover what must be an obvious loss. It takes years of losses to make most entrepreneurships, this kind of operation leads to constant stress and headaches – are there any stress-free jobs at all? Maybe scuba-dive instructor. Have I ever even gotten this far into a thought before, I don’t think so. I used to write the most stunning exam answers you ever read, and when I was done writing it was as though the world crumbled into dust onto that page, and the tricks I had, I guess it was logic and reason I had, but nowadays my brain outraces itself, my thoughts are garbled and I cower in hesitation apprehension and all those other Latinate words equivalent to stress. Man is she ever a hard worker, she loves to clean up the place. I write in 100-word bursts, one fifth of what Hemingway was able to accomplish in a day, the man drank himself to death – well actually it was suicide - I don’t think decaf will have the same effect on me, I am not nearly so adventurous. You need to make people wonder and to make them cry. Do me wrong songs make money all the time, said Mary J Blige, she was a cool and adroit businesswoman, and so I guess is Britney. So much churned every day by all these keyboards, there is so much garbage, there is so much fighting for attention of the world I guess JP II had that charisma, he had the moments of total global attention, but when you think of all those stars and strugglers out there you realize even the tallest man on earth cannot get to Alpha Centauri without luck or is it grace (whatever religion you believe in). The cash register has been silent for minutes and I worry. I haven’t even mentioned the new guy, with rings and a jacket sitting in the corner with a halfhearted glance at his Globe and Mail, his coffee is a showpiece , he doesn’t look he’s enjoyed anything all week, maybe his wife doesn’t understand him, I understand that some people who come into this coffee shop are looking to escape, that the proliferation of these gourmet joints is a symptom of our pretension and our need to spend money on distractions, and the newspapers scream that in Third World countries there is so much poverty. We can help them, but is it with donations or democracy? Examples or expedients? The menu above the counter is written in chalk and Bakuta lady is so short, I wonder she doesn’t get frightened of toppling over every time she makes an addition. Her sandwiches are reliable, I have had the chicken breast on two non-consecutive occasions, it didn’t blow me away but I knew after the first time I could rely on it. Man, even her kitchen floors are shining, this is practically the woman of my dreams. I get tired of so much thinking, and the worse is the derivative intentions as John Searle told me today, ie the things that get written down are words, they are not original thoughts in themselves, once you write it down it become derivative. I didn’t do half the things I was supposed to today, there always seems to be an opportunity to push things back, and there is no longer anyone who will push me back. The jazz from the CBC is pointless and percussive, the closet in front of me probably leads somewhere downstairs, and Roy Orbison sings a beautiful song, that's man’s voice could jar a corpse said Bobby.

Some folk are desperate to make a mark, some are too talented for their own good. The editor should be the smartest man at the newspaper, there is a lot to be gained from the right experiences. I have to give this up, there is a woman in the kitchen who loves to make people warm, and why won’t she come here so I can show here how wonderful I think she is, she has allowed me into this shop to sit and think and make everything possible, yet I haven’t been able to separate myself from this process, the illusion was not sustained I was too honest with my readership, my point of view is disconcerting and dissolves all effect, suspension of disbelief never being my strong suit. I realize I think in a horrible number of clichés.

Think slower and type faster, then all kinds of interesting things get discovered, I’m more interested in editing than writing, I need to find something good to edit; it just so happens that I’m a better writer than most of what most other real editors get to fall across their desk. Where is Bakuta lady? I want another decaf no that’s not it, it more like I just want her to acknowledge what I have been doing for the past half-hour or so, my endurance is increasing and I wonder how much fun could be have just sitting with fingers moving.

There are curtains everywhere here, there are hidden secret in this café, and I don’t bother to look behind them, my curiosity is more about people than phenomenon, about the mind than anything else. I wonder how long it will take to fill up all the space I am filling.

Ah..she was sitting behind the counter in a chair!

I think all those jokes I am writing in my other brain, they will come back to bite me on the ass...

I found those old pieces of paper in my room again, even back then I would write like this sometimes.

And so good luck editing this piece patty old boy.


Maybe I haven't found him

...maybe he has found me.

Pelican man - now I can't shake the bastard.