Not Jupiter

I Love This Image #1

I love the textures and the colours. This is one of the images I have produced which I want to paint as a watercolour. It reminds me a lot of the works of Monet. You know; the water lilies; not the hay stacks or cathedrals even though it would probably make one kick-ass, stained-glass window.

I gave this image, with a few others, as a small Christmas present to a female individual who shall, once more, remain nameless.

It is, in fact, an image of a large pot of soup being made at the restaurant where I work.

'At first, I thought it looked like a pile of puke;' her first response, to which she added that then she thought it was one of those horrible jellied-salads. Denise (Yes; She again) and I talk about them all the time for some odd reason so I can understand her confusion, I suppose.

Not quite sure how she came up with the puke, though. Methinks the hem of her Freudian Slip is showing a tad which is a picture all unto itself on account of the fact that she always wears pants.

My Moleskine #1:

If I were to be able to bring myself to write things in my pocket-sized Moleskine, those written things would be of the following nature:

1] While sitting in a coffee-shop and while suddenly observing an incredibly hot guy on the street, I would quickly jot down a description of him so he would be seared in my lust forever. Of course, it would be easier to whip out my camera and take a picture of him. But that would be too easy. And just because he’s an incredibly hot guy on the street, that doesn’t necessarily mean that he, or it, is a Kodak Moment.

2] I would write poetry which, for those of you who know me, is an odd thing for me to decide to do on account of the fact that in general, I hate poetry. Yes; I do remember what my Mother used to say to me: ‘You should never hate things. You can really not like them immensely but you should never hate things. Hate is too strong.’ Okay fine. I really do not like anything written by Stephen King with an immensity that would boggle the mind. But I do hate poetry. I hate reading it (the road not taken, my ass) and I hate writing it.

An aside: I once took an edition of Eliot’s’ Four Quartets and a highlighter pen. I believe yellow. I then proceeded to highlight each and every first-word of every single line of every single poem. Then I typed them out in sentences and in paragraphs, a process which proceeded to create two most interesting results:

One: I had created the most beautiful and complexly layered prose poem – I enjoyed that; Eliot was not a great fan of the genre – certainly one most worthy of the time period (mid-90s), and a hell of a lot better than Eliot’s original Waste Land before Pound had a chance to knife it apart. Boy, that Fascist had his work cut-out for him. But I suppose all Fascists do, don’t they.

Two: I completely crashed and burned the grammar-check utility in Word. It was messy and as a result, to that very day, whenever I Word, I turn that particular utility off.

So why would I write poetry if I wrote in my Moleskine? Because sometimes one simply feels like writing poetry. Writing poetry for me is either too easy or too hard. I’ll create something small and sublime, leaving me to believe that that was all too easy and my time would be better spent struggling over a story or a novel. Than at other times, I will waste countless minutes brooding over that perfect metaphor in order to describe the body of an incredibly hot guy on the street all within the luxurious confines of iambic pentameter and I’ll stop, scratch it out, and start pouring out prose with the greatest of ease.

Yet, the Moleskine is very small, making it highly appropriate for pieces such as poetry. And with my daily work schedule, I sometimes only have the time to write down one or two words, thus, poetry.

Perhaps this will be the very first poem which I will write in my Moleskine:

Moon

That’s it. Just one word. But if you think about it, so complex, deep. Or some-what rudely obscene, depending on how you choose to look at it.

Self-Portrait #1

If this were a painting by Whistler, it would probably have a name attached to it like 'Rhapsody in Sepia with Lego on the Back of the Stove. Number Two.'



Yes; That's Lego on the back of my stove.

And Yes; That's a Gumby on the top of my fuse box along with a few other things (including a Kinder-Toy Vespa. I love the Vespa!).

And Yes; I'm 47 and I live alone and you really don't want to see what my shower curtain looks like. Let's just say that's it's goofy, mildly infantile in design in an IKEAesque fashion, but it does the job - it only cost $5 canadian BEFORE parity - at a bargain store so just get over it...

Have a swell day.

...and YES; I carry a pencil-case with me every single day, and I'm proud of it!

And NO; I have never, EVER worn a pocket protector even though I think they are kind of cool and highly practical.

Don't even think about thinking about mentioning the Post-It notes on the kitchen cupboard doors or I'll have to take you out back and...

Okay, I'm done.

www.Post-It.com

...I DARE you and YES I have not only checked the God Damned Link but, if you have to know, I visit their site on a regular basis, 'cause, well, why not? and, as I mentioned before, I live alone so I CAN!

Okay; I'm really done.

Artificial Intellegence, My Ass!

As I spend more and more quality time with my laptop over the holidays, I find myself thinking more and more that it's intell-insides are well versed with 19th Cent. American literature. Particularly with the works of the author Herman Melville. More particularly with Melville's shorter novels and most specifically with the shorter novel 'Bartleby the Scrivener.' For on occassion, if I issue some sort of command to my Toshiba, say, something as benign as 'Refresh,' I get the distinct impression that somewhere deep down within it's siliconic, celerony circuitry, the processor pauses, muses, and looks up:

"I would prefer not to."