Imagination – don’t leave home without it*

In Animals, Artists, coffee, Hautvoir, Irish Mist, Local projects, Music, Poetry, Revision, Sanford Meisner on November 6, 2014 at 7:32 am

The words, of course. Official, unyielding, firm, resolute. The eyes: glazed, locked, unseeing. The body language, the clothes. Never mind Party affiliation, never mind country, never mind historical period. Look, listen, take note: you are in the presence of the Ruling Caste.

Below, way way below, the minions swarm. When their exasperation becomes unbearable, they do stupid things. (Should their exasperation not boil over fast enough, a few well-aimed kicks, canisters of tear gas and stun grenades come in handy.) Once the exasperation reaches fever pitch, the list of outlandish excesses is endless. Looting, maiming, raping, killing, destroying, dumping excrement, beating animals, men, women, children – take your pick, it’s open season on rage.

After which the Ruling Caste pronounces the sentences and reaffirms the absolute necessity of its governing presence. In the reams of nonsense, the stand-out line this morning: before his sentencing, the prosecutor describing a young man as having  “the profile of a violent demonstrator”. The profile consisting of hair worn in dreadlocks. Tremble, people. The hordes are at our gates.


Late sixties, early seventies. Back then, the “profile” consisted of long flowing hair on boys and girls alike. Young American boys crossed the Canadian border to escape the draft because they weren’t keen on killing first and dying second, or vice-versa. There were no daycare centers except private and expensive ones. No public clinics, no public health insurance plans. Women could be prosecuted but they could not serve jury duty. We got tear-gassed, truncheoned etc. Figured it was worth it; the world would be a better place, thanks to – yes, us. Hallelujah. Amen.


In the dream, her man has gone and so has mine. The difference being she’s in her forties. Another one’s bound to show up. Another batch of dreams and illusions fed into the shredder. Does this signal the end of dreams and illusions? Ha. It signals an increase in the grumpiness when hauling the body out of bed. The dog doesn’t mind, as long as the grumpy one opens the door out to the garden.


I don’t know how weeds feel about it – concrete, gravel, compacted clay. I don’t think weeds waste much time on thinking. There’s a plan; it’s in their genes. One part shoots down, one part shoots up. Take it from there.

* If there’s good coffee around, so much the better. Music? Yes, music’s good. A bit of poetry. A couple of books. Some writing. A good cry. A good laugh. A good shrug. Allez.


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