Does My Posture Offend You?

This blog is becoming quite the mish mash of Matthew Cook observations...

I suppose that's the point. I'm thinking of starting up another one with my poetry and some personal critcism on poetry. I'm trying to become an active member in the poetry community (very slowly) rather than just a mild mannered (drunken rambler) reclusive poet.

Off we go...

DOES MY POSTURE OFFEND YOU? 

So yes, I like beer. I’m not sure if you heard that. I like wine too, but I’m really on a bit of a beer kick at the moment. Here’s a little bit of free advertisement, for a few companies, via my five or so readers. Apart from Brick Brewing, and St. Ambroise, both of which are pretty well known and fantastic Canadian beers, people should also check out Neustaadt which is, yes hard to believe, from Ontario, and 666, which is also from Ontario. Let the 666 sit a bit after pouring it and for whatever reason its taste very noticeably improves. A bit fizzy and bitter right out of the can.

 

So anyways, I like beer. Perhaps a bit too much sometimes, though not too often. And there’s this great little local pub down the road that is quiet, has nice, though kinda lousy staff, and who have recently picked up a fine selection of beer that makes my palate, at least, very happy. It is full of local characters, and those I have talked to are great people whose company I really enjoy.

 

It turns out however, that I may drink beer in a bit of a cocky fashion. It is generally known that I have a bit of a cocky… some might say, even arrogant character at times. It amuses me, I’m not sure where it came from, but if people don’t have a sense of humour fuck them, and really I love you all. Did that come out right?

 

When I drink beer it seems that I get quite relaxed and scoot down in my chair a bit, giving up my normally impeccable straight backed posture, and cock one of my legs up and rest it on my other leg’s knee. I have an elbow up on the back of my chair, and my other arm is attached to my pint, which I sip from generously.

 

On my last visit to my favourite local pub, as I sat quite comfortable, sipping, and chatting with a merry group, it was pointed out, in a slur of languages, including drunken gibberish, that I sat in a way that was “not right.”  This is the only bit of clear information I understood, but I got the distinct impression that there was something about the way I sat that upset the rambler in a fundamental way. It was “not right,” clearly upsetting, and  gradually more upsetting as I could only grin at what seemed like a great farce to me.

 

The whole thing ended up with me getting my nose rubbed in a critical manner, and me roaring with laughter.

 

With only a few tears, some friendly handshaking and much post-event head shaking we all went our separate ways, and I none the wiser.

11:11 and Life

I had forgotten about writing this. I have been recently reminded by another bit of writing on the same subject. It seems that perhaps, as they are mutually inspired, that they should both be put up around the same time.

11:11

 

I would have laughed not to long ago at what I thought were some delusional beliefs about the meaning of these numbers; this time.

            Someone I love mentioned to me how often it occurred that she happened to look at a clock when triple or more digits were displayed: 3:33, 2:22, 5:55, and 11:11, the rarest and longest in repeating numbers. She also said that it seemed to coincide with notable moments of her day, or with momentous moments of people she loved. Yes, things that she had no idea of until later, but felt connected with at that time. Yes, extra sensorial perception of some sort.

            I was incredulous. I told her so. I looked up websites and statistics to prove how incredulous it was. “Do you know, how many times a day your eyes look at a clock?” “Do you know how many minutes of one day, whole minutes, there happens to be repeating digits on a clock?” There are at least 24. That you manage to look at a clock once or many times a day when those double digits are displayed, is not unlikely, and that you notice it, even less so, especially now that you hold this wacky belief.

            Then I came across a site claiming that 11:11 was a divine sign from God, to all his true believers, spreaders of faith, his chosen ones, letting them know… something. They are meant to do something great and they are all linked together by this common symbol; common being the key word, the word that makes the whole concept ridiculous.

            I dismissed this… but then… as I loved this person that told me, I was led to think of her every time I saw any double digits.  At first it was just teasing, about angels looking in to make sure we’re saving the world at said and said hour. “Oh my GOD! God told you to buy that muffin, it’s 11:11.” But over time, during conversations; in person, or by phone; someone’s eyes might flick to a clock and notice it. That person would pause, halt the conversation or get the other person’s attention from the book they were reading, just to tell them it was such and such time. It made me feel good. Particularly 11:11, I suppose because it was rarer… and that it came up enough times meant I spent a good deal of time with this person. Each time was a small anniversary. It was a moments pause, to stop, be still, feel love, and maybe say it. Even when we were not together, it happened that we might both look at a clock at 11:11 on the same day every now and then and think of each other, then mention it later, to pause all over again, and perhaps wonder a bit about the divine.

            This has led me to reflect on the whole “chosen messengers” proposition. Logically I still think it is bunk, but still there is a little grain of something beautiful there, linked to my personal appreciation of beauty in my life.  If I extend that feeling, perhaps not as intensely, but comparably, from between just two people… to many people… to a small group… then a larger group… then that would be quite the moment of reflection on the many people I love. That seems quite beautiful to me.

            This is just one symbol, and happens to be mine right now, the one that fills me with love, at this late time of night… 11 something or other… and there could be any number of other ones, bunnies, feet, airplanes, songs, food, that make people think of love… well they’re all beautiful. Though this one is special in its near universality. Most everyone has a clock or many about them during the day. I like the idea of everyone taking a moment to think of the person they love at 11:11… ridiculous as it may be. 

A First Day Less Ordinary

I have been thinking about looking into the possibility of starting a blog, and my words are chosen carefully. Until sometime yesterday I had not really even looked into what is actually involved in blogging. In fact, I have only read about three blogs in my whole life, including one my very favorite of persons started yesterday, who has, by so doing, inspired me to just start one. Nike would be an apt name for he at this time, but she has already selected her own Greek deity, fully convinced that she is a deity herself. Well, whatever your damn name is, thank you.

I am rather rushed at the moment, and so the quality of this blog may not be up to the professional standard I might like, but as a very first blog, fired off into the sea electronic information, and with so much other educational, informative, entertaining and pornographic material freely available already, well, hopefully a few people notice my typos.

So as a token offering, a quick bit of writing I rushed out one day.
It was inspired by an over zealous moment of my roommate. I may have been too hasty in judging his commitment, only time will tell. But whether it is he, or any number of other sex deprived, and testosterone addled, young men, I think it holds a certain truth that many may recognize.

Without further delay (baring this quick intro) I give you...

My Penis Is In Love

My friend let slip rather casually at breakfast that he is "absolutely in Love" with a girl he was bringing over that evening. This was the extent of his explanation and the very first words I had ever heard about the existence of this girl. Not one to usually omit any story about a girl who paid him any attention the sudden visit stood out as a bit strange. But apparently he had met her before and knew her well enough to invite her round for the first time, one can only assume after such a statement.

My friend has a rather fired up personality when it comes to women. He gets rather excited in their presence at times. He has, I think it will be understood, a large libido, and perhaps not enough self control to reign it in. So rather than directing his enormous libido with self assured charm, distributing enormous quantities of pleasure to one or multiple women, his libido has tendency to run ahead of him, like a puppy pulling on a leash, yanking him along, and inevitably tangling him up, awkwardly.

The only other detail he offered was: "she's Asian."

He has a thing for Asians it was whispered. Not much else was said about the potential of her having a personality beyond this: she comes from somewhere in an area that accounts for about one third of the earth's landmass. Perhaps I exaggerate... from somewhere in an area that accounts for about a quarter of the earth's landmass, which narrows it down considerably.

With such a personality, and such a vague description of the love of one's life , the grandiose statement, to me, seems misplaced. I don’t want to say he is making no objective judgment that her personality is generally pleasant and likable, but I do believe it would be more understandable if we were to translate the statement, “I am in Love with her,” with “My Penis is in Love with her.”

Despite the accuracy of this statement, it is nevertheless a troubling statement, as it could be a rather awkward and risky, and not, perhaps, something someone should think aloud. It provides a terrible insight into the nature of the sex depraved man. He is no longer a complete character. His body, mind and mouth, no longer represent his personality. They have become mere extensions of his penis. His mouth will speak the words of the penis, and the mind will machinate to achieve the goals of the penis, and his whole body will have been reduced to a mode of transportation to move his where it desires.

To fall for the personality of man in this state, is in fact to fall for a complete prick.




Well I ended up rewriting that story a bit as I went through it. It could probably go on but I'm short of time.

Here's one little tid bit (it is tid bit isn't it? the spelling tool tells me that it is a mistake, but I have shied away, with a tiny snigger and smirk, from the possibility that it should actually be "tit bit.") This is an apartment add that a friend of mine came across on craig's list some time ago. The add itself is quite astounding... but this was also the first time I read a craig's list apartment ad, and found their living options remarkably bizarre in their own right, and so I have included them to give the overall effect. Ironic that it includes "it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services."

Free or cheap rent for open-minded girl

Please contact me for more details if you might be interested.

• cats are OK - purrr
• dogs are OK - wooof
• Location: Ottawa
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

go listen to "Chocolate Jesus" by Tom Waits.

Best, wishes.
Mattew James Cook. The two and only.