Evolution in a Blog

I have a bottle of shampoo sitting in front of me.

It's close to empty.
It is pink.
It has an attractive, circular, green symbol on the front, with some sort of ivy thing going on. It has a small amount of writing on the front, and more on the back, all of it is ridiculous, or bullshit.

I am relatively ignorant to the sciences of hair care.
The bottle in front of me that the shampoo it contains is particularly good at straightening hair because it contains honeyed pear and silk. This is stunning information. I didn't know silk could be reduced to a liquid form, but if it can (apparently so) I suppose it would be nice in your hair. Honeyed pear sounds like it might smell nice, and I do value a good natural smell over perfume, but I don't know why they used honeyed pears. Perhaps it contains pear and honey, but I can't quite believe they bought pre-honeyed pears to make shampoo with, the same pears some people might eat.

This combination apparently makes for a powerful shampoo that will "straight to your head." The lame appeal to a popular turn of phrase is so unfunny that any association with other head benefits such as a pleasurable non-headache sensation or an improvement in your mental faculty is unlikely. I feel dumber just looking at this thing.

Other tacky lines are listed out on the back: "I think it's better straight than never," "Get in line right here" "for straight sake"... the french translations are so bad shouldn't be mentioned here.

The whole product is said to be "dangerously straight." There is something about it that is subtly dangerous.

I've been looking at this bottle every now and then when I was in the washroom, which I share with two roomates, one of them female, who's hair product this is. The bottle originally appealed to me, when it was new, because its shape and color were quite appealing, and the designs were simple and effective. As I read about it's contents its initial glamour wore off. Soon it's external glamor began to fade, until now it is an almost empty bottle of goo, with a surface that is just smudged and scratched enough to remind that this is a plastic bottle that will be absolutely useless once it is done with.

From this point my mind wandered further... to be continued.

Heretical Slip Up on Q

As the first segment of Q, the popular CBC Radio One show, wrapped up for a news break, the now iconic host Jian Gomeshi, tripped up over the the words "letter" and "later", repeating them out of order several times, before shouting them out angrily in the correct order.

This would have warranted no more than a small titter, except that as the theme music faded out, a soft but still clear heretical blashpheme was heard, uttered by the said icon.

Not only is Jian Gomeshi treading on dangerous ground with iconic status, taking on the role of a false icon, but is now actively besmirching the name of the lord.

Angry protests are already taking place outside of the CBC offices in downtown Toronto, and as word continues to spread, it is likely that the crowd will increase. In all likeliness a riot will soon take place, and CBC Toronto will be leveled to the ground, as if smitten by the Lord.

We desperately urge that Jian Gomeshi publicly apologise to , the entire earth, the heavens above, and he should swear his everlasting soul to the one Lord and saviour, and redeem himself from fiery perdition, where is surely heading.

Way To Go CBC and The Conservatives

As a public broadcasting company the CBC is required to provide a platform for certain political updates. This is not the minister of this or that, the prime minister, or the leader of the defense having a frank if somewhat careful chat with Michael Enright, but rather a one minute spot on why we're great and the other side sucks, in words that are not much more eloquent than that, but much less to the point -- painfully so.

I shook my head, as I do, at most political commercials, or any commercials for that matter, as Tony Clement delivered a monotone message for the Conservatives their economic reforms, which "are working." The only actual detail of proof of a plan that I heard was that two people could now split one job and have the difference covered by e.i. if that company needs to cut back. That is something I suppose, and might be very good, I don't really know, but it doesn't seem to tell me enough at all to justify the repetitions of "a plan that is working" "a plan that is working" "we want to see it through, because it's working" that cropped up throughout the minute long add. Oh, and Michael Ignatieff is the only man in Canada who wants there to be an election and though he says he doesn't, he is doing his utmost to make it happen, and we must fight tooth and nail, gumming him if necessary, to prevent his nefarious plan. And he said thank you of course.

This was followed by the CBC news, with an opening report about Michael Ignatieff who had come to an agreement with Stephen Harper to keep the government in power and avoid an election for the time being. Oh...... so that ad.... was just.... oooo.

I know and you know, the political powers that be feel compelled to err on the side of potential stupidity rather than risk not putting out an ad and finding themselves booted out of power. This just happens to be a moment where the larger stupidity of politics, which denies any chance that anything honest be said, was wonderfully highlighted in a small, visible, form of itself, and gave me, and I hope some others, a good laugh.

Good night and good luck!

So I post when I have had a few drinks... or other odd moments. Shhh.

And I don't have any pictures on my god damn blog. Not even a minor lAterary figure... Damn... what am i doing wrong? Why aren't I surrounded by sycophants and people;book people, movie people, music people, naked people... anyone with money... give it to me.

Well, I suppose it's only because it's not what I want... as I've never really pursued that.

Ah ah ah...

the question is then: what do I want?

Has anyone figure that out yet. You people who walk around like you know what you want, do you actually? Or is it all just a show?

Lives full of wild capers. They don't really happen. I'd settle for... a sense of something. I don't even have anchovies.

I love bad jokes.

But seriously... intense dreams... and I look sexy in the mirror. Sure of it.

It all ends up being confusing.

Hello. And Good night!

Where The Days Go

A ramble for the sake of rambling...

Yesterday it was hot. Women and men, both alike, wore much less clothing. Some wore next to none, and lay in the park, making as much of what they will show the world a lovely golden brown. Some may have turned an ugly red.

There were frisbees everywhere, and volleyballs. Several men were running up and down hills and stairs. One looked like he did only that, and was entirely made of muscles. The others seemed to be chasing after that man with panting breath.

Sweaty chests on display. And thighs blow into sight, as wispy summer dresses swish as you jiggle.

It might not be summer today, but it was yesterday. It felt like it, and people felt like. Everyone fell all over themselves into the role. Everyone was different, or trying to change.

I undid a button or two on my shirt, and walked with mostly quiet ease. The odd twist put in my step by thoughts of my own "new beginings," my own changes, women and other people, myself, my life... as much as I would let myself think about such things. Some are still locked down tight. Just in case. Though, I thought about dealing with them too, and even looked at them out of the corner of my eye.

It feels like a good season to be easy with yourself and everyone.

And just what happens.

I feel like sharing something... really because it's the first time I've had something of my own to share in a while... but I almost don't care what it is.

The Stare

I stared around the doorway
As she brushed and fiddled
Until I filled the place
And she stared back
“What do you think?”
What do I think?
I was thinking about hair
So I took it to me
Slid into it and moved it
Looked at her in the mirror
Held it in a bunch
Let it flow around her face
Pretended this was cut
If I could have it all my way

“like this” I said
When my stomach churned

I hadn’t been paying attention to her
She was staring again
Almost shaking in silence
I wanted her to acknowledge
Her sex, and her effect
And missed until later
Any feeling of significance
In the weight of her gaze
That chewed me

I was filled with knowing
My hands would smell of her
Whenever I sipped something

Daily Log, Mark number number number beepy noise.

Just looking at the time as I start to write this.
It is almost 11:11, which has managed to remain a special time for me.
It's god damn true, really special sometimes. I just can't hide it.

Anyways.

For anyone interested.

I've been doing some reading for the OAR - OTTAWA ARTS REVIEW.
They just had a very cool fund raiser on Feb 13th and their new issue is hitting the Ottawa area very soon. Also note, that their content is being broadcasted globally via the world wide web at http://www.review.artsuottawa.ca/

It will be worth checking back now and again.
Part of the great literary community of Ottawa and Canada.

Yes Canada has some great stuff.

A couple of Canadian recommendations for the day. Really obvious but fun stuff.
Al Purdy - Attempt
Al Purdy - Home Made Beer
Lorna Crozier - 0
Lorna Crozier - Getting Pregnant

Both have many other great poems. If you do not at least know this two reknowned Canadian poets, then you should get off your wonderful bum (all bums are wonderful) and have a read at them. I was quietly informed yesterday (that recently) that their works are hard to find on-line, as there is a movement to keep Canadian literature in print, and out of digitalised format for now. Not sure if that's due to tradition or respect, or because poets have to sell whatever they can to increase the modest income.

Also on the lierary radar. Tobias Wolff - Awake. I had to read this to help out a friend but it turned out to be quite stunning, though simple read. Don't let the douche bag tone of the first little bit get to you. The character, well, in my opinion, is a bit of a doucebag, but an interesting one.

It also mentions having sex a few times for those of you who need more of a thrill to get you motivated *whistle* grrr ooooh. I'm getting excited just pretending to be excited... ooooh... ahhh..

Now I'm distracted.

Good reading all.

Matthew

Inter Discourse

-Rant

intransitive verb
1 : to talk in a noisy, excited, or declamatory manner
2 : to scold vehemently
transitive verb
1 : to utter in a bombastic declamatory fashion

-Discourse

1archaic : the capacity of orderly thought or procedure : RATIONALITY
2: verbal interchange of ideas ; especially : CONVERSATION
3 a: formal and orderly and usually extended expression of thought on a subject
b: connected speech or writing
c: a linguistic unit (as a conversation or a story) larger than a sentence
4obsolete : social familiarity
5: a mode of organizing knowledge, ideas, or experience that is rooted in language and its concrete contexts (as history or institutions)

Interactive, interconnected, discourse, inter nos.

I think somebody mixed up their prefix in the grammar books.
Would you like to communicate via inter . . .

Well, of course!

Sometime inter vivos.

A Couple Of Things

I'm just having a few moments of reflection on the nature of a blog.

I was just writing something to put up here, but the reality is that I have to get to work on things that pay bills, fill my tummy, pay for my way from here to there, and let me lavish my attentions on those I love.

Needless to say, I think I may have been going about this all wrong.

The daily form of interaction that makes up a blog has been lacking.

I have only been posting odd bits of writing that consist of rants and social commentaries.

So I will, unless I get bored or don't care, post more frequently, less formally.
I will also try to integrate a bit more with the Ottawa writing community. Give them the odd shout out.

I am also considering a little reshaping of the page... as much as I like the Cookie Monster, he's just not doing it for me.

Check out today's bit of fun, coming in the next few minutes.

Matthew

Walk Well

Really, this has nothing to do with walking.

Walking along the other day, coming back from Opera, where I had just had a very vigorous and successful night of vociferous vocalising, I found I had a certain spring in my step. My legs were swinging out in front of me just a little bit more than usual, gaining, I am supposing, a few more inches on each stride than I would with my usual side. And so I was propelled along on my speedy stroll, in a very relaxed and elated manner. There was no more effort than usual, but I knew, be it by the whisps of wind that wandered over my face, or by feeling of solid connection that thrummed up through my legs, all the way, to my stomach, and heart, I do not know… but I knew! I could feel it in my ass.

It is a very old adage. Whatever you do, is worth doing well. And in my case, it seemed to spread like some miraculous disease. I sang well, and that gave me joy. That joy propelled my legs along with a youthful vitality I have rarely known, which gave me further joy. I then got home, felt happy, talked to my girlfriend happily, which gave me further joy, and even though she was nearly in a comatose stage of sleep, this did not bother me, and I was happy to kiss her goodnight and let her sleep, while I, still carried along, I drew for the first time in years. First a couple of doodles, something slightly romantic, as my mind was full of girlfriend thoughts; then some cool guys smoking; and finally a very detailed sketch of Mordecai Richler’s face, who’s book was sitting near by, with a very expressive snapshot of his ugly mug on the back cover.

I slept like a baby.
I have been walking for years, but I usually walk quite slowly. I am just a little fellow. When I try to walk quickly, I find I get shin splints. I never knew why.

I was walking wrong. I was trying to walk fast instead of walking fast. Leaning forward and motoring away with my legs did no good. Relaxing back, and swinging my legs out, planting my feet firmly on the ground, getting a good grip, rather than trying to lightly brush over the world, escape its gravity, rather than embrace it warmly… with my feet… this was the way.

The World Is Donkey Shit

Some musings based on a spontaneous and interactive argument

Philosophy class breeds curiosity, convoluted debates, the odd headache, and poverty.
Its value is somewhere between the cracks, that people blithely step on while tuning out the world through their ear phones.

Democracy. Government. Economics. Natural Science. All stem from it in some part.

But the vision of it now is what? Only useless poverty and academia?

“Philosophy is useless?” One says.

“How can you say that?” Another says.

“I agree, but that’s the point.” One more.

While the last just laughs.

“I like it because it’s useless. I don’t want to study something useful. That’s why I’m in university.” An amusing, some might say, idealistic point.

“Philosophy has a part in everything we do.” The livid protest continues.

“It does nothing. We need science. Science makes the world work.” The snide rebuttal.

“None of that would exist without the environment that philosophy has provided through the establishment of democracy and ongoing discourse!”

“Without Science you would be cold and hungry.”

“No, without philosophy there would be no science.”

“I just like philosophy.” The interjection.

“Look. Here it is. Without Science the world would be Donkey Shit.”

Boisterous laughter from the other, while the others sit shocked, split between the desire to flip off the offending voice, and the curiosity of the distracting laughs.

The conversation is at an end. Succinct eloquence brings it to a somewhat crass stop. Without Science the world is Donkey Shit.

My worry is that the world is Donkey Shit anyways.
Can it be anything else? Or do we just embrace the shitty world.

Shit happens… or worse still… shit IS. And we can only be happy… by learning to love shit.

It seems we might as well laugh.

Do-Rags Change the World?

For the unfamiliar, as many may be, though not for long, we must first ask: what is a Do-Rag?

I had originally surmised that the word came from a combination of the words “dew" and "rag,” having only heard it, bandied about here and there in oral tradition in the rough streets of Ottawa. I had foolishly thought that it served the practical purpose of sopping up sweat from the wearers head. I had noticed that it was sometimes worn by professional athletes, mostly in the NBA or NFL, where sweat in one’s eyes or on the court must be a particular hazard. However, this is apparently not the case.

A do rag is a large handkerchief that you wrap around your head in a particular way, similar to a bandanna, though, covering the whole scalp, in an effort to protect your “do.”

It may have originated with G.I.s in Vietnam, or may date back as far as emperor Menelike II of of Ethiopia (Aug 17, 1844 –Dec 12, 1913). What good it would do for protecting a “do” from a Vietnamese sniper, I do not know. It may alternately be spelled “doo-rag,” “du-rag,” or “durag,” with no apparent change in the meaning.

The “do rag” is solely an item of personal statement, a sideline fashion item that expresses one’s inner “badassness.” Apart from wearing it on one’s head one may also keep their do-rag around one’s belt loops. This is particularly “badass” as any functional value of the do-rag is removed and only its “bad ass” element remains behind. Be sure to watch which side you hang it on. If one were to hang in on the left side, that would be the “crip side.” If you wander into the wrong neighborhood with this conspicuous label you may find yourself confronted by gang members for being off your “turf”.

The do-rag has recently taken on a new level of cultural importance following the popularity of rap artist T.I., who’s biting lyrics in his song "Swing Your Rag" have led to a neo do-rag movement. A small sample of the songs lyrics succinctly describe this evolution: “I don’t dance, no way. I pull my do-rag out and wave it around. I pull my Gucci rag out and wave around.” The actions involved in the lyrics are easily understood, but what of the meaning behind them?

Through the lyrics may seem simple, this do-rag waving movement has lifted the do-rag to a symbolic level. Through this song T.I. is making, I think, a carefully constructed protest against the need to prove yourself by dance to any man or woman within the highly judgmental confines of a dance club. The extremely overt action of standing isolated within a club and furiously waving about a large piece of cloth, perhaps in general protest, or perhaps in response to being asked to dance, shouts louder than words could over the club bass that there is no need to please anyone but yourself. The selection of a very expensive designer rag allows the waver to maintain that he is still a successful “go getta” and is choosing not to dance and not tha he is unable.

Once emphatically alone in his do-rag waving, a whole host of followers have rallied around T.I. and now pass their Friday nights furiously waving their own, usually neutral coloured, do-rags in dance clubs across the North American continent.

There is yet no word that the phenomenon has spread beyond North America, inquiries into Europe have only had the response “mais c’est de la merde, non?”

Still the phenomenon continue to grow here, seemingly without limit, and one has to wonder if this will eventually remove straight male dancing from night clubs altogether, leaving only circles of barefooted women and gay men to actually dance.

Lisa Robbins, a frequent club goer and girlfriend to Josh Adams, a do-rag waving follower, had this to say.

“At first I thought it was weird like. He never liked to dance anyways, and when he did he just grabbed me all over, and you know, sometimes that's nice like, but sometimes you just want to dance. He’d get all moody and pissy if I wouldn’t let him touch me. Once he tried dancing near me by himself but got angry and said it was gay. He got really drunk that night. Then one time I ask him to dance and he just whips that thing he started wearing off his belt and started waving it in my face. At first I thought it was some new dance and tried to go along with it, but he kept whipping me in the eye. Now I dance with my girlfriend while he and some other guys stand in a corner drinking cheap champagne and waving their do-rags at anyone who comes near them. It’s really fucked up. Why doesn’t he just stay home? He says that’s gay too. I don’t get it.”

Despite the protests of girlfriends, other club goers and gang leaders, do-rag wavers maintain that they are engaging in a serious protest and refuse to back down. I asked Josh to possibly sum-up the socio cultural influence he thinks do-rag waving has and will continue to have across North America. “It ain’t stupid,” Josh replied angrily, flicking his do-rag towards my face “and I ain’t gay,” he added before stomping off to refill his champagne glass, do wag quivering at his side, ever ready, to lash out for his cause. With such energy firing Josh and fellow do rag-wavers it seems there is no end in sight to this dance club phenomena, this crusade to change the world.