November 12th, 2004
Thanotherapy
My earnest plea for advice from friends and cherished
readers on new directions brought about a telling
series of suggestions. It included:
A couple votes for starting a new religion. I'm
seriously considering this option - think of the
travel, the babes, the legalized drugs. If I called
it art, I could probably get funding.
One vote for a 110 mph American border crossing.
One anti-vote for journalism school.
One request for semi-naked photos of myself reading
from Dante while wearing a gasmask and Write The
Nation underoos.
A couple votes for the pink ambulance story.
A couple votes for an online writer's community.
One recommendation that I lie on my back and pretend
I was dead.
One email recommending I explore my gentle and
compassionate side.
One email recommending I explore the poetic nature
of bondage.
(Note: I intend to explore both. Simultaneously.)
However, no one recommended marriage, video games,
more drinking, or finishing anything I've started.
And no one dissuaded me from going to Iraq or
driving off Niagara Falls in the pink ambulance
after failing to burn down the White House.
The most immediately appealing option was the
idea of lying on my back in the early hours of
the morning and pretending I was dead - thanotherapy,
as I understand it (thanks, msh).
The concept may seem morbid, but it has a zen-like
quality to it, and is reminiscent of something
Tento Yuriko described in one of his journals.
The trick is, after a few hours of pretending
you're gone, ask yourself what you would truly
be doing if you weren't dead, and then get up
and do it.
Tento described a similar process, but performed
his meditation in the woods or whatever natural
spot one he could find, searching for satori.
The last time he lay in this neo-zazen state was
only a couple of weeks before they found him on
the river bank. Apparently, when he wrote this,
he was laying in the middle of a snow-covered
field in his snow suit at around two in the morning.
glint of ice fields
sparkling with stars
the new moon grins
This sounds like something I can do soon. And
perhaps this will lead in new directions. Or to
new religions.
November 10th, 2004
Moving To France
Publisher phoned today in manic state. Said he'd
received a letter from a French Publishing House
who might be interested in publishing a translation.
I told him to fuck off.
But he was serious. Brought the letter over. Some
nice letterhead. Seems legit. Dated Paris, November
the 2nd. We did our little dance in the kitchen.
Small victories.
So I say that to say this: if you know of any
book reviews or tour articles that I have probably
missed (I know there's a bunch out there), could
you please forward them to tourette@nunt.com
as we revise the review pages before shipping
this off. Seems like we're not done selling the
book. 'Cause nothing would cause a Canadian book
to succeed in its own country like having it succeed
somewhere else first. Bet your ass.
 In
other news, the US continues its biggest urban
assault since Vietnam in Fallujah,
but finds out that many of 'the terrorists' have
slipped out and counterattacked across the country.
The ones who are standing and fighting are facing
the usual Abrams tanks, Bradley fighting vehicles,
and C-130 40 mm cannon fire. With Ak-47s. Found
an interesting photo collection from inside Fallujah
(example right) on the Guardian
web site, showing the insurgents getting ready
for the assault. Warning: viewing these photos
is shockingly humanizing. THESE PEOPLE LOOK PRETTY
NORMAL. Like this kid. Looks like he should be
chasing a soccer ball.
As well:
The move against Fallujah prompted influential
Sunni Muslim clerics to call for a boycott of
national elections set for January. A widespread
boycott among Sunnis could wreck the legitimacy
of the elections, seen as vital in Iraq's move
to democracy. U.S. commanders have said the Fallujah
invasion is the centerpiece of an attempt to secure
insurgent-held areas so voting can be held.
Into the fire...
November 9th, 2004
Equilibrium
After three or four rounds of lager-soaked debauchery,
half a dozen films, a milestone birthday, and
two weeks spent trying to reach a point where
I don't fall asleep in the middle of meals anymore,
I have reached that ever-dangerous equilibrium.
On Friday, before the excruciating round of northern
dysentery, I found myself pounding out the world's
loudest version of Bruce Springsteen's 'Born in
the USA' in front of a shell-shocked audience
of mulleteers and tattooed boozettes. Karaoke
doesn't get any better, except possibly when I
stood up an hour later to power-scream my way
through 'Welcome to the Jungle'. That one was
wildly appreciated by a bunch of fellows in Iron
Maiden t-shirts. It was probably no coincidence,
however, that the waitress poured an entire jug
of water over my head when I ordered my next drink.
Not that it would have stopped me from doing another
song, if I wasn't so drunk. In fact, I was thinking
of dropping a little bit of Iron Butterfly for
the crowd, but I was cold and shivering and staring
at Unkle Pat and saying,"You know what this
feels like. Like the end of a long night of hard
drinking on a May long weekend, camping out at
the pier."
Except it ain't spring. And the last time I crushed
forty-eight beer in forty-eight hours over the
campfire, I found the hangover movies much more
entertaining. I watch 'em now, and find myself
unable to be surprised. Even films with good dialogue
and pace and cadence are so tightly plotted that
nothing appears without reason. If there is a
throwaway line, it will resonate later on. And
this bothers me.
Even the news seems badly written these days.
It's been awhile since I took long-form art into
my system. I am nervous about reading a novel
again, in one sitting. Had a discussion with a
recent migrant from cowtown and he mentioned that
he doesn't read novels anymore, after all the
poetry. Finds them too bloated. But this is what
I should be doing now, isn't it? Relaxing and
enjoying some reading and fine films and long
winter walks? Enjoying the equilibrium? Or is
that really a possibility? 'Cause as always, the
question that circulates when one hits a period
of stillness: what next?
Option One: My publisher's answer is: keep pounding
the hell out of the book.
It ain't dead yet. As he mentioned, "Your
friends might all have a copy, but what about
their friends? And the fuckers that heard about
the tour, and so on?" And it's a reasonable
request. Lord knows, he's sunk financially if
we don't move a few hundred more copies. But it
seems quite finished to me, in a way. At least
creatively, there is no more to be done with this
work. Performing it was a good capstone, and something
I came to enjoy, especially with strange audiences.
But selling books is a mechanical thing, unless
I can convince him to really burn the remaining
copies in the spring. Which is a possibility.
Or maybe we drive around to some of the smaller
towns around this province and scare the hell
out of the locals. That might be amusing (grunt
if yer interested).
Option Two: Write the story of the pink ambulance.
Again, my publisher and I had long talks about
this one, and he's interested in contributing.
I don't know if he'll be able to afford to put
it out, but if it gets written, it'll get out
somehow. Would be an interesting book, I think.
We learned lots and had lots of fun and saw some
crazy things in this country that most people
will never see. And almost broke ourselves on
the wheel. And that was good.
Option Three: Write The Book of Enoch, the tale
of a murdering polygamist liquor salesman. A story
very dear to my heart.
Option Four: Start a religion.
Option Five: Write out Ascension,
in collaboration with Mr. de Guerre. Such a cool
fucking project.
Option Six: Go to journalism school. Seems to
be the only way to actually earn a living as a
writer in this fucking country.
Option Seven: Finish off
LitSLAP and get on television. How else can
one make a living with books in this country?
Option Eight: Go to Iraq. Me and Gander discussed
this one at length. He may wind up over there,
reporting. Might be an interesting tail run on
the schooling issue.
Option Nine: Reinvent self as a film auteur. Interpret
poetry through celluloid.
Option Ten: Finish off Divinity.
I know there is a third reader out there, and
he lives in Brandon and if he actually finishes
all thirteen chapters, I'll send him a personally
autographed picture of myself in a gasmask reading
Dante's Inferno.
Option Eleven: Reinvent self as a pop star - release
audionunt on William Shatner's coat tails and
move into a whitewashed mansion in Florida with
Ashlee Simpson.
Option Twelve: Learn how to write grants and sell
everything and move to an even cheaper bachelor
apartment and just write, all day, every day,
and hustle it in the evening to an unsuspecting
populace.
Option Thirteen: Similar to above, but move into
the Unknown Poet's house in Niagara Falls, beginning
an extremely unhealthy co-dependent alcoholic
relationship while worshipping a man named rob
mclennan, yet having meaningless affairs with
the same U of T poetry professor woman to see
if anything ironic comes of it. This option invariably
ends with the two of us driving the pink ambulance
over the falls, possibly with the American air
force in full pursuit. The white house may or
may not be in flames, depending on our level of
sheer incompetence.
Option Fourteen: Attempt to convince publisher
to reprint in hardcover and drive across country
in spring. Breakdown in Moosejaw and disappear
into the Tunnels, never to be heard from again.
Option Fifteen: Attempt American tour, using the
inevitable 'border incident' publicity to slingshot
nunt into bookstores around the country.
Option Sixteen: Operation Vatican Assault. The
less said about this, the better.
Option Seventeen: Start an online community for
Canadian writers, so the next fucker who tries
something as stupid as a cross-country ambulance
tour doesn't have to start on his own.
Option Eighteen: Attempt to redefine freedom.
As in: the Iraqis are free, except under martial
law. And. The American homosexuals are free, except
to marry.
Option Nineteen: Spend a good chunk of the next
year trying to outdo the last weekend's drunk.
Watch a new movie every tuesday.
Option Twenty: Buy an x-box, halo 2 and sink into
the sweet ether of a manufactured hero's life.
Option Twenty-One: Think about trying out for
the synagogue.
Option n: Settle down, get married, maybe have
a kid, watch some tv, own some property, drive
a more reliable car, and wonder how long it will
all last before the inevitable implosion and divorce.
Cause at least that's normal.
November 8th, 2004
Northern Dysentery
Due to a rifling pain in my gut that woke me
up at 5 AM on a Sunday morning and made me pray
for most of the morning and beyond, there will
be no DM today. Because I'm all for religious
experiences, but not so much when they come in
the form of Mingus pissing out of his ass until
there is no water left in him.
At least it isn't a double ender. So far.
Hey, after Fallujah,
what's the next horseman of the apocalypse. Plague!
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November 8th - 14th, 2004