NUNT Command Centre
About Mingus Tourette
Links & Props
Mission Statement

Nunt: The Book
Publishing Details

Tourette's In Progress

Daily Mingus Archive
July 2007
December 2006
November 2006
October 2006
September 2006
August 2006
July 2006
June 2006
May 2006
April 2006
March 2006
February 2006
January 2006
December 2005
November 2005
October 03 2005
September 19 2005
September 05 2005
August 22 2005
July 25 2005
July 11 2005
July 04 2005
June 27 2005
June 20 2005
June 13 2005
June 06 2005
May 23 2005
May 16 2005
May 09 2005
May 02 2005
April 25 2005
April 18 2005
April 11 2005
April 04 2005
March 28 2005
March 21 2005
March 14 2005
March 07 2005
February 28 2005
February 21 2005
February 14 2005
February 07 2005
January 31 2005
January 24 2005
January 17 2005
January 10 2005
January 03 2005
December 27 2004
December 20 2004
December 13 2004
December 06 2004
November 29 2004
November 22 2004
November 15 2004
November 08 2004
November 07 2004
October 04 2004
September 27 2004
September 20 2004
September 13 2004
September 06 2004
August 30 2004
August 23 2004
August 16 2004
August 09 2004
August 02 2004
July 26 2004
July 19 2004
July 12 2004
July 05 2004
June 21 2004
June 07 2004
May 31 2004
May 24 2004
May 17 2004
May 10 2004
May 03 2004
April 26 2004
April 19 2004
April 12 2004
April 05 2004
March 29 2004
March 22 2004
March 15 2004
March 08 2004
March 01 2004
February 23 2004
February 16 2004
February 09 2004
February 02 2004
January 26 2004
January 19 2004
January 12 2004
January 05 2004

November 8th - 14th, 2004
November 12th, 2004

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 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

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!

But What Happened Last Week? By God, Find Out Here!