Ebola Expediency

19 Oct 2014

What happened to Putin and The Ukrainian crises?


What happened to ISIS, that terrorist "state" invading our Western civilized streets to decapitate us? That "terrorist state" that all of the Western and Middle Eastern fire power are unable to kill... just like some Hollywood movie or video game figures that get blown to hell and by some magical force of magnet power re-assemble, stand up, charge forward again relentlessly... conquering, conquering city after city... against all the lethal cannon power.


What has happened to these, what...20,000 - 30,000, slaughtering, “terrorists” enemies of civilization... enemies that all the military might of the heralded USA military machine cannot stop..?


What ruse is this?

Has the official propaganda media machine found a new celebrity enemy, Ebola, to quell the threatening forces of mass anarchy in the world, so the elite corporate financial establishment can build up their security walls in advance of the “meltdown”?


I just ask, as we all know about the collapse of Roman Empire, the collapse of British Empire and about the victims of Bullies, as I travel on the road, wondering about my life as an artist, at the edge of the universe.

　

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An Ebola update from President Obama

Today, President Obama spoke to the nation about Ebola -- how the Administration is responding, and what you should know.

The Ebola virus is a public health and national security priority, and the President has directed the Administration to continue to take aggressive measures at every level of government.


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Supreme Court Upholds Texas Voter ID Law


The Supreme Court on Saturday allowed Texas to enforce its strict voter identification law in the November election. The law, enacted in 2011, requires voters seeking to cast their ballots at the polls to present photo identification like a Texas drivers license, or gun license, a military ID or a passport. Critics say the law id the most exacting in the nation and would disenfranchise 600,000 registered voters, a disproportionate number of them and Hispanic.



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CIA Insider Warns: “25-Year Great Depression is About to Strike America”

By MONEY MORNING STAFF REPORTS

You will want to remember this date April 19, 2015

According to one of the top minds in the U.S. Intelligence Community, that is when the United States will enter the darkest economic period in our nation’s history. A 25-year Great Depression. In and exclusive interview with Monday Morning, Jim Richards, the CIA’s Financial Threat and Asymmetric Warfare Adviser, has stepped forward to warn the American people that time is running out to prepare for this $100 trillion meltdown. The nightmarish endgame presented in this report involved “a worldwide economic breakdown and an extended period of global anarchy.

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Amongst all, all, all the other media updates, with all the accompanying “dire warnings”…

I have no conclusions on these specific updates but, for some reason they stick out as red flags in my mind.



　

　

Selamat tinggal

Ape or Chicken

Stuck in Halifax. Reading: WHY US and wondering, frighteningly so... one more tiny little genetic, evolutionary accident and I could have been an 'ape' or a 'chicken, in a little cage obliviously waiting to be sucked alive up into the de-feathering machine '. As it is, I am a 'Rhetoric' and that is bad enough. I was born a Rhetoric.

I simply have to accept... I am a Rhetoric. I did not always know I was a Rhetoric. I thought I was unique and art was the most fascinating raison d'etre. So I have been spending my life creating images and constructing textual ideologies to challenge destructive social constructs.

I built myself a military tank, loaded with metaphors, as the ammunition and rumbled across the cities of Canada. The metaphors were: large cock in vagina; children playing sex games; a family of rats watching garbage on TV; a black super hero in a large wind blowing red cape and having no brain; a horny muscled sports jock with his sexy cheer leader girl wrapped in his arm with a brain-like looking football in his hand; a game board with body parts; an assembly line of grey figures disappearing into a vacuum pack machine; a Holstein cow sitting on a park bench with her utters shamefully hanging low and very public. My response to the 30,000 visitor's question, ("What does it all mean") was "The story of life from conception to the cow". It always got a laugh., as did I in the telling.

                                         “MAGICAL MYSTERY TANK”


1978 I designed and built the Ped-l-on to solve the world energy crises and obesity…
 

 

 

 

I created a whole silk-screen series on the poignant, satirical metaphors of life…
 

 

 

 

I rented a horse and fantasised myself a Don Quixote Cowboy from Shangri-La

 

 

 

Urban Cowboy

Rod Malay’s The Cowboy From Shangrila was more media event

than art when the Malay Falls artist and the horse Jack Frost road into the

Grand Parade Tuesday at lunchtime.

Malay, anxious to discover the identity of the cowboy, who he is and what

he means to Malay and to society, has a costume complete with symbols. He

carries a gun, a gourd for gunpowder, flowers under his saddle, a wooden

statue of the god Poseidon (since mystically speaking horses come from

the sea), a Japanese jacket, an Indian spear and shield with symbols and

Spanish spurs. He looked the gentle pastoral cowboy not the rough,

tobacco-chewing meanies the sheriff is always after. The Cowboy from

Shangrila is participation art.... Elissa Barnard

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I designed and built an environmentally friendly apartment/commercial structure and applied two functional breasts on the roof (now affectionately referred to as “The Boob House”… a city landmark). I officially named it the “Nile House” as the Nile being a metaphor for the continuity of life. Of course the Boobs represents mother nature’s nurture...

 

 

 

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I outfitted my truck, Safari style, and headed out across the plains and snow capped mountains of North America, from the Arctic Circle to the Gulf of Mexico to see what I could find, if I could find some clues to my human existence.

 

 

 

Standing at the door

 

 

Didn`t expect much of this day

Was cold waking up crumpled on that cold seat

The big night machines were still wheeling by

Singing their song

Along that asphalt line

I am the drunk, the beggar, the prostitute,

I am the thief, the cripple, the soldier, the dreamer

Standing at the door

My feet were cold

Started the truck

Headed to the next town

found another dead soldier

In Highway Fields Forever

And stopped to record the site

He was loved

Like them all but different

There was a box of treasures

Inviting participation.

A handsome photo of him a rigger cowboy

A pen and a comments book

Messages of love

From mom, dad, sister, uncles, cousins

I wrote a message to his family

About the connectedness of all life

And thanked them for the invitation

And headed on down the line

I am the drunk, the beggar, the prostitute,

I am the thief, the cripple, the soldier, the dreamer

Standing at the door

I parked down town in that next town

The dirty side of town

In front of a door shadowed from above

By a Christian salvation sign

A drunk was cursing to the high heavens

‘I’m gonna kill em, I‘m gonna kill em!”

A pale young blond girl sidled on by

With a gait as on a fashion runway

Flaunting her wares to the wanton

A young man with a worn out face

A hunch back, begging eyes

An unlit cigarette hanging between his fingers

Paced packed with insane agitation

Back and forth in front of God’s door.

A tired old woman came to me

Curiously with two cooked lobsters $40 dollars

And walked off ghostly into salvation’s shadow

The pale young blond asked me for a cigarette

I did not have… she wanted some money time with me

A tattooed man stood aimlessly at the door

Watching the tipsy drunk trying to tie his shoe

As a woman with a droopy smiling face held him in place

Another woman with one leg hobbled along on crutches

And talked with friends in hopeful gestures

`How ya doing girl?” another voice called out to her

I watched it all, I had seen before in other towns

I wrote emails to my friends

talked about the collective unconscious

And the connectedness of us all

I am the drunk, the beggar, the prostitute,

I am the thief, the cripple, the soldier, the dreamer

Standing at the door


__________________________________________________________________________

I wrote a 1000 page book about it all… The Book Of Monad. I cursed, I scribbled fuck language, I smashed my chainsaw into the earth and wrote songs and made movies about my bad habits, the bad men, politicians, church and state and corporations in life.

And I gave it to the public… no holds barred!
 

 

“Artist Rod Malay stands inside Galleria Unplugged, 2166 Gottingen St. Halifax where his exhibit, As A Man Thinketh (Inside This Plastic Prism) is on view to September 16. The exhibit includes one of his peddling machines, a chessboard of clay pieces that are body parts and an installation of iconic American cowboy gear”.


NOW…

Taking it all to a higher intimidating level, I am developing a theatrical performance work, somewhat improvisational … on stage in front of an audience. Working title: The Metaphoric Man.

I created new art for this production….

 

 

  
And now I am on tour… www.shakethedevilofftour.blogspot.com heading to Miami and to any points beyond… looking for venues/invitations for the Metaphoric Man (working title).
I will even do house parties... any where!

All for the fun of it...

rod_malay@hotmail.com
jasperbog@gmail.com


1 902 830 6351 (Text or Viber only)

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The Outlaw and Arri Kanina

All for love

　

 

　
She played my favourite music. I imagined her as Helen of Troy, Goddess of my dreams and that she was in the flick of an eye and then gone. We walked the hardwood hills… naked and laid in the leaves.

　

　

　

　
It is all mixed up with her. The fucking talking playing working eating sleeping laughing reading. Orgasm. All of it. A genius could not sort it. And why bother. Except I worry it is only for the fuck. The unbelievable fucks.

27 May

I worry too that I am seducing her. That she has lost her mind to need desperation and that when I go she will be devastated. I can not go now without thinking of these things without suffering her pain. She will survive it. All brumakki do. But will I get by her pain. My pain. Without her

It is under control now today. Chaya is happy. Young Light is happy. Quiet. All is quiet in my head … to focus on my lover.

Arri read my letter, my fantasy vision. She said she was not used to performing and that is what it is.

You do not need to do it if it makes you uncomfortable It is my fantasy not yours.

I want to do it. It excites me. I want to dress and undress many times for you.

Was a bit embarrassed that I may have led her into something she may not have wanted to do. But would do it for me. There was no way out now She was determined, in her silent way, to do it. For her as well hopefully. Could not determine her full motivation. I would have to follow it through to know if I had made a mistake.

Those debilitating accusations of slimy lustful dirty old men. Brumakki users abusers . Churned in my stomach stirring up guilt. I had to take Arri at face value. She is an intelligent independent bruma. Knows her own mind and body. Does not hate men. Is not a victim. Enjoys her body sex lust laughter pleasure. Equals mine.

We embraced. Pushed our bodies in tight. Pelvis to pelvis. Breasts to chest. Hands to buttocks. Pulled together. Her language allayed my worries doubts. Yet, I continued to search for signs of betrayal in her words, her touches, looks as I swelled against her.

I washed up from a basin a bit shy in front of her as she watched and asked how I would feel if she wrote the same letter to me. Nervous, uneasy, not sure really but the idea of exercising her fantasy delighted me… would it be… will it be?


She said she could not imagine a fantasy that could be better than the real thing than what we have, do now. Nor could I as we talked. The fantasy was no longer urgent. The letter was written when she was not around… generated by the memory of earlier lust. What was to come would inflame my wildest fantasies… as always… a surprise… that extraordinary love. I assured her it did not matter now but, I knew I was going to get what I asked for. She changed from her blue work jeans into black tights skirt a loose black top showed the swelling of her nipples.

I went to bed before her, undressed slowly in case she was watching and slid between the cool cotton sheets anticipating her. She came from the shadows to my side intent on her mission. My head was at the level of her knees as she leaned against the bed looking down from that great height as an Amazon woman. She rocked her pelvis toward me inviting me to make the next move to break the spell… from fantasy to reality, before she could enjoy it… get-give pleasure. She arched rocked swayed her pelvis further toward me. I rolled her nipples between my fingers. She was moving into the other realm… losing herself in pleasure. She sat down on the edge of the bed, arched her back over me. I raised her skirt. My fingers were lost in her. She was playing the whore for me or was simply lost in the pleasure of her own body in front of an approving audience… watching herself in the mirror rocking on me front to rear.

Oscillating buttock. Buttocks that I had only ever seen in my fantasies or in playboy magazine… perfect firm buttocks framed by the curved legging trim of her white cotton panties that trailed down between her soft inner thighs and eyes.

It was all panic, crying rubbing rocking as she pulled the trim aside inviting me inside. As she masturbated simultaneously.


It was all real… all fantasy… all fabulous

I worry now

That she may leave

That she may not understand

How profoundly I need her

For eternity

I worry now

That she may be afraid

From the times of her past

To venture

Into new beginnings

With me

Too vulnerable to begin

A beginning with me

Too afraid of the pain

Again

I know it is selfish

But isn’t it the ultimate gift to another

To her

The ultimate embrace

Of admiration

Of respect

To want to love her

As I love her

Her mysteries

She is pure love

And I am in love with her

Her will fascinates me

Un revealed

I enter her

Enormous cup

Stand on its rim look in and in and in

Into deep, deep dark

Flowing liquid

And am a speck in her infinity

And my own

I enter

With all that I have

But in some ways naked

As if newly born

To be born into another

Beginning

On top of all the other beginnings

That never leave

A part of the all

Of me

To stay

To enrich

To fulfill

And I need her

To enrich

To fulfill to stay… until. If she must go

I worry I may be too strong

For her

Fighting behind walls

In terror

Remembering

No memories of imposed memories

Now

To go to her

After these thirty years

To touch her

Before she speaks

Of the tricksters.

9 December 9:15 am

Day two

Seems like year 20

10 more to go

Before tomorrow

Before more beautiful pain

Than I can just bear

Today

My first waking thought

Of her

The feeling for her

At chakra one

It is ecstasy

My chest pumps pain

Unbearable pain

In anticipation of a tumultuous event

About to plunge

Into its infinite down-ness

To soar up

To the other side

The soul

Beyond time and space

In love with love

In love with pain

We walk toward each other

And into each other

Every fibre mixing

Forcefully

With each other

Tearing for escape

For union


For release

A moment until the passing

To the other side

Of her

Romantic heroes

Other times

My heroes

My lovers

Who comforted me

Imaginings times

Ahead

Living ahead

Of my time and space

She takes me to it again

A coming home

Not quite

The journey was there

From there to here

Now

It makes the difference

Then simply returning

More of a visit

To embark in new directions

A starting again

But not born again

This time

Passion

Love with the lover

Abandonment of fear


She opened her heart way

To me

She

Goddess of wisdom

Pure knowledge

Pure knowing

Pure giving

Love,

Has time

These thirty years past

Not made you submit

To the driven impulse

That knows no intellectualization

No nation

No borders

No gravity

Or rationalization

No argument

That knows not knowing

Feels

Only chaotic

Blissful impulse

The agony

To move to the precipice

Immaterial

Into flowing dark liquid

Surrounded

Embraced

The arms of your lover

Pulling you

Into the centre

Through to another starting

That you pain for

That I pain for

10:56pm

Return to your believing

In all good

Friend ships for ever

Return

To your pure thoughts

So that I may enter you

New

For new startings

Without hesitation

Without compare

Without memory

Only anguished anticipation

For enrichment

Sweet

Fulfillment

As not before

To enter your

Now as I

Big arms embrace, tenderly caress

10 December

Day 30 year 9:30 - 11:45am

Too many interruptions

Unwanted

Intrusions

Today

Violent assaults

On my need for privacy

Demands to speak

Words

That

They to invade

My inner thoughts

In other realms

Love

Her

12:21pm

Too much invasion

To dwell on her

Here

Too many eyes

Looking inside

Me

Needing to escape

But it is the only way

To be close to her now


But I must depart

To un blissful places

Bid adieu

12:26pm

Steps on the stairs

Invaders

Adieu, adieu

　

　

　

I cannot forget her but, there is no way back. She turned her back on me and went into her secret places, leaving me with only assumings …

She left our world and that world left me to only dream of it… to dream it again into existence, to wrestle in the early winter snow, flicking it into our faces in mock battle, battles of laughter, filled with rich anticipation, warm soapy water to sculpt our bodies with slippery hands and artful fingers.

We talked dirty talk and I wrote dirty songs, while listening to her black woman singing sultry, sweaty, provocative Mississippi Delta Blues…



GREASE IT


Grease me up honey

Stick your bolt in

And screw it up tight

I’m a bit dry

And a bit loose

She said

This thing ain’t been used in a while

My man has been a little down

Grease it up good honey

Wrench me down hard

My man went out on a job

Boltin down new things

To the floor

Won’t be back til tomorrow

So grease me up good honey

We got the whole night

To fix this thing

I want the biggest bolt you got in that box

Let me check it out for myself

Ooh yeah yeah

That feels just about the right size

It’s a bit crooked though

You been usin dat thing before

On some other floor

Sure was baby

Greasin it up and up

Practicing for you

　

Yeaaaah…

I like a man who knows what to do

Who has experience

Now get down here

Grease me up

And bolt this thing to the floor

We got da whole night

Yeah baby

You got a good lookin thing

A real good lookin thing

I got some sand paper in this box

To grind it down

And fasten it right

Now part yourself honey

This bolt is bigger tonight

Goin take a little more greasing

Gotta cover it all over baby

With that slippery stuff

To screw it smooth

Give it to me in my hands

And the nuts too

I’ll lick that grease in every thread

You sit back there and relax

This is goin take a while

We got da whole night honey

We got da whooole night

My man is out on a job

He won’t be back til tomorrow afternoon

Good man

Yeah he is a good man my man

He knows how to fix himself without troubling me

Now get off that chair

And fix my thing to the floor

Tonight it belongs to you

You gotta go tomorrow

My man will be back all fixed up

But tonight it belongs to you

It’s all greased up

And tonight baby

It belongs to you

Thaaat feels better

Yeah

Its good and tight

Grind it down more

Its still stickin out a bit

Grind it some more

Keep grindin

That feels better

My spirit are getting up

I’m getting down into myself again.


　

 

 

 

　
 "He carries his gun outside of his pants... for all the world to see"  Townes Van Zandt... In fact, he wears no pants. He is the Outlaw... the Metaphoric Man, Man Without Power... He is Monad, inside this plastic prism. He is exotic, chaotic, alpha to omega... from the first cell, from the toxic pool, wading through the junk yard, 3.5 billion years... as a man thinketh, unravelling the immaterial mysteries of his Helix.

 

Selamat tinggal.

 

Back In The Bog

08 October 2014
It has been a fabulous trip across the continent of North America. Blogging has been an inspirational challenge. Meeting new people and diverse earthscapes, natural and manufactured, are the greatest tools for tweeking lost or forgotten memories or ideas, that have molded my private and public face.

I am back in my Bog temporarily to renew the necessary documents that bind me to place and country… passports, permits, licenses, pension, health cards… least one becomes ‘persona non grata”. And there is the need to take a few little jobs to renew the empty space and holes in my wallet that enable me to fuel body and truck. Aside from these necessities, there are intellectual benefits by returning to Jasper Bog, a bit of time out of the human race to inspire the body with fresh air and pure spring water, from the venerable soil of mother earth.

It is basic… a sinking shack, on a small dry spot in a bog, which, in my youthful naiveté, religious ignorance and hypocritical arrogance I named “Jasper”, the biblical stone upon which the universe would be rebuilt after the Apocalypse. I keep that shameful name as a reminder of the layered social propaganda carved into my bones… perhaps, that is why!? There are unknown forces acting upon me from that vast genetic bank that need yet to reveal themselves to me. My comic relief is a picture of Kurt Vonnegut sitting upon the rubble, of flesh and bones, plastic and concrete, writing his account of what just happened to the "sinful" world and to the “saved”.

In the mean time here she is in our Bog… waiting for me... forever patient... Mederia... ever thoughtful. Rodin missed it... his opportunity to prove his femininehood and his understanding to carry his poetry to higher levels.

 

And here is Pandora, in her poignancy, laden with visible testimony in the patriarchal dogma of skins and metaphors.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

and this is The Jasper Bog World Bank... a two seated composter...where all the crap of the world is dumped to mold and rot to renew the earth.

 

 
.

Jasper Bog World Bank

Earth Day contribution

however, forever,

not just for the day

A two seater depositor

For Nure currency

Including a book library

For those long moments

Of cricky hindrance

Finger puppets for the kids

Art for the intellect

Upon which to meditate

A deck on which to laze and read

And look mistly

Over the lake yonder

And then…

 

To depart without a fart

But light in body and heart

And knowing…

 

For the generations to come

You have enriched the soil

In this embracing composter

For nature to fill its belly

While leaving no smelly

With a light topping

Of fresh sawdust

------

Open for deposits

24 hours a day.

Rod Malay, Senior Pastoralist, Jasper Bog World Bank

 

 

 

In five weeks I will head out again... south, with a visit on the way to Darling Grandma Nellie for an embrace, and on south to Florida, not as a "Snow Bird", but with that mission to celebritize a little lady, with the " American Dream". Joan Rivers awaits this little girl's rise to "fame and fortune". For me it is a risky "78" journey of life or death. It will be one or the other on that battle field. Has my wisdom and resolve risen high enough to survive that bloody challenge?

 

I'll be right back... ?

 

Selamat tinggal

　

 

Toy Trucks And Shaved Pussies

28 Sept 2014

Now that is a muscle truck. A former German Police vehicle.

We boys just cannot give it up… Power trucks and shaved pussies. Dominance and submission. Religion and femme chattel.

I spent weeks trying to write this blog… rather trying to get to essence this blog, to the ideology of this blog because, it is what my journey is or should be about.

18 Sept 2014

I’d been having Rilke moments these past few weeks… perhaps dead brain symptoms or dead cells. I read an incident once, that this great German poet went to one of his dear artist friends lamenting that he simply could not write “these days”. That artist, undoubtedly Rodin, instructed Rilke to just “write… wake up and write anything but, write” … clearly implying that the creative inspiration will return. I try to follow this wisdom in my work, as I believe it to be true. Still it is difficult to muster the energy at times. Albeit, unfortunately time does not procrastinate.

Cousin Danny gave me a book, that he has read three times, “WHY US?… HOW SCIENCE REDISCOVERED THE MYSTERY OF OURSELVES“ Well let me see. When someone comes up with an answer, I am immediately suspicious… of religious fanaticism. Lets see how far I get into this book by: James Le Fanu. What I like about scientific investigation is that it does not proclaim to know and offers no dogma. So here is Fanu, telling us that he has the answer but, seemingly using science to prove his point. Does this not sound like fanaticism. Cousin Danny says “not so”. And I respect Danny, his ethics, his commitment to nature and his life’s passion for minimal foot print upon the fragile blanket of mother earth.

Danny also gave me a CD package on Kurt Vonnegut… ARMAGEDDON IN RETROSPECT… an intriguing, humorous title. I imagine Kurt sitting on top of the rubble, with a smile on his face as he writes his story about what just happened. Well the thought of Vonnegut does spark the cellular synaptic pathways into action to wonder where human life, hence all life on the planet will tumble… to the point where “no waste” common supplement use, out of necessity because of toxic mother earth, will have by natural evolution, eliminated, made redundant the asshole, by way of the appendix or the tail. That would be an urban coup… no more necessity for expensive shitty sewage systems.


Let me lighten the load here a bit and return to the toy truck, sitting in the parking lot of the TIC NS, my home province, having just returned from over two months on the road. “No” I will say, “I am not home and yes, I did cut my hair… rather it melted off in the South Florida sun”. If fact, Nova Scotia does not feel like a place I want to call home. True, I was born here and my dead mother has already, before she died, bought me a plot in the plot beside her and my father. I might actually let that happen, just for ancestral record reasons. Buried in a burlap sack, not cremated, until I at least
investigate the energy of the most inexpensive system of burial. How much does it cost to incinerate a body any way. I think I would like it if they just lay my body on the surface and have one of pile drivers just punch me down. Better still, just drop me in the forest and let the animals feed on me, as I did on them throughout my life time. That seems fair. The ancestral historians could simply digitally GPS my last known location.

So arriving back in NS brought no sense of jubilation… just returned to validate a bunch of documentations and make a few more bucks to get me outta here again and back into South Florida, to make Star of my ex-Georgian/Russian wife, with her shitty pissing dogs.

When I pulled into the tourist information centre, I passed by that military looking iron monster of a truck, looking very alien and applied with foreign language text. Sitting at the front of it on the sidewalk was a guy in a pony tail, ragged blue jeans. He waved at me… an invitation? I waved back, to be courteous.

After picking up a tourist map (which is my habit at every stop.. souvenirs), I drove back to that truck… out of curiosity. He introduced himself as Mario, which I forgot immediately. So I always repeat my name two or three time, in case they are as forgetful as I. His beautiful lady approached. “Ramona”, she said, which I forget immediately. There really is just too much information to gather on first meetings. Are they friendly, behind those laughing greetings and hand shakes. His beard is greying. Her smile is soft and accommodating. He has blue jeans with worn out knees. She looks thin and fragile. He is strong, firm handshake. A foreign sounding speaking voice. Does he/she understand my English.

“Sorry, I forgot your name”. “Ramona” she said. I forget again, as I watched him… “Journalist” he said. I must have asked. “Travelling, taking pictures, making videos giving talks when we return home to Germany… I talk, she takes the pictures”. Ramona chuckled, in a proud way for his declaration, signifying they are a team. She embraced him lovingly.

“May I take your picture in front of your vehicle”. They were very accommodating. She embraced him very warmly and he pulled her tightly into his side

 


I began to like them immediately. They had very generous natures, as well as curious about my modest little cargo van. I gave them a little tour, with some details on my journey around America. They invited me into their tank.

Sleek precise European design. I loved it and have to admit some level of jealously… travelling the world in a magnificent muscle machine with a beautiful lady by his side… every man’s dream. But, their mission was not far removed from mine… investigating life…contemplating the apparent conflicting ideologies between Socialism and Capitalism. It was exhilarating but too short. We may connect again across sea and worlds apart. We embraced warmly as buddies. Mario showed me the “wheel house” on my way out, about seven feet above ground.(www.mario-goldstein.de)  

Ramona and Mario brightened up my return to NS, such a serendipitous and unexpected meeting that offers friendship on the side of the world.

Strange… leaving USA was like leaving home after having met so many unique and generous cousins from Albuquerque to Boston, the last being Father Philip Davignon, Catholic priest, first cousin, I met fleetingly long ago at a younger age. He had many question about his Canadian family. Unfortunately, he did not have much new info about our dear Grandmother, Nellie. He is a definitive God fearing man, here with his dog Hogie

In his community of Christians, including most of his close cousins, not the least of which are my own siblings, I hesitated telling him I do not believe in the ideology of aChristian God. However, I felt the ethical obligation to inform him of my philosophical position. He was gentle and un-judging yet, I felt his imperative, though subtle duty to convince me that there is a God. It would be a comfortable to live in a world of, what I see a denial of reality, where humans have “dominion over all the land and animals”, where homosexuality is denied, where abortion is a sin.

　

Catholicism: “We hold these truths (The Declaration Of Independence) to be self-evident- that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty and pursuit of happiness.

Is a homosexual not equal and not permitted life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness without being called abnormal by Catholic dogma. Is he better than a dog. And are women more than just a little bit better chattel. And Catholic positions on abortion are well documented and should be reminded of their judgement… “Judge not least ye be judged”… “Cast first the stone from your own eye”. And is masturbation not a sin?… “should not spill the seed upon the ground!” Where does life begin in the eyes of Christianity?

Father Phil… I love you!

And, I know you can imagine, my mind searches inside the great mysteries of my life in side my billions of cells and my genetic inheritance. I cannot accept that the answerable finality of Christianity is anything beyond hearsay. As ten people who see a car accident… there are ten differing accounts as is all we really have on the “Life of Christ”. Those observers could not even tell the colour of the car in that accident.

 

Science cannot say there is no God nor say that they have the answer. Any answer to that big question, is in my mind, one or another or is this case, many/multiple cases of spiritual fanaticism. Let me see what Le Fanu has to say about DNA in his book: WHY US?

See you later .

Selamat tinggal   

Slept In My Cowboy Boots and Danced With Nellie

Slept in my Cowboy boots and danced with Nellie  24 Sept 2014

　

True… both facts. Never slept in my boots before but, wow. How soon one forgets about the cold of the north when spending time in the sweltering humid heat of the south.. Last night was chilly here on the outskirts of Boston. And I love my Texas boots, that I bought in Nova Scotia so I figured, why not… jumped into the sleeping bag boots and all… feet warm all night…yay!!! You know.. When your wake up groggy at 6:30 in a cold van and ya just gotta get to the pissing pot, across the long expanse of the cold asphalt parking lot.. Good to have yer boots ready to rock! And the mission to “Dig Up Nellie” made a bountiful leap yesterday.

Cousin Cathy and I made it to her grave site….another part of the mystery revealed. We had a great visit with Nellie… a chuckle, a laugh and an embrace with our dear grandmother… hard to think of a woman who died at 38 as being one’s grandmother as, she feels more like a very dear friend, one to party with, dance, laugh, have a drink or two with. But, she was buried in the cold earth without a headstone, no marker… nothing to say she was here on earth… such an indignity in my mind. Fortunately she has living family who still care for her. Of course, I projected that Nellie was so happy that we came to visit her.

Following our visit we went in search of her home, here in Meriden, Conn. and to our great surprise… it was still there, with a few little gaudy alterations: closed in veranda, shitty vinyl siding and a cheap plastic fence. Across the road where her husband Raymond operated one of his successful garages, now stands a school.

 

Cathy and I stood on the steps where Nellie and her Husband stood. Cathy apologizes for not wearing a fancy hat like Nellie

　

　

Going back to 1896... Digging up Nellie. It is interesting to see the difference in Nellie circa 1920, perhaps right after her six kids were born, one after another, through her teens and early 20‘s… Her first child at 14 years old… living in Malay Falls

An then to see her in Meriden Connecticut in her late 20’s, her (second) wedding day, 13 January 1927.

 It is hard to believe this is the same woman. But, there is sufficient documentation to prove that the Meriden Nellie is real. The Malay Falls Nellie… not a lot of documentation but, there is one striking fact. One of her sons, Charles Seymour born 1916 , is a spiting image of her. Perhaps in the Malay Falls photo Nellie is much younger than I am assuming and was a gangly youth. There does actually seem to be some joy in her face.

Life was hard in Nova Scotia, as you may assume in that picture. Nellie probably caught that salmon perhaps out of necessity, for supper. The rivers were full, with plenty of fish in the 20’s. And I believe |Nellie was a survivor. But, living off the land in Connecticut did not seem a necessity. She married a lovely humorous man, who seemed to dearly care for her. Perhaps her cheeks rounded out, as she became a lady of some leisure.

It gives me some peace to assume that dear Grandma had some joy in her life. A new letter just discovered from her sister-in-law Gertrude says that they both had visited the Malay residence in Sheet Harbour in 1933 with her young daughter Iris (of her second marriage). But the letter does not imply that Nellie had contacted her boys from her first marriage… which, one would assume was her reason to return… such hard poignancy.

Today, I am off to meet with Father Philip, another, and the first, I believe of Nellie’s grandchildren. I believe he has a story to tell for greater insight into the passion of Nellie and maybe fitting for a line or two in the “Nellie’s Blues” song I will write.

I’ll be right back

Selamat tinggal

Socialism's Rap Against Capitalism

I was there...

 

 

New York in my van. busy Broadway street. running down from Columbus Circle. raining outside. raining outside

buses cars splashing by twelve inches from the side of my van. people chatting by a couple on the other side. Johnny the Egyptian's neon food wagon lights flashing relentlessly purple orange blue pink overlapping creating new colors. it is all so shockingly dramatically peaceful. am totally relaxed embraced into the fetal position. this ambiance of the night police my carriage habit. Nothing to fear in this alien place filled with multiples of familiarity.

Cars three and four lanes deep. between wall of old architecture. slipping by  between around each other like strings of spaghetti and miraculously causing no damage to each other while offering courtesy to one another with few horns no rage in all of the cramped juxtapositions of metal rubber pedestrians horns and trunk doors honking and slamming emergency vehicles horning their way through impossible pathways as ploughs furrowing new earth.

I arrived in this iconic city and onto iconic Broadway even unbelievably with a place to park right on that street beside Johnny The Egyptian, who guided my van into and impossible space big enough for what I thought was not big enough for a smart car... "you can do it" he assured me... and I did... 30 hours there and no ticket.

I was afraid to drive into that city with all of its bad reputation and all that traffic. It would have been easy to stay on 81 north, bypass that awful place. Instead I went in on 78 into the thick of it. I had to. It was a matter of life and death... "do or die" "Go big or stay home" At 71yrs... going home seems the obvious choice but, no... had to do... you understand I am sure. So into the Holland Tunnel I plunge and WOW what a sight...

 

That gave me a sense of peace and conviction that I made the right decision, even as I slipped through the spaghetti street of cars I knew it was right. Drivers were kind, gave me way with ease. I love New York. The people are kind and diverse and exhilarating.

 

But why did I come to this March. I never do that. The hype always offends me trouble me. Well it was Iconic New York. There was the challenge just physically going there. I was invited by Elizabeth May. Green Party of Canada... reasons enough I guess. I volunteered for traffic assignments. met some fabulous people and a radio station that may play my art stuff, even with my "fucking" language. I will follow this up. But, philosophically why did I come. I carried no banners. could not bring myself to do that. I marched with the 300,000 and wondered why I was not convinced.

 

I saw it as intellectual hypocrisy. a religious chant. socialism's rant against capitalism. I felt a bit of a traitor. a wasted body of energy against Capitalism. It is not the way to defeat the environmental destructive forces. Capitalism is a natural force of nature. Would have been better to look into a mirror at out own innate capitalism and know it id not the corporate capitalist who are destroying the earth... it is you and me. If we do not buy the product of the corporation.. Corporate Collective Capitalism will die. Hunger will die. The trees will live. Slavery will die. Let rid us of hypocrisy