Outside Influences - Dale Wimbrow - The Guy in the Glass 01/20/2015 03:52 a.m.
An old family favorite (words to live by IMO):
The Guy in the Glass
When you get what you want in your struggle for self,
And the world makes you King for a day,
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that guy has to say.
For it isn’t your Father, or Mother, or Wife,
Who judgment upon you must pass,
The feller whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the guy staring back from the glass.
He’s the feller to please, never mind all the rest,
For he’s with you clear up to the end.
And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test,
If the guy in the glass is your friend.
You may be like Jack Horner and “chisel” a plum,
And think you’re a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum
If you can’t look him straight in the eye.
You can fool the whole world
Down the pathway of years,
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you cheated the guy in the glass.
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Dawn of the Dead, Johnny Cash, and The Man Comes Around 10/23/2014 03:11 p.m.
With the current Ebola scare, ISIS, and Halloween just around the corner, thought it would be cool to post a couple of video links.
Towards the end of his life, Johnny Cash recorded and released an album of cover songs (mixed with his own material), including everything from Simon & Garfunkle’s Bridge Over Troubled Water to Nine Inch Nails’ Grunge hit, Hurt.
Titled: American IV: The Man Comes Around, the title song (one of Cash's best IMO) is featured in the opening of the cult classic remake of Dawn of the Dead.
The first link below shows the opening of the movie with the Cash song, while the second video effectively pairs the song with real news footage.
As I’ve stated several times and places before on this web site, my early interest in poetry came from the lyrics, and in some cases, the poetry of Rock musicians.
In 1974, as a last hurrah for his Glam Rock period, David Bowie released a concept album titled Diamond Dogs. At the time, the world was still living in the shadow of potential all out nuclear war. 1984 and what it signified in terms of Orwell’s prophecy was still 10 years away, and so these aspects were worked into the songs.
On the inside album cover was a painting of a post apocalyptic city skyline (an eerie foreshadowing of 9/11), and the below poem. I liked the poem so much that I memorized it by heart, and would often recite it at parties, and was well received by my friends; a hint of things to come for me. Thankfully, the world didn’t turn out (at least not yet) the way Bowie envisioned it.
Future Legend
And...in the death--as the last few corpses
lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare--the shutters
lifted in inches in Temperance Building--high
on Poachers Hill and red mutant eyes gazed
down on Hunger City--no more big wheels--
fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the
size of cats and ten thousand peoploids split into
small tribes coveting the highest of the sterile
skyscrapers--like packs of dogs assaulting the
glass fronts of Love Me Avenue–ripping and
re-wrapping mink and shiny silver fox--
now leg warmers--family badge of sapphire
and cracked emerald--any day now--
the year of the Diamond Dogs
“This ain't Rock'n Roll –
this is Genocide."
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Outside Influences – On Time by John Milton 09/17/2014 01:34 a.m.
"On Time"
by John Milton
1608–1674
FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets' pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of Him, t'whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then all this earthly grossness quit,
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.
I discovered the above poem by chance, as it is recited in its entirety
in the opening of the video game: Silent Hunter, Wolves Of The Pacific,
one of the latest in an evolution of submarine simulations.
Although written in 1645, Milton’s words are chillingly appropriate
for the program, in summing up the collective spirit of those who served
in America’s ‘Silent Service’ during World War II.
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Canadian Humor At Its Best... 05/13/2014 07:18 p.m.
I am currently Calm
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Alert! New Virus Detected 06/28/2013 12:07 p.m.
The Center for Disease Control has issued a medical alert about a highly contagious, potentially
dangerous virus that is transmitted orally, by hand, and even electronically. This virus is called Weekly Overload Recreational Killer (WORK). If you receive WORK from your boss, any of
your colleagues or anyone else via any means whatsoever - DO NOT TOUCH IT!!! This virus
will wipe out your private life entirely. If you should come into contact with WORK you should
immediately leave the premises.
Take two good friends to the nearest liquor store and purchase one or both of the antidotes -
Work Isolating Neutralizer Extract (WINE) and Bothersome Employer Elimination Rebooter (BEER).
Take the antidote repeatedly until WORK has been completely eliminated from your system.
You should immediately forward this medical alert to five friends. If you do not have five friends, you have already been infected and WORK is controlling your life.
I have no idea who wrote this, picked it up in an email a few years ago. Happy Summer everyone! Chris :)
I am currently Happy
I am listening to Talk Radio
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Some Local Poetry History And A Poem By Juan O’Neill 09/30/2012 05:07 p.m.
Included below is one of my favorite poems, by local friend and mentor, Juan O’Neill.
Juan was born in Cuba during the pre Castro days, and even met Ernest Hemingway, also a resident at the time, once when the island celebrated the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1952.
Juan’s father was Canadian, and his mother Cuban, and the three fled to Canada when Castro and the communists took over in 1959.
Over the course of his life, Juan did many things to make ends meet, including journalist, civil servant, restaurant owner, but at the end of his life, a translator. He spoke fluent English and Spanish, and often got contracts to translate American situation comedies and documentaries into Spanish, the main market being in Central and South America.
I first met Juan here in Ottawa at the Jury Room Workshop, a critique group and think tank of sorts, where writers of various backgrounds, styles and talents, would present a piece of work (a poem, the chapter of a novel, short story, play), reading it to the group, who would then offer constructive criticism. I was in good company. Juan had gone to McGill University in Montreal with Leonard Cohen, and another friend in the group, Marty Flomen, had been an English student of Irving Layton’s, also in Montreal.
The Jury Room Workshop provided me with the kind of invaluable training I needed to become a better writer, doubtful I could have learned the same way at any university. I was a member off and on for ten years, then dropped out of the writing scene for a while. A few years later, Juan and I met again at a poetry party, and he invited me to help out running his series, Sasquatch. Maureen Glaude and I shared publicity duties for a time, then I took over as webmaster in 2000, and remained in that position until I stepped down in 2010.
Looking back, poetry wise, those were the good old days, and some of the happiest times in my life. I was part of large circle of friends…fellow poets, with regular gatherings and parties of all kinds. Sadly, many of those people are now gone, including Marty, Juan, Maureen, and many others, while a few scattered across Canada for various reasons, mainly retirement or employment.
Juan passed away on the Ides (15th) of March, 2006. Those of us who ran the Sasquatch Reading Series decided to keep it going in his memory and honor. It wasn’t the same though without Juan, as we soon realized with the spotty if not poor turnouts at readings. Juan was such a great story teller and networker, personality, many of the people he attracted to the readings were seldom if ever seen again.
Not long after I left, the rest of the crew threw in the towel also, and so Sasquatch only exists now in the memories of those who participated, or just came out to listen. And a good time was had by all. But as George Harrison once said, “All things must pass.”
Here’s Juan’s poem:
Abandoned Railway Station, Ontario
There is rust on the tracks,
there are weeds in the gravel.
The little red station stands solitary,
like an old man waiting.
But the passenger trains
do not stop here anymore.
The long hoots of the steam locomotives
That roused the dreams of children in the night,
and brought people down to meet the trains
(crisp linen and real silver in the dining car,
ice tinkling in drinks at the bar,
hellos and goodbyes on the platform,
gruff “All Aboard!”)
are no more.
Only the occasional rumble
of a freight train passing through
disturbs the quiet.
An engineer in a towering diesel
waves at my little girl as we watch.
She is only three.
A tenuous link has been established
with the past
It hasn’t.
Years later I ask her
If she remembers.
She doesn’t.
We walk past the station.
I used to get on an off here,
on weekend trips
from boarding school in Toronto.
I shook the hand of a prime minister here once,
grandfatherly Louis St. Laurent,
on campaign in ’48,
wishing him “The best of luck, Sir.”
I remember a Protestant funeral,
a minister, I think,
his coffin put aboard
by a group of cheerful-sad people,
singing, “In the Sweet Bye and Bye”;
I, on the train,
with adolescent Catholic queasiness,
listening.
Time has stopped a story in mid-sentence here,
like ashes on Pompeii;
except that these actors are not preserved
as hollows in an ash mantle.
They are gone:
To Toronto, to Vancouver, to Miami,
to the cemeteries at the edge of town,
leaving the name of the place
on a flaking sign,
looking out on silence.
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Web Site Going Down 08/02/2009 01:46 p.m.
First of all, I would just like to say thanks to those of you who’ve taken the time to visit my personal web site, and left appreciations in the guest book, which can be accessed via my home page here at Pathetic.org. To those of you who haven’t, there is still a little time to check it out.
What you will see there are many of my poems in various fonts, enhanced with photos (some mine), graphics, and backgrounds, something I was never able to do fully here at PPS. It also includes some of my best photography.
My Internet Service Provider (ISP), Rogers.com has always provided free web space to its customers. A few years back they teamed up with Yahoo/Geocities, and this feature continued, and was further enhanced by including its own File Transfer Program, or FTP as it’s known. Rogers’ customers however have just received notice that as of October 2009, this service will no longer be provided, and all data on their servers will be deleted.
Started in 2003, Chris’ Place, as I call it, has been a true labour of love, and I do mean labour, for as anyone who has created web pages can attest, although not complicated, it is tedious work. The final results though always make up for the time and energy.
Currently, I have dozens of pages…just over 30 megabytes of data online, and although not a huge amount by today’s standards, enough so that I will eventually want to seek out a new home for my web site. When I do, I will let you know.
Thanks again for your patronage! :o)
I am currently Calm
I am listening to Fan (very humid here)
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Excerpts From A Dog's Diary...Excerpts From A Cat's Diary 06/14/2009 10:12 p.m.
I'm sure this has been around the Internet more than a few times, but well worth sharing again, especially for those with either a canine or feline companion, or both:
Excerpts from a Dog's Diary......
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk Bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
Excerpts from a Cat's Daily Diary...
Day 983 of my captivity...
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.
The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards.
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.
The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now........
I am currently Safe
I am listening to Traffic in the distance
Funny how the mind works sometimes. How certain lines in a poem can trigger long lost memoriespieces of other poems, sometimes, ones Ive written, other times, the work of others.
Paul Lorenzs latest posting, titled, If They Turned A Pen On Me, had some philosophical lines that immediately brought to mind a long forgotten poem Id read and cherished in adolescence, titled Desiderata by Max Ehrmann. I recall having even bought a poster with the poem and a photo beneath of a teenage boy sitting on a bed, playing guitar in what looked to be a small room with bars on the window. That poster hung on my own bedroom wall for at least a couple of years.
Thanks to Google, Ive located and included it below. Consider it a belated Christmas gift, and words to live by in the coming years, considering this certainly unpredictable world we live in, taking into account the recent tragedy of earth quake and tsunami in southern Asia. A prayer for the living...and the dead
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
