Saturday, June 6, 2009

Thoughts on Canada

I flew from the epicenter of the tropics to the Californian desert. Planes are horrendous creatures, yet they have enough freedom in their purpose to make us, rudimentary bucolics, board them wearing carelessly our lack of understanding of their mad mechanics. So I did, climbed onto the disgusting seat and submitted to a turbulence beyond my comprehension.

Upon arrival, with coyotes howling (not at me) in the rearview mirror, I drove a big white truck with a twelve horse trailer in the back for three days. I drove through the blue Rocky Mountains; through blue mornings, and through towns of Country Stores and drugless meth addicts. Then I arrived to a Canadian town, somewhere in Alberta, where the Iraquois have not left a trace, and a provident healthcare treats frostbites: June 06, 2009 - My mother’s birthday- 1:01 am. And yes, as I was saying, snow falls on the green summer hills and breaks cat’s ears like little flakes of woodchips. This though makes them more loving, much less spoiled than cats in the United States, these cats in fact, do not bite or scratch, yet their nails are far from clipped. I suppose it is the inclement suffering that treats their humility with so much care… But I'll come back to cats latter...

The dirt keeps sucking the melting snow through it’s pores and a copper moon has now appeared wearing her yellow, hepatitic face. I’m back in the surgical solitude of a Saturday night, and again, my company depends solely on the mercy of night creatures and sleep. There are plenty of horses and women, which is far more than what any man could ever want, and yes I declare myself happy: Hypochondriacally happy. Yes, incurably happy… Maybe I'll be back tomorrow.

13 comments:

  1. horses and women! your two favorite.

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  2. you never came back 'tomorrow'...

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  3. Bob Dylan says: Tomorrow is a long time.

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  4. who is bob dylan? and who is this anonymous fellow/?

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  5. Who? 'who' is but the form following the function of 'what'. And what he is, is a fellow writing under an anonymous identity.
    Dont you think it is a paradox to ask an anonymous chap who he is?

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  6. no. but i would prefer your mettlings to abandon me and my "anonymous chap"'s ferociously delicious conversations.

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  7. This comment has been removed by the author.

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  8. Why, excusez-moi for my importune interference, dear littérateur. I didnt mean to be a bumptious human, I merely meant to call attention to a blatant blemish, cant you handle a mild critique?

    Oh and also, do forgive my faultfinding nature, but it is spelled 'meddlings', not "mettlings'. Look it up, Anonymous.

    The Meddler.


    PS. shall we leave this mauvais quart d'heure behind us now, and shift attention back to the young poet's billiant works?

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  9. dear litterateur is write!
    we are all but bumptious humans excusez moi yourself there..... and this "blatant blemish" is more of a fair birth mark that is unexistant and called a beauty mark to others in motives of showing off.

    the funny thing is Miss meDDler, i am but an already meTTling meddler that was a mettler before you were EVER meddling.

    you look THAT up in the birth right of thine highness. but yeah, lets look at this marvelous poet. lets look at his flaws and beauty marks...

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  10. i wish i could delete all my comments on this ridiculous stream...

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  11. i as clever as a meatloaf. i am as clever as ham. i do clever like doe is for pizza. but all in all i exsist in a parallel world excluded from this magical feeling that is unknown.

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Los Fantasmas de Camaron y Paco

Los Fantasmas de Camaron y Paco

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