Mourning, messages

Sun instead of rain. Bonus. Writing quite a lot, most of which can’t be posted, about events personal and searingly painful. Too much grit, not enough lyric. A death in the family works to put matters of the heart into perspective though. I can say I’m fortunate to have compassionate, intelligent friends in my corner.

I’m so sad, weary, jaded. I wonder if anything appalls me anymore. I was more bemused by the antics—or tactics—because the Black Bloc is not an organization, Black Bloc is a tactic—at the G-20 summit in fair Toronto over the weekend. It seems their message becomes more obscured with each year of their annual bash-in, one reason I’m sure most people chose to watch the World Cup on Saturday instead. It’s all so predictable, tedious. This, a few days after a discussion of anarchy with Sean Cranbury of Books on the Radio as it pertained to punk rock and the Internet. I suppose that is their message. Anarchy. I understand that anarchy does not equate with violent disorder, that the anarchists have gotten a bad rap, but I don’t believe their utopian vision is feasible. Not in this world.

I have always been suspect of mixing art and politics and none of my comrades in punk rock were card-carrying anarchists. I suppose Gerry Useless of the Subhumans was the most radicalized among us and perhaps the only, at least to that degree. Zealotry is zealotry, something my Zellots band mate Conny Nowe and I were aware of as we chose a resonant name. Zealotry is dangerous, futile, often resulting in death. To me, being an artist is a political statement.

The information highway may be swamped with billboards these days but its essence is the same. Everybody and his dog has a blog. What could be more populist? Which is more democracy than chaos. I detest capitalism, abhor the yawning chasm between the rich and the poor—don’t get me started! —but until something better comes along, will not ascribe to anarchy, nor tolerate the chaos anarchists create. Take your Molotovs and your machetes and shove ‘em.


I find a message
via vanity plate,
a gearshift in the gutter,
an egg,
turquoise and high in a nest.
I make it my own.
Not in my house!
It holds its value.
The toaster,
the red couch,
leftover lasagne,
my first stainless steel appliance,
the inherent drama
four walls.

And now I mourn.

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