"la lettre"

Encore une fois tu me dis
que tu ne m'aimes plus;
encore une fois tes mots,
je les fais fuir,
gardant sur ma joue
seul ce que tu respires;
et je te prie:
tu es mon espoir,
mon pouvoir,
ma jolie.

Meme avec ca,
elle est partie.

"ain't but the rain"

Ain’t but the rain
can wash away what
the day gone n’ brung;
from lower town streets,
sick stench rises up,
hangs ‘round the nostrils,
us takin’ in whole
six days of garbage
heaped out on
frying hot sidewalks.

Gotta’ have some rain,
rinse the sweat off our backs
---clothes so damp, they stick
like one more skin.
Oh!, you say, Be standin’
in line at the store, feels like
forever an' a day
cos the man in front, his
smell's so bad, makes your eyes
roll up in your head, thinkin’
you might faint. Miracle you don’t.

Need a whole lotta’ rain
come down, wash clean the
city’s crimes n' shames,
cleanse the spot of red
back by the alley
where somebody’s blood
painted the ground;
ain’t no knowin’ whose it is
---just somebody here’s,
an’ that’s ‘nuff said.

Needs us some rain,
give some liveliness back
to old faces holdin’
dust in their wrinkles;
faces pullin’ tight on the
corners of their mouths.
Maybe pull some of
them mouths up, make
smiles ‘stead of
them frowns.

Only a good rain can pour down
'nuff to cover a teary eye
so it don’t show,
then wash the pain
away ‘til it puddles
‘round soggy shoes;
make everybody, me and you,
glisten like new.

thoughts on the day

Perhaps it is because we, as a modern industrial-technological society, or as individuals there within, exhausted from extended work hours, juggling more diverse responsibilities than our forefathers, and bombarded 24/7 with copious amounts of information---facts and figures often causing fears and phobias of things we know exist but of which we know are mostly beyond our control (from as small as our chromosomes, to as large as terrorist stikes)---along with our individual guilts (ranging from having had too many marriages, not having had children, not having enough time or money, having too small of breasts, too slight a portfolio, or last year's video games), add to that the stresses we impose on our bodies and psyches simply from what we do with our forks---warily tip-toeing between morbid obesity, anorexia and clogged arteries---then, on to everybody's favorite personal quagmire: drug and alcohol abuse (for the reactionaries among us), and general addiction to the prescription drug industry as a panacea (for the more modest, yet equally dissatisfied folk); given all of these and more, it is no wonder, thus, our advanced society is turning to once obscure but now widely popularized forms of extremism, such as religious fanaticism or fetishes (or both), which are examples of rising subcultures that ride on the fantastic in rejection of mass culture, and at efficiencies that would make even the Amish blush; it is perhaps for these reasons why we, as individuals, are drawing towards whatever sources of unobtrusive, unmarketed, unmanifested respite we can find: We are, to this end, yearning for a time of disenlightenment. Even if it's just for a brief moment.

the madonna icon

Today, we are talking about icons. Or rather, I wish to discuss icons. And, no I am not referring here to religious objects of strongly held faith and mystical powers (such as the Russian Orthodox souvenir from Red Square I once regrettably sold at a garage sale for $3 to a non-Orthodox who rode off with it in her bicycle basket...) No, I am instead referring to the much more fun and temporal topic of famous contemporary people bestowed the venerable social status of pop culture icon. And, today's pick is Madonna. (No, again, not the madonna of Jesus fame, but the Madonna with a string of platinum albums spanning across more than two decades and a knack for producing club hits that are loved on every continent).

So, here it brings me to ask, what is it that makes a celebrity an icon? For me, if I may venture, a pop icon is a star of tremendous influence who possesses the ability to stay in the public's eye (or at least in our hearts should they be woefully gone from this world), for a seemingly long, long time. That takes talent. Or, maybe I should better say, skill. Because talent is relative, isn't it? Madonna certainly would not be considered by anyone to be the best singer around. But, she has everything else: the sexy-savvy, the shrewd business sense, the guts, ambition, and she's tops in insight into the public's desirs and interpreting pop culture as a whole. And, oh yes, the dance moves and choreography that put her up there in the first place.

I must admit, I didn't find much favour in Madonna's earlier hits; nor did I take to her trampy-tart image. But, I think it was more so her voice, that high-pitched screeching sound she was espousing at the time, that turned me off as oppose to on. But, of course, dance track after dance track, I eventually grew to like her songs, depite myself. And, with decades filled with her chart-topping hits and a plethora of personas, I developed an honest repect for the mega-star who, like other greats before her, needed only one name.

There is no beating greatness, and Madonna has proven in time to be among the greatest talents, in the general sense of the word. Plus she's hot. Even now in her late forties, Madonna still elicits world-wide excitation by finding ever more creative ways to push our buttons or tease us from every imaginable angle---be it socially, sexually or politically (which is no small feat for a video culture that grows tired fast of anything so yesterday). We can't help but like her because there's no denying she's a hard worker. Plus, it helps she's got a fabulous pro-fit body that any twenty year old woman would die for. And, if she ever happens to say one day "Forget it, I'm off pilates," then no matter---she can just let her troupe of uber-sexy, hormone-inducing dancers take more stage time. While there is lots to be said about Madonna, there is something very specific to be said about her success: it is simply the sweetest sound.

"red"

Red is the wine to pour into my glass.
Red are my finances, should you dare ask.
Red is the shirt I wear for victory.
Red is my face if you be harsh with me.

Red is the Chinese colour for a house.
Red is my cheek; lasting kiss from my spouse.
Red is the sun as it lays itself down.
Red is the night's fun; we shall paint the town!

Red are our bloodshot eyes we open next day.
Red-hot, my brow, angry words I say.
Red is the clay earth I see on the ground.
Red is your thong hidden under your gown.

Although anything else may well be true,
in comparison to these all seems blue.

memoir, volume 3, chapter 21: the learning years

Grammar trips me. I'm usually sure-footed enough to navigate most simple writing terrain without too much problem---until that is, the inevitable grammatical error. It jumps out onto my path and messes with my footing, sending me clumsily down like a fool who thought they knew enough. I blame it, of course, on my grade ten English teacher who, if she hadn't been so unpersuasive in imparting the importance of properly structured sentences and appropriate uses of adverbs, prepositions and the like on us (onto us?), her late-afternoon class, then I (and very likely a few other of my sleepy classmates) would be, to this day, deft at handling sticky writing situations (run-on sentences included).

And, as far as my hit-or-miss grammatical skills go, it doesn't seem to matter enough that my very own mother was also an English teacher. Although she frequently corrected my speech (my misuses of tenses, mispronounciations and poor word choices in general), she herself would, on certain rare occassions, during emotional apexes no doubt precipitated by my unruly behaviour, promptly disregard all elements of Standard American English. Down would come her wrath and out the window would go her diction, conjugation, along with her poise. From her lips would escape the tethered, foul-sounding creature that had lain dormant within her schoolteacher frame. And, when she would open her mouth to release her fury it would seem as though all of south side of Chicago would come pouring out.

Not to say I wasn't impressed by my mother's linguistic metamorphoses---she could do to the English language what the Incredible Hulk could do to cars. It just gave me cause to reason that grammar, to say, proper grammar, may, like most things, have its particular time and place. Understood: rules are made to be broken; but they must first be learned. So, to that effect, it is my earnest objective to try my very best-est whenever I write. But, should I occasionally stumble on a syntax or two, please know it was likely not my intention, but that I will eventually right myself.

sounding off the buglecall for impeachment

And so the story shall be told, in fullness and candor, with deft thoughroughness of the facts and fluency of the fiction. Lewis H. Lapham, editor of Harper's Magazine, gives props to Rep. John Conyers Jr.'s House Resolution 635 in his article, ''The Case for Impeachment: Why We Can No Longer Afford George W. Bush''.

If you are an American of voting age and can read above a grade six level, DO check out the March issue of Harper's Magazine. DON'T be dumb.

another itch they just can't scratch

Actions are under way to obtain the leaked memo rumored to contain reference to President Bush having allegedly suggested bombing the television station Al Jazeera.

by any other name

In what was described as "open terrorism", U.S. forces have once again slaughtered Pakistani civilians---including the killing of at least six children. Such heavy-handed operations conducted by the C.I.A. and American forces are deplorable and despicable. What the United States considers regrettable collateral damage is no less than murder and should be tried as a war crime; though it should be noted President Bush refused to sign onto the international court.

The U.S. bombing of Pakistan, Friday, stemmed from intelligence information on the whereabouts of a top Al Qaida member. However, erroneous U.S. intelligence has become frighteningly de rigor. Which brings to question the possibility that in this case, and possibly others, there was never any credible intelligence regarding a particular militant's location, but the attacks served a broader purpose nevertheless. (If this brings to mind the case to go to war in Iraq, one would not be incorrect in reasoning that this strategy has served useful to the United States in the past.)

The military operation also overstepped American-Pakistani foreign relations. Pakistan is considered an ally of the United States in its fight against al Qaeda terrorists, and actively pursues terrorists haboured within its country. But in this case, the U.S. attack on the Damadola village in northwestern Pakistan was deemed an infringement on Pakistan's sovereignty. It is believed a U.S. drone Predator aircraft was used to fire four missiles which razed three houses, killing 17 to 30 people. American troops are barred by Pakistan from crossing it's border from Afghanistan, even in pursuit of militants, thus the use of the un-manned American craft.

This reversal of scenes, whereby the United States, once a victim of great terrorism, now routinely commits terrorist attacks against foreign civilians, is slowly coming to the consciousness of the American people. It begs the question: who is the terrorist now?

"the forgotten"

The forgetting is the forgotten
of remembering to forget
that which to remember begets
the forgotten memory
and the remembrance to forget.