Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Fifty Shades of God Consciousness

 Rosy-Kins

a poem by

Robert Service



As home from church we two did plod,
“Grandpa,” said Rosy, “What is God?”
Seeking an answer to her mind,
This is the best that I could find. . . .
 
 
 
  
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
God is the Iz-ness of our Cosmic Biz;
The high, the low, the near, the far,
The atom and the evening star;
The lark, the shark, the cloud, the clod,
The whole darned Universe—that’s God.
 
 
 
 
 
                                       
   Some deem that others there be,
And to them humbly bend the knee;
 
 
  

To Mumbo Jumbo and to Joss,
To Bud and Allah—but the Boss
Is mine . . . While there are suns and seas
MY timeless God shall dwell in these.
   

   
In every glowing leaf He lives;
When roses die His life he gives;
 
  
 
 
God is not outside and apart
From Nature, but her very heart;
 
 
  
No Architect (as I of verse)
He is Himself the Universe.
 
 


Said Rosy-kins: “Grandpa, how odd
Is your imagining of God.
To me he’s always just appeared
A huge Grandfather with a beard.
 
  


OK then. . . I give up, I give up, I surrender utterly. I throw myself on the ground and beg. What does the poem mean? Why did this surge up from some dire trench in my fevered brain? It was all mixed up and wrong, of course. I first read an excerpt from it at the start of a chapter of a goddamn book that I am goddamned if I remember. It was a misquote that really read much better than the "real" version:

God is the Izness of the Is,
The Oneness of our Cosmic Biz.

Doesn't that sound a lot more harmonious than the bumpety version I've posted? But it's on every site (public domain, I might add, like everything I post, harrumph) in this strange form that doesn't scan. Doesn't scan! And it's Robert Service.




Robert Service who wrote The Cremation of Sam McGee and The Shooting of Quick Draw McGraw and The Defrosting of Frank and all that stuff we were forced to learn in grade school.

"When you're out in the wild, and you're lost like a child, and death looks you bang in the eye. . . " What next?

I couldn't even find this poem because I assumed it was called Cosmiz Biz or some-such thing. I have no idea why he had to call it Rosykins (with its vaguely pedophilic connotations) and bookend his philosophy with such gooey Victorian sentiment. Little Rosykins reminds me of that windup Edison doll spouting the kind of sweetness that makes you want to drop-kick it into the nearest sewer.






But this Cosmic Biz stuff still seemed pretty good in my mind. The lark, the shark, the cloud, the clod. In a sense the old coot is kinda progressive, in that he does not think of God as the "architect" who "made" all this stuff: "he" (pardon the archaic term) actually IS all these things.

Interesting philosophy, but how does one "worship" this pan-adoration of all nature-and-things? What IS worship, anyway, and doesn't it sound a bit heathenish, like sticking something up on a pole or having a drain in the middle of the floor for blood sacrifice?

I wonder about this stuff all the time, I really do. It comes down to the idea of a "personal God", a God that cares for each of us, loves us unconditionally, accepts and forgives our foibles and sins. So that even the very hairs upon your head are numbered. Oh how we long for this. Long long long and deeply yearn for a Someone or a Something (more likely Someone, as it's more personal and parental or even grandparental) that enfolds us and understands us, that "made" us somehow, formed us in the womb so that we are fearfully and wonderfully made.


Trouble is, there is not an ounce of proof for this. The world is full of dizzying hate, and if we are made in God's image so that we reflect his finest work, God is in deep trouble and had better watch out.

I wanted, needed, sought the personal God, tried to find it/him in Jesus who seemed to represent something I could hang on to. I read Gerard Manley Hopkins and The Hound of Heaven and tried to extract meaning, however obscure. For a while, oh yes, for quite a while I seemed to be doing it.

But it was all so - what? Wispy. I could not grab hold anywhere. I could only glimpse God out of the corner of my eye. When I turned, "it" was gone like mist evaporated in a flash. Or Pan ducking back behind the tree with a demonic chuckle.



I have glimpsed, felt "something" in the unthinking, selfless love of some (very) few individuals who love without loving or even thinking about it, who "are" love in fact, seamless. I have known, I think, two and a half of them (I am married to half of one, but I don't blame him. I stole the other half and devoured it.) I had a grandmother, and I knew a man in AA who did remind me of my grandmother, and everyone he knew felt like his favorite because in a way, they were. I have wondered if my grandmother, my mother's mother, perhaps saved my life by providing me with the only sure sign of love I ever knew.




So is this "God" or just human goodness, or are they the same? Once there was nothing, now there is something, yes, and how, and we are about to destroy it all too. It can go back, back to just nothing. From the void to the void.  Just as my life went from chaos, to grace, and back to chaos again. Now I sift through the ruins of my faith and find a bone here, a tooth there. Maybe I can match it up with some chart. Some scripture, like that incomprehensible Gospel of Thomas I looked up after seeing that silly Stigmata movie (only worth seeing for Gabriel Byrne, the impossibly gorgeous, completely-believeable-as-an-Irish-priest-forever-caught-in-a-crisis-of-faith-but-still-capable-of-loving-especially-that-nubile-young-woman-from-the-coffee-shop-who-eventually-channels-some-saint-or-other-and-provides-the-world-with-a-brand-new-and-completely-revolutionary-and-thus-potentially-Church-destroying-message-directly-from-Jesus-himself).



The Gospel of Thomas, I'm sorry Thomas, was a goddamn mess, just a jumble with no connective tissue. The "sayings" and "teachings" were like a jigsaw puzzle that had tipped out of its box onto the floor. Squiggly little pieces of meaning are not enough.

I seek, and I don't find. Not really. I carry on, and I worry. Things leap into my head, anxieties. I laugh and cry, and have orgasms, and function pretty well thankyouverymuch, in the usual way, but - what's missing? A little Cosmic Biz?

Grandfather: what does it all mean?
 
 

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Is Don Draper really a vampire? and other depressing questions



It's not every day, well, it's almost every day but never mind, that we find, that I find I mean, uh. Let me start over again.

I don't even know how I YouTubed my way into this one. Every once in a while I profess my rabid, tree-scratching, hide-tearing, rubbing-salt-into-my-private-areas LUST for AMC's Mad Men. It's the smartest show I've ever seen, even though, at the base of it all, it's nothing more than a sexy and well-acted soap opera.



Angst rules supreme. Nobody is ever really happy. This makes us all feel better about ourselves, because, you see, WE'RE never really happy either. Or at least, I'm not.

Privately, I believe that happiness is for idiots, or at least for people who don't think or don't notice the intractible mess all around them. I have moments of it, of course. Even serious upgusts. But angst remains my prevailing mood, and that's when I am not downright depressed.



So Mad Men cheers me up. The way the characters hurl themselves at their fate, impaling themselves on ill fortune, screwing around madly just to forget. They beat their fists on reality. They don (!) mask after mask, phony disguise after phony disguise, hoping THIS one will be the charm, and it never is.

And saaaaaaaay, isn't that some coincidence that we have a character named Don (as in Don Quixote; as in Don Juan; as in The Godfather; as in "don we now our gay apparel") Draper, as in let's throw a tarp over all this mess before anyone sees it (too late!). And that's not even his real name: he has "donned" it like a "drape" over his somewhat vampirish personality. His real name, Dick (!) Whitman, does not need to be examined (though Walt Whitman may sneak in there somewhere: but hey, wasn't he queer or something?).




We could sit here and analyze every character's name - Jesus, Roger Sterling?? - Lane Pryce?? - but I'm getting very tired. I am so addicted now that even when whatsisname, that Weinerhead guy, spews out a substandard episode, I still watch it at least three times. Then I go on the message boards and see what arcane, cabalistic meanings the fans have squeaked out, adding a few of my own ("hey, Cool Whip isn't real whipped cream!"). When I found this video I thought, great, I get to see Don's new sexpot wife Megan make a total fool of herself (again) and be the only person in the room who doesn't know. But then. . .

Then I realized that my two greatest loves, Mad Men and Mr. Trololo, had somehow met and blended, had fused together and become one, and it was magical!



There is a certain affinity between the two songs, after all, a certain bouncy optimism. Surely Don needs this sort of frisson of joy, this gasping souffle, this seething birthday pie that he can stick his thumb in any time he wants to. Megan may have big scared eyes and teeth that are completely over the top, but she's HAPPY damn it, and is going to make DON happy ("yes, master!") too, even if she won't eat the orange sherbet at Howard Johnson's.

Ye-ye-ye-ye-ye, ye-ye-ye, ye-ye-ye, o-ho-ho-ho-ho!


http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.com/2012/01/synopsis-glass-character-novel-by.html

Teetering on the brink



After writing my yearbook-nostalgia piece about 1966, I had to do a little digging about the songs that were popular back then.

Ye gods and little fishes! What happened? How could there be such an explosion of passion and talent and innovation, cheek-by-jowl with the most inane slop?

I can't name them all here, but I went on the Billboard Top 100 for '66 and just pulled out a few, not randomly but because they caught my eye and/or I liked/remembered/hated them.




There was an idiotic thing called 96 Tears by ? and the Mysterians. The DJs on CKLW Detroit ("Windsor and Detroit know/It's Radio Eight-oh!"), which we all slavishly listened to every day, must've had a bit of trouble with that one. Then there was Red Rubber Ball by a band called The Cyrkle, who might as well have named themselves The Oblivions.
















The Lovin' Spoonful, who were many-hit wonders and (at their best) superb, scored a couple of big ones: Summer in the City (which still evokes for me those sweaty, cicada-chanting days in Chatham when I slept over at Shawne Aitken's house and played Archie and Veronica. Never mind) and a real gem called Did You Ever Have to Make Up your Mind.


Rumor has it that this was based on the bees-buzzing-around-honey effect Joan and Mimi Baez seemed to have on men during the height of the folk craze, and Richard Farina's big dilemma: which one to suck up to? (He finally chose Mimi before dying in a motorcycle accident a couple of years later.) Even Bob Dylan went through the "make up your mind" bit before shunning both of them. Their father Albert Baez must have been relieved.







Oh, and the Mamas and the Papas, laid-back but somehow completely focused, with their voices so perfectly meshed that they sometimes created alarming, spinning overtones in the studio that whirled like little tornados above everyone's head. This seldom happens except with those rare operatic sopranos whose high notes can shatter glass.


They put out Monday Monday that year, the song that makes absolutely no sense when the lyrics are analyzed ("so good to me"? The rest of the song vilifies it.) The rest of the group didn't even want to do it, it sounded so lame: a day of the week? Later they came out with one of their most brilliant '60s anthems, California Dreamin'. (My personal fave is Twelve Thirty, a haunting memoir of the life of a young prostitute. Their heyday was so short that this must have followed soon after.)





Oh, and. Donovan was getting big then, with Sunshine Superman. This one reminds me of the smell of oil paints. Yes. Shawne and I used to do paint-by-numbers, as well as stroll over to the park where perverts were known to hang out. Associations are weird. Last Train to Clarksville reminds me of peanuts. Paperback Writer is hoppity as a hot hen. 

Then there's Nowhere Man. What had happened to the Beatles, anyway? All their songs were getting so melancholy. We didn't know it, but it was the beginning of a gathering storm.


















Oh, there are tons of others, Wild Thing, Good Vibrations, Rainy Day Women #12 and 35: but as good as these sounded then, I can't get into them now. I loved Walk Away Renee and found this strangely beautiful video, I found Summer in the City badly lipsynched on one of those teen shows (where no one ever performed life). I am a little afraid to look up Twelve Thirty or Ruby Tuesday (which came later, and which for some reason tear my guts out).



Noel Coward or some snoot like that once said, "Amazing how potent cheap music can be." I'd reverse that. Those 45 rpms only cost a couple of bucks back then. Amazing how cheap potent music can be.


http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.com/2012/01/synopsis-glass-character-novel-by.html

Fifty Shades of Grey: yearbook photos



I was going to title this post Daydream Believer, because this-here lovely young lady is a Homecoming Queen from that succulent year, 1966.

It's a strange coincidence that my fall-down-and-worship slavish addiction, Mad Men, is right now in the midst of that august (actually it's October) year. A year when the whole world seemed to be balanced on the point of a pin.





And here are the runners-up, complete with poofy hairdos and hopeful expressions. The Marlo Thomas look vies with the '60s beehive and side-flip that will all-too-soon give way to two curtains hanging sullenly on either side of the face.





OK, here's the backstory: it all had to do with painting. When you paint, every century or so, you generally repaint the closets, which means a major purge. Which yielded what seemed like dozens of yearbooks from junior/high school. Most of these belonged to my kids, and we spent a hilarious evening reading the scrawled comments out loud to each other. My son's wife Crystal kept bursting into whoops of laughter so loud it raised the roof (that is, until she saw a spider, jumped straight up in the air and disappeared upstairs for the rest of the evening).

But the choicest cut was this one. Turns out my husband Bill, now 65, kept one yearbook from all his university-hopping days: the Brown and Gold from the University of Manitoba, circa 1966. That year when things were still just barely teetering on the side of innocence.




That skateboarding fiend above is mysteriously captioned ATHLETIC PROGRAM. The skateboard looks to be a handmade job cobbled together using rollerskates and  a piece of plywood.

Here we have an even more enigmatic mystery: the Rifle Club, consisting of two pistol-packin' mamas. No boys in sight (so to speak), but is it any wonder?

Some clubs, we noticed, had only one member, but we could find no pictures. Too excruciating, I guess. But the elections would be fast.




Ah, 1966, when accountancy was still Not Boring!




Hey look, everybody. . . it's Robert Vaughn!




The Rhodes Scholar. No one smiles in these things. Where is he now, I wonder? He might be dead. Dear God! Most of my high school teachers must be dead by now, and all of my grade school teachers. How did that happen?





One of the racier, lovelier photos in the collection, found in "candid shots" which look anything but candid. "C'mon, Peggy Sue. . . lie on your stomach." Come to think of it, that IS pretty racy.




And here he is, MY Rhodes scholar, looking deadly earnest, complete with Big Bang Theory glasses. (When I met him in 1972, they were held together with tape.) I had a thing about science nerds even then, though I have to admit that in 1966 I was only 12 years old.

In 1967, I heard the word "hippie" for the first time, but wasn't sure what it meant. In 1968, I first heard the sound track to the musical Hair and began to get stoned to Donovan records ("First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. . . ").

By 1969, Woodstock exploded, the unwitting pinnacle of that magical, idealistic time which all too quickly plummeted into the dirty rotten shame of Altamont.




But the kid from Manitoba grew up, and lived through all the rich and rough and bumpy times since then. As did we all.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

I hate Facebook.





This post has been stewing around in my brain for months now, and I still don’t know if I’m ready to write it.  Or, perhaps, to be ostracized for it.

For me, Facebook was a matter of “should”. Hell, I’m a writer, aren’t I? I want to communicate, don’t I? I want to promote (and promote, and promote) my next book, don’t I? What’s the matter with me, anyway?


So I stepped, reluctantly, across the barbed-wire threshhold into an atmosphere that reminded me, most alarmingly, of the playground.




Were you ever bullied? Of course not! You wouldn’t be reading this at all unless you’re already on Facebook (and curious as to why anyone would crucify themselves by daring to say they hate it). And if you’re on Facebook, you have at least 1500 “friends” and have always been popular and have never been bullied and and and (as William Shatner once so eloquently put it) “blah blah blah!”


When I stumbled into this thing I was a stranger in a strange land. Though I had managed over the years to acclimatize myself to basic computer skills like email and blogging and setting up a web site, and all that sort of thing, I didn’t have a clue how to do Facebook and soon found that there were no instructions. It was that same old bitter dynamic that nearly destroyed me in my youth: I had gotten to the party far too late, everyone knew each other already, and they most certainly did not want ME around to clutter up their nice little tight-knit in-group.




When I finally figured out how to post comments, I gingerly reached out for help with the system and got exactly no response. There was this dense, embarrassed silence. It felt like I had just said, “hey, someone help me! I don’t know how to use the bathroom.”


I felt like an incontinent old lady stumbling around in the dark.


Soon, I was alarmed to learn that most of my contacts – feeble in number, at the start – had at least 300 “friends” (300 being the starting point for most people), and some had well over 1000. Some panic light came on in my solar plexus and began to blink, blink, blink.


I was bullied – a lot – in school and outside of it. This was before bullying came out of the shame closet and teen suicide attempts inspired compassion instead of ever-more-elaborate and ruthless forms of ostracism. I still can’t really figure it out: I didn’t have green skin, I didn’t have two heads. Believe it or not, I did have friends, and these friends tended to be loyal and close. In some cases, I call them friends still (though not on Facebook).


So I wasn’t some piece of shit meandering along with a target painted on my forehead (but you’d never know it from the way I was treated). I was persecuted – there’s no other word for it. I was more than unpopular, I wasn’t even on the screen. So trying to find my way on Facebook stirred up some of the worst feelings from the bottom of the sludge barrel. A thousand friends? Would I meet that many people in a lifetime?



Dumb, stupid, incontinent old lady me! These weren’t friends. These were, well, I don’t know what they were. I couldn’t figure it out. When I tried to answer the question (or statement) “what’s on your mind today”, and if my statement had any sense of need or desire for help or any sort of vulnerability in it at all, I was completely ignored. I couldn’t say anything remotely critical  or I was “corrected”. Get back in line, fruitcake!


Gradually this changed as I realized I had to “cultivate” these thousand-or-so friends, that they likely wouldn’t just fly into my nest spontaneously. And a funny thing happened. From that point on, if I ever said anything at all or even commented on some else’s “anything”, I was generally sniped at.


I was made to feel “geez, don’t you even know how things work around here?” – as if I didn’t already feel that way! In one case I tried to explain that I wanted to be careful who I took on as a “friend” and I would “unfriend” anyone who made me uncomfortable for any reason. Someone answered something like “wtf lady give them three tries then they’re out why don’t u lol?” Another said “I just let in anyone. Any old person who comes along, in the parking lot, out in the alley, hehheheheh.” The feeling was, OF COURSE you have to be careful, you fucking idiot, why are you making such a retarded statement anyway? Or else it meant, what? You have discernment? This isn’t about quality. It’s about volume.


You say it isn’t? A thousand friends. Two thousand? That’s volume.


I’m reading more and more articles now about how Facebook is making us all much more lonely in a society where loneliness is already epidemic. Every time I force myself to go on Facebook I feel palpably pushed away. It isn’t fun. Since almost all my contacts are in the writing and publishing field, 95% of what I read is  self-promotion, done in a breezy “oh by the way” style that provides a nice pink floral veneer. Call it the Facebook wallpaper scheme.

Shockingly, this even seems to apply to writers who feel they're renegades and outside the mainstream and standing up to the status quo.





Yes, I’m a writer too and the whole reason I got coerced into this thing is so that I can promote my next novel, which is written but not exactly published yet. Maybe this is my incontinent-old-lady mentality rearing up again, but I was taught NEVER to refer to my accomplishments in the writing field. You’d have to pry it out of me with forceps that I ever won an award, or was shortlisted (that weird sister to success that provides a sort of shadow-gratification for the up-and-coming). You’d have to turn me upside down and shake me to make me admit I had ever had a positive review.  I was a Canadian, and this was the proper thing to do. Anything else was inexcusable arrogance and rudeness and would alienate everyone for sure.




Now it has been turned inside-out and upside-down, and EVERY occasion, every launch, every luncheon, every book-signing-where-one-person-shows-up-because-they-think-it’s-a-different-book, probably about fishing, is now a chance to turn clownish cartwheels and wag your stumpy little Wheaten Terrier tail for attention.


I’m sorry, folks, but I am just so sick of this.


Yes! I see that this is the information age. Yes! I see that selling a book (nobody knows this better than me, believe me) is now so difficult that one must become a shameless self-promoter to get anywhere at all.



Yes. I get it.


But I have yet to see ANYONE on Facebook really express any feelings about anything except a sort of blandified, self-involved glee. If someone is feeling devastating grief, they stick a happy face over it. Though it was probably designed for it, it is NOT a forum for any sort of meaningful communication between human beings.


But there are people who spend many hours a day “on” Facebook. Lonely?  Why would we be that?


I haven’t cancelled my account just yet, and I don’t know why except I still have a thread of hope that my book will find a home. I believe it is now a requirement, unless you want to be viewed as a crackpot or a Luddite. And I am aware that Facebook is so popular now that you do not dare criticize it unless you work for the New York Times or something. Or the Atlantic Monthly. So what will I do if something does happen? Must I treat Facebook like the vast garbled bulletin board (or billboard, or flashing neon sign) of ego that it truly is, get in line, and say my say? Will I have to learn to cartwheel?




My immediate concern is that I will be crucified for daring to say what I really think about all this. It’s deeply taboo to say you hate Facebook. We. All. Love. It. Don’t we? You don’t? Just get off it, then. Shut up and go away. There goes freedom of speech – yet another casuality of the blandly conformist “we-think” that would make George Orwell turn over in his grave.






 


Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
    It took me years to write, will you take a look


Thursday, May 3, 2012

The first time I died

Epitaph




The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.





I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup.




I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.




















The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.









They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.









And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.