ENNUI!
It's been a while since i've updated this bad boy, but I guess it's reflected my general level of literary activity. Fortunately, i've just recently got involved with a lot of things so I hope to be churning out a lot more work in the near future.
There's a few exciting things happening soon.
1) SEEDfeast is on February 8th (may be pushed back to the 15th but i'll give ample notice), this time around Stefan and I are organizing it so there will be heavy features on poetry and music, we will also be screening some short animated films from the SEED animation class. It starts at 5:30 pm and goes till roughly nine an afterparty is in the works.
2) The Diamond Cherry reading series: Myself and a few other SEED students (nobody has really seriously stepped up to the plate yet, but perhaps Molle Dorst and Alyssa Thiel) will be featured poets at the Diamond Cherry reading series at the rennaisance cafe, a date is still in the works.
3) Art Attack! - A night of guerilla art and poetry hosted by SEED and the Toronto Public Space Committee, we will be beautifying the streets of Leslieville with home-made murals which we will place over bus shelter ads and the like. Date is also in the works.
And finally, for those who don't already know. I'm once again enrolled in the Toronto Fringe Festival (a two week independent theatre festival) with an original work entitled "The Devil's Albatross". The work is a huge step away from "Johnny Shot the Jazzman" and I feel it very accurately exposes my maturation as a writer. A lot of it is still in the works, but i've decided to post one of the scenes from the script (something which I never do) to give you guys (my phantom fans) a taste of the production.
Enjoy
(enter a zombie postman stage right, he shuffles awkwardly across the stage and approaches the right most of a trio of three doors)
(he knocks)
Zombie (gasping): TEHHHH-LUGGGGGGGHHH-GRAAAAAAAAAM!
(Che, a disheveled young man with untamed hair and a scrawny build awkwardly opens the door whilst rubbing his sleep stained eyes)
Che (moaning): What’s this then? I suppose the anarchist committee has finally reviewed my structures policy?
(hastily receives the letter from the rotting corpse’s hands)
Che: Well it’s about time they elected a chair. (begins to open telegram), why what with all those open ended poli - (pauses, scrutinizes the telegrams stands still) cies… (pause)
…Dear Charles, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to sever our relationship should you fail to answer the following questions appropriately,
1) What is a pelican’s favourite pie?
2) What is my maid’s mother’s name?
3) What are the dimensions of my genius?
4) How do you pickle the soul?
5) What lies at the intersection of broadway and the crab nebula?
6) Who was the first to scale Olympus Mons?
7) What is the meaning of bob?
8) How do the inuit wipe their asses?
9) What does God keep in his change purse?
10) What should my last question be?
With love and contempt, your waitress, Anna,
(As Che passionately trounces around stage during his monologue, the Zombie slowly shambles after him and periodically lunges at him only to have Che absent mindedly excitedly march off to the other side of the stage whilst reciting his piece)
Anna, anna, my love, my sweet banana! I should have tipped 15%, even though I think the goverment should be responsible for granting gratuities… I can still smell you, your patented scent “eau de malcontent” if I’m not mistaken. Why, it was yesterday if I recall correctly… I remember what I ordered, it was a piece of meringue pie with a dollop of whip cream. I was happily whistling along to a Fats Domino tune on the radio when my ears were assaulted by the complaints of a rather irritable water fowl, I think it was a pelican.
The Pelican was complaining about the ethical slaugher of his pumpkin pie, he routinely and complacently ordered it every Saturday while he sat at the third barstool from the left. He was stating that the ingredients should have been properly sedated before they were ground into pulp. I asked the Pelican if he thought it ridiculous that such a poorly evolved species as the pumpkin could have feelings let alone the capacity to feel pain, at which point the pelican retorted by asking me, “Do you really think pelicans eat pie, let alone talk?” and then he dissapeared.
So that got me thinking, if pelicans can’t talk, can human beings? I mean, sure we can talk, we can mumble and waddle about daily affairs and muse about a recycled vat of insignifigance. But can we really talk? Sometimes I feel that life is so scripted, like we’re all puppets of someone else’s dialogue. But who’s the author?
“Anna” I says, “Give me a name”. “Marjory!” she replies, so I say, “Why Marjory, Anna, of all names?” and then she looks at me real hard and says, “Because it was my Maid’s Mother’s name”, “that is the most profound thing I’ve ever fucking heard” I told her. My maid’s mother’s name she says, can you believe that? Religion is humanities great maid, it serves us dutifully throughout our spiritual anxieties, but like any maid, what do we know of their mother? Many people know religions intimately, but who really knows God?
“Anna” I says, “You’re a genius”! “In fact, your genius is 40 cubits wide and a thousand broken hearts tall. It’s the low fat sweetner in the bitter cosmic coffee, it’s woven deep within the cracked vinyl and fart-stained foam of bar stools everywhere. Your genius is the great brine of the universe, it pickles the soul preserving all the good intentions in men. It is illusive and intuitive and can only be found in the most obscure corners of the universe, I last saw it handing out pamphlets and blowjobs at the intersection of Broadway and the Crab nebula, right across the street from the Ministry of Nonsense where the Tzar of Silly Hats is currently presiding. Your genius, Anna, was the first to scale Olympus Mons and shout from the summit “I havn’t had enough of this shit, can you please serve me some more?”, in fact your genius is so remarkable, that it even got through to Bob”
Bob, you see, was this diner barfly and a veteran… of what we don’t know. Some say he was born on the stool, and slowly gestated into the slop of a man he is today. He frequently has flashbacks.
”CHARLIE BOY!” He says to me “DON’T EVER LET IT GET YOU”
“Let what get me bob, let what?”
“THE ENNUI BOY!”
“What”
“THE ENNUI IS THE ENEMY! DON’T EVER GET CAUGHT WITH YOUR THUMB UP YOUR ASS AND NOTHING TO CALL ON BUT YOUR VICES. YOU GOTTA GO INTO BATTLE EACH DAY KNOWING FULL WELL IT’S YOUR LAST, YOU GOTTA GO OUT BLAZING AND BY GOLLY BOY YOUR MIDDLE FINGER SHOULD BE STRICKEN WITH RIGOR MORTIS COME YOUR OPEN CASKET!”
And as I wipe his spittle off my face and contemplate what he just said, he’ll interject with -
“I SPENT FIFTY FIVE YEARS IN A P.O.W CAMP! DON’T LET IT GET YOU!”
And while I try to contemplate what war he could possibly be talking about he’ll slump back into his coffee induced trance and stare at the wall flies untill closing time. At innapropriate moments Bob will make the most bizarre gesture at nothing in particular (Che imitates the gesture). I once asked him where he learned it, he told me that it was on the arctic front, during the battle of Iqaluit, he told me that a friendly inuit man taught it to him and that it was the local technique for wiping the buttocks. The man was nothing more than a conversation piece, an dellusioned piece of performance art, that was his only purpose.
But one day Anna approached Bob, and whispered something gently in his ear. A grin cut across his face, he sat bolt upright and happily skipped out of the diner… I never saw him again. I asked her how she could have possibly inspired Bob to do such a thing, and if she had such powers why didn’t she use it on more appropriate people. Anna wrinkled her brow and told me that God kept people like Bob in his change purse, to use in special occasions.
I asked her what she had said, to inspire Bob that day. She was reluctant to tell me for weeks, but she finally told me “I asked him a question”. So I looked at her, long and hard, look her dead into her indigo eyes and said, “Ask me a question”.
She laughed, smiled and said, “Well, what should I ask you?”
What should I ask you? What should my last question be? I was ashamed to tell you that day my sweet, and I’m not man enough to tell you today. I walked home that day, never to return, often admiring the diner from afar, more often admiring Anna. As I trekked home I heard a sobbing from a distance, as I approached there was a wilted pumpkin sitting on a stoop, his guts were strewn out across the yard and seeds were dripping from his triangular eyes. He was the most pitiful legume I ever did see.
I could have said something to that pumpkin, but I walked on.
Goodbye Anna.
There's a few exciting things happening soon.
1) SEEDfeast is on February 8th (may be pushed back to the 15th but i'll give ample notice), this time around Stefan and I are organizing it so there will be heavy features on poetry and music, we will also be screening some short animated films from the SEED animation class. It starts at 5:30 pm and goes till roughly nine an afterparty is in the works.
2) The Diamond Cherry reading series: Myself and a few other SEED students (nobody has really seriously stepped up to the plate yet, but perhaps Molle Dorst and Alyssa Thiel) will be featured poets at the Diamond Cherry reading series at the rennaisance cafe, a date is still in the works.
3) Art Attack! - A night of guerilla art and poetry hosted by SEED and the Toronto Public Space Committee, we will be beautifying the streets of Leslieville with home-made murals which we will place over bus shelter ads and the like. Date is also in the works.
And finally, for those who don't already know. I'm once again enrolled in the Toronto Fringe Festival (a two week independent theatre festival) with an original work entitled "The Devil's Albatross". The work is a huge step away from "Johnny Shot the Jazzman" and I feel it very accurately exposes my maturation as a writer. A lot of it is still in the works, but i've decided to post one of the scenes from the script (something which I never do) to give you guys (my phantom fans) a taste of the production.
Enjoy
(enter a zombie postman stage right, he shuffles awkwardly across the stage and approaches the right most of a trio of three doors)
(he knocks)
Zombie (gasping): TEHHHH-LUGGGGGGGHHH-GRAAAAAAAAAM!
(Che, a disheveled young man with untamed hair and a scrawny build awkwardly opens the door whilst rubbing his sleep stained eyes)
Che (moaning): What’s this then? I suppose the anarchist committee has finally reviewed my structures policy?
(hastily receives the letter from the rotting corpse’s hands)
Che: Well it’s about time they elected a chair. (begins to open telegram), why what with all those open ended poli - (pauses, scrutinizes the telegrams stands still) cies… (pause)
…Dear Charles, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to sever our relationship should you fail to answer the following questions appropriately,
1) What is a pelican’s favourite pie?
2) What is my maid’s mother’s name?
3) What are the dimensions of my genius?
4) How do you pickle the soul?
5) What lies at the intersection of broadway and the crab nebula?
6) Who was the first to scale Olympus Mons?
7) What is the meaning of bob?
8) How do the inuit wipe their asses?
9) What does God keep in his change purse?
10) What should my last question be?
With love and contempt, your waitress, Anna,
(As Che passionately trounces around stage during his monologue, the Zombie slowly shambles after him and periodically lunges at him only to have Che absent mindedly excitedly march off to the other side of the stage whilst reciting his piece)
Anna, anna, my love, my sweet banana! I should have tipped 15%, even though I think the goverment should be responsible for granting gratuities… I can still smell you, your patented scent “eau de malcontent” if I’m not mistaken. Why, it was yesterday if I recall correctly… I remember what I ordered, it was a piece of meringue pie with a dollop of whip cream. I was happily whistling along to a Fats Domino tune on the radio when my ears were assaulted by the complaints of a rather irritable water fowl, I think it was a pelican.
The Pelican was complaining about the ethical slaugher of his pumpkin pie, he routinely and complacently ordered it every Saturday while he sat at the third barstool from the left. He was stating that the ingredients should have been properly sedated before they were ground into pulp. I asked the Pelican if he thought it ridiculous that such a poorly evolved species as the pumpkin could have feelings let alone the capacity to feel pain, at which point the pelican retorted by asking me, “Do you really think pelicans eat pie, let alone talk?” and then he dissapeared.
So that got me thinking, if pelicans can’t talk, can human beings? I mean, sure we can talk, we can mumble and waddle about daily affairs and muse about a recycled vat of insignifigance. But can we really talk? Sometimes I feel that life is so scripted, like we’re all puppets of someone else’s dialogue. But who’s the author?
“Anna” I says, “Give me a name”. “Marjory!” she replies, so I say, “Why Marjory, Anna, of all names?” and then she looks at me real hard and says, “Because it was my Maid’s Mother’s name”, “that is the most profound thing I’ve ever fucking heard” I told her. My maid’s mother’s name she says, can you believe that? Religion is humanities great maid, it serves us dutifully throughout our spiritual anxieties, but like any maid, what do we know of their mother? Many people know religions intimately, but who really knows God?
“Anna” I says, “You’re a genius”! “In fact, your genius is 40 cubits wide and a thousand broken hearts tall. It’s the low fat sweetner in the bitter cosmic coffee, it’s woven deep within the cracked vinyl and fart-stained foam of bar stools everywhere. Your genius is the great brine of the universe, it pickles the soul preserving all the good intentions in men. It is illusive and intuitive and can only be found in the most obscure corners of the universe, I last saw it handing out pamphlets and blowjobs at the intersection of Broadway and the Crab nebula, right across the street from the Ministry of Nonsense where the Tzar of Silly Hats is currently presiding. Your genius, Anna, was the first to scale Olympus Mons and shout from the summit “I havn’t had enough of this shit, can you please serve me some more?”, in fact your genius is so remarkable, that it even got through to Bob”
Bob, you see, was this diner barfly and a veteran… of what we don’t know. Some say he was born on the stool, and slowly gestated into the slop of a man he is today. He frequently has flashbacks.
”CHARLIE BOY!” He says to me “DON’T EVER LET IT GET YOU”
“Let what get me bob, let what?”
“THE ENNUI BOY!”
“What”
“THE ENNUI IS THE ENEMY! DON’T EVER GET CAUGHT WITH YOUR THUMB UP YOUR ASS AND NOTHING TO CALL ON BUT YOUR VICES. YOU GOTTA GO INTO BATTLE EACH DAY KNOWING FULL WELL IT’S YOUR LAST, YOU GOTTA GO OUT BLAZING AND BY GOLLY BOY YOUR MIDDLE FINGER SHOULD BE STRICKEN WITH RIGOR MORTIS COME YOUR OPEN CASKET!”
And as I wipe his spittle off my face and contemplate what he just said, he’ll interject with -
“I SPENT FIFTY FIVE YEARS IN A P.O.W CAMP! DON’T LET IT GET YOU!”
And while I try to contemplate what war he could possibly be talking about he’ll slump back into his coffee induced trance and stare at the wall flies untill closing time. At innapropriate moments Bob will make the most bizarre gesture at nothing in particular (Che imitates the gesture). I once asked him where he learned it, he told me that it was on the arctic front, during the battle of Iqaluit, he told me that a friendly inuit man taught it to him and that it was the local technique for wiping the buttocks. The man was nothing more than a conversation piece, an dellusioned piece of performance art, that was his only purpose.
But one day Anna approached Bob, and whispered something gently in his ear. A grin cut across his face, he sat bolt upright and happily skipped out of the diner… I never saw him again. I asked her how she could have possibly inspired Bob to do such a thing, and if she had such powers why didn’t she use it on more appropriate people. Anna wrinkled her brow and told me that God kept people like Bob in his change purse, to use in special occasions.
I asked her what she had said, to inspire Bob that day. She was reluctant to tell me for weeks, but she finally told me “I asked him a question”. So I looked at her, long and hard, look her dead into her indigo eyes and said, “Ask me a question”.
She laughed, smiled and said, “Well, what should I ask you?”
What should I ask you? What should my last question be? I was ashamed to tell you that day my sweet, and I’m not man enough to tell you today. I walked home that day, never to return, often admiring the diner from afar, more often admiring Anna. As I trekked home I heard a sobbing from a distance, as I approached there was a wilted pumpkin sitting on a stoop, his guts were strewn out across the yard and seeds were dripping from his triangular eyes. He was the most pitiful legume I ever did see.
I could have said something to that pumpkin, but I walked on.
Goodbye Anna.