The Tyranny of Technology

The power of authority has in the the last hundred years or so been reinforced by electric power and technology. It is stronger than it has ever been in all human history. So confident are the ones at the top of their security that they may no longer fear revolution. On the contrary, they may be curious to test their instruments of oppression against a disgruntled population. They may wish to demonstrate their invulnerability and to break the spirit of would-be revolutionaries. Helicopters, laser-guided weapons, satellites, microchips... Would Ghandi's passive resistance have succeeded were he and his followers tased where they sat? Would the Bastille have been stormed if the French king had helicopters circling over Paris, spraying fifty caliber rounds into the gathering mob? Resistance can be nipped in the bud through rigidly controlled information systems. Fare violations on Canadian transit systems now show up on identity scans when offenders try to cross the border into the United States. Given the triviality of such crimes, what else do authorities know about us that hitherto remained private? For these reasons I don't hesitate to post my innermost thoughts. I let it all hang out, as they say. Essentially I have nothing to hide. And while I have a rebellious streak, I'm too much of an individual to align myself with a group and thereby pose a threat. And authority need not feel any privilege in knowing all my secrets. They have failed to turn me into a zombie. I see the listless looking people helplessly playing on their computers and play stations. The technology of oppression may extend to medical advances. Aldous Huxley forecast a Brave New World in which workers would be scientifically conditioned to love their servitude. Drugs played a major role to this end. Today when people become disenchanted with their lives, they are directed to a physician who offers them an antidepressant chemical. Many patients receiving these treatments are from among the ranks of the unemployed, who have more time to analyze the world around them and reach depressing conclusions about it. Coincidence?
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All My Friends

All The Lonely People is a miniature novel by British author, Gervaise Phinn, that borrows its character names from the famous Beatles song Eleanor Rigby. It explores the troubling issues raised by the sex scandals of the Catholic church in recent years. Father McKenzie is a solitary priest with a terminal illness. Virtuous and the furthest thing from a pedophile, he is nonetheless approached by police in a public park and told to keep his distance from the playing children. Membership in his parish is declining and the building is falling into disrepair. He is approached and befriended by a small boy who doesn't receive enough attention from his mother. The boy's mother, in turn, longs for the companionship of a man. Miss Rigby doesn't appear until the second last chapter. She is an elderly widow, wealthy and deceased. A comforting read for a homeless, single musician on a dead Sunday afternoon.
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Food for Thought

As a small child, having a vivid imagination sometimes backfired on me. When it did, it was usually because of my sweet tooth. I remember these artificial grapes we kept as a centrepiece for the dining room table. They looked so real, so ripe and juicy. I stared at them for a long time. There was no way they could look that good, I reasoned, without also being delicious. My little hand went out, plucked one from the bunch, and popped it into my eager mouth. I bit down and the glass grape exploded. There was no taste but the taste of blood from my violated gums. I ran to the bathroom sink and spat the pieces back out. On another occasion I was making mudpies...
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Sunny Side Down

I'm not sure if it's a genetic thing from my father being a combat veteran, but the powdered eggs they serve in the cafeteria here fill me with homicidal lust. My first thought, upon finishing my food, is that I want to kill. I want to kill. Kill. KILL! HA hahahaha Apparently they are the same powdered eggs they serve the Canadian military.
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Thank You, Santa

Cleaned up this year for Christmas. Lots of presents for David S: flashlights, jeans, shirts, hoodie, sweats, gloves... Very nice. They have taken good care of us here. And Santa was pretty cool to let me get away with calling him Satan.
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MERRY CHRISTMAS!

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

Keep On Trekin

While I've made it well known about myself that I enjoy the science fiction show Star Trek, I like it more for its fiction than for its science. On the whole, I find it too optimistic to be believable. I don't think there is any other intelligent life in the universe. I don't believe in Klingons and Romulans. I yield to the travel barriers posed by the speed of light. As an object approaches light speed, its mass approaches infinity. I laugh at the transporter beam. When a molecule is displaced, it never returns to precisely the same location. Language is the invention of humans. Out of all the animals on the planet, except perhaps whales, we are the only ones to possess the power of speech. It seems foolhardy to expect a similar development from the differently evolved life of an alien planet. I don't think the problems between the nations of the world will ever be resolved. And I don't see money ever becoming obsolete as long as it sustains the establishment. At the same time, I do find the show inspiring. I think we should reach for the stars. I just don't think we'll find anything approaching what the U.S.S. Enterprise found. I enjoy the characters and the issues raised by a lot of the stories as long as it isn't one of those silly soap operas in space. I watched the original series and Star Trek TNG. Anything after that was pushing it for me.
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The Quality of Merchandise Is Not Strained

Since the Cold War ended, I've noticed a drop in the quality of merchandise produced by Western countries. I suspect that it is because we are no longer in economic competition with communist countries. I wonder how it has affected the quality of goods in Russia.
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Overflowing with Hydro

Most of my discussions on power have been centred on the concept of authority. I have overlooked other forms of power. I was recently interrupted from complaining about the dreary, drizzling, drab weather conditions this week by someone pointing out its bright side. They are an abundant source of hydroelectric power. Nuclear waste takes over a million years to break down. It's too expensive and risky to send into space on a rocket, and we can't bury it in the ground without the threat of creating patches of giant, radioactive vegetables that would turn us all into freaks. But B.C. hydro is clean. And we have so much of it here that we can export it for profit. Something to be grateful for this Christmas.
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Wish I Had Your Problems

For some reason folks around here are sympathetic to the plight of the rich. One told me that he knew some super rich people that always seemed depressed. Another recounted how a wealthy friend agonized over what kind of vehicles to buy for her friends. It seems to me that all their suffering comes from their wealth. If they want to escape this suffering, they must part with their wealth. Seems simple.
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Good for You

Here in the fiction section I'm having a tough time finding an author. Shirley Jackson. They have every other Jackson except Shirley Jackson. She was a great writer of fiction. Much of her work has been adapted for television and you may have even seen a few of her stories on shows like The Twilight Zone. I thought I should mention her again, since last time I only called her by her last name. (As for Hawthorne, I meant Nathaniel Hawthorne.) Losing faith in humanity depends on experience, education, and attitude. Anne Frank wrote in her diary while hiding from the monstrous Nazis that she still believed in the basic goodness of people. How was this possible? Some of what used to lie in the spiritual domain has since fallen into scientific territory. The evil spirits Jesus is reported to have cast out might today be diagnosed as some form of mental illness. And there is a spiritual element in Freud's analysis of the human mind, with its description of the id as entirely selfish and horny. We are driven by base and evil impulses. How does that make us basically good? We cannot analyze in the usual way, in order to arrive at a positive conclusion, with respect to humanity's goodness. We must look past what appears to form our essence. We must look at the whole person, not just at his components. While thoughts may originate from a dark and sinister place, they can be refined through processes of self awareness and conscience. In order to believe that people are good, it is necessary to believe that they want to be good. I tend to believe the inverse; that they don't want to be bad. I'm with Jesus on that one, who cried out to God to forgive his killers 'for they know not what they do.' Ignorance is not a sin unless it is deliberate. I think our conscience makes us good. What's the primary observation they make of sociopaths and psychopaths? No conscience. They feel nothing as they tear their victims to pieces. As long as psychopaths and sociopaths form the minority, I believe in the basic goodness of people.
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Red Hot Rage

Some time ago, I wrote about my experience with a landlord who rented condemned houses. I read this morning that such a house burned down last night, killing three tenants and hospitalizing one. When a house is condemned, it shouldn't be available for rent - even to artists and street people. I think the landlord should be facing criminal prosecution for his greedy dismissal of living standards and his reckless disregard for human safety. Hey, wealthy immigrants, come over here to Canada where you can exploit and even kill our poor! Thanks, government!
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Correction

I wanted to apologize for jumping to conclusions about the fate of my work shoes. I did not have enough time in my bunk before I was locked out to gather all the information I needed. It turns out that they were misplaced, though not by myself. I am truly sorry about this. Like I said before, I get along fine with the people here. I'm sure they're not after my stuff. There's probably the odd asshole that messes up the computer or whatever. It can't be helped in a large group. Some fool disabled Javascript on this computer, forcing me to enable it before I could go online. I feel kind of silly about my ranting and raving now. That'll teach me.
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Suicidal Tenancy

In some ways I'm better off now than I was when I had a home. I like having my meals and laundry done for me. I can see how some people might get hooked on this life. And being forced outdoors has helped to discipline me.

The last time I moved where I'm going, I moved out of a different apartment into a different shelter the month before. I rented a different room there, as well.

I remember that the downstairs lobby had superior acoustics. Stone walls help, I think.

The building is part of an organization that helps the poor find affordable housing. If I show them I'm a good tenant, I might be able to get into a place with a garage for my music.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Cold as Hell

Satan has taken many pleasing forms over the years: Elizabeth Hurley, Raquel Welsh and others. But one of these disguises that tends to slip under our radar is Santa. Everyone loves Santa. They say Santa makes a list and checks it twice, but who's checking to see that he's checking? It seems to me that a few too many boys and girls get presents from Santa when they're not very nice. Dare I say naughty? This could only be the work of the evil one. This ability to fly around the world on a sleigh and drop presents through chimneys is suspiciously demonic. Everyone knows Satan can fly because he's an angel, but his accuracy in dropping objects onto targets has a dark side. And if you examine the hooves of his reindeer closely, you'll be shocked to see that they are indeed cloven. He likes red. I wonder why. He hangs out with small elves all day in the workshop. No one suspects a thing. But perhaps his most telling giveaway is his takeover of Christ's birthday. Jesus didn't look or act anything like Santa Claus.
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XMY A for A Minor

I've invented a kind of shorthand to help me capture song ideas when I don't have my guitar and computer around to record them and when I don't yet have any words for them. It requires only basic knowledge of musical notation. I can never remember where to put the sharps and flats on the different keys if I notate. For vocal ideas it's faster to just mark the rhythm with notes and write the chords, like 'Am' for A minor, in whatever spot they're played - like tablature but without the diagram. I still need to put in the time signature and divide into measures. But I don't pinpoint each note on a staff. I just let their rhythm against the chords remind me of the melody they make in my head, and this melody remains hidden to other music readers. It helps to give me direction in my lyrics when my vocal melodies are already firmly established. I'll have a lot of recording to do once I get moved into my new place.
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This Little Piggy

In an earlier post I recounted my first experiences of encouragement to draw. 'You should be out drawing,' they often said. Well, I have taken their advice. I've been out drawing everywhere: park benches, community centres, cafeterias, lounges... That comparison I drew this morning between the temporary body and the immortal soul made me think of Bob Marley. He refused treatment for cancer because it required an amputation. In his religion, the physical body must be kept whole. But in Matthew, Jesus tells us to cut off our hand or put out our eye if it threatens our spiritual integrity. Better to enter heaven as a blind amputee than for your whole body to be thrown into Gehenna was how he put it, in so many words. Clearly he saw the physical body as disposable. I had an opportunity one time to be a test subject for surgeons. I was told they paid a lot of money if you let them amputate one of your digits and sew it back on again. (While I heard this during an all-nighter for an experimental heart pill, it could be a lie.) Anyway, I have to take Jesus's side. I already lost a knee.
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Seeing in the Dark Ages

I used to know a talented artist who was very spiritual. He loved medieval art. I imagine the Middle Ages were quieter times, with a peaceful enough climate to allow God's voice to be heard. No one thought Joan of Arc was crazy when she reported hearing voices. Life was far less comfortable then. Plague shortened lifespans. Marriage was acceptable at a shockingly early age. But for a population focused on heavenly rewards, the situation may have been acceptable, even beautiful. Some brilliant music came out of the churches and cloisters. Some not so great, I admit, but the great stuff rivals any modern work. We tend to measure a society's success by its physical standard of living. As such, we look down on our hay-pitching forbears. We're glad we live in a time when everyone knows the world is round. Maybe we attach too much importance to science. They had TB, probably from inhaling too much incense and snorting snuff. We have TV. Which is worse? A disease of the body, which, according to faith, is a temporary vessel, or a disease of the immortal soul? (Except, of course, for the TV shows I like.) While the battering rams of medieval kingdoms may appear ridiculous alongside an M1 Abrams, the comparison is strictly scientific. Medieval ballads like Scarborough Fair and Court of the Crimson King can make modern dance songs repeating two words for three minutes sound kind of stupid. There are more ways to evaluate a society's success than by its science. While they had no flu shots, perhaps the people of the so-called Dark Ages were more spiritually advanced than we are today.
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Hallelujah I'm a Bum

As I listen in my head to all the songs I've written and posted over the years, as well as the new ideas I have for the future, I realize that that s.b. was right. I am a bum. I haven't been making money like other singers. I've just been making music. And if that music has been making money, I haven't been paid for it. I haven't been getting paid for being an artist; I've been getting paid for being a bum. That's just how it is, and it's time I faced up to it. Thanks, lady. And I'm sorry for saying you don't work hard. Maybe you have pulled five hundred pound barbecues through gravel backwards, by yourself, on a hand cart. Maybe you have slung hundred pound bags of sand across your shoulder, gotten burned by tar from chucking fifty pound blocks into a 600 degree kettle, carried rolls of shingles up ladders. I wouldn't know.
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Double Talk Your Money

Some people are free with their money and some are not. And the latter group tend to have a hard time finding your money when you ask for it back. Who made the deposit this morning, Bill? Was it Cathy? No, Cathy's sick. It was Charlie. No it wasn't, it was Sheila. Where's Sheila? On vacation. Income tax in this country was supposed to be a temporary measure, to help finance the war effort in World War One. Our soldiers had the best. 24 carat gold bayonets. I must be old. I remember when bank accounts were free. Now we rent them. When those service charges were introduced, it was supposed to pay for ATM machines. Of course, each one is powered by a miniature nuclear reactor. (You can feel it pulsing if you rub along the side.) In your search for your refund, you may end up as lost as a new visitor to a public storage facility, trying to find the elevator. It's meant to discourage you.
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Fair Weather Fiends

Christmas sometimes reminds me of the movie, Patton. The Battle of the Bulge, in which he triumphed over German forces in France, happened through December, 1944 and January, 1945. The Germans took advantage of the winter weather to attack along the Western Front, knowing that allied forces could not receive support from the air. Patton asked his chaplain to invent a prayer for good weather. While it might be pushing it to ask for God's help with your war aims, Jesus did mention that he came 'not for peace but with a sword.' So reads The Gospel of Matthew. I hope I'm not taking too shallow a view of those words, but it may be that God does take sides in war. On the other hand, when wars end and their belligerents count the dead and wounded, there appear to be no winners.
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That Takes Bowels

Sometimes an author's biography is as interesting as his fiction. Such might be the case with Jaroslav Hasek (not Dominic, the goaltender), a Czech author from the early twentieth century. A friend gave me a nice biography about him. It's called The Bad Bohemian. Hasek's style reminds me a little bit of my own. He employs hyperbole to great effect. From what his biography had to say, it came naturally to him. Hasek's exploits are among the wildest I've ever heard of from a writer. They include impersonating a police officer to arrest a critic and defecating on the steps of a town hall. The Czech authorities must have had great respect for his talent to let him get away with such misbehaviour. I'm looking forward to reading his masterpiece, The Good Soldier Svejk. I'm sure it will be a laugh.
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Inside the Lounge

Been here 2 weeks and the callouses on my fingertips are starting to soften. Not to worry. It won't take long to toughen them up again. The book selection in the lounge is worth note. Actually, there was one gem. Inside Stories. A collection of short stories with nice illustrations. Authors; Jackson, Hawthorne, and others. But after that it's back to Breeding Practices of Fishes, I'm afraid. Better than nothing, I guess. Going to see a movie today. The Insider.
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Tall Tale

I love the flag of British Columbia, fluttering stoically above us in the December wind. It was designed in 1967, Canada's 100th birthday. All the Fathers of Confederation stand together, with the four most prominent sporting mustaches and wearing colorful band costumes. In the background, a giant happy face eclipses the setting sun over a paisley sea. It's top portion is spanned by a geometrically idealized though improperly colored marijuana leaf. The CBC logo, designed the same year, was conceived by the use of kaleidoscopes, spyrographs and LSD.
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