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November 14, 2024
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Today, again rainy, foggy, wet, how many days now? My nose starts pouring from the moment I step outside. Morning, get groceries, then the bus-stop, to Balfour, to hunt arrowheads, all this rain must have turned up something new ...
Cash is there, the Mother-in-Law's brother from the last restaurant, holding his dog. It's a cute dog.
We're catching up, he likes rocks, knows a few things, has ideas, about rubies, sapphires, etc, that he's found, local, only - well, he's unfortunately a junkie. Which is not a slur but it does somewhat mean you got to put things into context a bit.
But we're talking and he's realizing the importance of getting off the junk, just got subsidized housing up lake, wants to make some changes, it doesn't get him high anymore, does nothing for him, and fuck, the amount he needs, his prescription, it'd kill 10 people...
I know what he's talking about. It takes me a mickey to get sober, pass for sober, fuck how well do I know.
SO we chat, bus comes, I confirm a bus will be returning (because damned if on this cold and rainy day I want to be trapped up lake for hours and hours on end).
I was right. The wash-out has grown, some large flakes/scrapers/micro-blades, and further up the shore a couple of scrapers, (maybe, hard to tell, odd bits of stone regardless), and a couple of rude arrowheads.
From loonie, left - a scraper, (I think, oddly shaved to a sharp edge from both sides, bilateral), above left, oddly shaped rock out of some sort of tourmalinated schist, oddly shaped and out of place on a washout. Above loonie, arrowhead, hard to see but to handle it becomes obvious, knapped both sides to a symmetrical point, otherwise mostly debitage, a couple of "micro-blades" (or debitage, again), and to the right, a carefully worked flint, dark grey, knapped both sides, almost as if it were an arrowhead that lost it's head, then got repurposed.
So, given the rain and chilly day, my nose draining me perpetually, no box of Kleenex could keep up, my bag filling with water, not at all unsuccessful, given my last day out there a positive victory, the rain, despite running off my nose, jacket, hands, despite freezing to death and getting soaked through and through, if you keep on looking you'll keep on finding.
Worth noting, while most of the rocks above would be invisible in any other setting, but the distinctive green/grey of the Kootenay Argillite does stand out in the fog and the rain. it's obvious, the paler examples especially. The scrapers on the left, well, that's just intuition, for once not discarded....
Blaise Cendrars - The Astonished Man
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Books
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This, the last of those books ordered through Abebooks.com, and I have to say, the more I read Cendrars the more I like him. His writing style, rhythm, descriptions, all curiously in sympathy with mine own. A shame he's so hard to find (I'll be ordering a few more - fortunately he wrote a great deal).
Notes so far: his references to Gerard de Nerval (whom I can't seem to find in translation, although Umberto Eco referred to him in such glowing terms I'll have to keep up the search); his mentioning of 'thrashing' Rainer Maria Rilke, mentions of Restif de la Bretonne, (another novelist I'll have to track down, also abundantly mentioned by Bloch in his book on de Sade). And a few more authors - always it seems the more I read, the more ignorant I become, but time with Cendrars is time well spent...
"Well then, the gap continued to open in front of us, I led Léger through the market, then took a zigzagging path between the shacks, the yards, the chicken-coops, the tiny gardens, the waste lots of the zone-dwellers enclosed by bare walls topped with broken glass, fenced in by barbed-wire, stakes, old railway sleepers, and full of ferocious dogs, their collars bristling with nails, chained up but running the length of a strong piece of wire, or several meters of taut cable, which allowed them to hurl themselves like demons from one end to the other of their bare pens, bounding, barking, slavering with rage amongst the empty, battered petrol cans tumbled everywhere, the burst barrels, the ripped sheets of tin, the mattress springs that sprouted from the soil of the dung-heap, the broken crocks and pots, bashed-in tin cans, mounds of discarded kitchen utensils, broken-up vehicles, piles of disgorged filth, surrounded by thistles and measly clumps of lilac or dominated, Golgotha-like, by the skeleton of a tree, a stunted elder or a tortured acacia, a runt of a lime, with its amputated stumps poking through the handle of a chamber-pot, or its lopped-off upper branches crowned with an ancient motor-tyre; I crossed rue Blanqui and, on the other side, fortifications, at whose foot the 'Academy of the Little Charlie Chaplins' was installed; it consisted of five or six oblong sheds that served as a dormitory for the children and as dens for the bears that were being trained haphazardly in this sinister institution, which was, to boot, an all-night bistro and a thieves' kitchen for cut-throats and prowlers."
That a single sentence to open the chapter.
Or this, a sumptuous description of a meal:
"...my Don Quixote invited me to share with him the 'plat de Lucullus' in a pleasure-garden in Saint-Ouen, which he had just discovered, and this famous dish, invented and cooked by Lerouge, was nothing less than a salad-bowl filled of blackbirds' tongues cooked in white butter and perfumed with rose and violet, which we ate with croutons dipped in celery-liquor, and washed down with long draughts of Alicante, while the patron of that 'chigana', a Spanish gipsy, pattered round the dish in his espadrilles, excusing himself in a tone of complaint:
'They're only blackbirds' tongues, it's not the season for nightingales . . . .'
There were more than two thousand tongues; it must have cost good old LeRouge a fortune, and he was not exactly rolling in money."
Time to slow down on the reading and get some more books ordered...
Marquis De Sade - His Life and Works - BLOCH
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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I enjoyed this probably far more than I should have. Written by one of the first Psychoanalysts/Sexologists, Iwan Bloch, it's a tour-de-force that puts de Sade in context with his era and compatriots.
The chapter list alone is worth the price of admission, with such chapters as "Flagellation and Phlebotomy - Whips and Passion" and "Poisoning - Wholesale Poisonings" and "Conditions in Italy - Debauchery in Italy, Sexual Orgies in Naples." this book alone is far more entertaining than anything de Sade ever wrote. Not that de Sade was bad (he was, but compared to his peers...), more so in that it provides both context and historical perspective on the events he depicts.
Notes on what I found worthwhile - well, that's several pages, buy the book, but - a short list:
Pornography of every description sold at the Palais Royal - that everything de Sade wrote about, the most despicable things, were already well established in practice and written up about and sold in leaflets at the Palais Royal.
A list of books of note - as identified by De Sade or Bloch, a reading list that extends beyond my probably lifetime, but I'll be online looking, rest assured...
The mentions and correlations with Chardelos de Laclos & Casanova (for example, when Casanova did his brothel/bordello tours in Italy he was escorted by the Clergy, those Bishops and Priests being connoisseurs in such departments).
Mentions and correlations with Chardelos de Laclos & Casanova, as well Potocki (Manuscript found at Saragossa, see film).
“Pastilles a la Richelieu” (aphrodisiacs), leading on to what is referred to (and you have to laugh!) "The BonBon Cantharidic Orgy"
Or the description of a certain artist using a prostitute of “rare beauty” to model the Virgin Mary - an Englishman, upon entering the church and seeing the statue stated - “Oh, it’s the virgin who gave me a dose!”
Or, entering upon the Marquis De Sade’s life (the first 2/3's of the book deal almost exclusively with his life and times), the Marvellous Salve that first landed him in prison, an experiment lacerating an unwilling captive prostitute to test the efficiency of said healing salve - and his believing he would be excused - after all, what was a prostitute next to the greater good of humanity? This, along with his other over-reported but nonetheless diabolical escapades, well -
Than there's the real-life corollaries, the people that "inspired", if that is the right word, de Sade - the list of Dukes, Kings, Counts and Courtesans and the inventory of their pleasures.
Oh, and there's this:
Paris, August 2, 1808.
The Chief Doctor of the Hospital at Charenton to his Excellency, the Senator and Police Minister:
Sir:
I have the honor to appeal to your authority far assistance in an affair that threatens the entire order in my home.
We have here a man whose bold immorality has made him only too well known and whose mere presence effects the greatest evils. I speak of the author of that shameful novel Justine. This man it not mentally ill. His one delirium is that of vice—and this cannot be aided in an insane asylum. He has to be placed in the severest isolation to protect others from his outbreaks and to separate him from all circumstances that might increase his horrible passion. Our place as Charenton does not fulfill any of these conditions. De Sade enjoys too great freedom here. He can have intercourse with a great number of patients and convalescents either in his or their rooms. He has the right to walk in the park and often meets patients there. He preaches to them his criminal theories and lends them books. Finally we received a report that he is living with a woman whom he claimed was his daughter.
That is not all. They were so improvident at the asylum that they had a theatre erected for the performance of comedies and did not think at the harmful effects of such a tumultuous proceeding upon the mind. De Sade is the director of this theatre. He presents the plays, hands out the rôles and directs them. He is also the asylum poet. For example, at the dinners of the director he writes an allegorical piece in his honor or at least some couplets in his praise. I ask your excellency to remedy such a horrible condition. How can such things be in an insane asylum? Such crimes and immorality! Will not the patients who daily meet this man be also infected by his corruption and does not the mere thought of his presence in this house awaken the fantasy of those who do not see him?
I sincerely hope that your excellency will find these reasons imperative enough to find another resort than Charenton for de Sade. An order for him not to associate with the patients will not be sufficient as it will be only a temporary aid. I do not ask for him to be sent back to Bicêtre but I believe that a strong castle would he better fitted for him than an asylum with its many opportunities for the satisfaction of his degenerate desires.
Royer Collard, MD
I could go on - the book is filled with such anecdotes. But I don't intend to cheat you of the pleasure of reading it yourself.
You can read the entirety of it online here: https://survivorbb.rapeutation.com/viewtopic.php?f=23&t=222&sid=5b4e0b2d3fbdedef6aeafe2aceea5c9a or simply break down and find a copy online. If the 18th Century is your thing you'll find it money well spent.
And about the Author: Iwan Bloch
The rain, the rain...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Grey clouds lowering on the mountains, rain, rain, dismal leaves crushed under foot, the blackened silhouettes etched onto the sidewalk, and the rain, non-stop, snow visible but not into the valleys yet.
Yesterday, at Save-On foods, a case of Hari-Kari, someone, an unidentified male, used their washroom, came out with his neck sliced open, a proper bloodbath, no updates, only severely injured, self-inflicted, witnesses are recommended counselling, this weather, government, age, it would do it. I'm curious as to who it is, was, someone no doubt on the peripheries of acquaintance, everyone here is.
Rain, rain, and when I let myself indoors it continues, the pitter-pat of my nose dripping everywhere, a terminal cold, I've become an extension of the clouds that cold-sweat buckets on the street, forever a Kleenex, tissue, scrap of toilet paper or napkin wiping my nose, drip, drip, drip...
Yesterday morning, a train derailment, blocking all access to the mall. I had no need to go, just news.
And today, setting about on my second round of errands and the power goes out. All over town, 45 minutes, then it's back up.
The news, I've gotten quicker, I just get the gist, we're in trouble, everyone, global stability, it's all done, the end game is being played out. The appointments, cronies and kleptocrats, experts in nothing but their own self-enrichment, whenever things can't get any worse they invariably do, I'm dropping the news by and largely from my list of things to do, catch-up upon, there's no good news at the moment, only bad news and irrelevant news, and - worst of all, with the right leader (not Poilievre, not Trudeau) we could be not only prospering but flourishing, per capita we're the richest country on earth second only to Australia, we only need clear vision, governance, leadership, a plan...
Stop importing minimum wage-paid slaves, cheap foreign labour, instead import experts, engineers, begin the industries wherein we can become self-sufficient, produce our own consumer goods, recycle, innovate, to hell with all the lowly service jobs lets get started on the ownership and fair distribution of our own resources, we could, should be a model to other countries...
Instead, well, instead, the news down south is as terrifying to us as it is to them.
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