Home
The Misfortunes of Virtue and Other Early Tales - The Marquis De Sade
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Books
- Hits: 347
I hate to admit, but the good Marquis is a man after my own heart. Condescending, supercilious, yet he has a way with words. The translator, Coward, is clearly a fan - and - to be sure, the Marquis's reputation is built largely upon a few sexual peccadillos when it should rather be built upon his philosophy.
That is to say, much, if not all he did was a rebellion against the "Virtues" Church and State imposed upon it's involuntary members, yet rarely practiced themselves.
His irony and contempt of the mores expected of him merely reflect the hypocrisies recommended the populace by it's leaders.
So, in a sense, still very relevant today. His primary relevance lies in speaking truth to power.
And he does so in so very droll a fashion, the descriptions, for example, by Justine of her rape, told by the victim as if it were the sole intent to inspire and titillate the reader.
He was not unaware.
Anyways, a good deal more intelligence than you'd suspect, given his reputation, and - very much like Celine and Henry Miller he was very much out to provoke his audience. And he succeeded.
The August Long...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 220
The longest weekend of the summer. There will be more.
Whacked, nonstop, 7, 8, 9 hours running without a break, the restaurant, falling apart, customers firing into, out of the restaurant, 60, 70 per hour, seating themselves at dirty tables, it's crazy, maddening, you can't keep up with this. Monday, after all the shit that went before, by 11:30 is looking to be slower, by 12:00 is full, packed again, and so it continues, the same again on Tuesday. The smoke hangs upon the lake, the helicopters, water bombers are dunking and putting out a blaze up 9 mile, you see the red smoke like a volcano against the night sky on the drive home.
Tuesday, worth of noting, I ring out the most of all the days and do the least amount of work. The result of working with a competent team-mate, Saturday, Sunday, shit shows largely because you're picking up after others, bussing others tables, fetching others drinks, I'm ringing out $3, 000 on my own accord but bussing, bartending after $6,000.
Anyways, that was the weekend to be dreaded, and now it's over. Phew.
Work, Theft of a Pick-Axe, Etc...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 287
Work, last weekend, crazy. The full 5 days, some days crazier than others. Full, walk-ins of 8, 10, 14, inside and out, on the beach, it's unending, relentless.
Just got to get through it.
Sunday night, park the car in town, the next morning I discover someone has rifled it, tore the drivers side handle right out of the frame. Which they didn't have to do, the window was down, door unlocked, I keep nothing I regard as theft-worthy in the car.
I was wrong.
Creating an inventory:
1 big-boy Pickaxe, yellow handle, stolen
1 Green handled spade, stolen
2 Estwing geology hand picks, stolen
2 large green gold pans, 1 smaller black gold pan, 1 1/4 inch classifier, all stolen
all crystals left hidden under ashtray, nice ones, photographed and posted the blog, stolen...
3 packs of cigarettes hidden under dirty laundry on passenger seat, stolen...
1 big tub of sani-wipes, emptied and used to hold rocks they dumped (flints and arrowheads) - they didn't recognize these, clearly.
***
The list grows as I figure out how much is missing....
***
Explaining to Michael while volunteering, because I'm not prospecting on days off, I'm desperately short of tools...
1 bottle of rubbing alcohol, stolen
10 packs of gum in glovebox, stolen
1 left dress shoe (they left the right one), stolen
...and here Michael chimes in...."So we're looking for a 1 legged man...."
he gets it..."Carrying a pick axe...with a vintage hardframe backpack, waxed canvas, sleeping bag inside, waterproof"
2 headlamps, 4 flashlights, stolen
1 vintage leather portfolio, with paper, stamps, calligraphy pen inside, stolen...
batteries for flashlights, glovebox, stolen
1 recreational map of the West Kootenays, logging roads, etc, stolen. Map book left behind.
1 box of Cherrybombs, stolen...
1 Prospectors travel coffee mug, with pick-axe logo, stolen
***
The list grows in every retelling. I find a crack-pipe in the back seat in going through the mess they made, there was more than one, certainly, and this right on Baker, it would have taken 2 people to carry all that they took. And I know where it is, approximately, it'll be either in the homeless encampment off Government or the one in Cottonwood falls.
And I'm itching, dying to go retrieve my stuff, but - herein lies the rub, the encampment is concealed behind tarps, in tents, and you don't want to condemn or judge a few hundred unfortunates by the behavior of a nasty few. A friend assures me it must be either the dislocated Trail or Castlegar junkies, they're a bad lot, and - maybe so, most of the homeless I know wouldn't do this, but, I'm annoyed.
Very annoyed.
They took what will profit them not in the least, and inconveniences me a great deal. And it's not as if I can replace them, because the car will just be broken into yet again, and the tweakers will have 2 pickaxes, and I will again have none....
Annoyed, annoyed beyond measure...
***
Monday night, I pop out for a cigarette, forget my keys in the apartment, locked out, I'm not used to this having a place to live.
And so the night is spent in my car on Baker, this time, on the look-out for a 1 legged tweaker (and his accomplice) carrying a big yellow pickaxe...
The night is long, I've moved my sleeping bag indoors and the back of the car, it's an uneven mess with all the rocks and crystals they left behind.
The sound of skateboarders careening down Baker.
Of people talking, crazy talk, tweakers, and I'm checking all of them out, looking for prowlers...
The street, even on a Monday night, is filled with no end of sketchy people all night long.
There's a girl in front of the Best Western, young, 18 to 21, tops, tall, slender, with a bag on wheels. She's waiting for someone to pick her up, clearly, someone who isn't showing.
I go to sleep, awake to her being accosted by a tweaker, get out to have a cigarette, watch the proceedings, tweaker notices, goes away. She moves her luggage down to in front of my vehicle, she feels safer there.
I try and sleep, fitful, restive, dreams, that I'm working my way from Cottonwood Falls up Baker, in Nelson-not-Nelson, homeless myself, the dream, not unpleasant in tone, I'm working my way past all sorts of the homeless towards a solitary house on the hill, it's night time, and when finally I get to this house, old, outside staircases to all the various floors, I meet a man, older, who's explaining to me that it's all an illusion, life, suffering, here, he's worked it out, and he hands me a notebook filled with equations and symbols I can't read...
***
Wake again, the girl, outside, in a corner, the night has grown cool and she's thrown on a large woolen cape, I see only her shadow and I can't help but think she's a Psychopomp come to ferry me on....
***
Wake finally at 6:00 AM, now, to wait for the building manager to let me into the building. The girl has gone. Head down to the A&W for a coffee, here are gathered a small crew of the homeless, arguing amongst themselves about stealing one-another's phones, other possessions,...these people, they will be no help whatsoever.
***
Come 8:00 I'm back in my flat. Time enough to change and get ready for work, although I really want to nap it wouldn't be safe...
***
Tuesday, busy at work, as I expected, but the night dies unexpectedly. Very unexpectedly. And so I escape to town to grab some tacos - all of the tacos, in fact, and begin my days off.
Days off, without tools, are rather dire. Wednesday morning volunteering at ...., as is Thursday morning. They're seriously behind, as am I in furnishing my place. I gather cutlery, a cutting board, pots, pans, some clear plastic totes so I can begin to organize my rocks, art supplies, paints, etc; winter will be here soon enough.
The afternoons, ambitions to write thwarted by the heat. Insufferable, this, 33, 35, higher even, my clothes are drenched in my sweat and I'm grateful for a place to escape it, my empty apartment, windows open, I haven't tried the AC, it's still hot, but lower the shades and siesta through the worst of it. And so I apologize for my lack of writing, it's not that nothing has happened, but I've been rather hobbled by the heat, I remind myself of the English Ex-Pats consigned to India, suffering long afternoons with gin and tonics while complaining of the locals, the heat, getting nothing done, and while I have no quarrel with the locals the heat definitely means I get nothing done...
BDSM Wedding
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 247
That there's a stage, wooden, and on it there's a handsome man and his bride, it's their wedding, he's big, cut, a real Tom O'Finland type, dressed in a leather harness, she, a smaller blonde in her own harness. They've taken a fancy to me, I'm best man or something, and their introducing me to all their guests, all dressed pretty much the same, different iterations of the same outfits, the men bringing their women to me on leashes as if to solicit my approval, the women, presenting themselves, and I lightly caress them, they lean into the caresses and protest, I'm not sure as to the etiquette here...
The neighborhood, it's run down, and a couple of blocks down I can see a liquor store, we're only a few blocks from the beach but this neighborhood is unfamiliar, and I head down for some refreshments....
returning I recognize the building the stage and wedding is in, there's the main floor, the upstairs, it's the old Italian restaurant in Calgary I used to work in, and I'm explaining this to the guests, on the top floor Tom O'Finland is sitting with his bride, I'm noticing how the roof is in tatters, drywall is gone, insulation is showing, when suddenly there is a backhoe outside, scraping at the side of the building, it's being demolished even as the wedding continues, and people are falling from the stage into the rubble below, somebody will be killed, and I'm yelling at the construction people but they have their orders...
[*Bizarre. The building I recognized as Guido's most certainly was not, the city not Calgary, or Nelson, and nobody I knew in it...Maybe inspired by reading (De Sade), the girls at the bank (who all wore some pretty kinky outfits last time I was in, the one teller in a lycra made up to look like latex-skin-two top, and the other with a short shirt that had a separate band of cloth as a collar...)]
Page 62 of 1021