Ramble: Just Saying

There are words inside me. And no one to hear them. They float on the tip of my tongue in swirling poetic tones. Waiting for the moment to arrive and launch their crisp sonorous meters into the air. I stay silent because I do not dare to break the silence when none are near to hear or care.

The ticking clock winds down past the hour into the next and then around again, clicking into the sunset crawling across the eastern walls of my living room. Gone gone gone much to soon is the charm of my youthful truth spilling out from my pain into the wounded evening light bleeding from behind the clouds.

And there it is then. The finality of the moment breaching the infinity of our progress into some other tomorrow we never imagined happening. It is always just there. Out of sight and out of mind. Lurking between here and the garden gate.

And so now I sleep. Deeply. Forlornly. Avoiding my fate. Avoiding the light. Avoiding the dawn that will rattle me awake,

Ramble: Sleeping Muses; Silent Voices

Some days are better than other days. And some days are more bitter.

Here I drift within the doldrums of darkness. I am creatively unsparked. Where my writer’s heart should be playful beating out a cadence for each line – there is only the flat-lined hum of cardiac failure. Does anyone even read this blog anymore? Why would they? There is nothing new here. No new words and thoughtful inspirations. Just the ongoing recycling of hunger unfulfilled.

I need a new shtick.  A new gimmick for a new audience. I could write about food and beverage. Indulge in fine craft beers paired with exotic hand-crafted local cheeses. Spew sensual sentences about the tantalizing tastes teasing my tongue with balanced tones of esters and glucose exciting my hunger for more. And no I cannot do that. I would be lost in my enjoyment of the food and forget to write my thoughts.

Oye.  Sports? Ick. Music? <yawn>

Book reviews – oh wait I would have to start reading again. And I find I get side-tracked by wondering why the writer decided to branch the story away from an enticing side-quest into the normal well-worn plot points of what sells books. Ah yes – I guess that answers that thought. I have a dozen books strew around my house partially read and bookmarked inside and beneath the dusty dust-jackets. Award winning books I was told I should read for their current cultural relevance and revelations. Oh god they read like re-warmed shit strained through  pompadour to mask the unpleasant stench of plot banality  and the de jure unexpected plot-twist de jour….

Oh I would pluck mine eyes from my head if I am forced to read another word crafted by Joseph Boyden.

Yes I know he is renowned and regaled and endowed with awards. I cannot stand how he writes. But I guess that is why there are a thousand other writers waiting to be discovered. Oh my god – I actually wrote a review? What? An unintended and unenlightened review! I must also admit I hated the movie Titanic – so that may be a sign that you should go read Boyden!

Enough for now. I just felt I should force myself to write something. ANYTHING!

And I did.

Happy November.


Ramble: Infinite Sadness

Some days are better than other days. And some days are more bitter.

I write poetry and short prose as the cadence of the moment catches my heart and soul. My words are alive with thoughts and feelings inspired by the turmoil inside, and by the words I read on luminescent screens. What I write is fictionalized reality. Not to be confused with the augmented reality of Pokemon Go.

Oh boy augmented reality – and now I must digress as to me that is a marketing spiel misnomer. How on earth is a virtualized representation of the world reality? Google maps and Google earth is not reality. It is a digitized and abstracted representation of the world as documented at a specific point in time and space. It is not reality.

To then layer an further abstraction on top of an abstraction is not augmenting reality. It is at best an augmented abstraction. If you abstract the abstract, is it now more or less real? At what point does abstraction become avoidance and distraction?

Augmented reality is simply an extended and extruded artificial reality.

Okay now where was I? Ah yes – the creative process that drives my random blather. Am I then also an abstraction of an abstraction? And if you cut an abstraction is that a castration? Oops I mean a subtraction…


My brain is not here today. Monday is blamed for the blues – yet this Monday wallowing in depths beyond the normal start of the week blues. These blues have deepened into midnight black of the inner abyss, spiraling down into dark pits. Crushing gravitational singularity black hole. Now I write to find the theoretical wormhole of escape to escape into other dimensions. And I find….

I got nothing.

Complete blank. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Zero. Negative infinity. Oi.

I am at this point in time creatively flat-lined. And no amount of artistic electricity is reviving this one. Call it. This post is officially dead at 3:33 PM on August  15, 2016.

Ramble: Manufacturing Consent

I woke early my brain flipping and spinning from what I have been reading the last few days of what it means to “consent.”

Here then are the troubling thoughts of the day on an issue I understand yet cannot comprehend. What exactly is consent?

When I ask this question what I am speaking about is not only the specific concept of Sexual Consent; I am speaking of the broader and wider aspects of consent in a digital community that is pervasive, always on, always recording, always sharing. When does the bubble of “I” begin and when does the bubble of “YOU” intersect to create the sea-foam of “WE”?

Consent obviously has a lexical meaning which I looked up via the online Oxford Dictionaries. Oxford University Press. http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/consent (accessed May 22, 2016).

That states consent is both a NOUN and  VERB.

NOUN: Permission for something to happen or agreement to do something.
VERB: To give permission for something to happen.

In both cases it would seem the word ‘consent’ is an active participatory process between individuals, that requires an expression of what is wanted/desired; and a response that indicates active agreement.

Then we get all legal on the issue. Wikipedia the omnipresent quick summary of collective knowledge provides this adequate summary of how ‘consent’ can be analysed: (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Consent for full article)

  • Implied consent is a form of consent which is not expressly granted by a person, but rather inferred from a person’s actions and the facts and circumstances of a particular situation (or in some cases, by a person’s silence or inaction). Some examples include implied consent to follow rules and/or regulations at an education institution.
  • Expressed consent is clearly and unmistakably stated, rather than implied. It may be given in writing, by speech (orally), or non-verbally, e.g. by a clear gesture such as a nod. Non-written express consent not evidenced by witnesses or an audio or video recording may be disputed if a party denies that it was given.
  • Informed consent in medicine is consent given by a person who has a clear appreciation and understanding of the facts, implications, and future consequences of an action. The term is also used in other contexts.
  • Unanimous consent, or general consent, by a group of several parties (e.g., an association) is consent given by all parties.
  • Substituted consent, or the substituted judgment doctrine, allows a decision maker to attempt to establish the decision an incompetent person would have made if he or she were competent.[2]

Without getting to much into the intricacies of the four concepts of ‘consent’ outlined above, it is clear that in all cases there is a requirement for active participation in a process. Yet we live in a world that seems to take consent for granted, by the way our own governments treat us and our data. It is evident in the way law enforcement works to monitor and manage our daily lives. It is pervasive in the way the Internet is used to record and analyse our daily lives and activities. And now it is in the way we move through public spaces can be used to track and monetize our economic interactions.

In other words we live in a world predicated on “Implied Consent”. On the age-old legal rationalization that since we did not protest, then in fact we gave SILENT consent. Or as has been argued before: “Silence is Consent.”

And here is the problem we enter into: When the bulk of our real world interactions is based on our IMPLIED and SILENT consent, how the fuck do we teach people when EXPRESSED consent is absolutely required? How can we as a modern and diverse society accept on one hand that IMPLIED consent is the normative operating process of our modern economy; and then say but in personal relationships you must always have EXPRESSED consent?

To really change the world, to change our operations our normative operation must be to always assume that EXPRESSED consent is required. And yes this is not easy. In fact it is incredibly and horribly difficult.

Here then is the rule for consent, for all consent:

Always Ask. Every time.

Just because the answer was YES for yesterday; doesn’t mean it is still YES today.

I am guilty of this same presumption and assumption.

Here is the rule of living in a community:

Always listen, Always look, for a change of consent. We all need a safe word, and that safe word by default is: STOP.

When you hear that word from another person I advise you to take it to heart. And yes you can get all pedantic on me and show me the times when you really shouldn’t STOP ‘because what if…” Dammit just STOP it! Yes there are times you should RUN when you hear STOP – and you will clearly know when that is the case.
I am not asking you to stop thinking.  In fact it is the exact opposite: When you hear STOP it actually means START THINKING.





Ramble: Learning My Place

Another Saturday spent on the road and away from home. 5 AM and I am out the door, hair still wet. Coffee in hand. This is the typical start to the last 9 years of Saturdays, up early and heading back to the hometown to see my Mom; and get some things done for her. It is a two hour drive, and a long quiet two hour drive that lets me think and enjoy the country-side. I write poetry in my head and tell myself stories out loud as I drive winding back-roads through the heart of nowhere.

Ever since my Dad died. Some weeks I go up twice if there is an emergency or a doctor’s appointment. Or just because my mom has called sounding sick or tired or lonely. Her Eastern European voice sounding faint and far-away when she calls. Heavy sighs mixed with the tone of finality. “This is it – I think I will be with your father tonight…”

I shouldn’t fall for it. I shouldn’t play along. Yet I do. She is my mother; the first human I ever knew. She deserves at least a small part of my time.

I arrive in town at 7 AM just as the grocery store opens. I have the list of needs already in hand . By this point already memorized. The salmon, cider, banana, pepper, watermelon, blueberry, regular requests, mixed in with my knowledge of how fast she goes through other items like coffee, tea, milk, and tissues. As I shop I look for bargains and new ideas. And form a plan for something I can make for lunch; and something that will end up frozen for a future meal or two.

Ground beef is on sale and thoughts of meatballs pop into my head. Oh with spinach and ricotta. A package of ground beef and one of ground pork and the other ingredients hop into my cart. I pay, then head off to my Mom’s house.

She is awake and as usual grumbling about not being able to sleep. I see an empty can of iced tea on the counter, and ask about it. She admits to drinking a little before bed-time last night “because tea settles you digestion – my stomach was upset and…”
My Mom launches into a long mystical health journey created over 85 years of living – how certain foods have certain effects. I half-listen while putting away the groceries and getting some breakfast going.

We eat breakfast and I hear about her health. About her oxygen levels. Her current respiratory infections and the medications they are trying this time to fight them. This is her life – since her early thirties her lungs slowly rotting and failing. Her breathing labored and full of chocking phlegm. The oxygen machine chugs softly in the corner, pumping an enriched oxygen flow to her every breath. Without that machine her oxygen levels are at 40% of normal; when the power stops my mom turns blue with labored breath.

After breakfast I cleanup what the cleaning lady hasn’t done. Clear away dishes and recycling. Look to see what mystery items are in my Mom’s fridge and remove the items that are now long past best-before times. And fast-food items that have been left behind by visitors – like a soup so salty even looking at it makes my own blood pressure rise. I ask my Mom how her blood pressure medication is working. “Oh you know they measured yesterday and it was very high…”

I quickly make the meatballs and use a 24-cup mini muffin tin to bake them. My Mom watches and gives me advice on how to prepare the meatballs. I have been cooking since I was a child, yet still I need her advice “because you are doing it wrong…you should always…”
I have done this so long that I can appear to do as she advises and still do it my way. It is the art of distraction as I move her into conversations about her childhood. “Did your Mom – Grandma – teach you all that…”
And my Mom is off to stories of how “Your Grandma was a cook and she could…”

The meatballs in the oven, I head back out to the local pharmacy to pick up a few items my Mom would like to have. On the way I stop at the mailbox to see what mail has arrived; and then to go to her bank to take care of her bills and other financial needs. The timer on my smart phone keeps me aware of the meatballs and I am back in time to pull them from the oven.

It is spring now – and her garden needs some attention. I do a quick weed and mulch on the front flower-bed. Trim the hedges into a more hedge-like shape, and then cut the lawn.

It is now 10:30 am. Back inside I make some rice, and a mushroom pepper sauce. All done by 11am, and as I place the sauce on a slow simmer, my Mom says “Did you check the mail?” Which reminds me that I had indeed and she has letters from friends and favorite charities begging her for money. And a card from my brother out west. But I have left it in the car, “Yes Mom I’ll get them for you – let’s eat first.”

I serve her lunch and we have lunch together discussing local politics and the recent deaths of people she had known most of her life. She complains how her world is smaller every day. “Soon they will all be dead – and no-one will remain to remember me…”

I clear the dishes and start the sink – then give her the mail. She takes great delight in the messages from outside her home. She takes pride in her importance to “her charities.”

Then with trembling had she opens the card to find a Mother’s Day card from her son out west. She whispers, “Oh my boy, my sweet sweet son remembers me when no-one else thinks of me at all…”

I wash the dishes and place the left-overs in two single serving containers in the freezer, so my Mom can quickly have a meal when the support workers aren’t around to help her.

By noon I am heading out the door for the two hour trip back to my own home, to take my daughter to swimming lessons. My Mom sees me to the door and asks some last minute questions and hugs me good-bye, “When are you back?”
Next Saturday, I reply.

“Oh” she says sadly. Then holds up the card, “Did you see what your brother sent me? He was always such a good boy…”

I head out, closing the door as she hugs the card.