My Saviour

With a plastic microscope,
a sextant,
a Guide to the Birds,
goggles,
and a vest with plenty of pockets,
My Saviour fisted a pop gun mightily into the air,
war cry ripped off his lips by wind and snow blasting across an ancient arctic desert,
honestly reckoning he’d crack that towering glacial mountain
and bring down the interminable ridge of ice.

I hadn’t expected my Saviour to be an idiot.

I was screaming foulness at him –
12 years encased in ice from armpits to thighs and they send a lunatic –
but the wind blew so hard that even three feet away he couldn’t hear me.
He finally paused from his reverent ravings long enough to bend down, cup his hands over my ear, and jubilantly yell,
“Faith moves mountains!!”
“Christ”, I thought, “My Saviour’s a religious fanatic”.
“You stupid ass”, I shrieked at him, far past hysteria, “If faith moves mountains, what in God’s name do you need a pop gun for!??”

He jerked upright, Eureka-like, grinning madly,
wild beard frozen, cheeks burnt by the wind,
wild goggled eyes gleaming wildly down at me.
He pumped the action of his stupid little piece of plastic,
pointed it straight at me,
and popped me square in the forehead.

Thunder clapped,
and the ice cracked,
a 12 mile lightning bolt blasted straight out from my belly-button,
straight to the bottom of the glacial mountain…

Its foundation exploded;
the glacial mountain fell.

A tectonic cataclysmic collapse,
slow motion catastrophic cascade,
vertical continents of ice breaking free and falling,
deserts of ice falling from the sky,
the frozen mountain pouring plunging down,
exploding
into the sea beneath….

Tidal waves reared upwards –
concentric walls of water and ice
burst outwards,
whole skylines spreading
rolling out
roaring and rumbling straight towards us.

 

I am aware, momentarily,
that I am unfrozen,
that I am free,
and that I am bobbing,
freezing cold in freezing water.
But I’m hypnotised, paralysed –
a stupid seal, a mute merman –
by the wave wall rising rushing towards us.

 

Ice floes the size of nations,
mountain ranges,
Pre-Cambrian shields,
crack into pieces,
warp and crumble,
as they ride up the impossibly vast chest of this cosmic tsunami.

 

I am free.
I am floating.
I can feel.
The pain is excruciating.
Already I crave the ice.

 

My Saviour,
the Lone Quixote Christ,
is standing,
goggled,
proud as punch,
legs braced,
hands on hips,
gazing out at the rapidly approaching cosmic undulation
like he just discovered America,
or his boy just hit his first home run.
He spits a huge wad of tobacco out the side of his mouth
every bone and fibre of his body saying, “Sheeeet, ain’t that a sight.”

 

 

It is.

The roar of shattering worlds is like being at the bottom of a planet sized waterfall.

Things are moving in me.
Things are moving out of me.
I’m shitting myself.

 

 

The ocean,
the universe in which I was frozen,
begins to tilt back, steeper and steeper as we are swept up into the wave.
Vast glacial constellations turn into slush and froth.

 

Saviour Man,
straight and true,
is surfing a thin board of ice the size of a pitcher’s mound.

 

There’s a sound,
just barely audible in the roar.
An indecipherable chattering, blubbering, mewling,
somewhere between a dry hiss and a stricken eyed shriek,
that, as it turns out,
is coming from my mouth.

 

The cosmic tsunami sweeps in and, riding up its unfathomably vast chest, we are almost vertical.

Skyscrapers, rocket ships, pyramids,
painstackingly devised theorems passed on from generation to generation,
whole evolutionary strategies,
strands and strains of DNA,
are plummeting into the froth like rain.

 

The hissing shriek has deepened and broadened,
gradually resolving into an infantile wail of unmitigated terror.
I temporarily leave my body as we hit the crest of the wave
where I can momentarily see to the other side of the concentric cataclysm,

heading away like a cosmic volcanic rim, spreading outwards towards infinity.

 

I look down.
over the crest,
down,
over the rim.

 

Down
in the centre of the circle,
there is nothing.
Really….
nothing….
a bottomless pit…..
An unmitigated black hole…..

 

Saviour Man
flying out over the edge of the abysmal cataclysmic wave,
is staring at me in glee,
still on his board,
in classic surfer posture,
knees bent,
arms thrust forward and backward,
mouth shaped into the ‘ooooooo’ at the end of “yahoooooo”.

 

I am also flying out over the edge,
my mouth is wide open,
tongue tunneling a roar through my throat,
funneling all the terror possible for a conscious being:
it is in the shape of an “AAAAHHHHHHH……”

 

It’s an infinity across and spreading, and everything is falling into it.
Sound falls into it.
light falls into it.
It is unutterable, out of time.
I cannot describe it’s shape or form.
All words and constructs fall into it like rain,
and disappear without trace.
It is lasting roughly forever and measuring the length of all universes known and unknown.
Distance and time, wildly undulating, expand and collapse like a spider web in a maelstrom.
Time and space, gravity, evolution,
are notions defining it the same way that a puppy comprehends an internal combustion engine, a cat in front of a television set.

 

Saviour Man bursts forth,
surfing straight off the crest of the tsunami,
winking at me as he completely outstretches his arms,
spinning slowly backwards,
effortlessly executing a perfect back layout cross,
before disappearing
down
into the chasm of certain doom.

I fall,
out,
over
the edge
of the crest
of the wave,
twisting desperately,
falling and kicking and clawing and grasping
and flailing,
trying to find something, some way, to hold onto
pure emptiness.

 


I am on the ground in a green garden.
Carlos Castaquixote, formerly Surfer Man, still in surfing posture, is staring at me with his ineffable grin of inestimable zeal and enthusiasm.

I am, to say the least, nauseous.

Quixote turns to face me and, without unlocking his eyes from mine, stretches an empty hand forward toward me, palm up, until it’s a foot from my face.
He holds it there, unflinching, unblinking, as if waiting,
staring into my eyes,
until suddenly an acorn drops straight into his outstretched palm.

This is, admittedly, a rather clever trick, but, having just witnessed the end of all known universes, I’m not overly impressed.

I am however, suddenly impressed by something else.

I become aware, and almost immediately fixate upon, a sensation which I cannot entirely identify.
Either I have a huge hard on,
inhumanly large, mythologically huge,
or else I have a vagina.
I don’t know which, and I don’t dare to look, because I don’t want to attract any attention… down there.

Carlos Castaquixote is still staring into my eyes, acorn in hand, smiling quizzically.
I stare back, smiling, and don’t look down.
He knows…
He doesn’t know…
I’m not going to look in case he still doesn’t know…
I don’t know…

He turns into the Mona Lisa.
She knows that I know that she knows,
and she knows that I’m not looking because I think she doesn’t know,
but she does know.
Or maybe she doesn’t know.
I still don’t know
for sure
if she does or doesn’t know.

The expression on her face is fathomless, preposterous, impossible.
I’m torturing myself.
I’m trying to smile but know that it looks completely ridiculous.
The corners of my mouth are twitching from trying to smile so hard,
but my eyes are frozen wide open.

Without blinking or looking away from my eyes she, or he, rolls the acorn out of her palm with his thumb, rolling it upwards onto the tip of her two middle fingers.
Her mouth is morphing into a mischievous grin.

I still don’t know if she does or doesn’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.

She rolls the acorn with her thumb right out onto the tip of her middle finger, balancing it there.
She is disappearing,
bit-by-bit,
until there is nothing left of her except a huge mischievous grin and her middle finger
with the acorn perched upon it.
Then she suddenly snaps the fingers of her other hand very loudly
and,
like a magician matador impresario,
she grandly and theatrically gestures, palm up, to the middle finger
where the acorn is now spinning
perfectly,
a perpetual motion machine,
a frictionless planet,
spindling effortlessly on the tip of her middle finger,
inches from my face,
now so close to my nose that my eyes are crossing.

———————-

She
(Mona, or whatever the heck she is or he is or was or had been or will be or could be)
reappears
but has turned into the Cheshire Cat crossed with Jack Nicholson.
Perhaps it’s Satan.
He has a huge rude grin, demoniac, utterly disconcerting.
With his eyes still locked to mine,
the finger with the spindling acorn suddenly drops down in a mind numbing blur,
his whole arm straight,
pendulating backwards,
reaching an effortless extreme well above his shoulder behind him,
and then,
after a moment’s pause as it gathers the momentum of gravity,
it pundulates back forward,
plunging deeply,
arcing perfectly,
swinging forward and upwards,
releasing the pent up energy of potential into kinetic force,
out through the middle finger, the acorn still spinning on the end of it,
deep ,
burying deep,
into my groin.

It happens so fast that I don’t even budge except for a tiny pocket of air which punches out of my mouth in a squeek of shock.

I swear to God, I still don’t know what it is,
but now I know that he, or she, must now know.
His finger is back in front of my nose;
no acorn.
I’m cross-eyed again.
I begin to wonder when I last breathed.

He has resumed the form of Saviour Man,
slightly subdued, but with an undercurrent of absurd ebullience.
With as much gravity as a person with goggles and a pop gun can muster, he says,
“The roots will grow in, and the trunk will grow out.”
I keep on smiling.
Then My Saviour grips me by the cheeks, tongue-kisses me square in the mouth, punches me hard in the shoulder, appraises me one last time as if I was a ‘job well done’, turns on his heel and walks off with his ridiculously huge bounding steps,
plastic microscope,
a bird book,
goggles,
a sextant,
pockets,
and a pop gun dangling an acorn.

Curiosity vs Conformity

“Curiosity… is insubordination in it’s purest form.” – Vladamir Nabakov


It’s becoming increasingly common for leadership coaches and innovation experts to espouse the benefits, and even necessity, of curiosity. And yet we also know, as I explained in a previous post, that education systems and workplaces typically discourage curiosity.

Why is this? What is it about curiosity that is so repellent?

Curiosity, actually, has a very long history of being seen as dangerous; we all know the aphorism, “Curiosity killed the cat”. The Greek myth of Pandora is the classic tale of curiosity gone awry. Zeus commissions Haephaestus to design ‘Pandora’, the first woman, as a trap for Prometheus in revenge for his stealing fire. Zeus then gives Pandora a gift on her wedding day, a beautiful jar, but forbids her from opening it to see the contents. As we all know, Pandora’s curiosity gets the better of her, releasing all the evils known to humanity. Another even more familiar creation myth is also a tale of the danger of curiosity: the story of Paradise. Eve cannot resist the temptation to eat of the apple of the tree of knowledge, the result of which is humanity being expelled from Paradise by the angry God, to live and work ever after in toil and suffering.

The stories of Pandora and Paradise have quite a few things in common. In both cases curiosity is represented by the feminine, in both cases curiosity is related to contravening a masculine authority, in both cases there is a punishment for stealing a transformational power that only the gods can have (fire and knowledge), and in both cases the punishment is permanent and catastrophic.

Evidently, according to the myths, there can be a very high price to pay for curiosity.

What is the authority that would punish curiosity?

Mario Livio states it plainly in his TedTalk ‘The Case for Curiosity’: “Who is it that doesn’t want you to be curious? Totalitarian regimes. People who have something to hide.” Trump - Media the enemy of the peopleA powerful indictment against those who reject questions! What is that totalitarian regimes do the world over: claim that the Free Press – the questioning corps – is the enemy of the people.

Curiosity – the virtuous cycle of questions – is revelatory: it wants to know… its got to know. And so, where there is much to hide, it is most unwelcome, and so it is that this essay opened with Nabakov’s exclamation that “Curiosity… is insubordination in it’s purest form.” So curiosity, in the context of political oppression, can be a cognitive Molotov cocktail.

Curiosity is typically challenging to an insecure status quo. In classrooms and also boardrooms ‘the way things are done’ can prove to be immutably resistant to change. Curiosity may question ‘the way things are done’, and make those who benefit from the way things are done feel vulnerable. This feeling of vulnerability is rarely welcome. Furthermore we live in a culture in which teachers and managers are expected to have answers. Any really good question is hard to answer… but rather than provoking a thoughtful reflection, or discussion, or avenue of exploration, in an insecure culture it will provoke a fiercely defensive rebuke.

There are, however, much more subtle, and possibly more powerful, ways in which curiosity is suffocated. If – as we learned in a previous essay – anomalies, misfits and deviations heighten curiosity, we can also say that habit and conformity suppress it. And we are indeed creatures of conformity. The renowned and somewhat disturbing series of experiments done by Solomon Asch in 1951 demonstrated with great clarity the fact that a majority of people will literally deny the evidence of what they clearly see with their very own eyes if it risks social alienation, even amongst a group of strangers. Put in a room with a small group of actors who were instructed to all agree on a patently false statement about a chart they were shown test subjects would – despite evident discomfort – almost always agree with ‘the group’. Conformity can be a great silencer of questions than threats of imprisonment.

In Susan Engels’ book ‘The Hungry Mind: The Origins of Curiosity in Childhood’ she discusses a complex and subtle array of cues by which adults – parents and teachers – encourage or discourage curiosity in children. She describes how “different avenues of influence converge and blend to create an overall environment that may be more or less conducive to children’s curiosity”. “Although curiosity leads to knowledge”, Engel writes, “it can stir up trouble, and schools too often have an incentive to squelch it in favor of compliance and discipline.” (1)

Cultures of conformity – whether in homes, classrooms, tribes or workplaces – are just such ‘overall environments’. Culture is made up of webs of significance, nests of commitments, cycles of behaviour and paths of influence which mesh and blend together to create an overall environment. Cultures also have, like any organism, an immune system which a poignant curiosity may provoke, releasing the antibodies of defensiveness, shunning, demotion, degrading, expulsion, aggression, etc.


(1) Excerpt from Susan Engels, ‘The Hungry Mind’ @ Salon.com

Why Curiosity?

I have no special talents.  I am only passionately curious.
– Albert Einstein

The World Economic Forum – backed by an outpouring of mildly panic stricken white papers from big name organisational consultancies (1) – hails our era as the Fourth Industrial Revolution. We are already riding the rising wave of an increasingly complex fusion of technologies – digital, biological, material, social – which will disrupt, revolutionize and transform almost all spheres of human culture and conduct.  Artificial intelligence, blockchain encryption, genomics, 3D printing, driverless vehicles, ‘the internet of things’, nanotechnology, biotechnology, quantum computing, renewable energy systems; any one of these innovations will have a profound impact on technical, social and organisational structures as we currently know them. The combination of all of them emerging simultaneously is, lightly stated, mind-boggling (2).

alice_in_wonderland_curiouser_2We’re entering an era of hyper-complex rapid change which will be experienced by most as serial disruption.
How to cope?
How to manage?
How to navigate intelligent pathways through tumult?

Social researchers and organisational experts from the Harvard Business Review (3) to Brene Brown (4) are proclaiming the value of curiosity to successfully navigate the turbulent cultural vicissitudes of the early 21st century.

But, what is curiosity?

Curiosity is the human trait that has enabled a physically feeble species with an exceedingly lengthy and vulnerable infancy to become completely dominant.  It’s the drive that has led to every important invention and exploration that humans have engaged in, from pre-digesting food by cooking it over a fire, to sending a vehicle (called ‘Curiosity’) to Mars. Curiosity is a dynamic of ongoing inquiry, a virtuous cycle of recurring, adaptive questioning. It’s a proactive journey of questioning, rather than a reactive defensive entrenchment.  Curiosity is a call towards something, rather than a flight from something.  Curiosity is not driven by crisis, but by wonder and awe, and it’s a drive that’s inspired people to take extraordinary risks and endure extraordinary hardships. As James Stephens wrote, “Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will, indeed, it has led many people into dangers which mere physical courage would shudder away from…”

I would like to pose that curiosity is the characteristic best adapted to resiliently navigate the kind of emergent complexity and serial disruption that we face as a species existing on an astonishingly unlikely finite living system.  Curiosity is the most useful response to what is known in strategic leadership as VUCA; Volatility/Vulnerability, Uncertainty, Complexity and Ambiguity.  It’s a key to innovation, productivity, agility, continuous renewal, well-being and fulfillment.  It responds mindfully to crises, it discovers opportunities in obstacles, it enables the release of outmoded habits and patterns and is a core element of basic resilience. But, oddly enough, curiosity is not taught in schools or places of employment, and, in many cases, it’s actively discouraged.

Why would we discourage curiosity, when it’s many benefits are so very obvious?
Is curiosity dangerous?
What, really, is curiosity?
And, if it’s of value, how do we cultivate curiosity?

This post is the first in a series in which I’ll explore these questions.

We’ll go on a journey exploring wonder and respect, conceptual bubbles and perception blinders, disruption and hard transitions, habit creation and dissembly, resistance and innovation, and vulnerability and creativity.  We’ll look at the nature of ‘questioning’, the neurology of curiosity, the relationship of curiosity to ‘mindfulness’, and how habits and preconceptions can suffocate curiosity.  We’ll look at curiosity and learning, and curiosity as a disruptor and a rebel.  We’ll explore vulnerability, experimentation and failure, and curiosity as a navigator.  Finally, we’ll dip our toes into the real question….how do we ourselves, and our organisations, become more curious?

I hope you’ll join me in this curious ongoing investigation and become, in the words of Lewis Carrol’s Alice, “Curiouser and curiouser”.

______

(1) Age of Disruption. Are Canadian Firms Prepared. Deloitte.

(2) Above and beyond the exponentially increasing speed of technological innovation we are already dealing with the increasing effects of climate change, resultant mass migrations, increasing inequality, and increasing ethnic division demonstrated by the rise of terrorism, nationalism and authoritarianism.

(3) Tomas Chumorro-Premuzic, Curiosity Is as Important as Intelligence. Harvard Business Review.

Warren Berger. Why Curious People are Destined for the C-Suite. Harvard Business Review.

Todd B. Kashdan, Companies Value Curiosity but Stfle It Anyway. Harvard business Review.

(4) “The rumble begins with turning up our curiosity level and becoming aware of the story we’re telling ourselves about our hurt, anger, frustration, or pain.” – Brene Brown

“Failure can become nourishment if we are willing to get curious, show up vulnerable and human, and put rising strong into practice.” – Brene Brown

Spasm, Splinting, and Change Dynamics: Injury, Immobilisation & Aggravation

Spasm & Splinting

So, I threw my back out…
Again…
I planted somewhere over a million trees in an evidently overlengthy treeplanting career, once upon a time rowed a dory down the coast of BC, and, for a time, took great pleasure in something called ‘Martial Dance’ which involved improvisationally and consensually flinging one another all over the place with great grace, so, my back has done its fair share and periodically lets me know it’s had enough.

fightflightThe cause is pretty much always a combination of heavy object(s), reaching, twisting and stress; in this case an innocent enough maneuvering of an amp into my ‘95 Honda (aka ‘The Blue Flame’).  Not uncommonly, having set one of my lower vertebra adrift, I exacerbate it by doing some other activity; in this case Lebron Jamesing with my ten year old who is on that delicious cusp of finally thoroughly whooping his dad at a game that he’s far more gifted at.  Baddaboom baddabay and I’m calling the game a little short and gentling home to lay my sorry ass flat on its back with a huge sigh of relief.

 ‘Herniated disc’ = one wrong move = shooting nerve pain + persistent exhaustion aching through glutes, hips, all through lower back, not to mention, in my case, a permanent slightly twisted forward tilt.  Like I said, I’ve been here a few times before and I know know that, despite an urgent desire to do something, anything to fix it as soon as possible – massage, twist, do yoga, stretch – the best thing to do at first is almost nothing except, as often as possible, lie down and give it some relief.

 Fact is, the pain is there for a reason.
Human physiology is a marvel.
Pain is a marvel – if an unwelcome one – and has a most compelling story to tell.  Pain’s great and powerful cut through all the crap nervous system megaphone announcement is “STOP”.   Stop doing whatever you’re doing that’s damaging some part of you.  In the case of back trauma it’s a whole lot of ‘STOP MOVING’ because a very high percentage of typical movements mobilise your lower back and/or pelvis.  Mobilising your lower back scrapes your herniated disc across the highway of nerves running just beside your vertebra and, nerves being what they are, you get an electric shock wave of shooting pain jolting you into immobility.

Mobility causes damage and excruciating pain, and excruciating pain is paralysing and debilitating, so the autonomic nervous system pulls a brilliant trick to immobilise the traumatised area.  It puts the muscles directly around the injury into spasm, which makes them as hard and unyielding as a piece of wood. The autonomic nervous system ‘sets’ the injured area in a splint of spasm.[1]  The traumatised area becomes effectively frozen.

Emotional & Organisational Splinting & Freezing

 Physiological ‘splinting’ is a good metaphor for some forms of both emotional and organisational trauma.  Splinting occurs, non-volitionally, around physical, emotional, organisational and social trauma[2] to reduce further damage and pain.

 The American physiologist Walter Cannon, who coined the term ‘homeostasis’ to describe the ‘internal fixity’ he believed necessary for an organism to survive, was the first to describe the ‘fight-or-flight response’; “a physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack, or threat to survival”.  More recently PTSD specialist Pete Walker elaborated on ‘fight-or-flight’ in describing the 4Fs: fight, flight, freeze or fawn, which are psychological response to perceived harm.  

 Simply stated, the anxiety caused by real or perceived threat to which one feels helpless to respond can result in psychic ‘freezing’ well documented in PTSD sufferers.  The symptoms can be strong involuntary disassociation from situations which trigger memories, emotional ‘numbness’, or feelings of complete powerlessness, despair and futility.  They can also manifest as ideological and ideational rigidity or even fixity, as well as in addictive behaviour. In organisations a traumatic situation – a hostile takeover, deep layoffs[3], market failure – may be ‘fixed’ or ‘splinted’ by temporary authoritarianism, extreme legalisation or bureaucraticisation.

 Aggravation & Enculturation

 In physiological ‘freezing’ the functions of the immobilised muscle groups need to be covered for, so the brain calls up substitute muscle groups which, while not adapted for that role, can temporarily ‘pinch hit’.[4] A localised injury, by calling in temporal support, sets off chains of adaptations resulting in global shifts in the ecology of coordination that characterises healthy movement and posture.  Prolonged reliance on substitutions, however, will result in the brain neuroplastically rewiring itself such that aberrant and substitute posturo-movements becomes normalized and permanent.[5]

 The same can hold true for individuals and organisations: ideological fixations, addictive behaviours, authoritarianism, legalism – all of which may have been a temporary ‘fix’ for a traumatic situation – become normalized and enculturated.  However, because temporary fixes are inadequate long-term solutions they typically engender more instances of conflict and turbulence hence further aggravating an initial trauma. A vicious circle takes hold.


[1] “By ‘splinting’ the area with spasm, the hypercontracted (shortened) muscles, ligaments and fascia effectively reduce painful joint movements. Splinting is a common form of protective guarding clinicians address day-in and day-out… “
– True Grit of Muscle Spasm: Erik Dalton (http://erikdalton.com/media/published-articles/true-grit-of-muscle-spasm/)

[2] Taboo is social splinting. Taboo is a socially strategic immobilisation around an area of conduct in which there has been great pain and damage: sex, money, mental illness, etc.

[3] David Noer, author of Healing the Wounds: Overcoming the Trauma of Layoffs and Revitalizing Downsized Organizations, gives a compelling account of ‘layoff survivor sickness’. “Survivors of most organizations are angry, depressed, anxious and fearful. They are not able or willing to take risks or focus on increasing customer service. At the very time organizations need them to be the most creative and energetic; they hunker down in the trenches, absorbed in their own toxic survivor symptoms.” – http://www.cnbc.com/id/32990164

[4] “Regardless of the reason for loss of joint play, when vertebrae are not free to move, muscles assigned the job of moving them (prime movers) cannot carry out their duties and are substituted by synergistic stabilizers, i.e., the brain sends in the subs when a key player is injured.”
– True Grit of Muscle Spasm: Erik Dalton (http://erikdalton.com/media/published-articles/true-grit-of-muscle-spasm/)

[5] “Prolonged joint damage can set the stage for aberrant posturo-movement patterns which, in time, causes the brain, through the process of sensitization, to re-map and re-learn the dysfunctional movement as normal (neuroplasticity).”
– True Grit of Muscle Spasm: Erik Dalton (http://erikdalton.com/media/published-articles/true-grit-of-muscle-spasm/)

In/Future – Overshadow

‘Overshadow’ was commissioned by artist Lyla Rye for her video installation ‘Overshadow’ which was projected on the ceiling of a silo in the In/Future festival at Toronto’s Ontario Place and looped from Sept. 15 – 25, 2016. It features the remixing the of Dolores Claman’s theme music for Ontario Place (Dolores is renowned for having written the Cdn iconic masterpiece, ‘Hockey Night in Canada’), + the plundering of contemporary pop artists (derived from Lyla’s daughter Leena’s playlist) Metric, Janelle Monae, Gorillaz, AWOL Nation and Lykke Li.

The structure of the piece passes from the grand optimistic – even utopian – fanfares of the Ontario Place Theme (written sometime in the 1970s)which are gradually eclipsed by millennial pop artifacts, until there is a full eclipse. Following the eclipse pop artifacts dominate. At the end, through a series of more or less disruptive insertions there is a gradual collapse, and the Ontario Place theme re-emerges in a somewhat dystopian crescendo…

Overshadow Facebook page

 

 

Overshadow

The Tale of Sitting Duck



Sitting Duck,
frozen with fear,
couldn’t paddle, couldn’t fly,
frozen knowing,
that below the Beast was coming,
from below.

1-Sitting Duck, Frozen with Fear

And so it did.
Rapacious gaping maw,
black gorger,
wide open,
all teeth,
snapping and gulping and swallowing,
’till all there was left
in the universe of the duck
hemmed in by teeth closing
was the rooting slathering tongue,
of the Beast.

 

Sitting Duck,
it’s mouth gaping in fear
as it fell into the cavernous jaws
of the maw,
suddenly,
inexplicably,
lunged at the great beast’s tongue,
and beaked it,
then…
realizing…
beaked it harder and still harder,
beaked with all it’s might,
and held on for it’s dear Sitting Duck life.

 

3-The Beast Buzzed Teethed Spat and Ululated

The great Beast gasped,
then gabbered,
then stuttered, then coughed,
but still Sitting Duck wouldn’t let off.
It wheezed, and sneezed,
it buzzed, it teethed,
it spat and ululated,
and raced to and fro,
but still Sitting Duck wouldn’t let go.
The Beast flabbered and gasted,
couldn’t swallow, chew or catch,
on it’s tongue, Sitting Duck,
unrelenting in his latch.

For hours, then days, then weeks
the duck wouldn’t release,
and the Beast,
swimming in circles,
writhered and railed,
then paled,
and fell weak.

4-The Beast Flabbered and Gasted

Then Sitting Duck –
now mighty from feeding on the great Beast’s tongue –
flexed it’s wings,
and heaved with it’s mighty beak,
and beat and beat
as hard as it could,
and harder and harder,
and lifted the limp beast by the tongue into the air,
higher and still higher.

Then with a great gasp,
Sitting Duck spat the Beast from Below,
and it fell and it fell
tumbling down
far and still farther,
and then kerashed and kersplattered,
in a terrible horrible glabble,
of guts, and teeth and bones.

5-It Fell and It Fell

 

Sitting Duck –
Mighty Sitting Duck –
now descended to the splattage carnage,
winging back down to the ground.
There it fluttered and flapped,
and bippity-bopped,
and picked all the very best bones of the lot.
It stacked them in order,
tight, interlocked,
and built,
bone by bone,
a beautiful home,
from the bones of the Beast from Below.

6-The Beautiful Home

 

 

0-The Beast from Below

 

Marvels & Miracles

The odds of my birth.

That single sperm cell, out of the initial millions of genetically diverse cells, is the one and the only that makes it into the egg.

SupermanChristAnd that this conceptional unlikelihood – the odds already so rare and outrageously far-fetched that even a gambler in despair would shun them – has been repeated in every generation of my lineage for thousands and thousands of years, each new generation multiplying the unlikelihood.

And then the impossibly complex myriad of circumstances, strokes of luck, synchronicities, close calls – unbroken from the beginning of time – that witnesses my father meeting my mother, my grandfathers meeting my grandmothers, great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, generations and generations of arrangements, accidents, illicit trysts, seductions, violations, – back and back and back through time in a stupefyingly magnificent and improbable sequential river…

The odds of my birth seems so outrageously absurdly unlikely as to border on the miraculous.

But there’s nothing miraculous there.
There’s nothing in it that is unnatural, or beyond the scope of possibility.
It is truly a marvel… but it’s not a miracle.

I’ve never seen a miracle.
I’ve seen, and participated in, things and events that seem astonishingly unlikely but, nonetheless, possible.
But a miracle? No… no miracles.

Miracles are for the weak and the meek.
Unable to bear the cross of chaos they’ll line up to get a fix of ‘deus ex machina’, robbing the truly awe-inspiring courage and improbability of marvels and replacing them with the symmetrically sculpted supernatural action figure of miracles.

According to the story, Satan tempted Jesus with miracles but he refused.
But the authors of the story wrote them in nonetheless, burying the courageous bloody and enmired flesh of Jesus under the sleek, shiny and squeaky clean miracle of Christ, perpetuating a most awe-inspiring lie, an opiate for the pain of existential angst, for the cross of uncertainty, that generations and empires have been hooked on ever since.

‘Ten Questions on DIVE’ from BarczaBlog

Fascism & ‘The Wild’ in ‘DIVE: Odes for Lighea’

Throughout the composition of DIVE I was very conscious of, and sensitive to, the relationship between the mermaid, and Mussolini. In the opening Prelude the mermaid vanquishes Mussolini and his fascist crowd with a mighty roar. Later the mermaid plays directly with Mussolini’s speech by improvising over a distorted and stretched out version of it, exaggerating it and distorting it, but also really digging into it and almost becoming a part of it.

‘DIVE’ is based on Giuseppe di Lampedusa’s short story ‘The Professor & the Siren’, set as Mussolini reaches the pinnacle of his totalitarian power, and the mermaid [1], at the core of the story, and who is so vividly and sensually described by Lampedusa, is a wild feminine divine being.

As I told you Corbera, she was a beast but at the same instant also an Immortal, and it is a pity that no speech can express this synthesis continually, with such utter simplicity, as she expressed it in her own body… Not for nothing is she the daughter of Calliope: ignorant of all culture, unaware of all wisdom, contemptuous of any moral inhibitions, she belonged, even so, to the fountainhead of all culture, of all wisdom, of all ethics...”
– Giuseppe di Lampedusa: ‘The Professor and the Siren

Giuseppe di Lampedusa

Giuseppe di Lampedusa

 

Is the tale a premise for the struggle between ‘fascism’ and ‘the wild’? Is fascism a polarity to the wild? Or is the tension between the two more complex? What do we mean by ‘fascism’? And what do we mean by ‘the wild’?

[Read more…]

Fascism & Utopia

a poem for extremists everywhere

Blacktop Mountaintop

 

Fascism is a hair’s breadth from Utopia.

Those who try to force funnel the hard grit gravity ground of everyday into Utopia,
to compel it across the great divide,
turn into extremists, slavemasters, witchhunters.
Naiively they set out to purify the strain, exorcise the demons, exterminate the wrong thinking, abolish the Mixolydians.
They wind up razing the terrain,
sterilising the DNA,
creating mutants and monsters,
which they,
and subsequent generations,
spend their lives chasing,
or running away from.

Pure seeds are so fragile.
Little trees planted in the scarification after the burn.
Acres upon acres,
hectares upon hectares,
kilometres upon kilometres of burn…
God the heat,
the scorching heat on the mountains of burn,
blacktop mountaintops as far as the eye can see.

Here we plant the little tree, the pure seed, the clean gene, the clear clean code,
and wait,
utterly simple single-minded, mono,
for the perfect shoot to grow.

 

 

 

* In my youth I spent summers planting trees.  One season I was in the mountains around Prince George, BC. The mountains had been completely clearcut and then razed by fire, an endeavor so grand in scale that it was, at the time, the only human project significantly visible from space. We planted only one species – one believed to be most profitable 60 years hence when it would be harvested –  to replace the grand diversity that had previously dwelt there for millenium, and returned home each day, head to toe, black in ashes.