from Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World… ‘Cousin Harold, Security Guard’

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

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“Of course I like to help people – from my desk, with pop and chips. It’s the thought that counts.”

Cousin Harold

So stated a laboring Cousin Harold as he struggled against the imprecations of one Mrs. Grumpypants who was shoveling inspiration as quickly as she could on why Cousin Harold ought to apply for a job, somewhere.
Cousin Harold had been having a bad time considering the dozens of jobs for which he ought to apply and it had tired him out daily. By the time he came to actually having to do something about it he found himself caught in the philosophical dilemma of ‘to do, or to be.’

This became boring after a few seconds so he fell asleep on the couch with the newspaper folded over him.
Which was usually how Mrs. Grumpypants found him after returning home from work.

“Harold! Wake up! If you…

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Europe, and Other Disasters: Our Lost Neighborhoods

I’ve enjoyed Europe. I’ve even considered returning for a visit. Not now.

The first time I went to Europe was to embrace the life of poets, writers, musicians, and artists originating from ‘there:’ that mythical place of ancient and new ways seemingly distanced from North America due to the ‘reality’ of life here, and the possibility of an intermingling of reality and Romance there.
I wanted Europe to stay in Europe. More so now than ever.

First time in England I was sitting with the family I rented a room from, with the BBC news on. The talk was of Chile and Pinochet in September, 1973 with a widely discussed notion that any time soon the USA would go in there, shoot Pinochet and set things right.
The mood wasn’t one of triumph, but a mood of mild discontent since another of the world’s stepchildren needed to be set right by Big Brother whether or not anyone else agreed. A sort of disenfranchisement, with the unspoken idea that this was something England ought to be deciding alongside America.

Obviously the disenfranchisement has spread, with the origin being that of a spoiled child soiling itself in revenge against the better judgment of the grown-ups.
And now that the coming election has resulted in a lot of flailing about in regards to the candidates, Europe’s enjoying the discomfort, as they imagine it.

Meanwhile they’ve had their early warning, first from Melanie Phillips in Londonistan in 2006/2007 after the tube and bus bombings. And still other countries ignored the warnings, and what was revealed about the European infestation by Islamist terrorists.
It’s been exactly as if there was an incipient death wish amongst all the countries.
‘Let’s ignore our reason and go with the notion of our idea of fair play having more influence than nationalities, and their religious/political machinations of world domination.
Especially Germany. What perversity caused that nation to basically say, ‘Hey, over-run us. We miss it.’ Quite similar to the Canadian notion of cultural diversity working itself out as Multiculturalism as a symbol of just how advanced and good the incubating nations could be. Never mind the realities of importing people who were definitely not of a European caste of mind.

Examples of how this did not work abounded everywhere, as well as why it did work at other times. It worked when the host nations were serious about including those being absorbed; not having to consider the idea that they just might not want to acclimate, might not be grateful for a new life free of the troubles of the homeland.
Imagine during the late ‘60’s and ‘70’s if Irish immigrants decided it would be a good idea to openly organize themselves along the lines of the IRA. Fortunately the only morons doing so were the over-privileged so-called ‘negres blanc’ of the upper middle class and above in Quebec (FLQ), and assorted countries like Germany (Baader-Meinhof gang) and Italy (Red Brigade).
They aligned with the murderous anywhere, all the poor mistreated whiners in Cuba, Quebec, the PLO, etc., whose means of influence relied on indiscriminate killing and slaughter. Terror. Their useful idiots in North America were always and will always be empty heads whose need to feel alive is apparently only felt when they can inflict drastic change on others.

‘Useful idiots,’ as Stalin would say, because they are the unwitting tools of unacknowledged armies making backroom deals with the economy and the world as its run in whatever country at the time.
Sometimes it’s the smoke-filled rooms, other times it’s the blood wet sands. One usually leads to the other, though, in connections vague but traceable.

The world as it stands seems to have morphed into a fluid mass of black and white. Simpleness, for simpletons who cannot and have no interest in the differences between that, and a reality-based simplicity.

In the USA there are the bobbing heads of a carousel of broken-legged horses led by the circus barking of Donald T-Rump, the Populist. People believe T-Rump can win, will win, ought to win, fervently.
He couldn’t possibly have been slotted into the race by the masters of war as the 99%’s placating puppet, while other forces of greater influence as usual go to work less directly.
Europe laughs at the blatant and indulgent lack of sophistication of a Trump, and thus the USA. Meanwhile, they’ve been invaded and the ‘alien pods’ are set to germinate.

All this while Canada, and the USA accept Syrian ‘refugees.’ So from world Cop to world Babysitter. And no serious ideas of how to deal with either aspect: just enlarge the debt and spend.

The entire idea of going to Europe – England, Ireland, Greece, Italy – was they weren’t interchangeable.
You’d go to London with the idea it was London, not an anglicized version of Toronto, or New York. Thus, the reverse: when you returned home, it was your home.
Customs, appearances, eccentricities solely belonging to your country, city, town. And if you wished a reminiscence with concrete reminders you could always visit whatever part of the city contained those other countries’ ‘neighborhoods’.
But you didn’t lose yours in doing so.
To me that was the essence of visiting Europe – it stayed there.

Otherwise you’d lose your own unique country/city identifier, and in doing so become disoriented, lost.

Maybe that’s why what is occurring in the Anglo countries seems so at odd with what is expected. We’ve been displaced. We find ourselves strangers in a ‘lost neighborhood:’ our own country.
With the world pouring in, in physical realities and/or moods and influences, we’ve become the ‘dp’s’, displaced people. And there’s no place to go: we’re already here.

The invasion has already occurred through the ‘notions’ of a people lost between the idea, and the realities that constantly seem to intrude.

©Dean J. Baker

https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/all-print-books-links/

http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

Tormenting The Monkeyprose/political satires
The Lost Neighborhoodpoetry

A Drunken Alan Watts Has My Vote


When I was a small kid I wanted to be Perry Mason. No, not because he was fat and could fall on and crush villains, or had a future as a crippled bastard, but due to the use of words. And he had other people doing the minor details.
Then I heard JFK speak – and thought, that’s it. You could look at Richard Nixon and just lift your leg, fart on him, and that would do it for him.

Thus at the same time, I began to wonder about other politicians. What made them believe they had solutions to almost everything when some of them looked like they last read a book called Dick and Jane?

Was it just that they listened to other numbskulls, and then derived their ideas from what those poltroons had not said as well as what they yapped about? None of them seemed particularly schooled in intellectual discovery, as in had a sense of curiosity that extended beyond their own specific interests.
To me that resulted in immediate dismissal of any desire to know more of what they had to say.

Plus they seemed like moral cripples who waited to see how many yelled ‘yay’ or ‘that’s the ticket’ to validate their ‘ideas’ (really cribbed sketches of ideas), at which point they would either shrink down and run away, or stand up and start drawing attention. No matter if the ideas were good or bad. Like circus barkers, ‘Come one, come all, buy my shit.’ Nah.

Outside the generational politicians with a heritage of riches and thus attendance at highly valued colleges, the only other choice seemed to be in those who had a rough life, and thus could brag about being ‘of the people.’ But were they just incipient psychopaths who did not play well with others? Not exactly a source for comfortable inspiration.

Which brought me to the point where I questioned the fact that many were trying to be inspiring, which I found particularly horror-ible.
One of the philosophers I listened to regularly when I was younger was inspiring just be being himself. Alan Watts. Other than that, he was a fucking drunk who lived on a ship. But brilliant.

You could imagine the insults if he tried to run for office. ‘He lives on a ship, and it’s not his.’ ‘He drinks too much.’ ‘He believes in philosophy, can’t kill enemies with words.’ The usual bullshit from non-entities who don’t have a single original idea between them… but unfortunately, the standard.
It used to be said that a nuthouse was like a snakepit, a mental ward where the only thing separating the chuckleheads from the keepers was who held the keys. That became my view of politics and their supporters.

I heard Stephen Lewis talk. He was the son of one of the Canadian NDP (New Democratic Party) politicos. It was like music. Reasoned, passionate (bright, therefore passion wasn’t about yelling and overpowering, circus-like), and far reaching. Inspiring. He’d get my vote… but the vote was a given, while the ideas were not.

So obviously it’s clear whomever wanted my vote would have inspired it, not solicited it. And to me that said it all about so-called politics. The best and the worst of it. An immediate dismissal of those attempting to earn it (i.e.Nixon), and a yes to those who’d inspired it (JFK).

After that we’d get around to their ideas. And an examination of those in power with whom they had to interact. Which would make clear their characters, for examination, not approval.

Seems like the process is backwards now. i.e. current Prez He may have inspired, said the right things, but he lacks in the follow-up department where he is open enough to speak about what worries a great majority. Debt, jobs, the country’s position in the world and how all those things combine and interact with other influences.

I think Shakespeare got it right when he said, first, kill all the lawyers. Meaning I suppose that there was endless yapping and a protracted misery that made them rich and enabled while others merely wilted or died, and process was reduced to a sterile, tortuous ‘conversation’ in which the principles had absolutely no interest.

Today, we’re surrounded by ‘lawyers.’ A mass of uneducated, unlearned intellectual versions of lightweight flipflops merely reactive to every other flipflop. Everybody knows everything… sort of, they all have an opinion, with a lack of knowledge, schooling in their subject (in depth details), and culture in every aspect, except a very select number of writers, has been reduced to this representative gossip good for old ladies of either sex. I know the sand rats probably love that fact. The country’s making warbling tools, and they’re busy schooling psychopathic warriors, all the while China is quietly taking over and sending an unspoken message, ‘learn Mandarin, ah so.’
When everybody knows everything, no one knows anything.

And the politicians, political candidates, reflect all this. In terms of historical awareness, and an inspiring difference, real ‘smarts’ (articulate with lessons learned from history/philosophy/literature/psychology backing up words) are as rare as a red diamond.
Everybody hears the noise-some crap, but no one’s noticing that it’s not the real thing. No true substance at all because the politicos are basically diaper full and nothing more.

Give me Alan Watts drunk on his ship, or Irving Layton (called Canada’s “greatest poet” by Leonard Cohen) reciting his own poems, Stephen Lewis just talking, or the icon Bob Dylan mumbling on stage (as distinct from the funny person), instead of the current tower of Babel just waiting to fall.

© Dean J. Baker

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http://www.amazon.de/Dean-J.-Baker/

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The Mother Ship: http://deanjbaker.wordpress.com