Blog Dis
Talking to the dead
2024-01-30
I talk to the dead, rather than with the dead, because when I talk to the dead, this implies that I speak to them alone, rather than have actual discourse with dead folks. If the dead did in fact reply to me, I'd probably run and hide.
In my dreams, I have full-on conversations with loved ones who've passed and also with dead artists. I've had numerous encounters with Picasso in my dreams and they usually have something to do with his paintings or his penis or both. I don't seem to be fussy on which phallic symbol is being used, whether a c*ck or a paint brush. And these dreams got me to thinking about how nice it would be if I had the power to bring back even just three dead people with whom I could spend an afternoon. My choices are not what other famous people might answer when asked the same, to whom they would if they could talk to, such as Jesus Christ or Mother Theresa. I figure these dead persons are naturally profound and full of compassion but that wouldn't necessarily make them interesting. Nope. My list is better, if I may digress into a competitive posture for this post.
Firstly, I'd invite Walt Whitman, a man of poetic depth who held immense wonder for the natural world and who had bravely pursued free verse in a world that thought he was perverse. Never mind who he slept with because in the end that's all irrelevant between consenting adults. Walt pioneered free verse in the late 1900s at a time when his poetry was being banned in the United Sates. Walt would stand on the street corner in Philadelphia selling his monumental book, Leaves of Grass, to anyone brave enough to read his gargantuan collection. I keep my copy of Leaves of Grass beside my side table, next to my couch, and have thumbed through its dog-eared pages I don't know how many hundreds of times. Many of his works I've committed to memory because they've touched me spiritually and emotionally (and I suppose physically too if you acknowledge the fact that the body will involuntarily react when a particular passage of poetry reaches into your soul). Walt's collection of free verse is the one book of poetry that I would most assuredly take with me on a desert island if I was forced to spend the rest of my life by myself or with one other person. Leaves of Grass is like a field of ideas rustling in the breeze and each time you open its pages, you are bound to discover a new blade. And, when you place a wide enough blade of grass between your two thumbs, and press your thumbs tightly together, blowing between that tiny crevice formed between your two compressed thumbs, a sound emerges, like a whip-poor-will's call. Walt's poetry is sound, and feeling, a visual smorgasbord of well-placed words, if you will.
Secondly, I'd invite back my paternal grandmother, Gertrude. She died when I was thirteen but I've never felt like she has left my life. My grandmother gave birth to eight children, loved to travel, wrote limericks and poetry, played piano for silent movies, smoked cigarettes from the age of nine to when she died in her eighties, had a fondness for drink (rum), and even told fortunes using a regular deck of playing cards. I modeled one of my favourite characters (Auntie Aileen) after Gertrude, who not surprisingly I am told by readers that she is also their favourite character. In Newfoundland, where she raised her wily brood, she was considered a witch-lady because she had a special connection with the spirit world and shocked and surprised townsfolk with her prognostications. I know it would be a total hoot to spend time in her company as I am now, an adult, full of myself and thinking that I'm wise and mature. Nana, as I called her, would refer to me as 'child' and I loved it. We had a special connection and I know to this day that my Nana watches over me, to which I say, "Thank you, my darling."
Third and last is Picasso. The man never learned how to speak English because apparently the language confounded him. I don't know how to speak Spanish and I've only a rudimentary understanding of French, which means we'd require a translator but I actually wouldn't give a tinker's damn about speaking with Picasso. I'd simply like to sit back with a cup of strong coffee in hand, and watch him paint. I've read multiple biographies on him, and all state that he could paint for hours upon hours, never moving from his standing position. I would happily squeeze out paint from fresh tubes of colour for him, like some hopeless admirer and maybe some of his sparkle dust would rub off on me... just maybe. [Don't ask me why we are drawn to some artists and not to others. It's not always healthy to question the validity of everything].
That's my list, kidlets. Of course it's not conclusive. I channel the dead too when I write. I'm aware that many writers follow this practice when writing. I channel four writers in particular: Robert Shaw (actor, novelist and playwright who died in 1978; he played Quint in Jaws, you may recall) because I consider his landscaping technique in his five novels to be superlative in their simplicity, literally placing me in his stories. I also channel Oscar Wilde (Irish poet and playwright who died in 1900) whose cynicism and wit are second to none. The man was a genius and a provocateur and society owes a great deal to his literary skill. And of course, I channel Walt Whitman, again to infuse my writing with a dose of naturalness that only Walt could convey. I shan't forget either to include my Nana, given that her limericks are gentle, and subtle in their humour, and eventually I will post individual ones from her collection on future X-posts.
There is no mystery to channeling the dead. You can either say the words aloud or in your head; you invite their spirits to join you as you write and thank them for their insights, which is to say have the decency you hooligan afterward to pour them a drink and leave it out on the counter overnight.
Talking to the dead is better than talking to the walls or a four-poster bed if you trip and hit your head on the way down to pull your drawers to your ankles, before you bend and offer yourself to your lover.
Here's a small taste from Leaves of Grass:
"O You whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
In my dreams, I have full-on conversations with loved ones who've passed and also with dead artists. I've had numerous encounters with Picasso in my dreams and they usually have something to do with his paintings or his penis or both. I don't seem to be fussy on which phallic symbol is being used, whether a c*ck or a paint brush. And these dreams got me to thinking about how nice it would be if I had the power to bring back even just three dead people with whom I could spend an afternoon. My choices are not what other famous people might answer when asked the same, to whom they would if they could talk to, such as Jesus Christ or Mother Theresa. I figure these dead persons are naturally profound and full of compassion but that wouldn't necessarily make them interesting. Nope. My list is better, if I may digress into a competitive posture for this post.
Firstly, I'd invite Walt Whitman, a man of poetic depth who held immense wonder for the natural world and who had bravely pursued free verse in a world that thought he was perverse. Never mind who he slept with because in the end that's all irrelevant between consenting adults. Walt pioneered free verse in the late 1900s at a time when his poetry was being banned in the United Sates. Walt would stand on the street corner in Philadelphia selling his monumental book, Leaves of Grass, to anyone brave enough to read his gargantuan collection. I keep my copy of Leaves of Grass beside my side table, next to my couch, and have thumbed through its dog-eared pages I don't know how many hundreds of times. Many of his works I've committed to memory because they've touched me spiritually and emotionally (and I suppose physically too if you acknowledge the fact that the body will involuntarily react when a particular passage of poetry reaches into your soul). Walt's collection of free verse is the one book of poetry that I would most assuredly take with me on a desert island if I was forced to spend the rest of my life by myself or with one other person. Leaves of Grass is like a field of ideas rustling in the breeze and each time you open its pages, you are bound to discover a new blade. And, when you place a wide enough blade of grass between your two thumbs, and press your thumbs tightly together, blowing between that tiny crevice formed between your two compressed thumbs, a sound emerges, like a whip-poor-will's call. Walt's poetry is sound, and feeling, a visual smorgasbord of well-placed words, if you will.
Secondly, I'd invite back my paternal grandmother, Gertrude. She died when I was thirteen but I've never felt like she has left my life. My grandmother gave birth to eight children, loved to travel, wrote limericks and poetry, played piano for silent movies, smoked cigarettes from the age of nine to when she died in her eighties, had a fondness for drink (rum), and even told fortunes using a regular deck of playing cards. I modeled one of my favourite characters (Auntie Aileen) after Gertrude, who not surprisingly I am told by readers that she is also their favourite character. In Newfoundland, where she raised her wily brood, she was considered a witch-lady because she had a special connection with the spirit world and shocked and surprised townsfolk with her prognostications. I know it would be a total hoot to spend time in her company as I am now, an adult, full of myself and thinking that I'm wise and mature. Nana, as I called her, would refer to me as 'child' and I loved it. We had a special connection and I know to this day that my Nana watches over me, to which I say, "Thank you, my darling."
Third and last is Picasso. The man never learned how to speak English because apparently the language confounded him. I don't know how to speak Spanish and I've only a rudimentary understanding of French, which means we'd require a translator but I actually wouldn't give a tinker's damn about speaking with Picasso. I'd simply like to sit back with a cup of strong coffee in hand, and watch him paint. I've read multiple biographies on him, and all state that he could paint for hours upon hours, never moving from his standing position. I would happily squeeze out paint from fresh tubes of colour for him, like some hopeless admirer and maybe some of his sparkle dust would rub off on me... just maybe. [Don't ask me why we are drawn to some artists and not to others. It's not always healthy to question the validity of everything].
That's my list, kidlets. Of course it's not conclusive. I channel the dead too when I write. I'm aware that many writers follow this practice when writing. I channel four writers in particular: Robert Shaw (actor, novelist and playwright who died in 1978; he played Quint in Jaws, you may recall) because I consider his landscaping technique in his five novels to be superlative in their simplicity, literally placing me in his stories. I also channel Oscar Wilde (Irish poet and playwright who died in 1900) whose cynicism and wit are second to none. The man was a genius and a provocateur and society owes a great deal to his literary skill. And of course, I channel Walt Whitman, again to infuse my writing with a dose of naturalness that only Walt could convey. I shan't forget either to include my Nana, given that her limericks are gentle, and subtle in their humour, and eventually I will post individual ones from her collection on future X-posts.
There is no mystery to channeling the dead. You can either say the words aloud or in your head; you invite their spirits to join you as you write and thank them for their insights, which is to say have the decency you hooligan afterward to pour them a drink and leave it out on the counter overnight.
Talking to the dead is better than talking to the walls or a four-poster bed if you trip and hit your head on the way down to pull your drawers to your ankles, before you bend and offer yourself to your lover.
Here's a small taste from Leaves of Grass:
"O You whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
