TRINKETS

TRINKETSMy mind a buzz saw,wood chips in decapitated thoughtsoil chilblained handsIICleansing wood,the keen smell of sawdust--good, raw earth drenchingthe nostril, clean odourof nature like my brain,a broomstick sweepingthe coffee pot speaking ...bubbles massed in steaminchoate in their pensive rivulets.[53]

My mind a buzz saw,wood chips in decapitated thoughtsoil chilblained handsIICleansing wood,the keen smell of sawdust--good, raw earth drenchingthe nostril, clean odourof nature like my brain,a broomstick sweepingthe coffee pot speaking ...bubbles massed in steaminchoate in their pensive rivulets.[53]

A THIEF'S NOTEBOOKBaggage. Banal brigands,turn-coats, stiletto to dirkappraise warm fleshupraised over a pie-shaped sky,bread crust moon.On oyster rock,with grinning, red hibiscus,jute and henequinsmother the lavender caress of stars.[54]

Baggage. Banal brigands,turn-coats, stiletto to dirkappraise warm fleshupraised over a pie-shaped sky,bread crust moon.On oyster rock,with grinning, red hibiscus,jute and henequinsmother the lavender caress of stars.[54]

WARHORSETaken as metaphor ...Ophelia's funeral oration,derogatory snoutof the Morning Glorybreathing pollened fireoverladen steps of the church.IILimestone rockcaulking in greylimpid cracks ...doublet and hosethen gold doubloonsdown sunlit honeywhere a smear of red lichenonto brown-yellow mosscolonizes rock.IIIPoor Ophelia, dicingfor a sedentary-free Hamlet,duty-free of fissures + frost.IVElusiveness,water rushing over stonetorrent of words(Ophelia receiving these),red hand of the berryswollen shut,prisoner in the dockbird of quarry, pit& gunny sack.VNight plummets to quarry,sky to earth in brazen glory.Magic of the palmspans an upturned hand ..."To each his ownnothing's known."[55]

Taken as metaphor ...Ophelia's funeral oration,derogatory snoutof the Morning Glorybreathing pollened fireoverladen steps of the church.IILimestone rockcaulking in greylimpid cracks ...doublet and hosethen gold doubloonsdown sunlit honeywhere a smear of red lichenonto brown-yellow mosscolonizes rock.IIIPoor Ophelia, dicingfor a sedentary-free Hamlet,duty-free of fissures + frost.IVElusiveness,water rushing over stonetorrent of words(Ophelia receiving these),red hand of the berryswollen shut,prisoner in the dockbird of quarry, pit& gunny sack.VNight plummets to quarry,sky to earth in brazen glory.Magic of the palmspans an upturned hand ..."To each his ownnothing's known."[55]

TEETER-TOTTERHe was Popeye the Sailor Man--at least in Picture book and poemthe mind falling from a drooping ledge,thrust of twilight though workingup to the bargaining edge of words ...Then, synchronicity and cutenessaside, the all too oldpretending became thegaping edge of Popeye'sspinach can, a soul lostnot to Sweet Pea or OliveOil, but barnacle andrip-tides of a brainslipping its moorings free.[57]

He was Popeye the Sailor Man--at least in Picture book and poemthe mind falling from a drooping ledge,thrust of twilight though workingup to the bargaining edge of words ...Then, synchronicity and cutenessaside, the all too oldpretending became thegaping edge of Popeye'sspinach can, a soul lostnot to Sweet Pea or OliveOil, but barnacle andrip-tides of a brainslipping its moorings free.[57]

CHEMIN DE FERHad I beena gambling man,eschewing the "shoe"of chemin de fer ...perpetually perched upon that throne... effete kingdom of the dice.III am that gambling man ...taking free access to manya natural habitat, lureof the open road,contents under a bottle cap,the riverine delicaciesof female flesh. Svelte, likethe croupier's green vision of cloth,tingley-trigger smooth yet addictiveto the touch.IIIOr the pleasures of Ovaltine(not necessarily the brand name)... by the handful or cup ...upon a summer's day,the mind blur of expensive art.IVBlackjack. Three card stud.The poker-faced look ofmany opponents peeling cardsfrom the bottom of the deck,some ear-marked for successwith time-honoured stratagems(& doctored hands) that leave mereeling (or is it nursing) patent-made regrets.VSomething primeval about wantingto trade up your fortune at theexpense of the House. Ambuscades.Indecision.VIGames of chancethe apt metaphorof our daily roulettes.[58]

Had I beena gambling man,eschewing the "shoe"of chemin de fer ...perpetually perched upon that throne... effete kingdom of the dice.III am that gambling man ...taking free access to manya natural habitat, lureof the open road,contents under a bottle cap,the riverine delicaciesof female flesh. Svelte, likethe croupier's green vision of cloth,tingley-trigger smooth yet addictiveto the touch.IIIOr the pleasures of Ovaltine(not necessarily the brand name)... by the handful or cup ...upon a summer's day,the mind blur of expensive art.IVBlackjack. Three card stud.The poker-faced look ofmany opponents peeling cardsfrom the bottom of the deck,some ear-marked for successwith time-honoured stratagems(& doctored hands) that leave mereeling (or is it nursing) patent-made regrets.VSomething primeval about wantingto trade up your fortune at theexpense of the House. Ambuscades.Indecision.VIGames of chancethe apt metaphorof our daily roulettes.[58]

WITHIN REACHThere are two images,a moon within reachyet trapped under snow--an old woman's threadbare shawlwith peasants furiously working broomsscraping ice shavingsinto howls and husks of frenzy.IiThen the same pond,this time summerwith fishing nets,and briefer shawlspirating light's wanton swoon,a spyglass hour moonall bathed in yellowcolour of kerosene--a rich creamy butter--goldilocks let out on weekendsher spun, golden tresseslowered onto the waterlike so many little boatsnimbly hopping aboard.liiA kerchief folded on a fencea man wearing an overcoat living therein white satin swooningto the pianist's expert touchdown magic chamberssoothing, soothing thereto fold and tearthe pileated moonlit edgeof her skin.[60]

There are two images,a moon within reachyet trapped under snow--an old woman's threadbare shawlwith peasants furiously working broomsscraping ice shavingsinto howls and husks of frenzy.IiThen the same pond,this time summerwith fishing nets,and briefer shawlspirating light's wanton swoon,a spyglass hour moonall bathed in yellowcolour of kerosene--a rich creamy butter--goldilocks let out on weekendsher spun, golden tresseslowered onto the waterlike so many little boatsnimbly hopping aboard.liiA kerchief folded on a fencea man wearing an overcoat living therein white satin swooningto the pianist's expert touchdown magic chamberssoothing, soothing thereto fold and tearthe pileated moonlit edgeof her skin.[60]

COUNTESSThe pig's head omelette--something akin to a tatooburied squarely on the uppertorso of the manwielding an axe,chopping wood.Shoulders drooped,the bizarre renditionhad a femalecounterpart--a snake, fitted like afish-net stockingcoating the upper leg ofthe dancer writhing to music,so soporific,near the copper shieldof the table,ever-molten ash,air-borne with the foetid smear& puff of cigarette smoke.[62]

The pig's head omelette--something akin to a tatooburied squarely on the uppertorso of the manwielding an axe,chopping wood.Shoulders drooped,the bizarre renditionhad a femalecounterpart--a snake, fitted like afish-net stockingcoating the upper leg ofthe dancer writhing to music,so soporific,near the copper shieldof the table,ever-molten ash,air-borne with the foetid smear& puff of cigarette smoke.[62]

COUNTESS IIImagining the smoke burntimprint of a tatoowith tapers flickering,the bejewelled gaze a dragon's snoutmust bringor the serpent coil, crimson flamecurl of dashing cobra,its very fangs drawinglifeblood from the fleshyperch in smooth, red scarifications.On the pectorals of a sailor.Perhaps whiplash of the granite waves,grim trucker with a "Mother"grasping chainsthat see burly sandbags in place--hirsute biker, cords ofhair lashing his tattooed ladythe lavender caress of scarwith implant thatof the chopper itself,her fleshy buttockscareening off the road.[63]

Imagining the smoke burntimprint of a tatoowith tapers flickering,the bejewelled gaze a dragon's snoutmust bringor the serpent coil, crimson flamecurl of dashing cobra,its very fangs drawinglifeblood from the fleshyperch in smooth, red scarifications.On the pectorals of a sailor.Perhaps whiplash of the granite waves,grim trucker with a "Mother"grasping chainsthat see burly sandbags in place--hirsute biker, cords ofhair lashing his tattooed ladythe lavender caress of scarwith implant thatof the chopper itself,her fleshy buttockscareening off the road.[63]

PALEFACEOld Sawbones, pale as a sheet,white sand, whispering edge of the sea.IIThe mind tarries not one place long,(longitudinal wanderings off a map).Is shiftless, both a shirker (and army deserter)devours like larvae,a bullet ledge for leaves.IIII saw in a rusty tankarda gallon drum(ghostly galleon at that),a tin can floating forall the world shoresof its alkaline prison,pirating salinity with anchoring sounds,brackish bench-pressed sound of waveswedged between far-off distant gullsand mezzanine,dimly-lit funeral parlourof the sun.[64]

Old Sawbones, pale as a sheet,white sand, whispering edge of the sea.IIThe mind tarries not one place long,(longitudinal wanderings off a map).Is shiftless, both a shirker (and army deserter)devours like larvae,a bullet ledge for leaves.IIII saw in a rusty tankarda gallon drum(ghostly galleon at that),a tin can floating forall the world shoresof its alkaline prison,pirating salinity with anchoring sounds,brackish bench-pressed sound of waveswedged between far-off distant gullsand mezzanine,dimly-lit funeral parlourof the sun.[64]

CUDThere were a seriesof three animals--wise men I propose--interchangeably looking(throwing off their guises'as non-sentient brutes),scrounging the grass(eyes foddering me)chewing on looks,cud-like,-one a blackgoat shorn ofhis devil lookand a burro,mood entranced, inarmour of mangey velvet.IISwinging bells,making me believethe twilight caperthat morning laymore in reindeer'sbreath than anysolidarity withoat or hoove.IIIA strange lot,they'd ramrod theirgaze with blareof lightning,peering into someprimordial instinctone normally tucksonto a sleeve orcranny when thunder strikes.IVPelting rain,the white mare,streaked more likea camel with herown dung and manure,(shadings differ)the sun a tingling dewrefreshing cantaloupes;the sparkle of their walkinvestigating mein solid cacophony of faith.VA form of worship, to be exact,the Christ-childin a mangerwe four in shared trancea growing sluggishnessto their fear buildingby prospect of foodand inter-species bond.[65]

There were a seriesof three animals--wise men I propose--interchangeably looking(throwing off their guises'as non-sentient brutes),scrounging the grass(eyes foddering me)chewing on looks,cud-like,-one a blackgoat shorn ofhis devil lookand a burro,mood entranced, inarmour of mangey velvet.IISwinging bells,making me believethe twilight caperthat morning laymore in reindeer'sbreath than anysolidarity withoat or hoove.IIIA strange lot,they'd ramrod theirgaze with blareof lightning,peering into someprimordial instinctone normally tucksonto a sleeve orcranny when thunder strikes.IVPelting rain,the white mare,streaked more likea camel with herown dung and manure,(shadings differ)the sun a tingling dewrefreshing cantaloupes;the sparkle of their walkinvestigating mein solid cacophony of faith.VA form of worship, to be exact,the Christ-childin a mangerwe four in shared trancea growing sluggishnessto their fear buildingby prospect of foodand inter-species bond.[65]

CURRENCYOne of the cows was Belladonna,another Nightshadestill a third, Witch's Butter--the farmer in question responded withan eel in tow that resembled a hoe& a Raggedy-Ann calfwith an elixir for a tail& a spendthrift tonguespreading its waythru the emptied grass.[67]

One of the cows was Belladonna,another Nightshadestill a third, Witch's Butter--the farmer in question responded withan eel in tow that resembled a hoe& a Raggedy-Ann calfwith an elixir for a tail& a spendthrift tonguespreading its waythru the emptied grass.[67]

REFRESHER COURSEAnd he told them "the universe is a ripe apple in heavenlyconsummation with Newtonian physics".Comparisons grew rife with planets in the cosmos measuredagainst all the grains of sand on all the beaches of the world.Sobering stuff, this astronomical speculation. Each sun astar fathering an impressive roster, its "family" in the earthyscheme of things.So one kid spat on his shoe and asked if a gob,hypothetically speaking of course, could be likened to asolitary ocean.[68]

And he told them "the universe is a ripe apple in heavenlyconsummation with Newtonian physics".Comparisons grew rife with planets in the cosmos measuredagainst all the grains of sand on all the beaches of the world.Sobering stuff, this astronomical speculation. Each sun astar fathering an impressive roster, its "family" in the earthyscheme of things.So one kid spat on his shoe and asked if a gob,hypothetically speaking of course, could be likened to asolitary ocean.[68]

GHOST TALESWith leaves twitchingthe autumn airand the burnt almondbreath of landscapeheaving relief,the afternoon heavy-footedlywalks acrossevening's threshold.IIA garment is held highas adrenalin in the marbleglow of wintery air.Mud puddles reflect the faery shrimpof clouds while cone-shapedconiferous trees perch on lawns likestarlings.IIIHigh above to skating andsugar-icing rinks in misty hues,a ginger-bread manmanoeuvres past the ghost tails of a deadluna moth.[69]

With leaves twitchingthe autumn airand the burnt almondbreath of landscapeheaving relief,the afternoon heavy-footedlywalks acrossevening's threshold.IIA garment is held highas adrenalin in the marbleglow of wintery air.Mud puddles reflect the faery shrimpof clouds while cone-shapedconiferous trees perch on lawns likestarlings.IIIHigh above to skating andsugar-icing rinks in misty hues,a ginger-bread manmanoeuvres past the ghost tails of a deadluna moth.[69]

WANDERLUSTWho administers to my needs?Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, thatyellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomensuggestive of some actor'ssmeared and garish make-up?Or the cicada's song,difficult to describe,laundering thick summer heat?Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterflyespecially active at the close of day and drawnto wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?If none of thesebreathes vigour or tonicthrough my nostrils,what of tubs of fresh water?Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boatsand children as make-shift sailors,then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.Bold harbours will be their cues,astrolabes their hatchets in whichto chart many a perilous adventure.A volume of Tom Swift and his Motorboattames the haggard breast,soothes the savage beast.A trip to the fruit-cellarbeaded with moistureand clammy with imaginary threat,chastens the cobweb from thedusty ledge and sees a privet-hedgehawk-moth trapped against thewindow-pane (a dark spot pressed much likea pirate's patch against both time & space).If meandering and nearing journey's end,think twice. Better red than dead. BroodingMacIntosh apples stain a slippery floor butthe door to the orchard is always ajar.By night, an "I And The Village" Chagall paintingdraws a lad (and landscape) to stare and stare.Thickets of wild-grape, strawberry tendrils,two hares boxing in the meadow, a WinterspoonWhip-Poor-Will towering above groves of walnut, lilac.Night air is fragrant (and lush) through a peep-holeand gate-way to the stars.Barns with ricks contain pitchforkslike a mis-shapen mask protruding everso faintly sinister in silhouette througha visionary sky.Remnants of ferret skin, lie interrupted,upon entering the chicken-coop.The soldier drinks, his tea and egg-cup abandoned.I don't have to go anywhere.Dark and moody, there is anarsenal of thought with stoutmarshal batons in my knapsack.The power to be led (and lead)stiff memory in rum kegs and wine casks.The brooding entranceto another world,if not in the palm of my hand,then very nearlya shout and stone's throw away.[70]

Who administers to my needs?Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, thatyellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomensuggestive of some actor'ssmeared and garish make-up?Or the cicada's song,difficult to describe,laundering thick summer heat?Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterflyespecially active at the close of day and drawnto wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?If none of thesebreathes vigour or tonicthrough my nostrils,what of tubs of fresh water?Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boatsand children as make-shift sailors,then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.Bold harbours will be their cues,astrolabes their hatchets in whichto chart many a perilous adventure.A volume of Tom Swift and his Motorboattames the haggard breast,soothes the savage beast.A trip to the fruit-cellarbeaded with moistureand clammy with imaginary threat,chastens the cobweb from thedusty ledge and sees a privet-hedgehawk-moth trapped against thewindow-pane (a dark spot pressed much likea pirate's patch against both time & space).If meandering and nearing journey's end,think twice. Better red than dead. BroodingMacIntosh apples stain a slippery floor butthe door to the orchard is always ajar.By night, an "I And The Village" Chagall paintingdraws a lad (and landscape) to stare and stare.Thickets of wild-grape, strawberry tendrils,two hares boxing in the meadow, a WinterspoonWhip-Poor-Will towering above groves of walnut, lilac.Night air is fragrant (and lush) through a peep-holeand gate-way to the stars.Barns with ricks contain pitchforkslike a mis-shapen mask protruding everso faintly sinister in silhouette througha visionary sky.Remnants of ferret skin, lie interrupted,upon entering the chicken-coop.The soldier drinks, his tea and egg-cup abandoned.I don't have to go anywhere.Dark and moody, there is anarsenal of thought with stoutmarshal batons in my knapsack.The power to be led (and lead)stiff memory in rum kegs and wine casks.The brooding entranceto another world,if not in the palm of my hand,then very nearlya shout and stone's throw away.[70]

PASTICHEThese shell-queens, too,are blithely catpaws,shorn & musky acorns withindexed fingers erectat manicured attention.II... Showboats with green faces far as swallows fly,a lilac in oasis ... scarlet bream... blue ointment where the ocean isperiwinkle patches,a robin's egg clarity pressedbetween blue-nosed tavern wall& bottles clinking.IIISee plush cords,the suede interiorsvelte & slinkyan upholstery simonizedwith natural springs wherebubbles encounter fountsin apertures, the rich measureof open ground or mezzanine curtainslit along a riverine walk& jungle clearing.IVTwilight. Golden tulip. Golden olive,"Fool's Gold", a lithesome snake-girlgyrates her dragon-flared, limb-lengthtattoo with red-eye dots itching inemerald waiting; footpaths overhangingserpentine curves or laser beamdancer legs, paddle white, under angeltint of stage-light.VThe cut off jeanscompete with campfire glow ...slipping a musket-width, nostril breadtharound turbans, bonnets, bubbles. Murex.VI... Elegant white ibises and egretsstand like sentinels; herons flying intheir wide wings braking and their longlegs dragging ... and the snaky-neckedanhingas flapping and sailing intospread their big wingsto dry in the sun.

These shell-queens, too,are blithely catpaws,shorn & musky acorns withindexed fingers erectat manicured attention.II... Showboats with green faces far as swallows fly,a lilac in oasis ... scarlet bream... blue ointment where the ocean isperiwinkle patches,a robin's egg clarity pressedbetween blue-nosed tavern wall& bottles clinking.IIISee plush cords,the suede interiorsvelte & slinkyan upholstery simonizedwith natural springs wherebubbles encounter fountsin apertures, the rich measureof open ground or mezzanine curtainslit along a riverine walk& jungle clearing.IVTwilight. Golden tulip. Golden olive,"Fool's Gold", a lithesome snake-girlgyrates her dragon-flared, limb-lengthtattoo with red-eye dots itching inemerald waiting; footpaths overhangingserpentine curves or laser beamdancer legs, paddle white, under angeltint of stage-light.VThe cut off jeanscompete with campfire glow ...slipping a musket-width, nostril breadtharound turbans, bonnets, bubbles. Murex.VI... Elegant white ibises and egretsstand like sentinels; herons flying intheir wide wings braking and their longlegs dragging ... and the snaky-neckedanhingas flapping and sailing intospread their big wingsto dry in the sun.

Foreword Page[73]

BOCA"Nature abhors a vacuum", theorists of both philosophy andpolitics assure us.What's more, the phenomena is not confined to merephysical science given the nature of human opportunism.Glance a map of central Europe for further insights. Oneside always replaced the other when a "common," enemyexpired.Boca might well have studied such eventualities.Boca was a writer. More accurately, a "touch-dancer" withthe written phrase, deftly painting the catchy one-liner witheffortless ease and grace. Boca knew his craft, be it thearena of story, poem, drama, (it didn't matter the genre).Unfortunately, his oeuvre remained fixed and static. Bocanever progressed beyond titles."A right, jolly good thing, too", said Boca in his owndefense.The short burst counted most, whether in thought, sport orfield of battle. The utterance of a single breath. That wasit! It all lay in the aside, the pun, a retort, the récit. If thiswere all to the story, there would be no doubt whatsoever;Boca excelled."In the briefest expression, perhaps", said the critics. But,as they were quick to point out, it didn't lead "anywhere"."Where is the larger, more important fruit? His finishedverbal passion?", intoned one.Still, this chance fortune led to the inspiration (and success)of unusually vivid titles.But ... titles? Just "titles", said others nervously? Yes,proclaimed Boca. Titles. Not epithets, or rejoinders,cat-calls even repartee.Not even wit in the normal understanding of the term. Justmere titles. Bushel-baskets of them. Worried looks creptonto the onlookers' faces.Encyclopaedic came the flowering. Ad factories shouldhave tapped such a larder. Any creative department couldhave done worse than with Boca's dripping imagery and giftfor the keynote phrase."There is majesty here", said one, "and more than a littleBlake. I am reminded of the great symbolists.""One has to be practical", cautioned still another. "What'shere is hardly epigrammatic or even purely an aphorism inany truer sense of the word.""I'm simply perplexed", said the man finally to hiscolleague and both left without further ado or thought toBoca's work.Indeed Boca loved his words, tinkering with the veryessence of language."A great beginning", cheered a rare voice. "Let's hope onewithout premature end."Boca continued to conceive titles by the hundreds. Hedidn't merely dream up a few, in snatches, he proliferatedthem in vaster and vaster quantities. It was if a salmon leftto spawn could endanger a sea shelf or river bed under thesheer quantity of her seed."A one-man explosion at the typewriter", chortled anonlooker, happening to see the quantity of Boca's largesse.That was before he stopped to inquire of the nature ofBoca's work. Then perturbed, this same man hurried awayto the utter indifference of Boca who kept a steadypounding in spite of the interruption.On they came. More and more titles. By the hundreds--for scripts, larger dramas, treatises, epistles, monologues.All. And all without a scarce concern for their ultimate use.Are we to believe each one came to naught as the scepticspredicted? After all, in this practical world who has use fordreamers? We already know Boca was stymied at the titlelevel. Nothing ever graced his newborn creation beyondthat first utterance. It was like sending a baby into theworld without proper bedding or clothes.One nastier commentator even alluded to Boca's work asthe equivalent of premature ejaculation. All buildup withno satisfaction. "The promise", he chuckled, "without thedelivery".And that is what came to pass.Each of Boca's titles, true to prediction, came to "naught"or, rather, nothing much. Blank. A zero. With each "title"one ran aground on the larger abyss of its central problem.That being, as Boca had been warned by his legion ofcritics, "one of size".What good are titles without textual description, chapters,scenes, the "overview?" said one literary agent gruffly.Boca, taking a respite from his typewriter, had had thetemerity to approach one such man in the comfort of hisoffice with reams of suggestions.Indeed.People shook their heads at Boca always scribblingfuriously. Always working but apparently accomplishingprecious next to nothing. "Something" was evidently beingdone in the strictest sense of the word, but what? What?"Could his ... well, problem be explained?" one vocalopponent of Boca urged."What the hell is he up to?"Strangely enough, for the seemingly longest time this didnot deter Boca. He was his own universe. His feet wereon solid ground. The air about him teemed with ideas. Hewas too busy fishing for the "mot juste", he explained ina moment of clarification."One man in the right is a majority", proclaimed Boca,remembering a snippet of John Stuart Mill.Too busy was Boca replanning the structure of theColosseum so it might better accommodate his label, hisnotion, his re-christened version of the ideal verbal escortto accompany that ancient edifice.And write Boca did. Titles fell increasingly from his pen."The Barking Tree.""The Leaking River."These were but two. Boca thought he would improve onTolkein's efforts, at least in the direction of title. After all,to send a work into the reader's lap without properintroduction was like trying to get acquainted without theproper introduction.Maybe Boca had a point."Assembly without Hope" and "Nirvana without End"touched on his mystical stage. He dropped this andproceeded into the area of historiography. And afterwards,dry epistemology would see him concentrate his efforts.These forums were indeed worthy of his attention. Toolong had they been neglected. All were in need of good,metaphoric dusting by title.At last word, Boca was inching toward Kant's, "Critique ofPure Reason"."That one, in particular, has a poor ring", he was heard tosay.On they came. Precise. Hard-hitting, or so he thought.They made the mind's eye swell with the promise of moreand more. Indeed, that "eye" could get bloodshot readingall of Boca's interception.But the "more" in the sense of the follow-up, the "delivery"or accompaniment of pages never came.Nowhere was there to be found the Hemingway to followthe "Moveable Feast".Or "The Edible Woman".Even the promise of thrillers for a scary submarine epic like"Three Eggs on my Plate" never materialized.Nothing. Just titles. More, then more and increasinglymore of them. Annoyingly so. Scraps of paper decoratinga table without an intended victim ever coming close.It was as if so many salesgirls had left price tags offmatching merchandise. That's all that remained. Just thestickers forlornly, white and detached, staring up from theiradhesiveness.More than just a little tacky.A woman given to comparison confronted Boca."Imagine a zoo where the curators had all the animalnames, but they were not paired with their owners. That'syour stuff. Everything in a weird isolation."Boca could not be Borca and not even Carl Sagan couldrescue him. No large bottles floating in formaldehyde withthe decapitated heads from Belle Epoque sailors werepossible here.Boca was more obscure than Gaspirilla Island. More so.And a final verdict, if there is need for one, can be seen inBoca's last will and testimony.He let it be known of his intention to chisel the "ultimate"one-liner. One to grace his own tombstone. On this he setto work with a last burst of frenzy."To mirror my tragic-comic fate", as he would have said.Perhaps Boca is still at work, either on the snappy finalwording ("the right elasticity") or in the mechanics of theengraving itself.Only a stone-cutter could estimate the probable expenditurein time for the latter.Novelists in dire need of fresh insights should enlist Boca.He's definitely available, if difficult to reach.Boca might have rescued many a masterpiece from thedustbin, if not the Box Office, had his specialty beenknown.I look at Boca and hear fire bells. His plight remains thevery stuff of tragedy. By epic standards, how many Bocasare there worthy of a balladeer and myth maker? CredibleBoca may be, but understandable?Boca, the metaphoric equivalent of a Sisyphus chained tohis rock of obsession."This horrible rock", (or pebble depending on yourviewpoint), wailed Boca."I've become my own obstacle, my work is thepersonification of my own limitation."Worse, imprisoned in an inescapable logic and the narrowconfines of a blink of talent.[76]

"Nature abhors a vacuum", theorists of both philosophy andpolitics assure us.What's more, the phenomena is not confined to merephysical science given the nature of human opportunism.Glance a map of central Europe for further insights. Oneside always replaced the other when a "common," enemyexpired.Boca might well have studied such eventualities.Boca was a writer. More accurately, a "touch-dancer" withthe written phrase, deftly painting the catchy one-liner witheffortless ease and grace. Boca knew his craft, be it thearena of story, poem, drama, (it didn't matter the genre).Unfortunately, his oeuvre remained fixed and static. Bocanever progressed beyond titles."A right, jolly good thing, too", said Boca in his owndefense.The short burst counted most, whether in thought, sport orfield of battle. The utterance of a single breath. That wasit! It all lay in the aside, the pun, a retort, the récit. If thiswere all to the story, there would be no doubt whatsoever;Boca excelled."In the briefest expression, perhaps", said the critics. But,as they were quick to point out, it didn't lead "anywhere"."Where is the larger, more important fruit? His finishedverbal passion?", intoned one.Still, this chance fortune led to the inspiration (and success)of unusually vivid titles.But ... titles? Just "titles", said others nervously? Yes,proclaimed Boca. Titles. Not epithets, or rejoinders,cat-calls even repartee.Not even wit in the normal understanding of the term. Justmere titles. Bushel-baskets of them. Worried looks creptonto the onlookers' faces.Encyclopaedic came the flowering. Ad factories shouldhave tapped such a larder. Any creative department couldhave done worse than with Boca's dripping imagery and giftfor the keynote phrase."There is majesty here", said one, "and more than a littleBlake. I am reminded of the great symbolists.""One has to be practical", cautioned still another. "What'shere is hardly epigrammatic or even purely an aphorism inany truer sense of the word.""I'm simply perplexed", said the man finally to hiscolleague and both left without further ado or thought toBoca's work.Indeed Boca loved his words, tinkering with the veryessence of language."A great beginning", cheered a rare voice. "Let's hope onewithout premature end."Boca continued to conceive titles by the hundreds. Hedidn't merely dream up a few, in snatches, he proliferatedthem in vaster and vaster quantities. It was if a salmon leftto spawn could endanger a sea shelf or river bed under thesheer quantity of her seed."A one-man explosion at the typewriter", chortled anonlooker, happening to see the quantity of Boca's largesse.That was before he stopped to inquire of the nature ofBoca's work. Then perturbed, this same man hurried awayto the utter indifference of Boca who kept a steadypounding in spite of the interruption.On they came. More and more titles. By the hundreds--for scripts, larger dramas, treatises, epistles, monologues.All. And all without a scarce concern for their ultimate use.Are we to believe each one came to naught as the scepticspredicted? After all, in this practical world who has use fordreamers? We already know Boca was stymied at the titlelevel. Nothing ever graced his newborn creation beyondthat first utterance. It was like sending a baby into theworld without proper bedding or clothes.One nastier commentator even alluded to Boca's work asthe equivalent of premature ejaculation. All buildup withno satisfaction. "The promise", he chuckled, "without thedelivery".And that is what came to pass.Each of Boca's titles, true to prediction, came to "naught"or, rather, nothing much. Blank. A zero. With each "title"one ran aground on the larger abyss of its central problem.That being, as Boca had been warned by his legion ofcritics, "one of size".What good are titles without textual description, chapters,scenes, the "overview?" said one literary agent gruffly.Boca, taking a respite from his typewriter, had had thetemerity to approach one such man in the comfort of hisoffice with reams of suggestions.Indeed.People shook their heads at Boca always scribblingfuriously. Always working but apparently accomplishingprecious next to nothing. "Something" was evidently beingdone in the strictest sense of the word, but what? What?"Could his ... well, problem be explained?" one vocalopponent of Boca urged."What the hell is he up to?"Strangely enough, for the seemingly longest time this didnot deter Boca. He was his own universe. His feet wereon solid ground. The air about him teemed with ideas. Hewas too busy fishing for the "mot juste", he explained ina moment of clarification."One man in the right is a majority", proclaimed Boca,remembering a snippet of John Stuart Mill.Too busy was Boca replanning the structure of theColosseum so it might better accommodate his label, hisnotion, his re-christened version of the ideal verbal escortto accompany that ancient edifice.And write Boca did. Titles fell increasingly from his pen."The Barking Tree.""The Leaking River."These were but two. Boca thought he would improve onTolkein's efforts, at least in the direction of title. After all,to send a work into the reader's lap without properintroduction was like trying to get acquainted without theproper introduction.Maybe Boca had a point."Assembly without Hope" and "Nirvana without End"touched on his mystical stage. He dropped this andproceeded into the area of historiography. And afterwards,dry epistemology would see him concentrate his efforts.These forums were indeed worthy of his attention. Toolong had they been neglected. All were in need of good,metaphoric dusting by title.At last word, Boca was inching toward Kant's, "Critique ofPure Reason"."That one, in particular, has a poor ring", he was heard tosay.On they came. Precise. Hard-hitting, or so he thought.They made the mind's eye swell with the promise of moreand more. Indeed, that "eye" could get bloodshot readingall of Boca's interception.But the "more" in the sense of the follow-up, the "delivery"or accompaniment of pages never came.Nowhere was there to be found the Hemingway to followthe "Moveable Feast".Or "The Edible Woman".Even the promise of thrillers for a scary submarine epic like"Three Eggs on my Plate" never materialized.Nothing. Just titles. More, then more and increasinglymore of them. Annoyingly so. Scraps of paper decoratinga table without an intended victim ever coming close.It was as if so many salesgirls had left price tags offmatching merchandise. That's all that remained. Just thestickers forlornly, white and detached, staring up from theiradhesiveness.More than just a little tacky.A woman given to comparison confronted Boca."Imagine a zoo where the curators had all the animalnames, but they were not paired with their owners. That'syour stuff. Everything in a weird isolation."Boca could not be Borca and not even Carl Sagan couldrescue him. No large bottles floating in formaldehyde withthe decapitated heads from Belle Epoque sailors werepossible here.Boca was more obscure than Gaspirilla Island. More so.And a final verdict, if there is need for one, can be seen inBoca's last will and testimony.He let it be known of his intention to chisel the "ultimate"one-liner. One to grace his own tombstone. On this he setto work with a last burst of frenzy."To mirror my tragic-comic fate", as he would have said.Perhaps Boca is still at work, either on the snappy finalwording ("the right elasticity") or in the mechanics of theengraving itself.Only a stone-cutter could estimate the probable expenditurein time for the latter.Novelists in dire need of fresh insights should enlist Boca.He's definitely available, if difficult to reach.Boca might have rescued many a masterpiece from thedustbin, if not the Box Office, had his specialty beenknown.I look at Boca and hear fire bells. His plight remains thevery stuff of tragedy. By epic standards, how many Bocasare there worthy of a balladeer and myth maker? CredibleBoca may be, but understandable?Boca, the metaphoric equivalent of a Sisyphus chained tohis rock of obsession."This horrible rock", (or pebble depending on yourviewpoint), wailed Boca."I've become my own obstacle, my work is thepersonification of my own limitation."Worse, imprisoned in an inescapable logic and the narrowconfines of a blink of talent.[76]

WORK IN PROGRESSTwo Chinese fellows approached me in a London suburb.They were eager for talk."Karl Marx's tomb," they implored, "directions to the tomb,please." They were pronouncing "tomb" as if it rhymed with home.Suited up in their Mao jackets and identically dressedwithout hint to rank or station, they struck me as strangelyodd even on the thoroughfares of a metropolitan city. I hadnoticed they wore no green armband common to otherCommunist dignitaries.The smaller of the two became insistent.I nodded and smiled at the mention of Marx's name for itwas Highgate and, yes, he was interred in the ramblingcemetery near by. Yes, I had visited the grave but was nomeans clear it was a grave they had come all this way tovisit.They were shy but puzzled at my redirection of their query.I pointed out there was no "home" as they werepronouncing it, but, only a "grave".It was then that their enunciation and the silent murder ofthe letter "T" came back to me. Like the Cockney unableto say "h" in elocution class, their confusion was furtheredby knowing only one word for "final resting place." Myown use of grave was causing them grave concern.They were looking curiously at one another. I doubt if theyhad ever heard North American accented English. I mighthave been their first authentic "American," short of asimulated war games exercise. Certainly, though all citiesare polyglots, I had never seen two so authentically attiredcitizens of "The People's Republic."It was an amusing moment, life with the sang-froidof the unspoken.I gave them their dues. They had their directions. Theypranced off smartly and melted into the morning traffic.And I thought of trying to explain that Marx, at leastin unofficial circles here, is not considered with their samedeference."I'm sorry if this jars with what you've been told, Wu.""And no, this is not counter-revolutionary lies. The truth is,Mr. Han, Marx was ... a chiseler. He died owing nearlyevery wage earner in The Village."Talk of irony and final verdicts. How one who numbersamong the age's savants could so brazenly ignore such hardeconomic fact seemed incredible to me. Skulduggery aside,such a thing, even if only partially true, would be scanttribute to the fabled man. I thought of the BritishMuseum's collection of his writings, then remembered itmentioned nothing of this fact. Glowing tributes, of course,but no unofficial flack.And I thought of the possibility of a third world war being,in part, based on this development. Marx's embitterment,that is his inability to pay even the most modest debtthrough his writing. And should there ever come anotherglobal catastrophe, I imagined how Marx would extend hiswrath.At the doctrine of dialectic materialism's doorstep. Betweenthe incompatibility of work and her governing classes.Exportable revolution. The decadent bourgeoisie strugglingto maintain their stranglehold on comfort. The Gospelcompletely according to Karl.That would be without considering the question of Marx'salleged incest with his daughter. But, then, most everythingin the Marx story is "alleged." The alleged politics ofconfrontation. The alleged incompatibility of those who toilwith their rulers. The alleged inertia of labourers even tothe degree of their exploitation. And, yes, the allegedsuperiority of any one system over another.Of course reference would be made to the irony of Marxbeing buried and remaining interred throughout the years inone of the most class conscious nations on earth.Where every accent and syllable decrees one's station inlife.Where every utterance labels the speaker according to rankand social standing by rigid calling.I thought of myself discussing such things with theperturbed, yet unmovable ideologues of the People'sDemocratic Republic of China.Did they know Marx's friend and colleague, Engels, kept amistress? Did they care that Marx disapproved?Imagine using the word "grave" in the same breath as"grave offence" to discuss incest. Glib moralizing, thetrumpet of the bourgeoisie! I seem to remember Lenin'sdisdainful "no omelettes with first cracking the eggs."Perhaps all communication is claptrap.All these fellows wanted were directions.Their minds were made up.They were attending a secular church, walking inthe footsteps of an earthbound saint. No amount of revisionistthinking could deflect, in their eyes, Marxian achievement.And you had to give Marx certain dues. That before peopleare capable of aspiring to work, they must first be fed. Andall contacts, within life, must inevitably come through andbe restricted by, how one has chosen to make that dailybread. Or, in Marx's words, how one is prevented fromadvancing by artificial class barriers. Precisely.Poles apart. Worlds away.The two Chinese chaps and I were living proof of that.I wondered if they would have been interested in seeing theDicken's plaque nearby. The novelist, too, had stayed onlya street away. Little Dorritt would have been pleased evenif the jury is still out on which thinker alerted the worldmost to the evils of uncontrolled profit.I for one, care little for the revolutionary proletariat orrepudiated communist dogma but I do like to eat. Marxmade his point.[84]

Two Chinese fellows approached me in a London suburb.They were eager for talk."Karl Marx's tomb," they implored, "directions to the tomb,please." They were pronouncing "tomb" as if it rhymed with home.Suited up in their Mao jackets and identically dressedwithout hint to rank or station, they struck me as strangelyodd even on the thoroughfares of a metropolitan city. I hadnoticed they wore no green armband common to otherCommunist dignitaries.The smaller of the two became insistent.I nodded and smiled at the mention of Marx's name for itwas Highgate and, yes, he was interred in the ramblingcemetery near by. Yes, I had visited the grave but was nomeans clear it was a grave they had come all this way tovisit.They were shy but puzzled at my redirection of their query.I pointed out there was no "home" as they werepronouncing it, but, only a "grave".It was then that their enunciation and the silent murder ofthe letter "T" came back to me. Like the Cockney unableto say "h" in elocution class, their confusion was furtheredby knowing only one word for "final resting place." Myown use of grave was causing them grave concern.They were looking curiously at one another. I doubt if theyhad ever heard North American accented English. I mighthave been their first authentic "American," short of asimulated war games exercise. Certainly, though all citiesare polyglots, I had never seen two so authentically attiredcitizens of "The People's Republic."It was an amusing moment, life with the sang-froidof the unspoken.I gave them their dues. They had their directions. Theypranced off smartly and melted into the morning traffic.And I thought of trying to explain that Marx, at leastin unofficial circles here, is not considered with their samedeference."I'm sorry if this jars with what you've been told, Wu.""And no, this is not counter-revolutionary lies. The truth is,Mr. Han, Marx was ... a chiseler. He died owing nearlyevery wage earner in The Village."Talk of irony and final verdicts. How one who numbersamong the age's savants could so brazenly ignore such hardeconomic fact seemed incredible to me. Skulduggery aside,such a thing, even if only partially true, would be scanttribute to the fabled man. I thought of the BritishMuseum's collection of his writings, then remembered itmentioned nothing of this fact. Glowing tributes, of course,but no unofficial flack.And I thought of the possibility of a third world war being,in part, based on this development. Marx's embitterment,that is his inability to pay even the most modest debtthrough his writing. And should there ever come anotherglobal catastrophe, I imagined how Marx would extend hiswrath.At the doctrine of dialectic materialism's doorstep. Betweenthe incompatibility of work and her governing classes.Exportable revolution. The decadent bourgeoisie strugglingto maintain their stranglehold on comfort. The Gospelcompletely according to Karl.That would be without considering the question of Marx'salleged incest with his daughter. But, then, most everythingin the Marx story is "alleged." The alleged politics ofconfrontation. The alleged incompatibility of those who toilwith their rulers. The alleged inertia of labourers even tothe degree of their exploitation. And, yes, the allegedsuperiority of any one system over another.Of course reference would be made to the irony of Marxbeing buried and remaining interred throughout the years inone of the most class conscious nations on earth.Where every accent and syllable decrees one's station inlife.Where every utterance labels the speaker according to rankand social standing by rigid calling.I thought of myself discussing such things with theperturbed, yet unmovable ideologues of the People'sDemocratic Republic of China.Did they know Marx's friend and colleague, Engels, kept amistress? Did they care that Marx disapproved?Imagine using the word "grave" in the same breath as"grave offence" to discuss incest. Glib moralizing, thetrumpet of the bourgeoisie! I seem to remember Lenin'sdisdainful "no omelettes with first cracking the eggs."Perhaps all communication is claptrap.All these fellows wanted were directions.Their minds were made up.They were attending a secular church, walking inthe footsteps of an earthbound saint. No amount of revisionistthinking could deflect, in their eyes, Marxian achievement.And you had to give Marx certain dues. That before peopleare capable of aspiring to work, they must first be fed. Andall contacts, within life, must inevitably come through andbe restricted by, how one has chosen to make that dailybread. Or, in Marx's words, how one is prevented fromadvancing by artificial class barriers. Precisely.Poles apart. Worlds away.The two Chinese chaps and I were living proof of that.I wondered if they would have been interested in seeing theDicken's plaque nearby. The novelist, too, had stayed onlya street away. Little Dorritt would have been pleased evenif the jury is still out on which thinker alerted the worldmost to the evils of uncontrolled profit.I for one, care little for the revolutionary proletariat orrepudiated communist dogma but I do like to eat. Marxmade his point.[84]

HARDCASESI dreamed my toenailswere ivoryand elephants came to trade for tusks... Then went conveniently off to die("shed this mortal coil") in acutter-shed stacked highlike firewood.III dreamed Landover, Marylandwas the site near thePentagon. People got wind ofthe scheme and grew intrigued.Twigs shattered in the moonlightas curious onlookers triedto peek-a-boo into the shed.IIIRaisins were left outto dry astoken offerings.IVMafioso members and other hardcaseswanted to elbow inbut stiff military typeseminently incorruptible, said"no dice" made, naturally,of ivory turned adeadly nightshade oftwilight toenail blue.VUmber became my colour(and trademark) along with the mandatory ebony.VIOut-of-work seasonal elves,dwarfs and the occasionalcircus midget shoe-horned in.VIINothing remained of the earlier raisins asa variety of greedy misfitspocketed the tributes.VIIIThe North Pole beckoned,heightened consciousness andsensitivity groups againstdemeaning and negative stereotypesrouted the Barnum and Baileys'dwarfs and midgets.IXA pile of cinders andgrey-glow emberspaused to remainafter boycottingexposed the greattoe-nail giveaway sham.XReportedly, the Devil has a toe-nailchair in Hell.This common, medieval belieflingers into macumba, voodoo andloa-spirit trees.XIWho wants,after all,discarded body partsbrought to such an ignobleend? The intriguing thingis in the witchery, smoke 'n mirrorsworld of Obeah, toenails areprized much like the greyingInformation Age valuesorgan transplants for anaging population.XIIMedieval really.Nothing the body profusesis really evil,only our intent.XIIIShould a fly symbolizinghavoc, despair and filthfall into Holy Water,the detested fly notdoes pollute the sacred vessel.XIVModern fitness buffs full-circlewith gleaming sweat-stained temples"glistening" with, what else,moisture.[88]

I dreamed my toenailswere ivoryand elephants came to trade for tusks... Then went conveniently off to die("shed this mortal coil") in acutter-shed stacked highlike firewood.III dreamed Landover, Marylandwas the site near thePentagon. People got wind ofthe scheme and grew intrigued.Twigs shattered in the moonlightas curious onlookers triedto peek-a-boo into the shed.IIIRaisins were left outto dry astoken offerings.IVMafioso members and other hardcaseswanted to elbow inbut stiff military typeseminently incorruptible, said"no dice" made, naturally,of ivory turned adeadly nightshade oftwilight toenail blue.VUmber became my colour(and trademark) along with the mandatory ebony.VIOut-of-work seasonal elves,dwarfs and the occasionalcircus midget shoe-horned in.VIINothing remained of the earlier raisins asa variety of greedy misfitspocketed the tributes.VIIIThe North Pole beckoned,heightened consciousness andsensitivity groups againstdemeaning and negative stereotypesrouted the Barnum and Baileys'dwarfs and midgets.IXA pile of cinders andgrey-glow emberspaused to remainafter boycottingexposed the greattoe-nail giveaway sham.XReportedly, the Devil has a toe-nailchair in Hell.This common, medieval belieflingers into macumba, voodoo andloa-spirit trees.XIWho wants,after all,discarded body partsbrought to such an ignobleend? The intriguing thingis in the witchery, smoke 'n mirrorsworld of Obeah, toenails areprized much like the greyingInformation Age valuesorgan transplants for anaging population.XIIMedieval really.Nothing the body profusesis really evil,only our intent.XIIIShould a fly symbolizinghavoc, despair and filthfall into Holy Water,the detested fly notdoes pollute the sacred vessel.XIVModern fitness buffs full-circlewith gleaming sweat-stained temples"glistening" with, what else,moisture.[88]

COMMENTS... Unrestrained, imaginative writing.Brown's magic is the vibrating universe,his sympathy is his ability to receive thesevibrations. Sympathetic Magic capturesthe movement of life in its intervals--his poems resemble stopped action photographs from a film.THE TORONTO STAR... The poetry is fine ... rewarding reading ...Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic boastsan admirable image or two. Brown can write,without a doubt.POETRY CANADA POESIE... Wry humour.The poet revels in image and can use it well.Paul Cameron Brown is capable of interesting,even arresting work.CANADIAN BOOK REVIEW ANNUAL 1985Le voyage exotique devient parfois fantistique ...Se plonger dans les pages de "Sympathetic Magic",c'est partir pour un autre monde où Paul Cameron Brownenvoute par les mots et les images.DIPLOMATIC OBSERVERThird eyeISBN 0-919581-80-3The End

... Unrestrained, imaginative writing.Brown's magic is the vibrating universe,his sympathy is his ability to receive thesevibrations. Sympathetic Magic capturesthe movement of life in its intervals--his poems resemble stopped action photographs from a film.THE TORONTO STAR... The poetry is fine ... rewarding reading ...Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic boastsan admirable image or two. Brown can write,without a doubt.POETRY CANADA POESIE... Wry humour.The poet revels in image and can use it well.Paul Cameron Brown is capable of interesting,even arresting work.CANADIAN BOOK REVIEW ANNUAL 1985Le voyage exotique devient parfois fantistique ...Se plonger dans les pages de "Sympathetic Magic",c'est partir pour un autre monde où Paul Cameron Brownenvoute par les mots et les images.DIPLOMATIC OBSERVERThird eyeISBN 0-919581-80-3The End

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