As I mentioned yesterday in passing, I had not checked out the blog that replaced this one on wordpress’s free site when I bought my own domain and went my own way, for months.  Of course, I speak of “Mad Praxis”, a compilation of the writings by the two fellows with whom I had my past two serious relationships, who managed to find each other over the Internet, 2000 miles, and four provinces, to unite for the common purpose of posting various pieces of prose with much allusion to our time together – that is, the separate periods of time I shared with each individual – focusing exclusively on the negative.  The police took down the site when the two had not yet creeped one another out with the help of a Goddess or two, as their names in cyberspace are not the same as their names in “real life”, as it was pure slander and fear-mongering, even displaying my photo.  Now that I have given the site another glimpse, I am happy to see that at least one of the authors has stepped away from wasting his time on using drawn out metaphors that epitomized the cliché-ridden genre of “teenage angst” to relate the downfall of our relationship, and instead has obviously spent time improving his writing style as it is much more interesting, especially considering the short period that has passed since he penned “Erin, Reimagined”.  Unchanged is the fact that drug use and puppy-love are still his themes of choice, perhaps proving that art imitates life and does not go much beyond one’s own experience of this life.

The writing of the blog’s founder, however, now touting himself as a skilled craftsman/artisan (daedalus) rather than a ruthless, barbarian Roman conqueror and murderer of the members of countless villages (a misspelling of “Alaric“, the cyber-name-change perhaps recommended by a lawyer) – a slightly less grandiose fantasy being, though he still restricts himself to that realm, unless he kept secret some kind of talent at art throughout the course of our relationship, which is highly doubtful, as he took any opportunity he could to show off how well-read he was, or to state his GPA in front of a crowd of fellow students.  The Bob Dylan song “Ballad of a Thin Man” will always remind me of him on his better days, just as Leonard Cohen’s “Master Song” will always remind me of him on his worst, which revealed themselves to be much stronger, conquering a potentially good man.  In this sense, Alaric is alive and well.

It seems all members and students of academe at times fall into the trap of egoism, which is one survival tactic in a highly competitive environment with rather low-stakes, however, when one starts labelling diaries that include information on the misplacement of hand lotion, and do not go any farther than paranoid ramblings about which woman in his life (mother?  lover?  friend?   ) decided his own fate – when really, we can only place responsibility for this upon our selves – as “field notes” to base a graduate thesis upon, suspicion must be raised that a tactic has become a trapdoor.  Then, one may only hope that it is not one of the variety Thom Yorke describes in “Push/Pulk Revolving Doors” from Amnesiac – one that you “cannot come back from”.

An example of the blog’s original malicious, misguided, one-sided, and just plain mean, intent is demonstrated in a piece written on October 29th.  I wonder if this was supposed to be a birthday message for me, as my ex-fiancé never could remember the date of my birth, instead confusing it with his favourite number, or the number that has shown up again and again in my own life.  Those two numbers happen to fall on days two before and two after my actual birthdate.  If so, it is closer to Christmas than my birthday now, but still, “Cheers!”  I appreciate your thoughts, though cannot say they were reciprocated.  It is entitled, “Maureen’s folly”:

“Dave and Maureen were partners except where it counted. They could not communicate through the fog of drugs and alcohol. Though they both madly professed their love often, it got to be more perfunctory as the weight of unresolved conflicts boiled beneath their words. In a daze Maureen lit some candles and fell over. Dave tried to help her up. Stop it! I am not useless, I don’t need any help. Fuck off! Dave went back to his videoscreen and surfed the latest conspiracies.

Maureen had some issues. Dave had some issues. They had issues with each others’ issues. It got so 420 was 24/7. At least through a thick THC laden haze the world looked less complicated.

Maureen was having trouble at work and often came home in tears. Dave could not find work which almost drove him to tears. They limped on for awhile but could tell the end was drawing near. Babe I’m gonna leave ya someday soon. I can’t take it.

Shut the fuck up! You are not you lying sack of shit. I won’t let ya. You proposed and will not get rid of me that easy!

It won’t be easy I promise.

They couldn’t tell if they were joking or not half the time and would wake up as if these conversations never happened. Dave’s mind felt like mush. He could only imagine what hers must have felt like since she took additional ‘add-ons’ to ‘enhance’ her high. Both of them needed to cut the drugs out and start talking heart to heart. This sadly would not happen. They were at a crossroads: a lifetime of misery carrying on the way they were or a clean break. Neither wanted to face up to this reality.

Maureen fearing abandonment by Dave solved the issue by slitting his throat in his sleep. She carried on as usual not quite believing what she had done. The next morning and three more afterwards found Maureen in heavy denial and avoiding the responsibility of dealing with the mess. Finally it sunk in and Maureen had a fit. The neighbours phoned the police who found Maureen with the razor in hand still slashing away at the cold corpse of her departed lover. She was tazed and restrained.

Maureen now lives in a long term psychiatric ward and spends her time writing her memoirs inbetween (sic) almost constant interviews from curious grad students.” (Click for original printing)

If wit or skill made up for the glaringly obvious purpose of this piece to serve as an insult, and a rather ridiculous one coming from a self-purported “radical mad activist”, unless hypocrisy is also one of his traits, suggesting he may have some kind of histrionic complex, it may at least serve as a worthy piece of prose.  Unfortunately it fails on both accounts, and “Master Song” prevails in describing its author – a former mechanic who paced back and forth while I changed a flat tire in the middle of nowhere, and current academic who uses the oldest hat trick in the book to annoyingly at poke and confuse his peers, even if they are also his lovers – senseless criticism of the work of Michel Foucault coming not from the heart but the head, as his own “work” relies heavily on the canonical theorist’s contributions to sociology and philosophy.  He once called himself, “a jack of all trades, and master of none”.  Well, daeldus is a poor choice of names then, not to mention his trouble with a jack .  He claimed to be a “hardcore feminist” when we met, and then near the end of our relationship, stated that “his ideal life partner would be a woman who would please his every sexual demand or fancy that arose immediately, “on command”, whenever, wherever.”  He is a phony, a fraud, a fake – even the photograph proudly displayed on Mad Praxis is one that I took as photography grew to be a hobby last spring.  Indeed, I was running around taking photos of cherry blossoms and trying my best to attend classes while his behaviour was more like this “Maureen” character’s.  He cried, “me, me!”, and “played dress up”, putting on one of the suits that he bought during a shopping spree that took place when he came into a stack of cash which quickly disappeared into thin air.  I would at least like a credit for my intellectual property!

Luckily, beautiful prose and poetry like that of Cohen override the noise of such time-waisting tomfoolry.  Let it always remain this way, and the bastards will never get you down:

{website soundtrack can be stopped/paused by pressing the appropriate button on the player in the top right-hand corner of this page}

Leonard Cohen, “Master Song” (from the album The Songs of Leonard Cohen – lyrics below)

[cincopa AwFAMWqHt3aQ]

I believe that you heard your master sing
when I was sick in bed.
I suppose that he told you everything
that I keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said.
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?
You met him at some temple, where
they take your clothes at the door.
He was just a numberless man in a chair
who’d just come back from the war.
And you wrap up his tired face in your hair
and he hands you the apple core.
Then he touches your lips now so suddenly bare
of all the kisses we put on some time before.

And he gave you a German Shepherd to walk
with a collar of leather and nails,
and he never once made you explain or talk
about all of the little details,
such as who had a word and who had a rock,
and who had you through the mails.
Now your love is a secret all over the block,
and it never stops not even when your master fails.

And he took you up in his aeroplane,
which he flew without any hands,
and you cruised above the ribbons of rain
that drove the crowd from the stands.
Then he killed the lights in a lonely Lane
and, an ape with angel glands,
erased the final wisps of pain
with the music of rubber bands.

And now I hear your master sing,
you kneel for him to come.
His body is a golden string
that your body is hanging from.
His body is a golden string,
my body has grown numb.
Oh now you hear your master sing,
your shirt is all undone.

And will you kneel beside this bed
that we polished so long ago,
before your master chose instead
to make my bed of snow?
Your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red
and you’re speaking far too low.
No I can’t make out what your master said
before he made you go.

Then I think you’re playing far too rough
for a lady who’s been to the moon;
I’ve lain by this window long enough
to get used to an empty room.
And your love is some dust in an old man’s cough
who is tapping his foot to a tune,
and your thighs are a ruin, you want too much,
let’s say you came back some time too soon.

I loved your master perfectly
I taught him all that he knew.
He was starving in some deep mystery
like a man who is sure what is true.
And I sent you to him with my guarantee
I could teach him something new,
and I taught him how you would long for me
no matter what he said no matter what you’d do.

I believe that you heard your master sing
while I was sick in bed,
I’m sure that he told you everything
I must keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said,
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?