Category Archives: Writing Collections

a library in process holding collection of my writing projects including expository essays, articles for counter-culture magazine, sudden fiction and freeverse poetry – organized by form or collection

Continuing Rambles of one Mr. Thor Aronson

++ Continuing Rambles of one Mr. Thor Aronson ++
His quest for the elusive quarry stalled again, Thor – rather exhausted after six days on a merchant marine ship despite a rather pleasant stateroom – sits on a coil of worn rope on a salty dock to consider his next move. The question: where has the renegade Mr. Lester disappeared to to this time? Lighting at the second last cigar from a box acquired in Sicily, he considers possible directions… Set out towards the Tyrhenian, dropping in on various islands seeking telltale sign? He does have ties to Corsica after all so the direction would be generally useful. Or maybe the Aegean?

“Too many damn islands…” He mutters to the Katakolon seabirds. The leather attache (containing the critical documents seeking validation) still close by his worn boots, he pulls the wool fisherman’s cap down his brow, closer to the wrinkled blue/white striped coarse linen shirt, inhales deeply and concludes to head towards the Bosphorous. At least he’ll have a hot Turkish bath and beat down massage on ancient marble before deciding which continent to drift towards next. But first, a tall ouzo and plate of olives to set him on the way.

Dossier: Thor Aronson

++ Dossier: Thor Aaronson ++
Consigliere of variable repute, carries diplomatic passport from a failed Balkan republic, suits look Saville Row but actually Chiang Mai, speaks colloquial Greek & classical Aramaic from time in an Albanian prison for currency forgery, published thesis on Egyptian shadow puppetry amongst working class Cairo, scars and tic on left eye after crashing stolen tuktuk in Penang, 3 months hospital, left with bill unpaid taking a full grain of morphine and fled to Phitsanulok, dried out in Chennai under assumed name of Rex Hayduke, marine biologist specializing in marlin and other large, mercury-laden game fish — Ejoys Rimbaud poetry, Duras novels, and Chet Baker, The Jam, Portuguese fado & Japanese enka music. Prefers fountain pens, white handkerchieves, full windsor knots, hot toddys with branch water and fresh notebooks which he fills, photographs & burns. Whereabouts unknown, alert Interpol if spotted saying: “mahimahi is ready for grilling” they’ll understand, oh yes they will. Delay escape by plying with mint shisha and backgammon (no wagering) .

Japan’s First Lady Touts Revival of Hemp Culture via WSJ

Source: Japan’s First Lady Touts Revival of Hemp Culture – Japan Real Time – WSJ

Dave Notes:

“Very glad to see this article discussing a very fascinating aspect of Japan culture. I worked as a mushroom farmer and hitchhiked throughout remote rural areas in Japan and saw cannabis culture of all sorts — from traditional handicrafts and religious artifacts to folks harvesting wild cultivars for smoking and extracting.

A few annotations if i may:

1) My 1996/8 research essay traces the history of hemp in Japan and various uses and appeared in Cannabis Culture, Journal of International Hemp Association and Hemp Horizons

2) JapanHemp.org has gathered a massive repository of hemp artifacts and information in English and Japanese.

3) Note the wandering warrior poets Basho and Kobayashi Issa wrote about hemp on their journeys and hemp in mentioned in other literary classics.

4) The National History Museum in Sakura has many garments with unmarked cloth which are clearly not silk, cotton or mulberry, but not labelled as hemp – in fact the characters do not appear anywhere in the museum though the movement and trade form Korea and India was discussed as was the advent of silk production.

5) A commenter below mentioned wild Hokkaido cannabis and i can concur that these tall, robust, wild and THC-laden plants indeed do exist on roadsides and country areas.”

##

Japan’s first lady raised eyebrows after telling a Japanese magazine that she has considered becoming a hemp farmer to help revive the traditional culture.

There seem to be few dull moments in the life of first lady Akie Abe, who sometimes spends her time hosting a web-based talk show, harvesting honey from a bee farm and even paying occasional visits to the contentious Yasukuni Shrine.

Most recently, Ms. Abe raised eyebrows after telling a Japanese magazine that she has considered becoming a hemp farmer to help revive the traditional culture.

In an interview with Spa!, Ms. Abe was quoted as saying that she had become interested in hemp cultivation and considered applying for a permit to grow the plant after studying its history.

“Hemp is a plant of which all of its parts can be used effectively,” Ms. Abe is quoted as saying. “While it is not yet permitted in Japan, I think it can be put into great practical use for medical purposes as well.”

Of course, hemp and marijuana come from the same plant, and Japan maintains a hard line on marijuana. The Cannabis Control Law enacted in 1948 bans the import, export, cultivation and purchase of marijuana. But prior to that, hemp was widely grown in Japan and used to make fabric and for use in imperial ceremonies. There are legal hemp farms in Japan, but they are rare and require a special permit.

Ms. Abe said in the article that she’d like to revive Japan’s tradition of growing hemp. “I’ve even considered myself to apply for a permit to grow hemp,” she was quoted as saying.

The article included a photo of the first lady visiting a legal hemp farm in western Japan in August and posing for a photo in the middle of the plants.

Ms. Abe has promoted the article on her personal Facebook page, encouraging those interested in the topic to pick up a copy.

“Return to the Scene of the Crime” Punk Rock Photos at Smilin’ Buddha with bev. davies

At the iconic Smilin Buddha Cabaret and Restaurant in Vancouver’s downtown Eastside, legendary punk rock photographer bev. davies (sic) shows the photos in her recent “(Return to the) Scene of the Crime” exhibit featuring photos taken at his landmark venue between 1979 and 1983.

Bev Daviesbev. davies by Kris Krug

Dave uncleweed Olson — with attorney Lindsay Lazlo Bailey — asks about her process, the stories behind photos, anecdotes about the subjects and flashbacks about the shows.

Plus, they discuss:

* various parenting tips and stories with heavy metal warlords (Bruce Dickinson, Lemmy Killmister, Dee Snider)
* ideas for a book of bev’s photos (form, cost, etc)
* the history of her remarkable calendars with Nardwuar
* some friends who’ve died (RIP Dave Gregg, Brain Goble)
* hollandaise sauce and skateboards ramps

Note: As a fan and supporter of bev’s work, i’ve also interviewed her (along with new-school photographer and activist Kris Krug) at Northern Voice in a talk called “Building a Scene — Rock n Rock Photos” and another interview to appear soon.

Links:

* Smiling Buddha Cabaret Restaurant
* bev smilin buddha photoset
* Rock n Roll Photo talk video
+ videographer’s notes
* Rock n Roll photo recap
* Rock n Roll Photo talk slides
* Bev on Twitter
* Miss 604 annotations from talk
* DaveO photos from 144 punk photos

++

More bev. davies articles:

BEV DAVIES AND DOA in the Skinny Magazine

Bev Davies and D.O.A.: Returning to the scene of the crime in Beatroute magazine

SKULL SKATES PRESENTS RETURN TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME WITH D.O.A.

January in the Hot Springs ~ Free haiku + paint

January in the Hotspring

Free haiku and paintings on variety of paper. Made in Tottori, Japan, 1993/4. Read publicly at my older brother’s wedding in Okizaki, Japan.

I’d recently rambled Europe and feasted on Van Gogh and Mattisse and combining their bold lines and bright colours with the efficiency and conciseness of Japanese aesthetic, these emerged.

Produced into a very limited run series (maybe 30?) of chapbooks printed on hemp + cereal straw paper and sewn (top binding) with hemp thread in Guam in 1995/6 and mailed to friends. I don’t have one of these bound copies, only the delicate originals in a file.

Escalante Flashflood – From Community College to Canyon Bottom (un-edited draft)

flashflood dave marty tent

With my right hand, I gripped on to the side of the cliff. There wasn’t much to grab on to. The rock was red and sandy. I was perched on the tiniest of ledges which is sleek with the fresh rainfall. Below me was a waterfall that dropped off 12 feet or so. Down below, Marty was bobbing up and down in the swirling pool.

The rain had picked up now. Large branches and small trees that we’ve passed hiking just a day or so ago were now shooting off the ends of the waterfall — torpedoing, javeling their way towards Marty.

He tells me to throw down the second pack. I’m grasping it with my left hand. As I hang out over trying to lean to get enough leverage to throw it over the lip of the waterfall — so it doesn’t get caught right underneath in the froth. Instead makes it out to the pool where Marty can grab it before it rockets down the river and meets the torrents of water. I gripped hard. The harder I grip the less there is to grip. I heave and I tried to swing with my left arm through the strap at the top of the backpack and bent over. Continue reading Escalante Flashflood – From Community College to Canyon Bottom (un-edited draft)

I Remember Florida

Note: This story uses several lines from the fine Canadian band, Blue Rodeo’s album “Diamond Mine” which served as a departure point so to speak. Cheers to them ‘eh.

##

Mostly now, I just masturbate. I’m not particularly attracted to my own sexuality or body, but a questionnaire I filled out in Cosmopolitan magazine said it would be both beneficial, and enjoyable. In this day and age, it’s not unclean or unruly, they said. There were also suggestion tips.

This fondling is mostly on account of my man being back in Florida. I do keep it under control however, I certainly don’t want to prefer it. I haven’t ever used foreign objects in my arousals, I’ve heard too many stories about women having problems. I would prefer to keep my private parts clean and in fine working order. Barry would agree, him being my man and all, and an arousing one at that.

Continue reading I Remember Florida

What I Thought in Sweetgrass

“Where you going?” His first question. A little vague.

Well I’ll tell you. That’s a toughie. I wish I knew. Finish school, get a job, wife, kids, that sort of thing. Or maybe not. You know how it goes. It was just a thought. A logical answer to his question.

“Utah.” The reply.

“Where you been?” Another question. A thinking man’s question at that.

A whole load of places, Disneyland even. Remind me to tell you about this great little diner in Nebraska sometime. How about you? Religiously speaking, however, I couldn’t tell exactly. Too deep for me. Just another thought.

“Just up skiing in Banff.”

“How long were you out of the country?”

Long enough to spend every bit of our money, see the sights, take advantage of the 18 year old drinking age, lock the keys in the car, get three flat tires, get ripped off, be savagely humiliated, not to mention the headaches and general frustration.

Kind of a hellish trip all in all.

“Oh, about four or five days.”

“Four or five?”

Well, sorry, Mr. Picky. You writing a book? “Since Wednesday night.”

“What’s your purpose?”

Ah! There we go, the eternal question. Why the heck are we on this sphere anyhow? Tell you one thing though, I’m pretty damn sure my purpose isn’t the same as yours.

“Just four college boys taking off for Thanksgiving to go dig some scenery.”

Continue reading What I Thought in Sweetgrass

Vegas, 8 A.M. (In Some Tacky, Classy Hotel Discovering Mental Health Hazards)

I see the sun. For some reason I didn’t think they had the sun here in the daytime. Just at night. Neon night. I stumble towards doors but stop in the lobby. “How’s the luck treating ya?” An old man with a cigarette and a green suit slumped on a stool praying to a box. The lights, whistles, levers and chrome looked washed out and bland in the light. Not designed for daytime.

“On and off. Long night.” He swallowed a large amount of drink. “Me and the wife just came up from Kansas City, Missouri.” Winnebago Warriors, true yankee pioneers. He satisfied the machine, shoving silver biscuits down it’s starving mouth. “Can’t beat it, coming here,” thousands of bad cliches, “Viva Las Vega$. Ha, ha, ha.” Cough, cough, hack, cough. On the back of a poster board, I made a sign.

WARNING!!! LAS VEGA$ MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH BE WISE, LIGHT A BOMB

Eight o’clock A.M. I wander through the aftermath of last night, or a thousand-million last nights. Halls of slot machines topped with pyramids of martini glasses, roulette tables, overflowing ash trays and skanky chicks in mini-skirts vacuuming away the revelry, frustration, depression, elation and popcorn and pretzels. It depressed me. Shouldn’t have though. Everyone loved it. Better than life itself. Maybe that explained things. But I felt wrong. I could leave the glamour sluts alone to their city of tastelessness, none of my affair to decide how THEY would live. To them, the long haired, granola head was the freak. But I wasn’t dammit. I would blow the whole fucking place to hell (no big change) but no one understood my logic, my philosophy, the way it SHOULD be. I made a list, kind of. “Things I hate about Las Vega$”

A list of tasteless things. Gold chains, polyester clothes, 69 cent shrimp cocktail (almost a plus if somewhere far away) lounge singers, sequins, Don Rickles, Frank Sinatra, Wayne Newton, smoke, neon lights, wedding chapels, the word “classy”, heart shaped beds, limousines and people who dig them, sexy senior citizens, bumper stickers, hair grease and people who have fun in this den of squalor and filth. An extremely long list. What kind of justification was that? They could all write lists about me. So what! I tried a new list, “Good things to do instead of Las Vega$.” A good list, I figured. With less clout, however, than the previous one. A new viewpoint was needed. Socio-political maybe? No good. Gamblers generate tax dollars and all that. Environmental. Waste of power, cause for building damn dams, etc. A personal sore spot. I liked it. Sort of, almost, maybe effective. A good start but not enough.

What do I care about anyway? Let all the fools dwindle in the abyss. I don’t like it just because I don’t like it, goddamitalltohell. In fact, I’m in favor of making it better for them. They need a huge opaque dome placed over the whole city. Paint it black inside, with neon stars, spaceships and with a few more of those huge cowboys with waving arms. Hey, what a sexy place that would be. Distribute free “I ♥ Las Vega$” or “Gamblers Do It By Chance!” bumper stickers and multi-colored condoms with sequins and glitter glued on. Change the name to VEGA$, not las vegas. No one classy calls it that. The inhabitants of this new garden of eden could create a race of perfect humans. Humans born with hairy chests, gold chains, pencil mustaches, bloodshot eyes, bad singing voices, facelifts that put their eyebrows up by the hairline, silicon tits, leopard spotted bikini briefs, tubes tied and the vital lucky touch and the never-fail system. The dome would provide perpetual nighttime. No one would have to sleep, just “go to bed” (hint, hint, wink, wink). Everything looks too washed out and bland in the daytime anyhow, too damn natural, no one much sees it though.

No more “morning afters,” just the perennial last night. Infinite nights to use your best pick up lines on the nasty cocktail girls. Baby, baby, ain’t it the life. Even if you ran out of speed you wouldn’t have to sleep a minute of the day. Too much to do. Viva Vega$. They could clone Wayne Newton, twice, three times, make a million. Of Barry Manilow too. Resurrect Elvis. Breed little Elvis’ and bronze Telly Savalas’ testicles. I’d support the idea if they all promised never to leave. To remain, not prisoners, but special V.I.P. guests in this hell for life. Do it all. I don’t hate it here, I love it.

But I’m going to nuke this fucking pit sky high anyway. Either that or just take a long nap after my three dollar buffet.

—————–

Written in 1987, Orem, UT

Still Life of Motion: Haibun in Grey

Room close dark
dark, listening
white noise and windchimes

From my perch, survey the still life before me – a didgeridoo leaning against a worm wood bookcase, 4 thick shelves made from free form curly maple looking like slabs of bacon, books stacked horizontally for easy reading of titles on spines; Ulysses, Siddhartha, Tolstoy, Salinger, Dr. Seuss, a stack about Everest, old Edmund Hillary grinning under shaggy beard and leather edged goggles. BhagavadGita, with dead, bald smiling, reincarnated onto the dust leaf resting, leaning next to Don Quixote, heavy in four volumes with hand-cut pages, raised ink, tissue protects the engravings. A collection (complete) of TinTin the intrepid reporter (Belgian I think), his dog Snowy and ornery ole Cap’n Haddock. More adventure than John McPhee, him traipsing from Alaska to Bangladesh – lonely freighter pulling out of dark harbors, a thousand iron feet long tended by six – maybe eight scattered souls. A Russian Matryoshka doll endless stream of smaller beings, a lighter from Belikin – the state brewery of Belize, a metal Sierra Club cup, engraved with highest peak in Nevada and a date so long ago that I look at a photo to remember me, head in clouds, wearing a sweater I forgot I ever wore. Picture is snowy, the tin cup stained with heat, left holding coins from here and there, a yo-yo, and buttons fallen off of trousers.

Room collecting stories
To tell you
Some other time