The Stunt of Being – Mike Chasty

On the Death of Someone Else's Cat – A Discursive Study on Feline Thanatology

2011-05-06T06:17:00.000-07:00

I am not a cat-lover or cat-hater. I would not own one but I also would not kick a nearby feline unnecessarily. If somebody's lunatic house cat tried to gouge and play with my eyeball whilst it still was set in my eye socket, of course I would instanteously employ all physical means and cunning to rid the rude Greymalkin, vehemently, by throwing it through a window or trying to throw it through what surrounds a window. If on a downpoury day a frail, ruin-coated meagre-spirited cat mewed forlornly at the door, how politely and unmaliciously it would be shoo-ed away. Personally, I am much more fascinated by brilliant hoverflies than banal mouse-eaters, but that is another topic to scribble about for a future day.

My dear friend Nubbas dislikes cats. He has a physiological excuse though. He is allergic to them. Cats make him sneeze, wheeze and turn his eyes red and buggy which is ironic for it seems cats are not so much attracted to him but rather his car's undercarriage, especially when travelling at a velocity of 50+ kilometers an hour.

'Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow THUMP! ' I believe is how his unfelinephilic incidental tally goes. The aging kitten didn't lose its mitten. It lost all four paws and then some.

– II –

It seems one cannot budge for cats in literature:

'By curves come all good things to their goals. Like cats they arch their backs, they purr inwardly for their approaching bliss. All good things laugh.' – Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

'Impelled by greed, the wanderer believed what the tiger had said. But as soon as he went into the lake to bathe, he was trapped in mud and unable to escape...' – Naranyana, The Hitopadesa

'The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as freeman. The monster, the terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme!' – E. A. Poe, The Black Cat

'It rests me to be among beautiful women.' – Ezra Pound, Tame Cat

'Come, my fine cat, to my loving heart, retract your claws and let me immerse myself in your beautiful eyes' – Baudelaire, The Cat

'– so long as I get somewhere,' Alice added as an explanation. 'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long enough.' – Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventure in Wonderland

'But this poor little cat Only wanted a rat, to stuff out its own little maw' – Shelley, Verses On A Cat

'I stood with a small crowd looking at a dead cat' – Wolf Howard, Dead Cat

'At the third sight of the Lion, he felt no fear at all, but walked up to the Lion and began to converse with him.' – Turkish Fables, Belles Lettres and Sacred Traditions

'...but with her returning sense of direction came the disquieting consciousness that they were not in that quarter of the room, moreover were too high, being nearly at the level of the eyes – her own eyes. For these were the eyes of a panther.' – Ambrose Bierce, The Eyes of The Panther

'A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She strech'd in vain to reach the prize' – Thomas Gray, On The Death Of A Favourite Cat

'Diomedon, leave the cat alone this instant,' said Marthe. 'You already strangled one the other day, one every day is too much.' – Vladimir Nabakov, Invitation to a Beheading

'We said farwell with an honest German pawshake in the good old style. Muzius, no doubt to hide the deep emotion which drew tears from him, had jumped swiftly out of the open window with a breakneck leap and landed on the adjacent roof.' Even I, gifted by Nature with excellent buoyancy, was amazed by his daring leap...' – E.T.A. Hoffmann, The Life and Opinions of The Tomcat Murr

'A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.' – Mark Twain

– III –

It was a drizzly, murky morning. Surely there are finer specimens of days to dig a chasm to China in. But the neighbour had something curious to insert.

I remembered that black quadruped (the one with one white, rear right boot), now a frumpy bundle and felt a certain sorrow not for it and its owner leaning on her shovel but for the passage of anything that once lived and had to shortly die. As for the creature, it had noticeably become thinner and weaker, more absent-looking over the last few months. Its green eyes were losing their candle-power.

No more a deep drink from the shallow saucer of milk. No more mastering the not-so vertical fence of wood shake. No more will its running paws treat the floor like escaping bongo drums. No more snagging its claws on an acrylic gown. No longer can it be disinterested in the butterfly's lazy passage as it dozed in the sun. No more nibbling the weed at the driveway's end. No more rubbing against the tyre of an inert car. No more watching the bush by the apple tree from which the little tasty robin flies up or drops down from to forage. No more disorganised squadrons of walking plump pigeons to be tempted by. No more growling over territory and domain. With rigid moustache alert, with hunting chin an inch above the ground, no more detecting the movement that rustles in dead leaves. Gone.

Thus the cat is quite dead now, barely finished meowing and barely finished offering itself to be reasonably petted. The brachy-mandibled powerhouse of insouciance has taken its formidable cabouche and lithesome tail and is a few feet sunk under the earth. Just a few feet, which might as well be an unimaginable 60, 000,000,000,000,000 years or miles away from the ground it once stretched its body on to lounge under the sun or sat up from to scratch a flea from its under-chin. Far away, a long time, anyway it has for paddling its pink-tongued head across the river Styx.

O death! The undiscovered country from whose bourne no cat returns.
O death! without even a battered moth or miserable mouse for company!
O death! No longer will the intentionally unmotivated theroid have to decide where next to bring its big marvellousness.
O cat! below the massive clay pot – the owner throws down some red flowers for imitation flames
O cat! To over-love a pet seems an act of desperation!

The cat is quite dead...and already its adopted replacements (Plural! Plural, dear reader! Plural!) are scrambling throughout the lieu it vacated.

– IV –

One occasionally sees a photo of an artist or writer in which a cat uses the human as some sort of shouldersome perch or momentary catapult where it is poised in cerebral languour, but this is merely gross stagecraft on the feline's behalf.

– V –

Every word was once never a word and etymologies offer one a chance to play Ulysses on the changing sea of language. To think that a 'cougar' once meant a type of wild cat and not a woman of a certain age, usually of a certain aggressive mien and on the North American town! So where does the word 'Cat' come from or even the word 'catcall' as another inquisitive friend asked. According to the O.E.D. the word 'cat' itself is somewhat mysterious, prowling through Latin and Greek and prevalent throughout all European tongues, but probably originating in the east, pointing to Egypt as the 'the earliest home of the domestic cat'. 'Catcalls' are echoic-origined – the human imitation of the actual creature's individual sound, in this case a waul or wail as in 'caterwaul', although one could be forgiven for thinking that it might have an unexplored connection to the work 'heckle'. A culture-meandering historical study of crowd approval or disapproval would be interesting, entertaining and certainly catcall-ful. No few eyes would be seen rolling in it.

Standing on the Shoulders of Midgets – A Not-So Unserious Essay On A Not-So Serious Canadian P.M.

2011-01-22T02:28:00.000-08:00

'Propaganda in favour of action dictated by impulses that are below self-interest offers false, garbled or incomplete evidence, avoids logical argument and seeks to influence its victims by the mere repetition of catchwords, by the furious denunciation of foreign or domestic scapegoats, and by winningly associating the lowest passions with the highest ideals.
– Aldous Huxley

It seems that with the new barrage of Tory attack ads that Canadians have to endure another election. One can either laugh in nauseated ridicule, totally ignore, or zombie-like nod while mid-moan or mid-drooling, at what these ads purport. But with their advent and the forthcoming drop of the writ, the population once again has the opportunity to offer or deny P.M. Harper the coveted majority he has so long written to Santa Claus for, probably in crayon.

I do intend to use Mr. Harper's proper name and, in an example of paraleipsis, will not go out of my way to mention many of the other on-line terms to reference him like:

'Tubby' – which is somewhat harsh for to be chauffered around and constantly eat chef-prepared food for five-years would have adipose consequences on anyone's physique.

'Harpler' – this refers, possibly, to a mixture of the P.M.'s surname with a certain McDonald's children's character, The Hamburgler, a caped and bemasked, somewhat mishchievous figure, dressed duo-chromatically – black and white, which might be the only kind of thinking that such a character is capable of possessing.

'Great Leader' – mostly applied in a sarcastic manner and also is mockingly suggestive of eastern potentates like the oppressive Kim Jong Il or jolly Chairman Mao.

Harples – of uncertain origin but the lolling sound of it alone speaks of idleness and elevated disdain. Perhaps it is a disaffected description of Mr. Harper's tenure thus far. This word is most accurate if groaningly inflected.

Prince Harpalot – A corruption of the word 'Camelot'. A leader of a 'La-La Land'.

Harpes – A variation of the disease 'herpes', which etymologically means 'to creep' and no few Canadians find the Reform Party antics of the current government 'creepy'. One might consider that Canada presently ails from a case of the 'harpes'.

Harmer – A self-evident term.

Herr Harper – The Teutonic title having slight implications to the far-right tendencies that Europe tragically suffered through in the 20th century.

But nevermind, let us look at the events and achievements of the Conservative governement for the past five years:

The Cadman Affair
Zaccardelli's possible interference in the 2006 election
In-Out funding scandals (something's rotten in the state of Denmark)
The Colvin Affair
Prorogations (plural!)
The building of a fake lake (in a nation full of lakes)
Security Council defeat (now there is an international black-eye)
Largest deficit in Canadian history
Camp Mirage eviction
Census scandal

One could go on with all sorts of other such marvellous endorsements, filibusters and other areas of willful gubernatorial obfuscation but one issue, perhaps more forgotten and entirely indicative of the Conservative-Reform-Harper approach to governance and life, was the death of Canadian U.N. soldier, Major Paeta Hess-Vonn Kruedener, in July 2006. The fact that this Canadian's unfortunate and quite possibly avoidable and unneccessary death went absolutely unprotested by the Harper government was, and still is, not only insensitive but bordering on the psychopathic. In regards to it, one feels bad to be a Canadian.

It was little wonder then last week to hear Mr. Harper through the national media voice his approval of the death penalty. Is this not a consistency of attitude? The arguments against the death penalty are numerous and well-documented (cost, morality, lack of a criminal deterrent, and ultimately cui bono?) but possibly the observation of Remy de Gourmont suffices: 'It is fairly obvious that those who are in favour of the death penalty have more affinities with murderers than those who oppose it.'

Those who believe in the death penalty are those who believe in shortening another's sentence.
They themselves could too shorten their own sentence ('I believe in the death penalty') and merely say: 'I believe in death.' They are 'the friends of death' to use a phrase of the percipient mage, Rimbaud. They are the 'backwards'.

Should the Conservatives win the future election will they try to the throw the nation retrograde into, say, more biblical times? Mr. Harper also mentioned that he has no intention of bringing such a notion back into Canadian law but who knows? Why bother to mention the idea at all? Here then are a few not-so serious, but particularly Canadian methods that they could possibly use for the returned practice of public executions, or at least, socially conservative-bent torture should they ever be instated:

Stonings – but instead of using actual stones, those posted to carrying out the fatal sentence could use day-old doughnuts and muffins from their favourite coffee shop. Dutchies being the most effective.

Waterboarding – but instead of water, the bound and supine victim is repeatedly doused in gallons of poutine.

The immersion of criminals into cooling vats of maple syrup. Very medieval and sweetly totalitarian.

Chinese water torture – instead of drips of water, one incessantly for days and weeks is subject to dropping of Nanaimo bars on their forehead. This method though runs the risk of failing as the subject would inevitably try to catch the nanaimo bars with his or her open gob.

Lethal asphyxiation by stale hockey equipment fumes.

Forced confinement where one is choiceless but to listen to Don Cherry blather on about topics other than hockey.

Forced confinement where one is choiceless but to listen to Don Cherry blather on about all topics related to hockey.

Perhaps the hangmen of the future will try out the efficacity of each method on themselves first.

Some parting thoughts for reflection:

Political hyperpartisanship is not different than extremism.

To curse dictators is to worship life.

All literature (whether it be written by Antonio Carluccio or Niccolo Machiavelli) is imperfect, but to refer to only one book as a guide to life is weak-brained and frankly indulgent.

Democracy need not look like a looped woodchuck on the side of the road.

Canada was once a beacon. It can be again. The restoration is entirely in the hands of incisive Canadians. Mantle or dismantle what you will.

The reliance on political attack ads demeans the entire population it attempts to divide and stimulate. It is the standing on the shoulders of midgets.

More Musings of a Sarf Eldon Parakeet

2010-07-09T04:18:00.000-07:00

(an excerpt)

A country needs people who think, not worship

Every good feeling deserves a lack of punctuation

Ideology keeps the bread-filled oven and the aromatic stove far away from the hungry child

Culture is fortified by un-at-home forces

In a 100 years only fools will be remembered

The history of mankind is the history of intoxication (physical or metaphorical)

Society is the collection of humans that act on impulses that not all humans share

Politicians want to create perceptions; the artist undermines the politician

A lampoon cleans the air. It is like a fresh breath in the stalls that a Hercules has yet to visit. The more lampoons, the closer Hercules gets and nearer is the truth

Enlightened moments are effective attempts at laughless humour

Bad blood is almost as divisive as bad breath

Those who succeed in a hypocritical system will opine to their death in favour of it

It takes a long time for someone to get to know you obliquely

A lack of revolution is always a bizarre coincidence

I noticed a pair of false breasts the other day. They were so perfect they were disproportionate

Never let truth get in the way of good story

Substitutes for profanity do as much to acknowledge the existence of profanity as profanity does

For those who trip on them, kerbstones seem more like a plot

A computer can be precise, beautiful and elegant as a pleasantly played clavichord. It can also be nothing more than an electronic soapbox for the grumbling crank. Often it hardly compares with even the filthiest of gold-lit windows

The book accepting charity shop for the chapbook artist is as the bare, blank wall for the graffiti writer – opportunity, occasion, febrility

The unreasonable desire is exactly that which goes searched for like a pair of misplaced glasses or set of keys. This is in praise of humanity

Every struggle is an invention

'Today, I am like a lively trout in an untrafficked stairwell' – Who has not felt like this on occasion?

Death by fornication – Quite often the only place for a key to break is in its lock

Thieves establish legitimate stores for their illegal operations. An irony, no?

'Ever since the accident...' – this is an ideal and bona fide excuse which can extract one from all sorts of unwanted scenarios and cause not only intrigue but sought after sympathy. One's birth can be considered an accident.

What ever is one to think when when lightening strikes twice in the same place again?

Tales of ancient heroic deeds give half the misleading picture

Denial is hardly a curse. Acceptance is hardly a gift

One cannot dehumanise monsters

Impressions do not create reality – they are not ever the results of it

Human interactions are replete with beau gestes – some thought of but never ennacted or, if done, then possibly unmeant

For the Unvehicularly Minded

2010-04-21T06:22:00.000-07:00

I do not really care much for cars. I'm sure other people enjoy waxing them in earnest, rubbing down their doors and wheelwells as though they were sides and legs of celebrated race horses, or watering them with a hose as though they were a plant at sunset. Who knows, maybe that Opal or goose-throated Vauxhall will grow. But cars do seem, by even the briefest of societal observations, the ideal contraption for distressed and impatient humans. To prove this, one only need see a hairy-fisted truck driver who looks like he (or possibly she) hasn't had a bowel movement this century, yelling at the unturning clunker impeding their progress. Or witness a harried mother carting her sugar-frenzied kiddikins to so and so's birthday bash in a reckless rush, spewing the ghost of fossil fuels all over the quivering daffodils in the traffic island she jolts over. It seems few are the drivers with ungnashing jaws and many are the cursing looks one receives from them, whether they are in a car or not...looks that warn: Dear humble pedestrian, take note, you are merely the inconvenient thud in my undercarriage should the maniacal driver be stricken by the slight whim to make it so.

The Spanish had a wise saying: No man is sane on horseback. The same is remarkably true for the post-Ford world and dis-horsed era of transport. No driver is sane in a car.

I realise that my impressions will not curry favour with the in-crowd of the super-popular car show Top Gear, hosted by the holy trinity; the one with the face of a grumpy bulldog topped by a balding afro, the second, the doe-eyed whippet with the barnet of a psychotic woodpecker, and the third, whom I can only describe as the marshmallow-faced Sir Plonk-drop. I'm sure you can find a photo of them somewhere on the internet and then you can assess whether I am inaccurate with my description.

I also do not wish to get around town riding a rickety wagon pulled by a team of a thousand obedient squirrels. Although I do enjoy the image I can't imagine what the insurance would be as squirrels can occasionally turn fiesty and unpredictable. Honestly though, I just don't fathom the hype and four-wheeled temple worship for vehicles that are absolutely equal in ubiquitous traffic jams and shape-wise only look like bars of soap in various degress of erosion. And these are the model beasts that slide one's guts continually around a county or state whilst one is encased in the car smells and sounds. Is this not a particular version of sensorial hell? This new car smell...how wonderfully synthetic! And to think, you can buy it in a can!

This could be a wayward paean to public transportation – that method of travel by which one may fold their arms and gaze dreamily at the city that one floats through on the bus or train that dissects it – but rather, on the whole, I fear people have forgotten that they have legs and what legs can do for them. Legs: we all can run from housefires with them. They also can bring us to unknown flowers and what a new unfolding world of thoughts can we encounter when they are most in use.

To know the land one must walk the land.

Walking purifies the senses.

Without money in one's pocket and without a need to be anywhere, a walk becomes a pure celebration of being.

I discovered these ideas whilst walking...and I don't refer to merely walking across a car park on the way to buy something vitally important like a coconut or a pair of socks. I mean walking far for the sake of walking, for the sake of non-thinking; that state in which ideas and notions often are born in and briefly reside before leaving the mental canvas clear as air. It is then possible for one, in a new or differently perspicacious way, to see and know the momentary world that surrounds – the smells, the way the light hits a certain flying bird, the feel of the air on your hands, the sounds of a tree or a student practising a guitar in some passed unknown room. It is just possible for that student to be the genius that one day has a song blaring from a car radio that speeds past. But perhaps you heard something more magical first.

On the Earthiness of Books

2010-02-17T05:44:00.000-08:00

The old year is gone, forgotten and now has about as much importance as a dead umbrella, cannibalised bicycle frame or lost scarf in the street. Six weeks on, one begins to recover from the incessant barrage of perfume ads that accompany the holiday season and are enough to make the subsequent Janus-headed month doubly wheeze and cough. Yet, in retrospect, what a season it was for the gadget-mad and gizmo-idolatrous. Never before has there been such an array of little magical items for the cult of would-be Merlins. E-Readers, Kindle, and more recently the awkwardly named iPad all furiously vie for the public's impulse to be ahead of the curve or, at least, catch up to the 'now'. The proliferation of such advanced technology makes me pause and reflect on the earthiness of books.

I reflect not because I have particular qualms about these new future artefacts. Admittedly, it is wondrous to witness the pace and force with which these implements are born and change the books industry (not to mention human behaviour). Certainly, if I were an author from long ago, I would find their invention thrilling. Just imagine what Euripides or John Donne would feel about having their works easily downloadable and appearing instantly on a fireless screen. It would be like they were taken out for a spin in a show-cased Porsche. Impressive, eh? Zero to Sixty in how little? My word! And the looks we get! Rowing Ulysses, eat your heart out!
And all is smiles and grins and wind in the hair or bald-patch.

Also, to be on a tiny space-ship, leaning over the world while the machine hurls its fiery head on a voyage swiftly past Orion's buttock or gradually into Andromeda's cleavage, I should think then these hand-held readers would be of enormous use. On such a trip, after the intial excitement of the stars and motion has worn off, who wouldn't want to have the entirety of human literature available on command in a button's push. Montaigne would become very handy; so too would Frankie Boyle's autobiography.

But getting back to earth and to the strayed-from topic, there is far more than the mere entertainment, intellectual nourishment and the aesthetic value of traditional books. One must remember that a book is a flingable thing. When one is safely installed on one's couch, reclining and reading and a particulary large and hairy spider dashes across the carpet with all its might towards your head, what better object to halt its progression or life than the very book you currently wield. Would one throw a costly E-reader at the audacious and imposing creature?

In other manners of utility, think of being on your chosen hammock in the afternoon sun when a case of dozing overcomes your outdoor exercise. A paperback makes for an excellent shield over one's face. In it one can inhale the paper, the smell of a dusty attic or damp cellar (all the natural abodes for the forgotten or stored treasures of humanity). After hours of this pleasure one wakes and then resumes reading. Will one dare accomplish this task with an E-reader? Just think of all the grease from one's brow smearing the cherished screen! Impossible. (Will the new books have a pleasant smell or even smell at all? Perhaps when they unexpectedly give up the ghost in an acrid puff?) Inversely, how comfortable are these new eletronic tablets to use as pillows? Every good writer, reader and poetic traveller has used a book as a pillow at some point in their adventures. Myself, I have enlisted a warped and weathered copy of Aloysius Bertrand's Gaspard de la Nuit for this particular function. And yes, the sleep I had was generous with visions.

Even further, will one prop open a window to hear a thunderstorm with their new gadget? Or will they be afraid of getting it wet? Will one settle the matter of an uneven table with their Kindle? Where o where will one place their foaming beer or jostled wine glass if not upon an available or bedside book?

Truth is, whether it is a 'backless copy from the stall, Too cheap for cataloguing' to quote Pound, or whether 'The pages break like ash' to quote Morrison, few things are more earthy, more gripping than an actual book. Innovations will come and go but there is nothing quite like turning a page.

The Exponential Spiral

2010-01-28T06:03:00.000-08:00

In the infinite wisdom of his rubber bonce, the Canadian Prime Minister, Stephen Harper decided on December 30th to prorogue the forthcoming session of parliament. This dissolution of parliament and, effectively, the cancellation of the legislative agenda and timely debate – the spine and health of any open, democratic nation – can only be construed as the stepping stone to tyranny.

I, like thousands of other Canadians take offense at the crass and insulting use of this political manoeuver which is democratic abeyance. Placing parliament into a self-induced coma and suspending debate seems to have absolutely no benefit to Canadians mindful of the issues of the day. With Harper prorogation only seems a ploy to shirk the unfavourable scrutiny that a politician of any integrity and might would welcome with relish and address with confidence. The Prime Minister appears far, far out of his depth.

As a poet I am against any form of tyranny wherever in the world, for any poet who writes in favour of tyranny is no poet at all. He is some scornful creature altogether worse. He is a jackass. Though Canada might not be in the realm of democratic fascism, the direction and obfuscation of the Harper conservatives is troubling. One wonders how often the idea of an arbeitsfront or any of the other instruments of oppressive regimes have floated through one of Harper's afternoon reveries, which he now has ample occasion and leisure for.

To think that cancelling parliament would not be of much concern or go unnoticed by Canadians at home or abroad on December 30th – that fuzzy time between the rum-laden egg nog of Noel and the champagne of New Year's eve – was a cocky miscalculation. The country smelled a rat and woke.

As the presiding government sees politics only through the prism of a humourless blood sport, Canadians responded by not treating politics merely as a spectator sport. The facebook campaign was born and gained momentum, became organised and translated cyber protest successfully to nation-wide street protest and beyond, as evidenced here in London. It was and is a phenomenally admirable event to have been part of. It was particularly entertaining to see the hundreds of lampoons that fellow Canadians have devised – the more opacity a government resorts to, the brighter the lampoons. To think! Unknown Canadians set their lives aside and met in the street and began to talk to one another about what passionately concerns them, that being the absence of decent governence.

What must frustrate conservatives is not being able to control or torque the dialogue that has begun within this protest. It was not only prorogation that was discussed as Canadians met. People were and are making the connections of the conservative government's continually suspect record i.e. the Cadman affair, Prorogue the 1st, the fixed elections sham, Colvin, Prorogue the 2nd, Beauregard etc. These issues do not become ephemeral and fade, rather they take on a new accumulated awareness, they become an exponential spiral of dialogue that does not merely return to cyberspace and level off but carries out across the land, back to kitchen tables, coffee tables, restaurants and bars, wherever friends, family and strangers gather.

The conservatives, the con hackers that often rail away on the cbc and other media forums, the conservative resource group would love for the clairvoyance of ordinary Canadians to disappear. The problem for them is that you cannot hide from the public's memory once it has switched on. The cons can scramble, bluster and muster, deflect blame, interfere and slant what messages all they want but in reality they look desperate and sound shrill. It seems they are trying to stop a thawed river by hurling icicles into it.

Good luck, Canada, and stay aware. The world needs you on a different path than what the last four years have shown.

Psychography and Kevin Cummins

2010-01-07T05:20:00.000-08:00

I have recently been poring through two books by the photographer Kevin Cummins. One is a rather rare and collectible book titled The Smiths and Beyond published by Vision On. The other is Manchester – Looking for the Light Through the Pouring Rain which was published by Faber and Faber last year. Both offerings contain fascinating images and can only be considered photography par excellence. Certainly these books present a plethora of historical interest for any modern musicologist, Smiths fan or Manchester-Sadchester-Madchester-ologist. Anyone who can relate to the Stone Roses, The Fall, Joy Division, Magazine, The Happy Mondays, New Order or many other rock 'n' roll groups from the 70's on that contributed to Manchester's rich musical lore should find some leisurely hours well spent in their perusal. The quality and artistry of the photos though truly do astonish. Whether the pictures are of a mere building, an iconic performer or of the engaged or casual crowd, Cummins has the unique ability to reveal several complex levels in his subject. One gets a direct sense not only of the subject's personality, but of their mood on the instant and their sense of being in history. All this is done with almost sculptorial precision of lighting which often brings out an animation in the faces of his subjects which I find akin to the finest Greek marbles in the British Museum. The result is that the photos sometimes have a hyper-reality to them in an absolutely unforced and natural way. Special indeed. I personally do not enjoy the over-use or misuse of the word 'soul' and all its flighty religious baggage in our language but would prefer the idea of psychography – a recording or capturing of a human's complex essence and momentary thoughts – to describe these two books. Mere 'photography' seems to fall too short. Besides, someone suggested that Cummins even made Shaun Ryder almost handsome in a particular photo. The man must be a magician.

Before I Lay Snoring

2009-12-27T02:21:00.000-08:00

Before I lay snoring last night and as I watched a twinkling star or two in the blackness of the window, a potentially liqueur-induced thought occurred. Like a huge, slow wave of golden fireworks it came and washed away all the other usual concerns during the long instant of slumber to the far margins of conscience. Impressively important and fascinating it overtook the entirety of my wonder: Just how do nipple-tassles stay on?

'Standaaaaaaaaaaad' (As the old echo went)

2009-12-14T12:20:00.000-08:00

It is interesting to see that they are giving the Evening Standard away for free these days. It still costs too much.

The Beauty of Metatags

2009-12-01T13:17:00.000-08:00

It has been brought to my attention that when one does a Google search for yours truly, that a site displaying men's shorts for M&S comes up (Marks & Spencer that is, not an inverted 'Masochism and Sadism' club) I believe this is due to metatags involving short poetry. While I do often wear men's shorts, I don't really wear men's shorts, or other clothes for that matter, from M&S. I will recommend their regional pappardelle though and they do have a commendable selection of cheeses. But owing to the bizarre connection of the two, M&S shorts and my short poetry, what is one to assume other than that sometimes the internet wears its ass on its head.

The Coffee Table Collider

2009-11-22T04:59:00.000-08:00

Phase II of my website is in place. Have a look around. You can now find an entire pdf version of the Sidegiggle in the writing section: http://www.mikechasty.com/thesidegiggle.html. Reading it will be more fun than stubbing your toe on a coffee table, an activity which I have become proficient at recently. I think if I moved the coffee table out into the the middle of the street I would still find a way of stepping into it. The Sidegiggle has been a side project over the past few years and is a somewhat exasperated and humorous look at everyday life. Enjoy.

Many thanks to everyone who has purchased a chapbook recently. If you haven't bought one yet, what are you waiting for? Hell doesn't exist and is therefore not in danger of freezing over.

Special thanks to Helen over at Hurt Design (http://www.hurt-design.co.uk/) for all of her creativity and talent.

The Redrawn Gallery

2009-11-15T11:28:00.000-08:00

I've recently set up a flickr page and will be loading some artwork images soon. There are homegrown book covers up there now:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/44210363@N05/