Speaking of uncanny coincidences. My brother came to visit me the other day. He's later than the proverbial hare! He called weeks ago to tell me he was coming. But since he was already at my back door, I had no choice but to let him in.
This is my brother:
 |
| Sibling Revelry |
And in more recent times:
 |
| Kickin' it to the side |
Josh likes beer, girls & a few other things I won't mention. I have dubbed him The Hillbilly Gangsta. If you knew him, you'd think the nickname was spot on. Josh is one of my favourite people, and not just because he is my only sibling. He's the epitome of laidback, what you would call a fun-lovin' guy.
When we were kids, he was my guinea pig. Whenever there was some daredevil stunt to be performed, Josh went first. If he was successful, my turn! If not, he usually found himself in the hospital & all the fun was spoiled. Don't get me wrong, I'm no sadist (quite the opposite actually!), I'm just enterprising & clever enough to hide the evidence of my masochism. Which is why he's had far more scrapes, bruises, broken bones & stones in his face than I! (If you believe in karma, it will please you to note that I am diabetic & spend far more time than I would like in hospitals & waiting rooms).
Three other reasons I love my brother: he has J-O-S-H tatooed across his knuckles, he says "I'm just Josh'n ya" all the time (which I find pathetic & hilarious at the same time) & his laugh is infectious. Try not laughing around him. I dare you.
Anyway, back to the story.
Josh brought two friends with him when he visited. We listened to some records, drank some beer & laughed & talked about my artwork & why I'm not famous (I have a few theories) & somehow found ourselves discussing vegetarianism & I brought up the word fortified (I NEVER use the word fortified).
Josh & his friends laughed uproariously at the mention of this word. Turns out that very morning they had decided FORTIFIED was the word of the day!
Can you believe it?!
Neither could I. Considering the nature of my blog.
We had a good laugh about it & I thought about the phenomenal ability of the brain to record & store inconceivable amounts of information. And the uncanny. I think a lot about the uncanny. So much so that I'm starting to see IT everywhere. Ahhhhhh.
Maybe it is just a necessary function of the brain to see a particular word (or number) everywhere you look after recently becoming conscious of it, but it sure is F-U-N!
And to up the uncanny factor, I later bought fortified milk & vitamins. And drank more beer!
...
In short, my friends, spontaneous visits from my brother are fortifying to the spirits & my time with him reminded me that my life is truly uncanny. Every day.
Devils for life!
...
Part 1 of A Season in Hell
Arthur Rimbaud
translated by Bertrand Mathieu
A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.
One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.
I armed myself against justice.
I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!
I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.
I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.
And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.
So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.
Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
"You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!"
Ah! I've been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.
...
