power of h Weblog

When I was in college at the University of Windsor a friend of mine invited me to a party in Detroit. I declined. I’d had problems crossing the border. They thought I was a slug. My hair was too long. Or I was the wrong sex. He went. There was a bunch of people in the room. Smoking dope. Listening to loud music. Eating blocks of ice cream. One of the guests was Bob Dylan. He sat in the corner. Talking to no one. His head bowed. Lost in some thought. My friend said Dylan was like that all evening. And I couldn’t lose the impression of Dylan in a world by himself. His mind, drifting.

Its odd as human that once a technology gets old, we become sentimental about it. There was an old factory in Guelph, Ontario from the early 20th century that had been abandoned. Touring the building one was struck by the craftsmanship needed to construct such a place and what a hell-hole it must have been to work there. It is as if Dante’s inferno and paradiso were caught in one image, one experience.

Mothers participate in something that is a kin to being joined with the rest of the universe. Or at least life. After everything has passed, they still know that they were part of something marvellous. Men are spectators. We are like the moon. Grey, lifeless. Circling the womb.