Wednesday, December 9, 2009


Oh dear, so much snow fell on Montreal today! The nice thing about snow: if you leave it alone long enough, it will eventually melt. Don't give yourself a heart attack shoveling the sidewalk. A few trips back and forth between home and the corner store will pack down an adequate path for the post man or post woman of post modern society.

Well, as a man in the club said, during the football game on TV, "The play was brilliant. The pass was fine, but it wasn't played out. I'd go in the huddle and chew him out. He should pass it over the head. A good quarter back won't get his receiver killed."

Listen to both sides of every story: uphill and downhill, Polyanna and pissy stick in the mud, picture and text, bread and butter, dream of desolation, bleak rooms and loneliness. It happens to a lot of people, to end up alone, after conflict and failed relationships. Don't be afraid to go to the medical museum and sit down amoung anatomy models. Drink a glass of embalming fluid. Preserve your innards for posterity.

Before we proceed any further, let us enjoy a moment of Club Morono Cleaning Yoga. Cough it up, the clot of white gelatin, a caterpillar-like creature from the throat. Hold it in the palm of your hand. Perhaps it will speak to you. Let it be your friend for life, a creature born in your throat.

He was a lively little critter, pumped up on speed, trembling like a leaf, leaping into motion but nowhere to go, ready to start shouting or babbling about the least detail, mind sizzling like a de-boned chicken breast in a professional non-stick frying pan. Leave rest behind. Leap into motion. Bye bye to one place. Hello to another. Are you aware of your intentions? Look closely before it falls apart, fragments and dissolves.

I recently received an announcement from FART (Friends And Roaming Truckers, Farout Artistic Rebel Target) Association. They will be presenting a real bouf of a banquet, sugar puff, honey flakes, syrup slather, cole slaw, rotten plums, ketchup, eggs and sour red wine. Even wasps stay away from the highly acidic vinegar, sugar, carbohydrate breakfast.

I turned my head and overheard a woman say: "It's nice just to be. We're at dinner and when I left, a little melancholy, things got, you know the ropes, just want to have a sharp sense. So anyway, I had dinner. I would say yes, we're good friends. But yes, there was no. I'm not really social about it. Things happening. She has amazing qualities. She spills out. She has so many friends. I was thinking, even today, she's very on."

"My brother's going to Angola," her friend replied.

The intellect moves within categories, associations, sequence, pattern, stories; a mix of sensation, feeling and memory. On top of that, you have the habit of personality and genetic disposition, plus economic and social factors. You could be free from physical, intellectual and emotional confines. At least, flickers of light suggest this-- the feeling of imprisonment wakes me to a possibility of not being imprisoned.

I would like to end this meandering diatribe with a little Morono Mumbling: Right on! We're all one! Om On Oon Moon Oom Oon Mama Mia. Repeat these syllables next time you enter the subway. It will make your journey smoothly connected. Let slap happy feet tappy stairs going down stone stairs to ceramic tile subway platform to board a train. Hear the train approach from a distance, like a herd of buffalo or wild horse stampede, thunder hoof to platform. Clumsy door of train slides open and then closes, to allow travelers on and off, passengers and ex-passengers, arriving and not yet arrived.

It's important for the body tap surface to activate sound in material during the act of going. This is an important Morono principle.

Creatures of desire with the wriggle sound signature, behold the lemon tree in the window of the religious supply shop. Go south for the winter holiday, or grin and bear it. For those who stay to face the winter, Lohbado invites you to a free train ride to Moronoville. After dinner, we could take the tram up the holy mound in order to plead before Oorsis or to observe the dance of Oogah as he searches for the lost key to the mountain mysteries. Find the lost key by going through years of isolation and solitude. That's part of the Lohbado Door to the Morono Tabernacle.

Set up burst membrane tissue bubble peeping autopsy visible from inside out. Lobado gotta let go, loosen, dump and dance along the never-ending way. Be polite to the buffalo-train busker, playing the triple-treble flute, whistle toot toot, flute, aethereal angelic bullshit routine.

"Does this train go to Lohbadoville? Or am I busted, disgusted and can't be trusted? Can you spare two dollars?" asked a man, swaying on the subway platform, a no-name plastic jug of cola, dark fluid swilling around the bladder-like bottle, dark pee, little foamy bubbles forming as it swished around.

Inhale the smell of your own breath as you rush up the escalator after arriving at a destination. This is the way of Lohbado and Club Morono.

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