by Patrick Bailey
The name is derived from Megatherium,the giant prehistoric sloth that once roamed North America.
[Appeal to readers:]
I am trying to finish my book MegaSloth on the subject of laziness. (Part of that project once appeared on this website but has been removed to allow me to put it all together in one package.) To accomplish that, I want to get input from other people.
Who's more lazy -- men or women? I wonder. If you have any thoughts on this, any examples, any theories, or any other things to enlighten me on, please respond.
Your comments won't appear on this website but could appear in my upcoming book, assuming I find a publisher. There is no compensation involved, however.
Please send any such information to me by clicking on "comments" below. I will read every message carefully. I may not be able to respond right away via email since my outgoing email has not been working. (My server says my browser is too old.)
You may include your real name and city or make one up. It doesn't matter for my purposes. (If you include your real name and I use your material, I will put it in the acknowledgements of my book, again, if possible.)
Thanking you in advance,
patrick bailey
She's not thick.
When she plays with her hair
She makes a Manhattan
It's a jumble out there.
You're an artist?
Sweet and cool, like rain on driest earth,
When we talk, I don't hear everything you say,
It's funny when I see you acting cold,
The drinks I like, the music, and the mood,
The stem of the Manhattan glass
She smokes cigarettes like a movie star.
I look at her face and try to drink in her beauty.
I'll hook up to that Satellite in the sky.
Each hour will bring me something new,
There's even a channel about World War II
On the music channel, they play songs all the time,
Reading a book called "God's Rule -- The Politics of World Religions" (Excellent book, by the way).
Under the Hinduism section, there is a quote from one of their old texts regarding the "Ten vices that arise from desire" that the Hindu king must avoid and which all "end badly":
"Hunting, gambling, sleeping by day, malicious gossip, women, drunkenness, music, singing, dancing, and aimless wandering (!) are the group of ten vices born of desire." (Manu Smriti 7.45-48). (*page 199.)
I don't know if being a Hindu king would be much fun if you couldn't do a little aimless wandering once in a while.....
I read a book once about horror movies which said that one of the subliminal themes in horror is that young men are restricted by older men in their sexual desires for young women. It's a primal theme, common enough in the animal kingdom.
"Dracula" is a book which puts over this case well. Count Dracula is eons old, yet stocks his castle with nubile young women who are "his alone." Young men might notice these village beauties, and inwardly lust for them, but they are unavailable. And they act on their lust at their peril.
And so we come to "The Magus," by John Fowles. It's a novel about a young man and his lust, with a lot of other details thrown in. He is thwarted, in a very mysterious manner, by an older man. A rich man. A man of power and history who cannot be understood. (Again, like Dracula.)
"The Magus" is a wonderful read and leaves the reader to do a lot of thinking on his own.
Oddly, none of John Fowles other books even approach this sort of mastery. But then, Bram Stoker only wrote one classic himself.
I think that certain books are magical. You can't compare them to other books, even by the same author. They have transcendent themes, which resonate beyond the mere story-telling.
Reading a book today and yesterday about American spirituality called "Restless Souls," relating to the various ideas of Emerson, Thoreau, and a multitude of others, including Eastern Hindus, Buddhists, etc., who came together in Maine at a place called "Greenacres" (not the TV
sitcom) where they had annual discussions, communings with nature, retreats, etc., all in the hope that all religions would eventually converge and be at peace with each other.
I mention this because I found myself thinking of Dylan while reading it.
For all of his music-roots, I think Dylan acts like a prophet in his songs. He doesn't want to be one; he just sounds like one. So, it's impossible for me to think of Bob as simply "another artist in Rolling Stone magazine" who gets married, fights with the press, has failures, comebacks, etc. He's always been more than that to me. Because of his songs.
It has been the key to his success really. If he relied simply on his vocal ability and guitar playing, he wouldn't be able to get a gig in a Portland bar. His drawing power has been his lyrics and the peculiar way he delivers them.
So, we have an irony here. He claims to be simply a musician, but no one believes that. As a musician, he's nothing special. But, as a poet, philosopher, prophet; he's got the whole world curiously waiting for his next album.
And if you're known for something, loved for something, acknowledged for something, it doesn't matter if you turn around and say, "But, Dude, that's not me." You can't charter completely new territory, as he has over and over, and then pretend, "Hey, I'm just a blues guy."
My point is that he is much more than he pretends to be. And so, the analysis of Bob can't be like it would be for a Neil Young or a Paul McCartney. Bob's case is "special handling."
If he didn't want to be up on that pedestal, he could have done songs like Neil Diamond or John Denver. I wouldn't care if he sold those songs. Hey, when you can re-sell stuff at a garage sale, go for it. But if Dylan writes the "sort of prayers" that he does, then I say don't sell them, man. They meant something to us then and they still do. Maybe they help us meditate on life. Maybe they make it easier for us to be human.
I remember the class desks like little islands
And wishing that the books would be like the wind
I wished the girls didn't flock like birds
Riding to school on my bike was like being a mailman
Then there were the 45-records my friend and I played,
Music and poetry would make my heart bold
I'd try to remember what high school she went to
Never been to a county fair
Never danced a square dance with a blushing girl
I would feel out of place in cowboy gear,
Where did they get it, the freedom to be nerds?
God save us all, city and farm
Art is What Drugs Pretend to Be
What has influenced me as an individual over my lifetime? What has made me who I am?
Why must we make sense of ourselves at all? When it's all over, will I be judged by that?
What is Art and why is it important to me? I have read poems by "mentally ill people"
and they seem to be focused enough. But they forget where the world ends and they begin.
I can lose myself in a movie or a song because someone else is carrying my load for a while. Somebody comes along and gives me a boost. Somebody says things that are witty and I can "just listen."
This is connectedness of my own choosing. It's not sitting on a bus getting grossed out. It's listening to Bob Dylan or Frank Sinatra: I like my connections to be sublime.
Am I selfish for wanting Art to wash over me and cleanse me of my daily angst?
Some people work themselves into a state of sublimity. What's the difference?
Behind each work of Art is a bit of mundane Reality. The Artist mercifully transforms it for me into something that I can play with. Like a toy for a child, there's that moment of escape.
Please send any Comments
Here
Also see "Portland, Ore., Notes" Here
Also Bailey's Briefs (video and book reviews) Here
Also see Poems Here
Also see children's story "Sir Reginald Mouse and Friends" Here
Also see excerpts from novel "Why Was Johnny Holding Her Hand" Here
Also see "15 Ways To Make Your Attitude Real" Here
About the Author Here
Angela
She's more shtick.
Funny, in her honey,
I don't mind spending money.
I wonder why she would care.
It's perfect the way it is
But it's none of my biz.
Like there's a city in her mind.
When I drink it, I remember that
All blondes are kind.
Emma
Everything's out of order.
Have a beer and sit with me a while.
I'll deal the cards.
I could tell by the way you write on a napkin.
You saw a crossword and thought of me?
So many people do the crosswords.
I'm just one of those average Joes.
That's my middle name too.
Shawna
I see your eyes and wonder what I'm worth.
If I were near you on a thousand different days,
I'd be humbled by your quick and thoughtful ways.
I'm busy wondering when you will go away.
I want to tell you that I'm happy that you're near,
But it's a secret that only I can hear.
I want to hold you, if only I was bold.
The mask is on, but through it I can feel,
The warmth inside, a heart so pure and real.
The quiet corner, where no one can intrude.
I don't need company, unless I hear a sigh,
And see the beauty of your walk go passing by.
Anne-Marie
Is wet on my fingers.
I drink the sweet redness like a cold kiss.
She serves my drink and then she's gone.
I talked to her a few times about life.
I don't know why, I can't hold it very long.
I suppose if I drank too much of it, I'd have a hangover.
New Year's Resolution (Buying a TV)
And watch the crying preachers passing by.
Oh, the wonder of it all,
Where before my world was so small.
Fat people losing weight with no exercises to do,
Revelations on skin creams and organic health
Talk about weird relationships and real estate wealth.
I need to study that, since I have nothing else to do.
Dogs and alligators are featured in their natural state,
There's probably more coming, and I can't wait.
I can't make out the lyrics, but naked women move to the rhyme.
It's so much better than those records that we bought,
Now, they show you all the things you might have thought.
Keep To the Straight Path
John Fowles and "The Magus"
Dylan Sells Out
B-Sides
And reach me like the songs on the radio did.
And leave me at a loss for words,
On the radio the girls would kiss you.
With things to be delivered that I never open
I'm just expected at a certain time, that's all.
We'd stack them up and let them drop
Like hotcakes on a stove, they nourished us.
And then at dances I would some girl hold,
She'd be my reason for living for several minutes.
Later, so my friend would think I was practically going steady.
But I think the records drowned it all out mostly.
Earth Tones
Never rode a hog or judged a pear.
Never been reminded that the earth is life
I was busy in town with work and strife.
While an old fiddle-player crouched in a swirl.
Never saw a lady curtsey so shy
With a blue ribbon pinned on her minced-meat pie.
Just like I would with an earring in my ear.
If they held a hootenany and sang loud and free,
I'd feel an impostor was acting for me.
Was it cleaning out the barn surrounded by turds?
How do they manage to be so fresh of face?
I expect they know the words to "Amazing Grace."
Keep us safe from every harm.
Make us all be happy wherever we might live
And give us the strength to grow and to give.