Rocco Maiolo's Ramblings and Musings

Sie и Io we speak two different Γλώσσες How to talk to you love you hold your hurt like tea in a cup but you are so far a way

there’s an attic in my head and it sifts time – the stairs leading there creak like forgotten (and now recalled) ghosts: equivocating apparitions that might mean me well but I’ll never know; I evict them from the attic in my head before their echoes die (I imagine that) each echo like a well-meaning curate goes back to the parsonage to intercede on my behalf and later returns in stealth to occupy its previous station there are mirrors and bird cages and hymnals and wardrobes and painted work horses and drafts and forgotten dreams in the attic in my head I think the ghosts live among these things one day I will speak to the ghosts of these things but not today.

I love Fall. I’ve always loved Fall. A few days ago, a friend said he found Autumn sad because everything dies; summer is over and Winter is coming. Then in Spring, after a long season of steel-blue skies and urban hues of grey, he is happy because there is colour again. I love Fall for the same reason I love earthy, unpretentious, heart-felt folk music – like that of Damien Rice. When you touch something so deep and honest that it hurts your soul, you know you’re alive. That’s how I feel when I walk alone in Fall. Life has given way to rich beautiful tones of yellows, oranges and browns. It’s like the world is trying to get your attention with a short burst of colour as if to demand, on your part, refection: reflection on the passing of time and what you have done with it. It’s also a sober reminder that a long Winter is ahead. Fall is the perfect time for Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for my faith. I think it should be mandatory for all churches that don’t have regular comm...

Last year I tried to read On the Road by Jack Kerouac, the beat poet. I made this decision after: a) reading Gabrielle Marquez's A Hundred Years of Solitude and being absolutely blown away by it, and b) reading the Penguin Great Books of the Twentieth Century List on the first page of this special edition text. I read about 30 or 40 pages of On the Road and gave up. That far in the book, it was about a narrator/college kid who writes and lives with his aunt. He meets and becomes obsessed with a character named Dean. I appreciated the richness of the language -- at times, it reads like vintage Kerouac poetry -- but I kept waiting for a plot. And the characters... well, they were a bunch of beatniks who all got along. No conflict. I just took the book out of the library again. I'm going to give it another chance. There are other books on that list which I've read and, clearly, I'd consider them classics. I've found them, powerfully moving and incredibly well written. ...

I was talking to someone about tragedy the other day -- tragedy in the classical and/or Shakespearean sense, not as in its modern-useage sense. We came to the conclusions that: a) artistically, esp. in film and in literature, tragedy is far more moving and impacting than comedy or drama is, and b) it's not so popular with modern audience (esp. film-goers) because we'd rather not think/feel too deeply; we just want to feel good -- hence, the "feel-good" movie. We also defined tragedy as the story of someone doing something dumb and the devestating consequences it has. I guess, from a classical point of view, you'd add "when the stars line up just so" or, since we're doing Tragedy for Dummies, when fate lines up all its ducks in a row. We went on to talk about modern dystopic stories in which the protagonist lives to win the day with the leading lady on his arm knowing that tomorrow will see the dawning of a new utopia. Contrast this to classic dysto...

I think I've just found a new favourite Canadian writer. Speaking of which, Guy Vanderhaeghe has gotta be due for a new book! I just finished reading David Adams Richards' The Friends of Meager Fortune (which is the name of a character in the novel, by the way). Great book. Here are a few quotes: "The idea that failed men lose their wives is partially true -- many drive them away, feeling unworthy." "You cannot love the soil where your soul was mocked by lesser men." "...men have rid themselves of God and are famished, and therefore do terrible things to make such famine go away."

Quite the book. I liked it, but a lot of people out there disagree with me. Here are some quotes from reviews and plain old reader responses: This allegorical dichotomy teaches us nothing new about the Holocaust, nor gives us useful tools for deciphering and understanding its complex socio-historic causes. (wow -- harsh!) I literally just finished Yann Martel's new book Beatrice and Virgil... about 10 minutes ago. I am shaken with rage as the book is one of the most hateful and ghastly jumble of horrors I have ever finished. At least it is mercifully short. (again: harsh. And "literally" just finished? As opposed to what? "Figuratively finished?) a sophomoric piece of Beckett-lite [work] (ouch! And does the write mean "lite" or "like"?) First of all, I wonder what people would be saying if this wasn't a Yann Marlel book. You've gotta think that it's being judged against the success of The Life of Pi . Also, okay, it's aut...