Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

So Doug said to Stan


The studio had decided to make
A highly ambitious film set in Rome
To be set in the fortieth year of our Lord,
Jesus Christ, in the full Hollywood tradition,
In a back lot. Lavish sets, authentic costumes,
the whole nine yards,.
Or is it ten?

The world’s Most Famous Director was showing his World
Famous, for penny pinching, Producer the first rushes,

“Why can’t I understand what they are saying, Stan?”

“You asked for the film to be fully authentic, Doug.
I had the scriptwriter write the dialogue in Latin.
That’s what you’re hearing.”

“And what are we supposed to do? Run subtitles?”

“It always seems stupid to me. Bunch of Romans,
Dressed in togas, running around, speaking English.”

“But I can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying, Stan.
And I studied Latin at school.”

“You did! I didn’t know you were educated.”

“Cut it out, Stan! What am I supposed to tell Finance?”

“Well, you said that the film is for a truly international audience.
It’ll have to dubbed anyway.”

“And how the hell are the Cannes Jury to know what country to vote for
The film for? That’s worth an awful lot of money, you know.”

“I know, I know. I want the award. They’ll be impressed, Doug.”

“For a world class director, Stan, you sure talk a load of crap sometimes.
Suppose we had set the film in China, would you have had the cast speak
Chinese?”

“Well they own us, don’t they, Doug. Besides, largest captive audience in the
world.”

“Good job you weren’t born in Roman times. You’d have made a terrible
rhetorician.”

“Huh?

Doug rolls his eyes, but at the back of them run a row of dollar signs
like the match of fruit on a one armed bandit.

“Have the scriptwriter rewrite the script in Chinese.”

“But the film is set in Rome, Doug.”

“We’ll have to dub it anyway, Stan. That’s what you said.
And you know, Stan, you’re right. Having Romans running around
in togas speaking English is stupid. Running around in togas speaking
Chinese is better. More authentic.”

Doug toddles off the set whistling, leaving Stan wondering what to do with
the rushes.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017
Written and originally posted: 4 April, 2016

Filed under: Arts, Media, Music, poetry, songs, stories

Resuscitation


Bringing back into plain air.

Readership on a blog constantly refreshes and prior posts can lie neglected at the bottom only accessible to search engines. Of my present audience, I don’t know if there is a taste for poetry.

Perhaps my poetry will improve for previously it lacked for me conviction in many cases. The best, I think, express my passions. Some amuse and others light and why should they not too air see.

So, in plain terms, I will be reviving those I think lie at the top of the heap.

Those of you who groan, “Oh, don’t give up the music”, I say, “I can’t, I love it so much”.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017

Filed under: Arts, Media, Music, poetry, songs, stories

Poetry


I ceased writing poetry in June of last year when I faced the prospect of having to find an income. At my age, and with a resume like mine, that would frighten elephants, the prospects of finding that income seemed difficult. Very, very difficult.

I looked around and the only thing I could see was Uber.

The prospect of working for Uber scared me to death. I simply froze. I watched and husbanded every penny and, so far, Providence has held.

What scared me so was that working 50, 60, 70 hours a week, my art endeavours would wash away, all the way to the sea.

I have desired this all my life. To pour forth what lies within me, my God’s gifts the world to share.

I needed time, I prayed for time, to allow me, my inner soul, to grasp the tree of creation, and through its many branches, bear fruit.

And now that I have tasted, savoured that sweet, sweet fruit, I never want to live without it.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017

Filed under: Culture

How does he cope with abuse?


How does he cope with abuse?
He tells himself, as he walks away
That there are good sides to him
And of these he knows.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017

Filed under: Arts, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, politics, songs, stories

For a long time I kept my mouth shut


For a long time I kept my mouth shut
For I did not know how to speak my mind
Without using offensive, abusive
Or emotionally loaded language.

Can I speak my mind, now
You bet I can.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017

Filed under: Arts, Book Review, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, politics, songs, stories

What do people think


People think I am mad, you know
But I don’t think so.
Maybe I will wake one
Morning,

And then I’ll know.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017

Filed under: Arts, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs

For a long time I sat


For a long time I sat
Upon mi mammie’s knee
‘Til one day I broke it
“You have to get up
Time to grow up.”
She said.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017

Filed under: Arts, history, Memoir, Music, poetry, politics, songs, stories

I seek to be forthright, outspoken even


I seek to be forthright, outspoken even
But never to offend.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017

Filed under: Arts, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

The happy horses of heaven


The happy horses of heaven
Who winged their way through the starry skies
Far. far above the cares and woes of this world

The horses of heaven, winged bright
On the darkest of night
Exuding dramtic light

The horses of heaven
Diamonds sparkling from their hooves
Red roses and a multitue of flowers from their ears
sprout

The horses of heaven
Ridden by angels whose trumpets sound
And echo throughout eternity

The horses of heaven
That speed through the universe
In the twinkling of an eye

To arrive on your doorstep
One bright sunny morning
To tell you all of your dreams have come true

Ah, yes
Yes, yes
The happy horses of heaven
A sight to behold
Up where dancing and laughter hold
Where merriment never ceases

Life lived far beyond the reach of this planet bold
Where old men and old women go, some before their time,
To die and live in peace and happiness
Joined by their kinship and loved ones
To live there happily ever after

Alongside the horses of heaven

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017 0200 CST

Filed under: Arts, Media, Music, poetry, songs, stories

On support


Hi all,

The web is a funny thing. And blogs too.

I have taken the time to tell you all how much I appreciate you who are following the site and those who visit on a number of occassions.

But something significant happened where the most recent comment is concerned, and with a couple of couple of comments before. Those comments, combined with the most recent, say that this site is worthwhile.

I have not sought a wider readership, a huge number of visitors or followers. I have felt that should one person visit the site, and listen to, or like, a particular piece of music, or a piece I wrote, that what I did was worthwhile, is worthwhile. I get to share with at least one other person what matters to me. I have the freedom to share on this site what music I like, what my feelings and opinions are. And that is valuable to me. I don’t necessarily know among friends people who will like my music choices. Or like, or wish to read what I write, what my opinions are. People lead busy lives and have their own preoccupations. Besides, they know me, how come he could write anything. Music … let’s no go there.

There are those who boast of how many visitors they have, how many followers they have. There are those who go out and push and push and push to get their figures up. To seek fame or adulation. I don’t seek fame; I have horror of adulation. I am not saying that  I will do what the commentator very kindly suggests I do, to do the work that is required for the site to go viral. I might, we’ll see. I already get some twenty to a hundred emails from this blog a day. Depending on the number of posts I make. I savour every one. Slobber over them. Each one seems precious. Each one a confirmation that this man writing this is not an asshole. That maybe, just maybe, does something worthwhile. I hope so.

You know, I tell my friends; if I feel lonely, just post and people will flock to my door. Never want to mention countries, those in which my visitor live or reside. But I have to mention one. You will understand why. I was telling my wife of how this blog brings people from all over the world. St Kitts, for example.

Where’s St Kitts? she asked. I did not let my manly didacticism leap from out my hanging tongue.

It’s funny you know, when I wrote the political stuff (I occasionally stumble over a piece and wonder: Did I write that? Where did you get the ken to do so?) and had many followers, many of whom are on my Facebook page, and such a dialogue running in the comments column.  One day one of my followers said, “Malcolm, you are a thinker.” I stopped cold dead in my tracks. I made no subsequent posts. It is hard to formulate the words as to why I did this. Maybe some of you can figure it out. Please, please don’t write in the comments columns why that might have been. Don’t want no theses, when Freud has gone.

Naturally, you can always sane, thoughtful comments. The door is open, come on in.

I have never concerned myself with whether the site content, writing or music links, are valuable, are worthwhile. In fact, I have been quite unaware that that might be the case.

So here we are. Let’s see how things go. Where I can, I shall keep you posted. Heavens to Murgatroyd, some of you might even find it interesting. After all each of us has a story to tell, maybe many.

This art thing is truly a funny thing. The creative power, the thrust of the creative force is so powerful, it threatens to overwhelm.

I have noted in previous blogs of how I truly understand why so many artists, musicians, writers, and so on, commit suicide, or are imprisoned within caring, hostile institutions. You have to be a healthy, fully realised person to do this stuff well. But, all’s well, just do your art every day, ten minutes, the whole day, through the night. That way you will stay grounded, will remain real, and know who and what you are.

I know. Concentrate on one thing, some admin for too long, organising files, writing long emails to my two online Art Galleries long explanatory emails justifying myself, why I did this or why I did that. And then turn round, the email overburden more than a pregnant elephant, and strip all that overburden out, and leave only essentials. One or two sentences. That put in the simplest terms what I need or a call to answer what I ask.

Of course, this being the Web, an eternity may pass before you get a reply. Or you may never hear again.

This set of virtual bricks and mortar. Can you see them? I can’t

No we are in a void. Floating like the man in A Space Odessa. Or did I get the wrong film.

That eloquently degradable bone rainbow arcing  into a global warming can made of good old fashioned aluminium.

Ah is not life bliss. Out here in the Outback.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 29 July, 2017.

 

 

Filed under: Arts, history, Media, Memoir, Music, politics, songs, stories

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