Hello, my name's Frederic McLuhan and I live in Fredericton. I'm a student at the University of New Brunswick, third year arts. My friends call me Frederic.
I have frequent conversations with a creature from outer space.
The first time I was up in the flying saucer, I asked through the translating machine, "What is your name?"
"Item," the creature answered.
"Are you male or female?"
It turns out my friend Item is an itian and there are five itian sexes. None of them are female or male.
"For reproduction to be possible," Item explained, "there must be a simultaneous union of five itians, one of each sex. Itian courtship is very complex. I suppose you think relationships between the two human sexes are often complicated and confusing. Try to imagine a situation in which an individual has to form relationships with four other individuals, all of different sexes, all of whom must form relationships with each other. Humans lead simple lives."
Today I read the "Telegraph-Journal." The coverage of the federal election took up most of the front page.
Stanfield, the Progressive Conservative leader, criticized the Liberal government.
Lewis, the New Democratic leader, criticized the Liberal government.
Caouette, the Social Credit leader, criticized everyone except the Social Credit. They have only 13 seats.
Trudeau, the Liberal prime minister, criticized the Opposition parties for "bellyaching."
Last year a group of us were in a study room in the library, talking and laughing. The people in the next study room pounded on the wall.
"Oh yeah?" she shouted, "Well up yours too."
We all looked at her but she just grinned.
Today is Thanksgiving, Oct. 9, 1972. This year both the Canadians and the Americans are having federal elections in the same month they have their Thanksgiving.
Many itian philosophers discuss the purpose of the existence of itians. Some of them think that itians are one of the universe's bad habits -- like tobacco smoking by humans, a release of tension or self-hatred.
Others think that this theory is a reflection of the fact that itians are self-destructive. And also being very self-centred, it's easy for them to interpret the universe as being self-destructive.
Some itian philosophers believe that the ultimate purpose of the universe is to destroy itself, something like a flash bulb; when a flash bulb works, it flashes and is destroyed.
They explain that there is no need to worry when everything in the universe seems to be going berserk because then everything is working as it should – the universe is getting ready to go FLASH!
I'm sitting in my room typing this.
On the windowsill sits a quart of orange juice from which I occasionally drink.
My roommate just put down the book he'd been reading, stood up and yawned. Then he put on the army overcoat his uncle gave him last weekend, and turned out his reading lamp. He lit a cigarette. Its tip glowed red in the darkness of his half of the room. "I'm going to the tavern. Do you want to come?"
"No, I've got too much to do."
I look out the window. It's pouring rain.
It's Friday, October 13. We had our first snowfall today, but it melted as soon as it hit the ground. It made me feel very Christmasy; the first snowfall always does. At Christmas I feel nothing.
This morning the student radio station played "The Little Drummer Boy." The disk jockey said someone had requested it.
Happiness is not being the only person on campus who feels Christmasy on October 13.
Last night the Progressive Conservatives on campus held a pub. There was a big crowd.
About an hour and a half after it started, Robert Howie dropped in. By that time everyone was very glad to see him. He's the local PC candidate, which in this riding means he'll be elected. He walked around with a Moosehead in one hand, shaking hands with the other. He missed our table.
At the height of the cheering and handshaking a girl started writing "Mangez la merde!" on the "Support Stanfield/Vote Howie" posters that were hanging everywhere. I like Howie but I thought it was great. I wanted to yell, "Go ahead! Say what you want!" I love living in a bilingual country; it feels very Canadian.
No one paid much attention to her anyway.
I remember once last summer I was sitting talking to Bernadette when she opened her purse and pulled out two bottles of Moosehead. She handed one to me, with a big grin all over her face.
Who could resist a girl who grins like that and brings you beer in her purse?
I really don't know much about Item's flying saucer. I've only been in a small room with a padded couch. There's a speaker in the ceiling through which Item speaks to me. I've never seen what an itian looks like.
Last night, when Item and I were talking, there was a loud rumble, it came up from some part of the saucer deep below my cell. I thought I was going to die. Then it faded away.
I wouldn't understand the explanation anyway. And it's probably better that I not know. How safe can a flying saucer be?
Last year some friends and I spent a few days in Washington.
Probably the thing I remember best is riding in the elevator up the inside of the Washington Monument. That was the time I was most aware of being a foreigner.
There I was in an elevator crowded full of Americans listening to the voice coming through a speaker in the ceiling telling them about "our first president."
But what do I really know about Washington and his cherry tree? I learned a little from watching Walt Disney but that was mythical, like Donald Duck.
And how many people in that elevator knew anything about Sir. John A MacDonald?
Did they know that some of my ancestors were United Empire Loyalists, that they fought in the American Revolution for the British?
Canadians eat hot dogs and drive Fords. What is the difference between an English Canadian and an American?
The only thing I can definitely state is that I don't feel like an American and that the Washington Monument is my favourite presidential monument. You ride up in it and from the top you can see all over the city. It's a lot more fun that looking at Abraham Lincoln sitting in a chair.
Many, many times I tried to write a poem for Bernadette, but I could never get anything down that I was satisfied with. I made up all kinds of rhymes with her name, but they generally didn't make much sense. I compared her hair to everything from sunsets to ketchup. I filled up pages and pages – most of it was garbage. I've never been much of a poet.
Finally the summer was over, her poem wasn't written, and there didn't seem much point in trying anymore.
I can hear my landlady talking on the phone downstairs.
"Oh, I got mine in." Pause. "I got peanuts, and I got kisses and I got suckers." Pause. "So I got...I think I've got enough to do. Not going to do any cooking this year, and I'm not giving any apples." Long pause. "Oh, yes, they'll throw them at the house probably." She laughs. "And there's no point cleaning up outside until after Hallowe'en is over with." Long pause. "Well they have big parties here at the fire station, and everything like that. And they have big ones on King Street, big parties for the kids. But they, just the same they always come." Pause. "Oh I always have a big crowd. Oh my land, they take all the stuff and then I put out the light and sit in the dark, because they come bang, bang, bang." Pause. "I take the knocker off my door, but it doesn't matter if it's all gone; it doesn't make any difference, they still pound." Pause. "Oh they pound and bang things around so." Pause. "But I stay home pretty well to watch them."
The point of it all seems to be missing tonight;
I lost it somewhere during the day.
Tonight I'd like to take a deep breath of life,
but my favourite dealer flew away.
Writing poems is not much fun;
it's like pounding your head
against the bars of your cage.
I was thinking of going down to the NDP office this afternoon and seeing if I could do some work for them, but it's been raining off and on all day so I don't think I will. I have no classes so maybe I'll sleep a couple of hours. Maybe take a bath. Maybe both.
Last night I went up to the campus to hear Mitchell Sharp, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He spoke about the negotiations that lead to Canada and Communist China exchanging diplomatic recognition. He made it clear that Canada, under the Trudeau government, is taking a lead in international politics.
This morning I read about his visit to the Saint John Campus of UNB. The newspaper said he talked about the negotiations that lead to Canada and Communist China exchanging diplomatic recognition.
Later last night I wrote this:
It happens at the strangest times. I was sitting listening to Mitchell Sharp, and I thought about her and was suddenly very lonely.
Now sitting here in the library, writing this, I'm still lonely. Why? I'm busy, doing lots of things, meeting lots of new people, but I still want to see her. Knowing that she doesn't want to see me, that if we happened to meet somewhere she would probably be cold and distant, I still want to see her.
I came back from Saint John on Sunday and found a note sitting on my typewriter saying, "I should have known I wouldn't be able to go through another pointless year at UNB."
We were in the same history course. This morning that prof took the roll. He has a card for each person in the class. When he came to my friend's card he smiled and said, "Oh, he's had to leave," and tore the card in two.
I'm sitting in the Coffee Shop in the Student Union Building writing this. I'm also drinking hot chocolate. The jukebox is playing that new song by the Moody Blues, “Nights in White Satin.” Part of the lyrics mentions writing letters, but not meaning to send them. Not long ago my roommate and I were sitting here listening to that song, and he said, "I've done that, written letters and just ripped them up."
"At home," Item said, "We build most of our buildings underground."
"Because the winds on Itia are very strong, and it's more practical to dig a hole than to reinforce a building so it can stand on the surface."
"But you build some above ground?"
"If it's a special building."
"What about statues?" I asked. "Here we build a statue to almost everyone who – " The air stung like acid. I coughed and coughed. I was afraid I was going to fall.
Then I woke up lying on the couch. My head hurt. My lungs felt like I had pneumonia.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Your life-support equipment malfunctioned."
I don't know why but I felt Item was apologizing.
"The atmosphere that itians breath, the atmosphere of the rest of this saucer, is poisonous to humans. The control valves malfunctioned. I promise you it won't happen again."
"I probably won't be around to complain if it does."
"Oh, no, you were safe by a good margin. You did more damage by hitting your forehead on the floor than you did by breathing our atmosphere. And the bump on your head is minor."
"Knowing that makes me feel a lot better."
My roommate came today in a car with a girl and an older woman to get his trunk. I helped him carry it down the stairs; it was heavy and awkward. After we fitted it into the car's trunk, he asked, "Are you still voting up here?"
"Yeah. Where are you voting?"
"I don't know. I'm not registered in Saint John." Then he asked, "What's wrong with your voice? You sound like you've had pneumonia."
"I think I'm getting a cold," I explained. The bump on my forehead is gone now.
October 30: I voted today for the first time. It wasn't much of an experience. I expected it to be exciting but it was just marking an X on a piece of cardboard.
Progressive Conservatives -- 108
All the results aren't in yet.
Robert Howie was elected. York-Sunbury always goes Progressive Conservative.
This morning in my International Politics class we discussed it, or tried to. It's going to be months before we even know who is going to form the government. Maybe we'll have another election. I really don't have anything to say about it, which worries me since I'm majoring in political science and want to be a journalist.
Today is Halloween in both Canada and the United States.
Item has gone back to Itia to file reports, restock supplies and so on.
I got a postcard in the mail today. It had no return address. On the front was a picture of a maple tree in late fall; its leaves were a bright red.
I thought I'd drop you a line to tell you I'll probably be back in a few months.
And also to mention that we live among the stars, and in the nothingness that surrounds and separates them:
– like lightning which strikes without meaning anything except its existence
– like a lion who is trying to learn the best way to roar
– like diaries, songs, philosophical theories, and buildings (above and below ground), all reminders of the struggle for motionlessness in a pulsing blood stream.
Remember that your hunger can devour you.
Item, the space creature,