A Robber band was formed...

This is a story my Dad used to tell us often when we were young and he was alive. I don't really know much about it or where he heard it. It's not overly-clever or overly important to me, but it's a partial memory of mine about my Dad, one of maybe 1000, so--- I used to think he said rubber-band, and that image of self-materialization would confuse me. I'm not 100% sure I have the story right, perhaps the captain arose and said,

It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," "It was a dark and stormy night and the rain was coming down. High upon a mountaintop a robber-band was formed. One of the men arose and said "oh captain, tell us a story," etc...

He'd say it all very theatrically with proper pauses and dynamics, and not because he was theatrical, I assume he just recited it as closely as he could to the original. Whose to say.
He'd go on for about a minute or so, or until we whined, "shut-up", "okay", "enough"

Birth of a Mystic

(photograph by Roger Ballen, from his book "Shadow Chamber")

Birth of a Mystic:
Yes, so slow and eventual,
by the grace of humility,
our rationalist
came to the flip-sided conclusion
that any knowing of truth is impossible,
and seeing as such,
he instead promised to
deferentially fix his gaze upon the all,
both the stillness and the action,
whether state or statue,
only asking in return that
by some accident, by some purposive means,
he might be doubly blessed with functional senses
and bombarded by sensations:
surrounded by mountains,
high high the back of his neck;
spinning,
water and sun upon him;
scraping deeply;
making him dizzy,
cracking his brainstem,
tasting pennies,
smelling balsamic;
flying his cock;
face holding hard to her skin,
enthused nudity,
firmly pressed,
at once connected,
unable to focus in her nearness,
deepening his voice;
with every omission,
indulgence, intricacy, falling hot inside his guts;
stepping on his toes;
the provocation of laughter,
all of it masquerading as information.
"Perceived like love-- likewise, conceived as love and possibly love",
he might come to explain it,
rendering him an honest participant,
as fast symbol, momentarily,
a recognizable trace of humanity
uniquely poured
as particular flesh

alyssa's invite to this year's halloween party 

"unacceptable"

I might be mistaken but I believe my own governmnet, the current shameful Canadian one, is also against a cease-fire. No surprise really considering Harper's such a twat. Ditto with Austrailia's american puppet...

At what point can we say "the world, its current events, the total damnation, is getting out of hand" and really mean it, I mean, really have it be known that we mean it?

The terrible acts of governments and their obvious disregard to public opinion seems to be becoming more of the norm. Perhaps I'm very naive and I'm just noticing these things a little bit more as I mature and becoming more interested in ethical ideals, perhaps it's always been this way; perhaps the fog has never lifted.

What more can a person say beyond, "unacceptable"? Obviously more is needed, perhaps violence is the answer, as uncomfortable as I am to admit it, I'm really starting to lean that way. Though, I might be too scared to get involved with brutality. I'm pretty afraid of confronting my own cowardice, the cowardice that becomes so apparent when I see what little contribution I can make when not directly involved--a word like "unacceptable" is pointless when those who are causing all the damage conceitedly decide to disregard your dissatisfaction. The same goes with petitions and demonstrations. The only thing demonstrations do is tell all of us on our side of the issue that we're not alone in our outrage, beyond that, that pat on the back of all participants, the benefit seems pretty elusive. Of course there is power in numbers, but the fact is, the numbers needed to change the rules are impossible to achieve. The most effective way any single person can affect the problems is to strike out at those that cause them, namely their enemies.

Hi Mr.

Hi Mr.

My given name is Heavy Treason and I work at the Mitch Stills Library Parkade for the City of Whyte. My brain is plastic wrapped, and not with plastic but fog.

Recently, while talking to one of my senior co-workers we began talking about homeless men, homeless women, pissing con-artists.

Paradoxically, we recalled a future event, a parkade certainty, whereby, wild me, I find a whole shit deposit left behind by a vagrant, a varmint, a real bastard, that man that had his way, his body demanded satisfaction hours and hours after the meal. It might have been the sorriest day of disbelief. Remembering: Here whence came forward thrence patrince at the booth. They called --- I heeded. Wailing, I saw shit under the ledge dropped there, sat down the guy, left it for me. I hated the idea of cleaning it up. But in my head I shoveled it into a bag and never seen it again--- can I say this? My breath wasn't working, the whole time it stopped. I continued walking and haven't been able to forget this demonstrative prophesy since.

Friend, what you think about this? I'm sure I have no way of knowing. Is the future probable---is it mere probability?

Grizzle (Feb. 1991- April 5, 2006)

There are details in death, and they're dry, they stick to you, the muted colors, unsaturated in the coolness of dawn, and they’re dirty, and for the time being, harmless. They’re not horrible details but they’re salient. The details of life, the memory of life events, on the other hand, are brightly coloured, textured with hope and fondness, they’re dreams in the heat nearer the sun, all midday and dusk. They’re swinging rope and rag, a clenching, spinning, bounding dog, wet grass squishing under feet; they’re red baseball caps and bleached hair pulled behind a vibrant orange cloud of a canine on a skateboard.

Yes, a dear family member and friend of mine died. He was once my dog. And sure, there are those that would deny me my feelings and tell me the kinship was one-sided and my personification laughable. And without referencing the cold ignorance these blind and uninspired individuals use against my sentiments, I do in another sense agree that the significance of bond between me and my old dog was probably more one-sided than mutual. Grizzle was perfectly aloof at most times; probably the most content of all dogs I’ve ever known. Although in his youth he was a hellion, it was still all based on his beautiful canine simplicity. He would hop the fence countless times and bring home garbage--- and the odd time whole carcasses of mule-deer and antlers that he tore down from some bastard’s garage--- probably the same bastard that gave him anti-freeze when he was 8. He almost died that year but a vodka intervienous drip kept him drunk for 3 days and provided the perfect antidote for the sweet and toxic drink.

Sometimes I’d go out and lie in the snow in the back yard and look up at the night's wintery sky, Grizzle would rarely greet me with a bounty of enthusiasm, but eventually he’d make his way over and sit down beside me before he’d promptly manoeuvre himself, completely collapsing against me, leaning right up against my side. Deep eye contact was rare but when it was made it was heartfelt and loving.

Grizzle slowly broke down. His arthritis, cysts and cataracts attached themselves to his body and never let up. His shoulder blades scraped against each other when he walked. He hobbled and limped. He was mostly deaf and half-blind. Yet he handled these afflictions with his faultless dog wits. He battled in a way only nonhumans can, without sentimentalizing and without agonizing. If he had to get up, even though at the end he barely could, he’d struggle in spurts until the moment when the series of actions were just right, until they worked—if they never worked and he couldn’t get up, he’d wait some more, until the next struggle. If he lost his balance he’d fall, plainly and without complaint. And then, when he found it necessary he’d try his best to get back up--- everyday struggling without complaint or knowledge of complaint.

In the final moments, after all the liver-treats and proclamations of his grandeur and importance were made his veins proved too thin for the home-called doctor to hit so he was poked 7 times before the euthanol was properly injected; stuck seven times, in one of the puncture wounds the blood swelled under his shaven arm. Grizzle struggled, wounded and displeased his eyes white and cloudy. On the second to last injection some euthanol was accidentally administered and Grizzle folded to the floor, not dead but mercifully, medicinally paralyzed. On the final attempt, after the two front legs were shaved and found to be useless (thin veins), the Doctor shaved the hind right leg, a proper vein was found, and the death serum circulated. Grizzle died at 7:30 am on April 5th 2006. 15 years old. I loved him and he’ll be missed.

Newton, our new dog from the Humane Society...Part Corgi/Australian Cattle Dog. 5 1/2 months old. Scared. 

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Black Tongue

My tongue, she was a black tongue, twice this week. The first time I was hung-over and talking to Alyssa while I bathed. The water was too shallow. When I’m severely hung-over I feel the need to pamper myself with a bath. I was busy watching my stomach respond in jerky fashion as I breathed. It wasn’t just the fat, but the way it always seems somewhat quivery when I’m hung-over, it has always fascinated me. Alyssa was asking me questions. I was stuck on my gut. Chin touch chestish, mostly. I responded and Alyssa seemed concerned, “What’s, -- You’re tongue is black, let me see it, you’re tongue is black!” I stuck it out, “It’s black!” Alyssa promptly went to the internet like a good little me, to find, the remarkable remedy. With my weak arms I raised myself just high enough out of the tub to see the remarkable feature. Indeed, my tongue was black. I wasn’t really impressed, but neither was I concerned. I was feeling so low, and with the proposition of my shift getting nearer and nearer my mind was on just how shitty it was to be 28 and hung-over hours before work. Twenty-eight years, 10 years drinking, hung-over in the tub with a sickly, twitchy stomach countless times before, probably with a black tongue but rarely noticing it on account of absent girlfriends or apathetic ones. Plural generosity sing Singular insecurity.

Alyssa came back after 5 or so minutes. I was sweating too much for a guy whose dreams themed water lapping, water want. She informed me nothing was wrong, black tongue was benign enough, she said it had something to do with, “Paleod, umm, pal-ido, I don’t know but they say it’s nothing to worry, to worry about”. I don’t remember how I responded. I think I probably just got up, out of the tub, too hot. I dried myself with the smallest and ugliest of the three towels. The other two where mismatched, but they were both what I would consider my good towels. The towel on the towel bar was stinky, had been for a while. The towel on the floor was still folded but the underside was soaked, presumably from the party the night before. I remember seeing some asshole of a beer flipping down the stairs. And I might have just filled in the blanks, but I seem to remember some stranger wiping the liquid up with the good towel, still folded.

I brushed my teeth, paying extra attention to my tongue. I remember thinking it sure was a good thing I didn’t throw away my 1 ½ year old toothbrush, because of its special tongue-scraping head. The toothpaste frothed and foamed to a purplish black, almost grey, between the toothbrush bristles. It poured down the corners of my mouth. I’m a child when I brush my teeth, the paste, it goes everywhere.

I went to work. I was late by five minutes. 50% of my coworkers didn’t care, 50% of them did. 75% of them shouldn’t have. Work was nice. Surprisingly, I felt capable and partially healthy.

Skip ahead many hours later, about a day and a half later. I woke up at 8am and I had some literally nightmarish and strong diarrhoeal pains. I forced myself from a dead sleep and made myself remedy the situation. Pooping when mostly asleep on the seat is awfully hard work. 30 minutes later, I went back to bed, but not before I took one of the remaining “Pepto-Bismol” tablets that sat on my TV. The other tablet I then recalled taking just before I passed-out, at the end of the party, the night before. So, I woke up this morning, or afternoon rather, and I went to the mirror and began to brush my teeth. My toque, she was black--- Again. This time I was concerned. I thought my liver had ruptured or some malignant bilirubin was vile, or blood’n’bile had piled so high up my digestive tract that it went into my mouth as I lay sleeping. I brushed it away. I quickly walked to my computer and did a thorough web-search. Sure enough, bismuth was the culprit, time the antidote. I use to adore Pepto-Bismol, and all its digestive remedial properties. Black tongue doesn’t hurt. Truth is you can’t even taste the inky film. You can’t feel it either. But you must know sooner or later that a black tongue can’t possibly be anything but a bad sign. A black tongue, that’s gotta be a sign from God or something, your body saying, “Fuck, enough with the poison!”

Always seeking evidence in support of our own ideals is a mean-trap, and a very wide-trap; "O' harmony"; the life, the plan, life's plan to hunt the supporting and the re-confirming only perpetuates our ignorance. We deny the weight of enemy information. They must have faulty eyes, our enemies. We escape meaningful experiences--- too busy, running back and forth between point-A and point-B, checking and re-checking our formulas, ensuring the eternal congruence of such egocentric information. Yes, we're reassured.

Rambling like specific humor

If you want to beat a cold, if you want drive off the offending virus before it sets in, you need look no further than garlic. Yes, real garlic, but powed, powed, powdered. I am a doctor. I recommend all of my patients eat garlic. I recommend it because I am certified. Garlic pills, high in Allicin, will make your ass stink and your gums swell and spray blood on your teeth when flossing. Being certified, I am allowed to recommend all kinds of things, and people will trust me. Trustworthiness isn't really an erratic factor, reliant upon individual personality or character, rather, it belongs to the proud certificate and diploma holders-- for, the more you know, the more likely you'll learn to sink by all you've learnt.

The more you tell lies in the mirror, the more likely you are to trace and cheat--- unacceptable.

The less Christmas joy in your life should be consciously off-set by the amount of hopefulness and cheer you put forth into all of you pre-Christmas endeavours--Jesus shouldn't suffer, acuz of you!.

You should talk with people that want you. few people. like you, barely there.

The less sincere your sister is the more blunt you should be. The ruder you become the less likeable you seem, the more you "seem", the more you "are",-- outside of yourself, from alternate perspectives, and then you respond to those perspectives directed at what you seem and slowly what you seem to be you align with.

Everyone seems confused, no, no, not me. I'm certified.

Confusion is a state that necessarily relies on employable knowledge.

I don't know anything. I know words are better than people. I know letters (ideas, symbols) live longer than people.

But then you meet someone better than anything and they disappear after a few moments. I look at startling beauty several times a day and then with a simple misdirection of thought, hideousness slides to the surface.

I've felt my face melt, my mind tingle and my aimless virtuosity roar-- my affinity for summoning forth equality; the equal worthlessness in everything 'cept happiness and dogs.

These things happened to me. These things happened to me; these hot-cold events, these potentials, these rubber bands.

The magic proof is the encapsulation of event to chemical: memory, thought, force, God--- shouldn't we be awfully amazed?

Everyone's getting older and more alone, becoming more alone means becoming more of what you must inevitably become, the acquisition of individuality, dead-set personality, distinguishing character. Not all of it is bad, just inevitable, and we happen to usually think of inevitabilities as frightful, if not outright insulting.

We're powerful, we interact, non? No, we correspond. But sometimes, for the luckier percentage of humanity, our correspondence is just sweet enough.

bird done in by its more tender insticts and/or bad luck

"comfort kills" or something obvious?