Close-Up of Piggie, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Horse from See-Saw, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

The Creature Springy Deal, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

The Creature See-Saws, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Elephant, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Ducky, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada. 

Wormie, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Piggie, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada.  

Horse-Ride, Playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada. 

Horse-ride, A playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada. 

shimmery shoe 

censor assholers treasonous Sheikhers

The latest law proposed in Britain, pertaining to the prosecution of those who sympathize with the extremist-Muslim views against the West, is a dangerous one. This law threatens to charge anyone who expresses their support for violence against the West with treason for expressing their views.

Free speech, the expression of opinion is under attack; in this case the view just happens to be particularly despicable and spiteful. I am not condoning the things that come out of these asshole’s mouths, the way they blatantly celebrate death and violence but I am standing by their right to express their concerns and hatred -- or anything else for that matter that they feel they need express. I believe that many of their views are extreme deviations from what might be have been originally grounded in honest and informed objections to Western imperialist tendencies, i.e.; war, theft, greed, murder, exploitation, etc... These deviations, once they get to the point where they praise counter-attacks and support rancour and violence are no longer rational; they’ve then strayed too far, but I repeat, to emphasize this notion: if you go back far enough most of the arguments and complaints have a semblance of genuine legitimacy. Besides, whether the argument is legitimate or not should not hinder the right to express it. I think that the ability to objectify hate is an innate right; natural and universal.

To condemn a man for his words, ideas and opinions is absolutely wrong. A man’s words should be listened to, then agreed with or disagreed with, then respectively shared or debated, liked or hated, nothing more. To punish and censor ideas, any ideas, is the greater sin.

6:03 am, July 29 '05 (east), Jasper Avenue 

6:02 am, July 29 '05 (sw) 

6:02 am, July 29 '05 

Frank Black: Honeycomb (Album Review)

Frank Black
Honeycomb

Ok, Frank Black is, in my opinion, one of the most "natural" sounding songwriters I've ever heard. I know I can't be sure but seems to me, like Paul McCartney or Townes Vans Zandt behore him, you really get the impression while listening to his songs that he doesn't have to try very hard and that for the most part the songs come pretty quick and effortlessly. Honeycomb like all FB's albums (with or without "the Catholics") sounds really natural, yet that's surprising considering he's out of his usual "alternative rock" element.

Honeycomb is recorded with some session bigwigs and the whole feel is very straight and very laid-back---bluesy, almost classic R&B meets country, at times. It's a little disconcerting at first, I mean, my first listen I kept going, "what the fuck is Frank Black doing with this Eric Clapton shit?" But then I kept listening, perhaps giving it more of an effort than I usually would permit based on his previous gifts. Anyway, I am pleasantly surprised to inform you that the album gets better and better after each listen, in fact I think it's a pretty exceptional album; better than most in general, that goes without saying, but also in the mid to upper-echelon of the FB catalogue, which amazes me considering the "R & B" genre and production.

Anyway, sounds like Frank Blacks 40 years old (which he is) but he wears it well. There is a weird duet he does with his estranged wife called "Strange Goodbye" where they admit their relationship is over but 'grin and bear it'. It's a neat part of the soap-opera aspects of FB's life that he often brings to his albums, especially if you consider the break-up album that preceded this one "Show Me Your Tears", (mind you this one has a few break-up songs too, remnants of the bust up would be my guess---heck it also has a love song to his new wifey and mother of his brand new son, after her, it's called "Violet" ---it's not very good) There is a really great cover song called "Sunday Sunny Mill Groove Day"--a super 70's California hippy feel to it but I really dig it. The strongest tracks are the opener "Selkie Bride", "Sing for Joy", "I Burn Today" the aforementioned cover and "My Life in Storage".

Anyway, Honeycomb is very relaxed and laid-back and on it FB sounds confident. I recommend it, but give it a chance to embed itself with a few listens or you'll say, "what the fuck's with the Eric Clapton shit?"

7.5/10

for more click here

Salvia Divinorum 10:1

(A./...Salvia Div 10x)

First Minute: Particles, words, violently shot out of my mouth like sparks. The mattress on the floor jilted, tilting at varying degrees in small, hard, increments; 3 inches at a time, raising as high as a 1 foot, then roughly and sharply lowering into and below floor level. Minute 1.5: Almost amnestic; my thoughts were actual dreams, like the instant before genuine sleep takes full control; I had no realization where I was or who I was-- I was conscious in one sense(physically awake) yet unable to calculate reality. Minute 2: I realized I was eye-wide awake, and with that clumsy wakefulness I remembered with a certain level of abrasion that I had just smoked salvia divinorum. Minute 3: The realization was strict and it tore into my moment of free-association; every word I spoke of and to reality seemed to painlessly and electrically, excite my mind. Minute 5: I lay smiling and the warm surge of light, tranquility, and an atomic, ersatz sleep gently encompassed and permeated everything. Minute 9: I sat up and felt incredibly calm. I thought my salvia trip was at least 20 minutes long up to this point. Minute 25: Having felt quite regular for the last 10 minutes, I prepared to "sit" for A's turn.

order some salvia div 10X

read the user's guide before you try it

From the Brhadaranyaka Upanisad

The "Great Aranyaka Upanisad" occurs as the last section of Satapatha Brahmana of the Sukla Yajurveda. At once an aranyaka and an upanisad, it illustrates well the position of the older upanisads within the vedic corpus. This section, like much of the brahmana literature, uses myth to explain an imponderable question, in this case the creation of the world. Translated from the Sanskrit by Purohit Swami and W. B. Yeats.

In the beginning all things were Self, in the shape of personality. He looked around, saw nothing but Himself. The first thing he said was, "It is I." Hence "I" became His name. Therefore even now if you ask a man who he is, he first says, "It is I", and gives what other name he has. He is the eldest of all. Because he destroyed all evil, he is called the first Person. He who knows this, destroys all evil, takes the first rank.
He became afraid; loneliness creates fear. He thought: "As there is nothing but myself, why should I be afraid?" Then his fear passed away; there was nothing to fear, fear comes when there is a second.
As a lonely man is unhappy, so he was unhappy. He wanted a companion. He was as big as man and wife together; He divided himself into two, husband and wife were born.
Yadnyawalkya said: "Man is only half himself; his wife is the other half."
They joined and mankind was born.
She thought: "He shall not have me again; he has created me from himself; I will hide myself." She then became a cow, he became a bull; they joined and cattle were born. She became a mare, he a stallion; she became a she-ass, he an ass; they joined and the hoofed animals were born. She became a she-goat, he a goat; she became a ewe, he a ram; they joined and goats and sheep were born. Thus He created everything down to ants, male and female.
Then he put his hand into his mouth and there created fire as if he were churning butter. He knew that He was this creation; that He created it from Himself; that He was the cause. Who knows, finds creation joyful.
When they say: "Sacrifice to this or that god," they talk of separate gods; but all gods are created by Him, and He is all gods.
Whatever is liquid He created from His seed. Everything in this world is eater or eaten. The seed is food and fire is eater.
He created the gods; created mortal men, created the immortals. Hence this creation is a miracle. He who knows, finds this miracle joyful.
This world was everywhere the same till name and shape began; then one could say: "He has such a name and such a shape." Even today everything is made different by name and shape. Self entered into everything, even the tips of fingernails. He is hidden like the razor in its case. Though He lives in this world and maintains it, the ignorant cannot see Him.
When he is breathing, they name Him breath; when speaking, they name Him speech; when seeing, they name Him eye; when hearing, they name Him ear; when thinking, they name Him mind. He is not wholly there. All these names are the names of His actions.
He who worships Him as the one or the other is ignorant, is imperfect; though he attains completely one or the other perfection. Let him worship Him as Self, where all these become the whole.
This Self brings everything; for thereby everything is known. He is the footprint that brings a man to his goal. He who knows this attains name and fame.
This Self is nearer than all else; dearer than son, dearer than wealth, dearer than anything. If a man call anything dearer than Self, say that he will lose what is dear; of a certainty he will lose it; for Self is God. Therefore one should worship Self as Love. Who worships Self as Love, his love never shall perish.
It is said everything can be got through the knowledge of Spirit. What is that knowledge?
In the beginning there was Spirit. It knew itself as Spirit; from that knowledge everything sprang up. Whosoever among gods, sages and men, got that knowledge, became Spirit itself. Sage Wamadewa knew it and sang "I was Manu; I was the sun."
Even today he who knows that he is Spirit, becomes Spirit, becomes everything; neither gods nor men can prevent him, for he has become themselves.


From the book Indian religions: a historical reader of spiritual expression amd experience / edited by Peter Heehs

Canada Day sky, looking NW from my apt.  

Our Fats River

Proof the sick North Saskatchewan River was sick. The water rose. The rocks disappeared only to reappear muchlater, after the purge, after the flood. The river was brown and milky brown in milky. There were whole trees and part trees bobbing and scrambling down the river, some in the middle, snapping and thrashing, some on the sides, sucking and sinking, some in between middle and sides, sneaking and thinking. The levels and heights and depths and volume spelled f-l-ood. So many people went down like the aliens they are to check out the flow and murky misunderstanding. They will return to the river from their sofa's, from their kitchen tables in due time, in years and years maybe. The free river levels make all the difference.

The Well: Bill Callahan

The Well
By Bill Callahan

I could not work
So I threw a bottle into the woods
And then I felt bad for the doe paw
And the rabbit paw
So I went looking for the pieces
Of the bottle that I threw
Because I couldn't work

I went deep
Further than I could throw
And I came upon an old abandoned well
All boarded over
With a drip hanging from the bucket still

Well I watched that drip but it would not drop
I watched that drip but it would not drop
I knew what I had to do
Had to pull those boards off the well

When I got the boards off
I stared into the black black black
And you know I had to yell
Just to get my voice back

I gave a couple hoots
A hello
And a fuck all y'all

I guess everybody has their own thing
That they yell into a well

And as I stood like that
Staring into the black black black
I felt a cool wet kiss
On the back of my neck

Dang

I knew if I stood up
That drip would roll down my back
Into no man's land

So I stayed like that
Staring into the black black black
Well they say black is all colors at once
So I gave it my red rage my yellow streak
The greenest parts of me
And my blues and I knew just what I had to do

I had to turn around and go back
And let that drip roll down my back
And I felt so bad about that

But wouldn't you know
When I turned to go
Another drip was forming
On the bottom of the bucket
And I felt so good about that

---
http://www.alwaysontherun.net/smog.htm

moonish

Sad to be in-in-In this cheapened age where imitation reigns; where people frequently look on the internet to see if the moon is full –“The 4 millimetre icon says it is,” “Mom, it’s a full-moon tonight!”—and by this expressionless counterfeit all magnificence is lost.

Path enjoying the Rape

Passionate Kisses: O and P 

Foreplay: O and P 

May 23, 2005

Tonight I sit under the yellow light of a ceiling fan, my clothes scattered childishly ‘cross the floor, my burgundy blinds shutting out solar/lunar love affairs. I am blocking out the full moon on this May midnight. When I see it I feel love, shock and desire. It is a perfect symbol of unfettered inspiration, fever as life. I’'m in a time, place and body where I daily live an existence aimed at practicality and empty routine; a static existence that replaces feeling and excitement with servitude, fear and insecurity. This ideal full moon taunts me and tells me how I know too much of reality. The full moon reminds me that the nature of my realistic and maturing retardation encourages the ugliest attributes of a modern and aimless humanity to swell into my being. Strife/cheap reward. I try in this world to accept my placement; I’'m paid to smile at the soulless and soulful yet I smile not with sincerity, -I am not convincing enough in this world full of satisfied dead men. Lacking the proper enthusiasm I am left to dream on the full moon, of a glorified world filled with perfect symbols conceived by God, to fall in love with Wessexian heroines that have never breathed this physical air, and to relish artistic conceptions of stillborn art which will never see it's tactile facsimile. And when I am forced to open my eyes I feel degraded by this lone unsympathetic reality. Art and symbol are inspiration, conception, ideal, and pre-existence, they are perfection and perfection is truth. Rarely do I see truth in reality.

superior-pedal

at night without cars I ride my bike home
I pedal with blue fluidity
my knees calm,
legs benefit from
this gift of gentle patterns
upon mine joints and rickety limbs.
I concentrate down the task:
avoiding glass the piss and the glass,
gently, the super-smooth circle,
the perpendicular tibia,
acuminating fibula,
the application of perfect pedalling;
foot feet ankle shins
thigh thigh thigh thigh--
I navy slacks
the right foot
tuck into my new tube sock,
the ugly and practical trend.--
I ignore this crude break in illusion
‘'n try t'
superior-pedal again

Early Morning Epiphany

When you’re sober and quiet, riding your bike towards the pink of an early morning sky, you may become overwhelmed by the incredible scent of purplish apple-blossoms and the innocent song of an unrecognized bird, --- and from this you may come to understand that all metaphor and all comparison seem great injustices to the original articles which lie perfectly beyond the relative; always essential and existing beyond the powers of category and language.

Roxy’s Gist

When she walked, she walked wide in the knees, slow and unsteady.

Was it the explosive heat of foul disease in her scabrous loins? Was it the sordid nature of assorted fingernails and fat-headed cocks punching up that puffy-pouch-vagina? Was it a bit’o’crack delirium or her 60 proof antiseptic?

Says to the johns “Come on honey, let me suck that big dick of yours”, just like I would’ve imagined it. Smacking gum or chewing tongue on the way to his brown car.

Her eyes: black and lacquered. This weakened Blackfoot always meeting magenta latex. So very close to the white john with the dirty hair and wet moustache.

His strong arm on the back side of the next to nearest head-rest--looking up and then down with hot-breath open mouth. &Her mouth flexing and resting; her jaw cramped and muffling sucks and one-sided swallows, hmms and mmms, breathing extra from her twice-broken nose

cum hard and his scraggy jaw juts sideways; his throat and chest wheezing retarded sighs and voices. After the hasty cleaning he threw her the money she loved. &She was pleased because she made it… earned it and made it and made it.

Threatening and Heedful

I think about dying when my Dad died. I think about it all the time. He was forty-five when he went dead and so now I have the feeling it'’s going to go that way for me too. Since I was 14 and seriously bereaved, the idea has persistently occurred to me; dead at 45, or ‘'by'’— --- probably 'at' though.

I certainly don’'t like this sort of dangerous prophesy. “"You’'re not your father"”, "“don'’t be unreasonable”", “"you shouldn'’t think about it",” the advice goes. I know it. But it’'s a gut thing, not a rational thing I'’m trying to concentrate on (except perhaps at this very instance ---—writing). Usually it’'s a ghastly and sporadic feeling that just grows in me and after five minutes or so, that dread turns into actualization: "‘Oh yeah, I’'m gonna die when I’m forty-five’", and after this realization I can walk straight or whatever it is that I wish to do.

I’'m getting older and I often day-dream; sometimes even 'bout the "marriage" topic, not necessarily cuz I want to get married, more like, “"Wow, I’'m getting old, maybe I should get a dog and a house and shit the bed— --- a family."” But then I realize, wait a minute, marriage would be like signing the contract that says I will surely die at 45. I follow my father’s footsteps too closely already as it is (merciless genetics) but to follow it in any other facet would be tentatively scheduling a middle-aged cancer-suicide.

Sometimes I think my father died because he was unhappy, unhappy because he had such a shit life, and the majority of it is directly related to his striving to put up with family demands, whether they'’re financial or parental or romantic; especially at times when his heart told him to fuck everything, stop everything, and find that selfish happiness that is only a heartbreak away. But long ago he signed that matrimonial sheet which rendered his own concerns null and void ---and so he lived, everyday, the way he had to, trying harder some days to please what he could please, and other times feeling more apathetic or aggressive and making mistakes, miserable mistakes. Most of this frustration internalized by and exuding from my Father was from a man who felt trapped and undermined by what he was told must be. Me.

So I can’t help but feel that if I make any sort of contractual agreement that tethers my life to a momentarily compassionate instant(lovey-dovey cock-hard proposal) then I'’ll essentially be agreeing to death at 45 (Not saying that that threatening and heedful agreement is forever out of the question).