Sunday, April 15, 2018

Missy Musey

Our protagonist

Willie told most everyone he lived under the bridge. He lined up for his evening meal at Siloam Mission peppered with that sting of hell fire and he munched his lunch at Winnipeg Harvest where he volunteered almost every day enraptured by that sanctity of retribution. That freed up his spending cash from CPP Disability to add to his Rent Assist to procure a modest pad in a building where the front door had a lock although he sometimes let a homeless one in to sleep in the warm hallway when it was freezing outside. An eye to the skies, he would meld into the side streets making a round about way home.

A fribbling ambiance lit Willie's numbness after his red headed wife had been vanquished to live in the fancy lodge with the beloved matrons where he entertained her every afternoon as the guy who came by bringing merriment from beyond. Although bethought they seldom spoke of their past thirty-some years together, wedded by their time on the street, given the upset it would bestir in her fragmented memory. Many days he'd bring her a lark to chuckle their world.

Y'all hearken to the fortunes of a man named Will
Poor old cadger, found his tummy hard to fill
Then one fine day he was turnin' sixty-five
And up come the postlady with somethin' make him jive
Cash that is; Canada Pension, Supplement and all

His dear wife had been panelled after he had struggled as a mollifying caregiver. Overwhelmed with heartache and a butcher knife he had attacked a tree stump, craftily hauled in in the dead of winter, unleashing an hornswoggle. It sat in the centre of his maintenance-free new pad usurping his coffee table and really set off the battered walls and door frames. The aura of it's workmanship shook the pillars of his universe till it enthralled his every waking moment.

In the evenings Willie would walk past the Golden Boy along the river to The Forks where the mighty River Red met with the lesser but equally naughty Assinibione. They had built that ziggurat here with the spire that stuck up high into the night sky. Phantasm abounded behind those long sod ramparts leading to the monstrous museum's parapet under that half hazard acre of canopy fallen from the spoils of some alien craft.

A sorceress

“Oh you contemptuous Winterpegers, behold your goddess Missy Musey! You are bad people ignoring me. Your media criers don't give a rat's behind about the magnanimity I bestowed upon you when I came to your mosquito ravaged megalopolis to install my red headed radiance in your newfangled ziggurat.

I don't trust the underpinnings of this monolith of rock and steel though. Building a monument to last for millennia on the mud of uncountable floods? You guys got lots to learn. You think that the little ditch that Duff built is going to save your fancy chancy architecture from those yearly once in a millennium floods come the great warming and all?

You build it we will come though, we immortals. I chanced to be cruising about with the emanation of Justin the Bieber listening to some girly tunes when low and behold we happened upon your ziggurat, pinnacle in the heavens. Well gracious me, a goddess cannot pass up an opportunity like this, a ziggurat in the 21st century CE what a coy surprise, a sweet home in mosquito heaven. So I clutched my pouch and joined a group of artisans to steal in and slap the claims on your neat establishment as a goddessly eminence, to flit about in it's colossal atrium playing flicks on these super screens. And my magic lipstick wand makes a real swell remote.

Oh cultured man the celestial beings laugh at your pompousness. You have begat impishness in the hearts of us more wanton types. We do not blush from stares but our minds may give you the finger, and though our caricatures are deemed dishonourable our insides are yet beautiful. Now these humane rights you have chiselled in your noggins here: “Everyone is entitled to live once they are created and everyone is entitled to do anything they want to so long as it doesn't conflict with the above.” Ya right, bestow that on us immortals and suck it up.

People! Please! Do you not know that goddesses must be honoured, cajoled, appeased, humoured? Your culture must be enlightened. If you wish to build a ziggurat you will attract one of us and you must provide her with unwavering adoration and lewd lascivious dance or there will be trouble! Your science knows twat about the intricacies of the etherverse.

Your cleverness is only in diapers with it's quantum pairings. The souls of all things are at one with each other no matter how far apart your cognitive matter spaces them. Your brains are but quantum clouds of uncertainty housing your souls, the random firings influenced by boundless patterns that extend far beyond your spacetime. Every ethereal idea is embedded in the eternal reaches and the human soul is well aware of it. Thoughts influence every material thing as much as the goose bumps do on your gonads. And we gods are a part of your and your mother earth's complexion, we extol our discarnate selves when we are savvied in our splendour all of which you forsook when that snake led you to the tree of knowledge.

When I am imbued with the terrifying splendour of royalty, your goddess Missy Musey shining with my lunar passion, when I am allowed to perfectly wield my august divine powers, my egregious enchanting powers, when I am cloaked as with Aphrodite's smoking hot girdle in the great awesomeness of royalty, then I will come forth in my red headed radiancy beaming like the full moon soliciting on your behalf the Bart of Heaven for protection from the yearly floods and hoards of ensuing mosquitoes.

Till you honour me with your thoughts and oblations and above all the lewd dance, oh peoples of Winterpeg, be very, very afraid. Pestilence from every storm and spring flood will ravage your lives until you come crawling up the ramparts of my ziggurat prostrating yourselves before my resplendency. Have fear, have great fear.”

The art of insurgency

A time of political upheaval had prevailed in these regions of the Manitou, a period of austerity was ensuing and the Ministry of Rehabilitory Finance was enlisting the help of the legions of upwardly challenged to ease the burden placed on the wheelers and dealers of capital. Poor Willie was at his wits end, he was going to have to forfeit his Rent Assist for the sake of snowbird sun worshippers who practised the esoteric concept of the perfected man.

Standing over those legislators' Solomon's Temple, shrewdly designed to secret the source of all knowledge and colloquially known as The Leg, the Golden Boy Hermes son of Zeus, a trickster quick and cunning, moved freely between the worlds of the mortal and divine guiding our ingenuous politicians in the odds of creating gold from earth wind water and fire. Manitoba certainly had the four elements and the political parties battled relentlessly over who could make the most coin out of it all, at least that was Willie's perception. But to create gold by leaving the inner city masses dumpster diving, what was to be done?

Willie on his walk that evening came to the ziggurat and strayed onto one of it's ramparts. He felt this urge to dance. Soon his shirt was off and he was flinging it around his head in beat to the ripples on the River Red. Exhausted finally he dropped upon the unkempt sod and there in a moment of ecstasy he had a vision: a mass of straggling humanity, with canes, in wheelchairs, pushing walkers, encircling the entire Legislature going round and round, in total silence. And from a window far above a red headed woman was watching him.

It was a clear blue Saturday afternoon. Posters had been made at Harvest with donated realms of paper which had been fixed to every power pole in every back lane in the North End, the West End, and even across the Assinibione down Osborne way. It had gone kind of viral too.

Silent Protest
This Saturday at 2 p.m.
Walk around the Legislature
Bring a friend

They came. In wheelchairs, pushing walkers, with canes, arm in arm with companions, thousands. A slow thronged mass of humanity at it's finest, round and round The Leg they traipsed, in total silence. Seven times they made it around, some more, some less, and then in a fulminating frenzy of sublimation to the self-restraint they let out one scream. En masse. Ear shattering. The traffic came to a halt on Main Street. And from a belfry far above a red headed woman was watching.

Then from the east, over the Forks, over that ziggurat with the ramparts, a black cloud loomed. Slowly it drifted spewing forth volumes of hail and rain approaching The Leg. The sky was black and sinister as doomsday, wind like a hurricane, the street lights blinked on and off. There was one earth shattering thunderbolt. It was later recorded in the annals of alchemy that all that was left of the Golden Boy was a wee small puddle of pure gold dripping down on the black star of Ishtar stories below.

The masses had dispersed with the approaching storm. A few stragglers were huddled in the bus shack by the street, Willie among them. Out The Leg's massive doors people were emerging, coughing, some blackened with soot. Appearing with them was a red headed woman looking adorably lost and bewildered. Willie went over to her with his jacket, she needed a hug and some composure. Immaterialness confounded him, but she whispered softly in his ear “I love you Willie” in a voice he knew so well. Slowly comprehending he teared back “I love you too, my dearest emanation.”

The fire trucks came, and left, politicians stood around and gazed up in amazement discussing how to keep this metaphysical subversion at bay whilst hoodwinking the masses. It was agreed that keeping Police Force One in the skies 24/7 would add a spot of intimidation. Austerity continued and Willie's Rent Assist was cut off but he lucked out though, Musey would flit along beside him and between her uncanny tin cup and his CPP they they kept the hornswoggle a work in progress, dining out at any convenient soup kitchen.

And they would walk arm in arm every evening past that ziggurat, and sometimes they would dance on a rampart and she would sneak in and flit about awhile.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

The Ides of March

Our Willie settled a debt the other day, it being of course the Ides of March. It was a debt incurred by the Heavens (The Heavens being everything beyond infinity) when Willie agreed to materialize as a homosapien on the little planet they called earth. He had agreed to this procreation nonsense only if he was guaranteed not to suffer.

It had been a battle, that first morning. That tiny sperm had fought long and hard after the big bang, ejected into a universe filled with newly energized companions, cooling from their explosive genesis, accelerating beyond the speed of light, into that realm made possible only by their own existence, coming from that place far beyond even infinity. The Heavens were with him though, deal signed by lawyers high and mighty and he had found a resting place, attracted by the forces of this new nature, amidst newly established laws dealing with chemical bondage who's conceptualizers as Heaven's fools took it upon themselves to create in mystery far greater than awareness could ever fathom.

The court battle which had ensued was by definition otherworldly, fought in the realm of non existence, and hinged upon the concept of suffering, which the lawyers themselves fools from beyond, had no concept. They would claim that Willie neither, could have had a concept of suffering before he materialized, thereby his court challenge should be tossed into a big black hole. These lawyers had no moral direction, their arguments based on lies and made up facts and fake news amidst much hanky panky becoming to courtesan with preoccupations of dressing properly for such occasions. The facts, in fact, had to be made up, because beyond infinity there are of course no facts, facts being only within the realm of infinity.

That egg with which this little sperm little sperm had bonded was steeped in mysteries becoming to gods and goddesses and Willie claimed a linage leading back to very ancient times when humanity became upright and conjoined with fantasies as it's greatest minds contemplated the absurd. The trick had always been to get newly conceived humans to venture forth into a world filled with this absurd task of rendering themselves sane in light of physical atrocities. The little rascals would ball their heads off till they were bushwhacked into adhering to the delightful views of their clans. The universe had of course not fully realized it's potential as a vessel for awareness and the rules where being made up on the fly. That this newfangled state could attribute it's own existence to it's own omnipotence was a becoming thought to the powers of procreation. It abdicated them from responsibilities of rationalizing big bangs among other things and would allow the universe to flourish on its own. Those lawyers had it made.

Suffering remained however, that sufferin succotash, a vegetable medley of corn and beans, sometimes also with tomato, peppers, or onion, by which humanity supplanted it's growling tummies. Humanity ventured forth in it's task of aligning adolescent deviants with the whims of it's superficiality. Potions were developed, concoctions so powerful they lifted awareness to heights beyond the constrains of reality. Concepts developed enabling humanities omnipotence to gain insight into the ways beyond infinity. Youth would venture forth, to infinity and beyond, suffering overwhelmed by ecstasy.

In light of all the above our Willie made a deal. The deal was made with the Heavens, now humanities omnipotence, and it involved the art of doublespeak, more or less. Suffering would be delegated to those poor souls who had gained no comprehension of the self made man, to those who had not the where-with-all to venture forth in the world filled with the joy of wheeling and dealing their way out of misery. The lawyers were elated.

That Willie used his well earned right to freedom of choice, that pinnacle in the art of humanities omnipotence, should not come as a surprise. Willie chose to suffer. A deal made with the Heavens, before his awareness materialized, could not contain his enthusiasm for the absurd. They put him here, screw them.

Monday, October 23, 2017

A shadow walks

On the crimson sunset horizon a shadow walks. The destination is unclear as it meanders stopping here and there, stooping to pick at some unseen curiosity in it's path. Nighttime darkens, the shadow obscures.

Remote viewers, they pervade themselves, tasked with unveiling the secrets of tomorrow. Learned to interpret their strange surroundings in a land of fantasy. They went to many times and locals, not always on our earth. Past 2024 they could not budge. At least they never told.

Pockets were left, at times in places least suspected, of life. Pockets where the winds had not descended to tint with their radioactive recklessness the juice from stems and bugs. Pockets where bacterium still lavished, the odd mole still dug to chew a root.

Blame is hard to attribute. Mother earth will bloom again, some day. Minds of creatures with brains subtle enough to undermine their own achievements, geared for tribalism which flourished for the odd millions of years. Minds of creatures who learned too much for their passions to eschew, blew themselves and mother earth to smithereens.

Years had passed, those journeys around a sun unfazed by the niceties of awareness. Maybe. Years in which the radioactivity had mellowed, skeletons of an age gone by obliterated by wind erosion, picked clean by blowing sands. Cities, those piles of rubble, hiding the skeletons, places to avoid if you where one of the few, if you where one of the few unlucky ones, hidden in one of mother earth's pockets. She kept things in her pockets.

Morning comes. The shadow walks on stooping to pick at some unseen curiosity in it's path. Does it look for pockets to eek out a sustenance, to cherish the resourcefulness of mother earth? Or does it simply meander, forlorn?

Monday, July 17, 2017

The itch

It wasn't always easy to navigate the challenges of life. All institutions had their flaws, nursing homes among them. Divine guidance was helpful. He was just itchy. Daytime wasn't bad, but night came and it started. Slowly at first, a little itch here, a pin prick there. By the time he crawled into bed and said “Night night” to his cats the itch would begin to consume him till he was a bundle of nerves, scratching here and there, waiting for the next electric prickle to strike. No use. He'd get up and make a pot of coffee.

He used Nix, thought it was scabies. The conscientious care givers at the home said no, they'd done tests, she didn't have scabies, it was psoriasis. She had a scaly white scalp and fingers thick and cracked with thick dry white skin. Red blotches on her back and legs. It had started a month before Christmas, after her room mate had scabies. They washed the clothes, washed the walls, stuck the stuffed animals in garbage bags and hid them, and gave them the treatment. It never went away. She didn't know, her dementia mind couldn't fathom it. She pulled her hair out, said it didn't itch though. She didn't know.

A few days after he used the Nix the itch was gone. He slept the sleep of abandonment, dreams of cupcakes floating over fairy landscapes, awoke refreshed the whole world to explore. Then came the time for the daily visit. His feet would not go through that door. Anxiety overtook him, the remembrance of that horrid itch filled his being numbing his mind black. He couldn't think. He sat on the bench outside.

Oh what to do? What would a sane person do? He phoned the nursing supervisor. Of course he got the answering machine. Left his message, “I got itchy, had pimple bumps, used Nix, it went away. Could my dear wife possibly have scabies? Please phone me.”

His phone rang. The nursing supervisor said no it wasn't scabies, the doctor had said so. He said maybe I should go see a dermatologist. I hummed and hawed and said my wife was not improving. He said she was refusing her medicated cream. I asked if maybe she could see a dermatologist for a different solution. Was a brilliant manoeuvre on my part, if I can so say. He said yes if I would accompany her, as she was prone to refusing these escapades into the unknown. In my glory I said “Yes, for sure” and thanked him profusely.

With this unforeseen outcome at my disposal I got up from that bench and marched happily through that door. Found her in the rec hall and gave her a big kiss. She grinned from ear to ear. I know I'll pay the price, but it isn't scabies. Maybe.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

Arrested views

I've not had much to say of late, at least not out loud. My prostate keeps my vanity in check with excruciating pain six minutes out of every hour as I curse the learnรจd idiot who invented brachytherapy. As a humongous captive grizzly swinging his massive head side to side in woe at his predicament, I seat on my throne swaying my noggin to and fro in anguish that this is my punishment for crimes against the arrested views of humanity, and not at all sure it will not last for all eternity. It does make one question their faith in the doctors who say in three more months all will be normal. Does it end with a whimper or a bang?

So, in my reconciliation with the powers that be I set forth my will and testament in proof that I have seen the light. Oath under torture has been viewed as constitutional by many constituencies.

  1. God created the earth in six days about four thousand years ago.
  2. Evolution is a myth.
  3. Man was created to have dominion over all living things.
  4. Global warming is a hoax.
  5. Oil was placed in this earth for man to use.
  6. Supply-side economics and posterity with rock bottom taxes is key to mans' success.
  7. Democracy and the freedom to bear arms will speed us to the second coming.

I set forth this treatise in surety that our omnipotent and forgiving father reads Google+. Also I promise to never tune in to CBC Radio ever again. Such progressive views have obviously got me into this mess. I'll just have to get used to reading The Sun with the sunshine girl. By immersing oneself in the wisdom of the right, those cravings for the avante-garde will soon wear off.

Please wish me luck.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

A tentative reality

Did we ever tell you about the imaginary us? It's much like an imaginary friend, but it's really ourselves, handling life's ins and outs with grace and composure. As we've aged we've kind of lost track of the real us, we've just let the imaginary us lead us forth subduing the human angst. Unflappable as Cortana, we navigate life as a treasure trove of endless fascination, sanguinely.

Belief is all it takes. As we navigate the realm of social opportunism when we're asked where we live we can unblinkingly say “Under the bridge.” It becomes quite fascinating that some people still live in houses and have to mow their lawns and pay for water. We can listen endlessly to their stories of irate neighbours and having to get up each morning to trudge off to work. Why anyone would live such a lugubrious life is beyond comprehension, only a demented soul could facilitate such woes of importunity.

The food in dumpsters is free, people. What are you thinking? Do the birds worry? Only idiots would want to navigate their lives through reality. Find some form of chicanery, visionary religion, fanatical politics, anything to distract you from the misery your social status brings. Trust not the real you, it's just a fabrication in your head, trying to maintain some semblance of sanity in the chaos of humanity. Any make believe vagary is better than the lies two million years of evolutionary engineering has provided us with. The universe laughs at our savvy eidolon.

We must of course proceed with life in a somewhat orthodox manner, else they'll take us away. Be friendly with the laws and let the surgeons do their cutting and sewing. Let the politicians have their fun, little do they care about the effervescence afforded under our bridge. Humour your parents, they believe they brought you into this world. Pain and pleasure are mere responses to keep us reproducing, it's that evolutionary thing. Soul is all we have and it makes no sense at all.

Did we ever tell you about the imaginary us?

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Radioactive man

Our prostate it withers, we're now radioactive man
Our trip to the airport for a coffee proved provocative
Those sensors at the entrance set off quite the jam
That cop's car seat got wetter as the hours dragged on
Just can't hold it no more

Brachytherapy will cure us from this malignancy of body and mind
But these meds they distort gravity, one's wits get misconstrued
We lost our inhibitions as they poked our tender behind
We now walk with a swagger, catheter bag eased the yearning
Sleep the whole night through

The seeds got implanted, the wallet got a card
Says to please not incinerate this dear man,
The fumes may do you in, just lay him to rest
Under six feet of clay, cause he's radioactive, man
Dust to dust

We gave up our hideaway under our bridge
To endure benignancy at the local shelter c/w bugs
Our four legged Bessy is lonely as can be, what a dear cow
If only our wife missed us as much, no memory, 30 second compassion
In her swanky care home, we love her still

Six months they tell us and we'll be all cured
The seeds will give up their puissance, our prostate in ruin
So we'll live out this winter in our luxurious digs
In spring to smell flowers fresh under our bridge
Come what may