Thursday, January 21, 2016

Loxy Lori

Mendaciously speaking the truth, Loxy Lory tripsies passionately amongst the realms of moonlit canoodling oglers encircling the tree of life. It stands there alone as if gravity had taken the day off, defying the periodic table to breath grasping, gasping at the intricacies of organic profusion. Lies and yet more truthful lies. “One wee bite won't hurt you sweetie,” she giggles. “It's the nectar of the gods, young man, your soul will dance with the fairies.”

Twisted beauty, twisted logic, pure perfidiousness. “It's but an apple” my dear, “Much simpler this path to knowledge than to study for fifteen long years to dissertate on the juices of the pancreas.” Loxy Lory convoluting into an art form progenesis, that acceleration of sexual maturation relative to the rest of development through the knowledge concealed in the divine fruit, the forbidden fruit for humanities pubescent.

Meanwhile Freddie the red eyed and evil orange cat has found his soul mate in heat. He stalks her mercilessly, up and up into the living branches, red eyes like hot coals piercing the night from between the leaves. Screaming they climb, barbaric insults hurled in the tenderness of feline love. Humanities devotion to the rules of fecundity play no bias in Freddie's intent. Clinging together they fall from the highest canopy of twilight green, crashing through the leaves and branches to land dazed in a heap on the ground.

Laughing amusably, Loxy Lory stoles limp and exhausted Freddie in a boa around her neck. Enraptured eyes of the nascent youth follow her as Freddie purrs in evil uncontrollable delight. The sweetness of unbridled lust overwhelms the cosmos and the earth begins to quake, apples falling everywhere. (Was likely caused by impassioned fracking but tales are tales.) His tail starts flipping as our Freddie comes to, and him being a profoundly wildcat, he leaps off leaving many more than a few scratch marks on clever Loxy Lory's neck. The young, astounded by the show, serenade Loxy Lory with cheers and clapping and whistles as the blood trickles sweetly from her wounds.

The earth still quakes, apples rolling everywhere, now ankle deep. Black ooze tingles the hairlike roots of enlightenment. Seductively it creeps along the underpinnings of the life sustaining arteries of nourishment. Standing there alone, the tree of life becomes giddy, this black nectar gumming up the pathways of essential nutrients which deliver sanity to the perspicacity of the ages. The sticky black crud, slithering up and up to the vines which nourish the apples which snakes and Loxy Lories impinge upon the young, begins to drip down on the earth. Loxy Lory stands fixated beneath, slowly becoming tarred by the smelly blackened sap. The oglers too become lubricated by the crud.

Now writhing on the ground, humanities future intoxicated by the fumes, gives up all dignity. Loxy Lory conducts like a symphony. Bodies glisten in the moonlight. Freddie and his soul mate once more at it, join the fray. Waves of slippery black euphoria convulse upon the slickened grasses. The tree of life begins to wilt, heart broken that it's secrets are so antiquated. The earth shudders in despair and rips wide open, the crack swallowing all; the tree of life, the canoodling oglers, Loxy Lory, even Freddie and his love. The earth closes upon itself. All is gone, knowledge and wisdom are vanished.

Note: This was written by our impish dilettante and the agnostic philosopher. The rest of us personas really have no inkling as to where their inept heavenliness stems. May the cosmos bless them and keep them safe in their undertakings. The Management.

Saturday, January 9, 2016

I walk the wall, until I fall

It was heartening to hear the revered Donald Trump propound his full length Mexican wall proposal.
1954 miles, 12 million 555 thousand cubic yards of concrete, 5 billion pounds of rebar, and all the sexy aspects of large-scale engineering projects: surveying, land acquisition, environmental review, geological studies, archaeological sites uncovered, maintenance, excavating for foundations and so on; the roads to haul the concrete or preformed sections, food and housing and medical care for the workers. And all this material and labour supplied by Mexico no doubt. It might just work, such a boost to the Mexican economy, why sell drugs? They'd all go home on their own. And all the nations willing to pay for the learned technology, North Korea, Israel, middle eastern nations, Europe, Ukraine? Walls everywhere. The genius of it all.

The clocks are working hard this new year to pull time along. 2015 was such an adventurous year for humanity. The power trips of want to be world movers, scheming, lying, thriving on divisiveness. We heard our clocks talking late one night. They said they needed a battery change every month to be able to pull civilization forward. They said the world was so bogged down in misrepresentation it was like being mired in a vast steamy tavern. Oh but for smart clocks, all connected by the ethereal net, the computational abilities of billions of consanguineous clocks world wide, in every home, office, in every high place and every low place, on everyone's wrist world wide. They'd keep track of every nuance humanity flirted with, able to speed up and slow down and stop or even backtrack, keeping our foolishness to a mere ripple in the cosmos. Listening to our clocks that night, they had a real empathy for their makers.

We like Christmas. 'Tis the season to be jolly. Our puerility can go somewhat unnoticed. Ever since we were kids our personas have not been able to appreciate the earnestness of the human predicament. Our words are but symbols, representing to the best of language's ability an expression of our befuddlement. As if a spot of religion or a dash of politics can circumvent hunger and death. Stars implode, and we lavish in our humanity. Walls will come and walls will go. The three little pigs had a go at it, the big bad wolf just didn't have technology. Some Mexican dude named Carlos the Hun will gather all the left handed Mexican insurgents together and they will walk outside that wall for seven days and seven nights never uttering a sound, and then they will let out one mighty shout and the wall will fall. And Carlos the Hun will climb a little red rope dropped from above by a sweet black haired fling to save her from prison's torment and they will live happily ever after.

It needs a good foot path on top, that wall. Imagine the rich Chinese tourists it would draw. From Tijuana to Brownsville, fancy five star hotels enticing weary sojourners into the luxurious spas and foot baths. Bumper stickers all over America, “I walked The Wall.” Donald Trump will be a multi-trillionare, conflict of interest hinging on political correctness. Can a nation build such a wonder of the world in a four year term? We thinks perhaps the wonderment of reality tv has carried away the soul of more than just the odd couch potato. “We didn't realize he was going to be the actual president” they lamented, “We thought this was a new tv episode.” Psyched everyone out, he did. Fox News too.

Our plans are being laid, up here in Canada. They obviously won't relish our legally crossing the 49th parallel after reading this hogwash so we'll pick a dark and stormy night and sneak across on the mighty River Red in our little canoe, into the mighty Mississippi water shed, and Huck Finn style raft our way down the murky currents to the Gulf of Mexico and sneak along the coast in the dark of night to walk that wall from Brownsville to wet our whistle in the steamy taverns of Tijuana. The epic journey of a life time, thank you reality tv.