Monday, February 29, 2016


Every evening we get on our imaginary cow and ride in from our chalet in the bush to visit our Vicky. It is quite the trek, and Bessy can be somewhat stubborn. She doesn't like railway tracks. We have to cover her eyes with our coat and lead her gently across.

Bessy is a good gal. She wakes us up at dawn every morning mooing at the bedroom window. She loves breakfast. She's the boss of our little herd, always in the front of the line as they traverse the wooded fields in search of the juiciest morsels. She lets us milk her now and then, but only after we have given her sufficient chopped oats. She's usually feeding a calf, so we have to pick times when the little one is out socializing.

When we arrive at our Vicky's abode we tie Bessy to the railing outside. Bessy knows all about rope and knots. It is very seldom that she is still tied there after our visit. She also knows the way home. The railway tracks don't fizz on her when she's on her own, go figure. Then we have to walk all the way home. We just follow her tracks, which has saved us from getting lost many times when our mind was wandering.

Our Vicky knows all about Bessy, and always asks how she's doing. We don't lie. We tell her our imaginary Bessy is tied up outside and she was a good girl today, walking through the snow drifts and bringing us safely here. Our Vicky smiles from ear to ear.

Our Vicky. She always asks how her foster brothers and sister are doing. Ron and Charlie and Joyce. They grew up together on the farm. They had a cow named Bossy. It was the sisters job to take Bossy grazing down the road every day. What a spoiled cow. The conversation always meanders around to the time brother Ron stole the church offering and made the two sisters sit on it in the grass by the ditch while a search took place. They didn't get a dime from the proceeds, what a traumatic experience. Bossy was involved too, but the truth hides in embarrassment. We think the sisters took Bossy grazing by the church looking for lost treasure, but that's only conjecture.

When it's time to leave we hug our Vicky goodnight and wonder out loud whether Bessy will be waiting for us outside tonight. Our Vicky smiles from ear to ear as we wave goodbye.

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Like a bird

(Discussing the constitutionality of our monetary system.)

I'm the kind of soul that likes to dream a lot, lose myself staring at my money. Is it such a complicated reality? Why is everybody so serious, acting so damn mysterious? Got that glazed look in their their eyes and their finger up their nose, they can't even have a good time. Seems like everybody's got a price, I wonder how they sleep at night when the truth comes second.

I had the life of ordinary, I spat it out. Now my condition's kind of scary. So here's my confession. I can fly, I can poop on your shoulder. Yup, I got money. Thank you, thank you very, very much.

I don't know what's right and what's real anymore, and I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore. When do you think it will all become clear? I'm not being taken over by the fear. Money, get away. Get a good job with more pay and you're okay? Money, it's a gas, grab that cash with both hands and make a stash.

Forget about guns and forget ammunition because I'm unscrewing everyone all on my own little mission. Now I'm not a saint, so there. There's a fire starting in my heart reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out of the dark. Finally I can see it crystal clear. Go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your ship bare. See how I poop on every piece of you, don't underestimate the things that I will do. Cause I got money, thank you very, very much.

Now, anthropomorphized Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Gave him 24 hours to tie up loose ends, to make amends. Judge's eyes said it all. He started to fall and the silence deafened, head spinning round, no time to sit down. Just want to run and run and run. Be careful they say, don't wish life away, now they've given him one day, and I can't believe how he's wasting his time. So thank you. Thank you very, very much.

Yes they're coming to take me away, ha ha. They're coming to take me away ho ho he he ha ha, to the happy home with trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes. They're coming to take me away ha ha...

But I'll be the one who'll break my heart, thank you. The truth lies, the truth lied and lies divide. Rain spat in my face, thanks a lot fate, and I lost my tenspot on the way. Thinking about it, did I spend it last night, when I was disillusioned and I just wanted to get home. Missed the train, thanks a lot fate, I didn't want to be late today, because I'm always late, and I really hate always being late. Now they're coming to take me away.

Couldn't they just tell lies to me? Couldn't they say I'm blessed with money? How can they hurt, but words are just sounds, so take your shot. Thank you. So we went into the kitchen cupboard and got ourselves our stash and gave half of it away. We sat there looking at the faces of the strangers on the bills until we knew them mathematically. They were in our minds until forever, but we didn't mind, we didn't know better. So we made our own computer out of the loose change and it did our thinking while we lived our lives. It counted up our feelings and divided them all up and it called our calculation “salvation.” Humpty Dumpty and me.

So take me away. I am a bird, I'll only fly away. I don't know where my soul is, I don't know where my home is. But I have salvation. The faces told me. And thank you very, very much.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Carry on to the Care Home

Us personas have been rather ravaged this last while. Our dear Vicky, who put up with us for over thirty years, has taken a room in the spotless surroundings of a care home. It was not really her decision, and ours rather reluctantly, but was begrudgingly the outcome of health issues we could not cope with. We are laid to waste, guilt, anxiety, depression, all giving us their undivided attention.

As luck will have it, we can walk to her new abode in twenty minutes which we do every day. It is our task, when we arrive, to keep the Martians at bay. They seem to roam the halls of such establishments, confounding the fears of the residents and confounding the staff with their trickery, always able to hide just out of sight, these little green aliens whose intent is not always that clear. We were going to bring a bazooka or a giant pea shooter, but the staff thought it best to use psychological warfare in the battle. We will have to hone up on our apocryphal skills and read up on Martian invasion strategies, it seems we may be mired in this oppugner for some time to come.

It leaves us in a vacuum here at Deathrock Apartments. We personas have all taken our turn at nurturing our dear Vicky over the last several years as her mind gained the joys of otherworldliness. When one of us became overwhelmed, another persona could take over and offer a fresh approach. Luckily, the local drunk has not been around for years and years, or things might have taken a turn. Her three cats, the orange ones, have laid the claims to her bed, although one morning as we peeked through the slightly open door after a bit of a scurcuffle they looked rather grey and later they turned black and white after which we put on our spectacles to see they were really just orange. Several of us personas think there may actually be nine cats living here, and we are attempting to scientifically set up some experiment to put an end once and for all to this mystery. Our Vicky would be smiling from ear to ear at our endeavours.

We sort of miss our Vicky, her ear always open to discussions on current affairs, the recent developments in nuclear fusion or the beaming and reassuring face of our new Prime Minister. Her broad smile at our dissertations was always confidence building even though we all knew she didn't have a clue what we were disseminating about. It seems there is a higher, some may call it spiritual, aspect to human communication beyond the legal meaning of our diction.

We are slowly teaching our bullheaded sense of humour to shut up about how we rode Betsy the cow over three foot snow banks from far out in the bush to arrive in the big city to pop out of the elevator where our Vicky sits waiting for us to pop in. We are learning to sit quietly and listen to the stories, the memories from childhood which consume her thoughts. And then she asks us if we have a story to tell her, and we relate a tidbit from our childhood and we laugh at our silliness from years and years ago, and our bond continues in a mysterious way. When we leave she comes to the elevator with us and we wave farewell as the closing doors pop us out of existence. It is with relief that we see her heading enthusiastically down the hall to some unknown adventure. She has adjusted to her new home.

All us personas decided we must pull ourselves together by our bootstraps and continue with some sort of life, and since we know no other we will continue to ravage the earth with much tomfoolery and misadventure as we attempt to deal with a slight maladjustment to capitalism, organized religion, male chauvinism, and politics to awkwardly bring justice to humanities forsaken. If we fail we fail so be it, our Vicky has a big enough smile to save us all.