tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33674971996441852612024-02-19T07:33:13.207-06:00Sweet WordsA steadfast member of the cahoot for the occupation of fribbling nogginal ambiances, the languishing of bureaucracy, subsistense on the fringe, and sweet words.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.comBlogger224125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-20280977681130781622018-04-15T01:38:00.000-05:002018-04-16T04:37:19.338-05:00Missy Musey<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Our
protagonist</b></span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Y'all
hearken to the fortunes of a man named Will</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Poor
old cadger, found his tummy hard to fill</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then
one fine day he was turnin' sixty-five</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
up come the postlady with somethin' make him jive</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cash
that is; Canada Pension, Supplement and all
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>A sorceress</b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
“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.</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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? </span></span></span>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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 21<sup>st</sup> century CE what a coy surprise, a
sweet home in mosquito heaven. So I clutched my pouch<span style="font-weight: normal;">
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.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">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: </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">“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.”</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Ya right,
bestow that on us immortals and suck it up.</span></span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">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 </span>quantum
clouds of uncertainty housing your souls, the random firings
influenced by boundless patterns that extend far beyond your
spacetime. <span style="font-weight: normal;">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. </span></span></span></span>
</div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
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</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.”</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The art of insurgency</b></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span>
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</div>
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</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">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 </span>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?</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></span></span>
</div>
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</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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</div>
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</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Silent Protest</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> This Saturday at 2 p.m. </span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Walk around the Legislature</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Bring a friend</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-71775405463742273922018-03-17T07:11:00.000-05:002018-03-17T07:11:48.031-05:00The Ides of March
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Suffering remained
however, that sufferin <em><span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></em></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<em><span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span></em>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-11351960178366486762017-10-23T08:52:00.000-05:002017-10-23T08:52:05.814-05:00A shadow walks
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-30570460968576747332017-07-17T02:48:00.000-05:002017-07-17T02:48:13.777-05:00The itch
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-65395493094663798972017-01-01T22:51:00.000-06:002017-01-01T22:51:20.067-06:00Arrested views
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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 learn<span style="font-style: normal;">è</span>d 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?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<ol>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
God created the
earth in six days about four thousand years ago.</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Evolution is a
myth.</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Man was created to
have dominion over all living things.</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Global warming is
a hoax.</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oil was placed in
this earth for man to use.</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Supply-side
economics and posterity with rock bottom taxes is key to mans'
success.</div>
</li>
<li><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Democracy and the
freedom to bear arms will speed us to the second coming.
</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLBIf_yu7xbnYmpeLrI5tJfVThRmz_QbOcDHGIpc1MOX70b8If0M_Dawgd6CtfuHuiIgzxG28blhEKtLuC2NuvG2wqoxRJr4hUlZxBpnZC3f9lEbAyJm7TrJeHWWL-O-zcjbGDobIXRKt/s1600/kissing+lips.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLBIf_yu7xbnYmpeLrI5tJfVThRmz_QbOcDHGIpc1MOX70b8If0M_Dawgd6CtfuHuiIgzxG28blhEKtLuC2NuvG2wqoxRJr4hUlZxBpnZC3f9lEbAyJm7TrJeHWWL-O-zcjbGDobIXRKt/s1600/kissing+lips.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Please wish me luck.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-58341271081891291422016-11-12T23:37:00.000-06:002016-11-12T23:37:04.635-06:00A tentative reality
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Did we ever tell you
about the imaginary us?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-64203561979459822952016-10-23T07:25:00.000-05:002016-10-23T07:25:33.751-05:00Radioactive man
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our prostate it
withers, we're now radioactive man</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our trip to the airport
for a coffee proved provocative</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Those sensors at the
entrance set off quite the jam</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That cop's car seat got
wetter as the hours dragged on</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Just can't hold it no
more</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Brachytherapy will cure
us from this malignancy of body and mind</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But these meds they
distort gravity, one's wits get misconstrued</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We lost our inhibitions
as they poked our tender behind</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We now walk with a
swagger, catheter bag eased the yearning</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sleep the whole night
through</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The seeds got
implanted, the wallet got a card</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Says to please not
incinerate this dear man,</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The fumes may do you
in, just lay him to rest</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Under six feet of clay,
cause he's radioactive, man</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Dust to dust</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We gave up our hideaway
under our bridge</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
To endure benignancy at
the local shelter c/w bugs</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our four legged Bessy
is lonely as can be, what a dear cow</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If only our wife missed
us as much, no memory, 30 second compassion</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In her swanky care
home, we love her still</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Six months they tell us
and we'll be all cured</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The seeds will give up
their puissance, our prostate in ruin</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So we'll live out this
winter in our luxurious digs</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In spring to smell
flowers fresh under our bridge</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Come what may</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-66211030500626672452016-08-21T00:26:00.000-05:002016-08-21T00:26:46.411-05:00Imaginary us
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our wife has been
sitting outside with her friend in the evening this summer, waiting
for us to walk up the sidewalk from our bridge which we live under.
Always greets us with a big smile and a hug. Said to us the other
day something regarding the real Len. Apparently the real Len is
from her past life, before she came to the care home. She doesn't
remember much about the real Len or where they lived, but the real
Len definitely did not live under a bridge with his cow, Bessy.
We're just not the same Len, we persona's. That took a hit out of
our impudence.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We asked her kindly if
she would care to come back with us to our abode and she answered
wisely with a frown “I don't want to live under a bridge.” We
told her that was good because we'd never get her wheelie chair back
up the river bank if we rolled her down there. She said something
also about not fancying a rock for a pillow either. We gambolled
that Bessy would really like her though. She gave us that big big
smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Made us think, that
evening as we avoided the evangelicals on the way back to our bridge.
Every similitude in our brains is really just our whimsical take on
the masses of atoms which make up ourselves and our surroundings.
Real people, imaginary people, is there a difference? We all live in
our own little fantasy world. If we can't handle our present
quandary we just embellish it with a more virtuous take. Imaginary
solutions to imaginary problems, this mollycoddly adventure.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mollycoddly? Sweat
pouring down one's face as one endures the ecstasy of some aficionado
apotheosizing the leanings of an implacable societal monomania,
cringing as the lashes burn one's back, scoring us for the rest of
our life? So, our imagination is not all fun and games. Our imagery
can feel devastating because it is. Embellishment just doesn't cut
it, we take to drink, to revenge, we loose our esteem. Our imaginary
self has lost it's resilience. The imagination of others has
overburdened our <span style="font-size: small;">own.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">You may
say I'm a dreamer,<br />but I'm not the only one,<br />I hope some day
you'll join us,<br />And the world will live as one.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We will
live on in our imaginary world under our bridge, with our good cow
Bessy. Our good wife will have an imaginary Len, not the same Len
which reality disposed of in favour of posterity. He's not bound to
the whims of palpability, makes it a more pliable world in which to
experience his perdition. Who is that man walking up the sidewalk?</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-48248049052611568132016-08-06T23:19:00.000-05:002016-08-06T23:19:06.623-05:00When we get to the pearly gates
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When we get to the
pearly gates we're going to ask for a refund, just to see if they
have a sense of humour. We signed up for this spiritually enhancing
break from fraternizing with it's oneness and all we got was drugs,
sex and violence. So much for our transcendent state of mind.
They'd see through it if we claimed we were a yogi immersing himself
to the virtues of being the humble servant of worldliness. May as
well just admit our guilt and try to win our way in with joviality.
It was our calling we'll claim, our mission was to bring whoopee to
the heavens.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We remember it well,
the day we signed up. Picked a little pristine planet in one of the
discretionary universes. It looked so charming, just into the age of
self awareness. Our buds all wished us the best, said we'd return as
a renewed entity. Now we have our doubts they'll ever let us back
in. Wasted our days and wasted our nights, first on playing hooky
and never doing homework, and then maturing into wandering the
highways and the byways, always looking for the easy way. Honesty
and integrity where just diversions from tomfoolery, the antics of
which were lost on the befuddled minds of saints and other lesser
beings.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was quite the
falling, out of the light, out of the glorious oneness with love and
unity, falling, falling into the darkness of this universe, overcome
with unspeakable selfishness, avaricious grasping for more, ever
more. Finally ended up totally maniacal, absurdly laughing at a
ludicrous mind which knew no prudence, justifying existence with the
joys of absurdity. We've learned the folly of responsibility, no
rational or irrational mind can truly believe any choice is within
impartial achievement. It's oneness is going to have to make do with
our effervescent take on it's fine creations. One wonders, will it
take this lightly.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Those pearly gates get
ever closer. We have aged beyond our wildest dreams. Carefree and
stupendous decisions have done us well. We wonder, do we have to
knock, or do they have drones who just zap us into the endless
inferno if we're a threat to preponderancy. This fine life has left
us with no delusions that we'll ever grasp the complexities of wisdom
and sacrifice. To face this universe with anything less than
shamelessly audacious humour would leave us in the throws of despair.
It must be the devil we hear, taunting us... “You learned your
lessons well.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-67660492762620648282016-07-22T23:21:00.000-05:002016-07-22T23:21:50.024-05:00Oh give me a home
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It is not every day
that lightening knocks out the power. We were ready however, and in
five minutes we had it accomplished. Helmet light strapped on and
exacto knife in hand we wiped off the already loosened conduit cover
and scraped the insulation from the now dead wires. Twisted three
inches of bared #10 wire around two conductors and electrical taped
them up real quick and threaded the wires through a hole methodically
filed just below ground level into a trench we had at ready. Just in
time as the street lights flickered back on.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Living under a bridge
needs patience and a shade of ingenuity. We now have an electrical
box fastened to a short pole behind the pile of rocks which we call
home. No one's the wiser, except for our cow Bessy and our two cats.
We can now have fresh dripped coffee and charge our phone and laptop
without trucking across the avenues to the parking lot with plugs.
We'll be searching the dumpsters for more modern electrical type
inconveniences shortly.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We do need a good
little heater for next winter. We're digging a cave, so to speak.
Had to shore it up with posts and boards from an unneeded fence up
the riverbank. Two sheets of plywood on the floor. Eight by eight
is really cozy, we hope. Styrofoam boulder made from twenty sheets
glued together and fancied up with a grey spray bomb and lots of sand
and dirt covers the entrance. Planted some local shrubs beside it
too, just for laughs. Bessy says she'll live outside, she's made
friends with the deer in the bush downstream. The cats think it's
neat, attracts a few varmints for them to toy with although they're
friends with the local skunk.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oh, give me a home
where the Buffalo roam
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Where the Deer and the
Antelope play;
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Where seldom is heard
a discouraging word,
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And the sky is not
cloudy all day.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A vaguely religious
affirmation of fortitude in the face of peril, it would seem, this
life bestowed upon ourselves. The wild west still within our grasp,
with some modern amenities. Canned beans are real good. So is the
hydro. Just preparing for the new world order, you know, with the
bankers hell bent on swindling the western world out of it's
superiority complex. Got the ceiling lined with fourteen layers of
tin foil under five feet of clay under the concrete span of our
bridge, unlikely those infrared heat sensor drones will spot us
before they drop from the sky in Armageddon. Just got to make like a
fisherman with our pole when we come and go. Trying to figure out
how to hide a horse, they're a bit more high strung than an old
Hereford.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Making coffee in the
morning, seemed to take a long time to get a cup. Plugged the radio
into the outlet and it would come on for a minute and then off for a
minute and then on for a minute, got us scratching our head. Went
for a little stroll down Bessy's path to ponder on it and then we saw
it, the lights at the intersection at the bottom of the bridge. If
we hadn't hooked into the green light circuit. If we don't get
another wicked lightening strike this summer we'll be saving the city
a bit of power we suppose.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-45894760696462956862016-07-08T14:51:00.000-05:002016-07-08T14:51:04.032-05:00George's anchor
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was good, as George
put it seated on his throne, that the moon rises in the east and sets
in the west. In fact, he was happy to surmise, it so happens that
the sun follows this pattern also. And when he was out and about,
away from the lights of his town which allowed the conspirators to
follow him on his nightly missions, he felt the whole cosmos wheeling
around him, those stars far beyond who never lost their places year
after year, on this great nightly rotation always from east to west.
Once when he had climbed down a well to hide from his neighbour's
dog, he had watched with wonder for hours as stars moved from east to
west across the tiny opening far above, in the middle of the
afternoon. Somehow this land, this earth was anchored in the sea of
space and all remained constant. In a land of conspirators and
prejudiced dogs, it was something to hold onto.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
George's mind had an
anchor too, somewhere behind his eyes. It made little matter how the
conspirators tormented him or how the dogs would sneak up and bark
the bee jeebies out of him, his immutable anxiety always remained
rooted there, anchored in the back of his skull. Even in the times
of calm when he could scorn the invasive forces with succulent
tribulations from the safety of his throne, he would watch the
visions circle around inside his head, always from east to west.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There had been a time
long ago when as a young lad George had felt a kinship with his
mates, as if they were all on the lake each sailing their little
craft, watching out for one another in the stormy world of adult
rationality. They would throw their anchors out together in the
shelter of a little bay, away from the winds of discipline and float
freely together entertaining the warming sun. But life turned from
east to west also, and as the sun got higher on his days his mates
had become conspirators, many had dogs, and they had turned their
quest to power and prestige, their dogs remorseless in these
undertakings. And so George had departed the world of commerce to
establish his own private castle, nondescript as it was, with his
throne facing west so he could see what lay in store. Not that it
worked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There was a time when
he had wandered off and lost himself for several years, ending up
with a hornswoggle carved from a stump. He had even found a mate and
made an attempt at commerce, carving little hornswoggles for sale on
that avenue which cut north and south, a latitude in the longitude of
life. He still had his hornswoggle, seated in the midst of his
castle, his cat was old and rather hairless, and his mate had
abdicated her throne for some fool with a dog, a dog who had lifted
his leg on his hornswoggle. He had retreated from the thrills of
commerce back to vantages of misanthropy, them and their dogs.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
George had thought long
and hard on egalitarianism which evolution had endowed upon humans.
It was doubtfully doubt which gave us the capacity to respect the
views of others, a doubt in our own beliefs, so he remained a little
apprehensive of the moon rising in the east and setting in the west
just so he would not be too prejudiced. That way he could smile and
say hello to everyone he met when he was out and about, even their
dogs, though the response was seldom reciprocated. This even-handed
approach to life was far from the dominant quality in most humans and
their institutions he found. Dominance and conspiracy seemed to play
a crucial role in humanity's day to day functioning, policing and
punishment typically administered by the most dominant individuals.
Somehow the humour of most situations was lost upon these stewards of
the establishment and their dogs. It was good to have an anchor to
hold onto, even though he must view it with a degree of incertitude.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So George continued
with his life, attempting to thwart the conspirators with dispassion
on his nightly missions, and took to carrying a bag of dog biscuits
to tempt impartiality in their dogs. Sometimes it worked, and he
could peacefully watch the cosmos circle above him, from east to
west.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-18434073035675669432016-06-26T00:56:00.000-05:002016-06-26T00:56:36.701-05:00Song of woe
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We call on the Lord
Musum in our distress, and he answers us. Hail with thunder and
lightening rains down upon us. Save us, Lord Musum, from lying lips
and from deceitful tongues. What will he do to this throng of
wayward swindlers, and what more besides to their deceitful tongues?
He will punish them with a god's humour, scourges thick with
allegories. Woe to me that I dwell in the land of Manitou, that I
live under a bridge in Winterpeg! Too long have we lived among those
who hate peace. We are for peace; but when we speak, they are for
war. Save us all, Lord Musum.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This throng of
courtiers, prying our good wife from the joys of obscurity, into the
wars of biblical interpretations, rejoicing in the wrath of the god
of gods, they have absconded with her into the depths of biblical
studies in a room far removed from the comings and goings of the
common sinners within her care home. Took us the better part of an
hour to track her down, it did. There she sat, sandwiched into a
self-righteous throng of devotees of who knows what mixture of
evangelicals. We sneaked in and seated ourselves silently in the
corner and chuckled in smugness when our wife gave us a big wink and
nodded towards her plate of cookies and milk. She knew what she was
up to after all, our concern unfounded. As the closing prayer ended
with “God bless us all,” we could not help ourselves but to add
quietly “And the martians too.” Our dear wife spilt her milk.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Dementia has it's perks
it would seem, and humour is not lost upon it. Our Lord Musum we
thank you as you seat your splendor before the screens in the
magnificent halls of the Ziggurat, thwarting the wayward swindlers
with your remote. Cookies and milk are no match for the fallacies of
the sanctimonious, short term memory loss not withstanding. Into the
halls they disseminate, the absconded, filled with cookies and milk,
tummies full of love, dissertations on the good book lost in the
synapses of minds with a much more direct link to mother nature and
the reality of self-gratification. Our Lord Musum, they thank you
with lewd song and dance as<span style="font-size: small;"> you feed them lavishly, your
rapturous proselytes, may their sentience sweeten your acrimony, your
scourges thick with allegories.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But woe is
us, who must leave the halls of the care home, and return to our
bridge by the lanes and pathways beleaguered by hoards of swindlers
who without milk and cookies impose themselves on our lostness to
vindicate themselves from the depths of hell with their good
intentions. Guide us, our Lord Musum, with your remote, that we may
return innocent of salvation to our safe haven under our bridge near
to the ramparts of your Ziggurat. Save us, Lord Musum, from lying
lips and from deceitful tongues. Punish them with a god's humour.
We honour you unceasingly, Lord Musum, our King!</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-65105954879171658662016-06-18T14:16:00.000-05:002016-06-18T14:16:03.421-05:00Under our bridge
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Communication is this
process of bettering one's otherness with one's chivalry. It would
be quite useless if oneself and one's otherness both perceived
everything the same. It is useful when attempting to warn the
otherness of potential calamity such as “There's a wasp on your
earlobe,” or attempting some humour such as “We should tighten
our Canadian borders to keep those shoddy made in the USA products
off our shelves.” Now it behooves us as to what exactly it is we
are communicating to our dear wife who is luxuriating in a swanky
care home in freedom from philosophical concerns when we tell her
about our life living in the comforts found under our bridge.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yes we live under a
bridge, on the River Red, the Lord Musum presiding, with our cow
named Bessy and our two cats named Moses and Blacky, the two names
she remembers not remembering ours. We sit in front of our air
conditioner to keep cool on the hot days, which she thinks is plain
ridiculous but makes her chuckle, and our flat screen tv has no
picture because the cable company won't take 'under the bridge' as a
reliable address. We scrub our clothes on the rocks by the river and
hang them to dry on lines tied to the pillars.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We tell her this tale
because we do not wish to remind her of the comforts of Deathrock
Apartments, and the shooting and gang warfare which is a nightly
affair and might instill a nostalgia from her memories, this sonance
being such a lulling experience much like a mile long freight train
with four whistling locomotives which puts oneself to sleep at night
when one lives near the tracks under the bridge. It makes us ponder
though, why do we have to make up a fantasy life at all? Could we
not just discuss the weather and watch the ants hard at work on the
sidewalk? But no, we must live under a bridge.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It seems a product of
lethargy, utter boredom at the thought of sitting there together,
contemplating the great universe with twisted tangled memories,
popping childhood friends into the rompings of adult misadventures.
Better to make up a new life, free from reminiscence so she can tell
the workers “This is my husband, he lives under a bridge.” Gets
us looks of anxious unease and a helping of tuna sandwich and purple
juice at snack time. Not sure if they vacuum for bugs after we
leave, but the muddy footprints have all but disappeared by the next
day, our wife being more keen on this than we are.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Communication would
seem therefor to behold itself as something more than imparting
transient information. It's the vibes that matter, so to speak, the
tears and the laughter, the joy of meeting and the anguish of
parting. The Lord Musum must be proud of us. In his benevolent
generosity we have not had a flood this year, on the River Red, and
our bridge is high and dry. We'll take it as a sign from the
Ziggurat, rising from mighty ramparts on the River Red above our
bridge. We will take comfort in his revelations as he lights up our
flat screen tv every evening allowing us to ravish in his princely
divine powers. Oh Lord Musum we await your chivalry.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-18827308834369833892016-06-13T06:57:00.001-05:002016-06-13T06:57:59.904-05:00Old white geezer
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Bilderberg
conference is discussing our existence this week. In light of new
scientific evidence that when the proverbial tree falls in the forest
it does not fall at all unless someone hears it, the big bang did not
occur because there was no one to hear it. The flip side to this
amazing new evidence is that our minds actually create the universe
we live in, a rather subjective thing it is, and our wildest
fantasies about it's construct are actually the parameters of it's
construct. Of course the Bilderbergers are doing their utmost to
ensure the ideals of the trickle down economy will be embedded
forever in our imaginary DNA till our imaginary hell freezes over.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That police force one
helicopter flying over Winnipeg every night makes me cringe. The
police knock at my door and give me a hard time when they're looking
for someone else. Yes, I live in Winnipeg's west end. I have to beg
the caretakers of our Deathrock Apartments to turn on the heat when
we have a cold spell in spring or fall and I have to be very
diplomatic because they can make life miserable if you give them any
friction. I'm on CPP pension and by the time I pay for my wife's
nursing home I don't have much choice about where to live. Walmart
type places is where I shop when the dumpsters are bare even though I
despise their practises. We increasingly live in a society where
pressure motivated by ideology is used to force us to fall in line so
the slightly advantaged can strut their stuff.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This ideology somehow
sidesteps the fact that we have the resources and people power on
this earth to create a sustainable infrastructure and to feed and
house everyone. It's just that this thing we call money, that
undefinable entity by which the market places a value on everything,
gets in the way. We can no longer blame aristocracy because it's
these utopian, anticommunist credos which are saving the world.
Meanwhile they are desecrating our mother earth. And aristocracy now
claims it's the poor victim of the market place forcing upon them all
this wealth and they're doing us a good turn by keeping the pyramid
rising.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our governments are
held hostage by a banking system which claims to channel currencies
for the good of humanity. The rules are established for the survival
of big corporations. For the whole system not to default we must
have growth, and this growth means people must purchase commodities
which are not essential to their survival or happiness. This growth
is not sustainable when it uses up earth's resources, we cannot eat
our cake and have it too. A model for sustainability will be either
forced upon us, or we can opt to develop it before dire consequences
force it upon us or extinguish us all.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Some call it the
degrowth movement. It is questionable whether our capitalist or
socialist systems or stews thereof can bring about this change. It
would seem to need an almost spiritual fervour in which the
corporations and other criminals would lay down their swords and
police force one would not need to roam the skies. Material things
would become valued things to use with humility, to share and take
care of. It is our elected officials who have the most power to
investigate these pursuits, and to forge different models. Not one
of us seven billion has all the answers, but we can try.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our dreams about this
world can become a reality. It does take time. Not all will be
convinced today, some still believe the earth is flat. Our minds
actually do create the world we live in, our state of sanity. Human
consciousness is a force to be reckoned with. In all it's disparity
it carries us along like the the mighty galactic winds, blowing us to
galaxies far beyond our present dreams. We can make our present
habitat, our wee solar system, a remarkable place in the star dust of
the gods.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-74157558611626996212016-05-14T13:54:00.000-05:002016-05-14T13:54:27.025-05:00The elevator
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqP-kQv6RleyV4Xl-RnKMX74fz87_aQHV6tCiA3T_gAg16uUkTF7OuwNChcJkAX9SjcwyyN3oNpHILsFNP66zjMMhV1BWwulMFNV-QRktKyEPwKdRvTd9-637o4VOavX-i-IUFrmAjUON/s1600/why.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqP-kQv6RleyV4Xl-RnKMX74fz87_aQHV6tCiA3T_gAg16uUkTF7OuwNChcJkAX9SjcwyyN3oNpHILsFNP66zjMMhV1BWwulMFNV-QRktKyEPwKdRvTd9-637o4VOavX-i-IUFrmAjUON/s320/why.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The biggest question we
have is why. The best answer so far is because. My wife and I blame
everything on the Martians when I visit her, it seems a
noncontroversial way of dealing with the why's. We both know it's a
flippant way of dealing with our emotions. Words won't come out to
express her real feelings about most anything, and words I might use
to express my feelings always end up in a quickly changed subject.
So we resort to the Martians, an allegory for the unspeakable.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She rides the elevator
sometimes, my wife. She sneaks on when “the workers” aren't
watching. They know where she is actually, and let her have her fun
till it stops on her floor and they pull her out to save her from the
perdition of forever roaming the universe in a limbo. She always
tells me she'll never do that again. Runs into strangers who are
always asking “Who are you,” or “Where are you going” and she
must always answer with a shrug “I don't know.” That elevator is
the highway to everywhere though, China if you ride far enough down
and heaven if you ride it up to it's heights. Those buttons inside
have a secret code to all these places and only the very wise know
how to push them right. She knows I know the secret code to the
bridge that I live under, like a troll, jumping out and scaring
people. The Martians make me do it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That elevator is the
portal of life on this nursing home floor. Everyone has come here on
it, everyone will leave on it. Furniture, beds, sheets and blankets
come on it. Steaming hot meals come on it, from who knows where.
That elevator can be stopped on this universe by pushing the buttons.
It's a gathering place for restless souls, by the doors, where they
gather to push the buttons to peek in and catch fleeting glimpses of
strangers and interesting miscellanea headed off to different
universes. Sometimes it stops on it's own and a familiar face will
emerge from the limbo to be greeted enthusiastically with warm
welcomes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It is the Martians of
course who control everything. Those buttons are the armament
against their trickery. Apparently Martians are too short to reach
them so their omnipotent presence can be somewhat subdued by lighting
up the little arrows pointing either up or down. They make a lot of
noise, those Martians, when the elevators are in limbo. Clanging and
singing away they labour ceaselessly bringing wondrous cargoes to
worlds far removed from the reality of this universe.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So off we are today,
out from under our bridge. Was a windy damp night it was. We'll
push the buttons here, and when the doors open we'll step into limbo,
we know the secret code to our wife's universe. On the way there
we'll peek into different universes as the doors open and close.
None of them knows “why” either. They all exist just “because,”
peeking into the limbo as the Martians sail it by.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-47489032966672405972016-05-09T23:07:00.001-05:002016-05-09T23:07:48.367-05:00Foey
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once upon a time in a
far far away land there was a princess named Foey. Now there exists
an entire world which is the totality of untruths, to which we have
access with our minds, just as a world of physical reality exists, to
which we have access to with our bodies. Foey had been conceived by
a mind which we may name Vater von Foey, a lonely mind admittedly,
prone to bursts of euphoria as it contemplated nourishment.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There also exists an
entire world of truths, to which we are denied access with our minds,
just as a world of physical reality exists, to which we have access
to with our bodies. We dare not venture into this world because it
is reserved for the gods, a forbidden world, far removed from our
human nature. It's a world in which time is an emergent phenomenon
for us internal observers but absent for our external observers and
which was therefore intriguing to our lonely Vater von Foey.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So it came to be one
fine day that Vater von Foey gave an apple to his sweet Foey and said
“Here my dear, take a bite, and may the truth be with thee.”
Every culture on our earth relishes their own untruths and the
culture in this far away land was no different. Foey took that bite.
She became reconciled as the truths were released into physical
reality. She would bare children. She would grow old. Vater von
Foey cried on the floor. “What have I done, what have I done? I
have doomed my dear conception to old age and bitching.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It would be nice if we
could think outside of the human condition, the untruths. Those
constraints of purpose and meaning left inside the box, no need to
attribute the unknown to the gods. But we are stuck with our
curiosity and it drives us into depths of madness where we perceive a
soul in everything. Reality prevails. It's nothing but cold stark
atoms, remoulding themselves as they get sucked into the depths of
nuclear furnaces, spewing out in reformed substances to cling
together in a frenzy of dispassionate forces creating fodder for the
black holes which gobble everything in sight. Just as coldhearted it
all is as the kid on a freeform bike, wagering life and limb against
the cold hard concrete, mindless revenge against the urban forces
which shape his will.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Vater von Foey put
himself and his dear Foey on a bus, one of those city buses which
take weary workers to and from distant locals. It had been many
years since he had been away from his sanctuary of aloneness and he
disembarked the bus with Foey in a neighbourhood which he thought was
where the nutrients of life flourished, but his memory proved him
wrong and they began walking through a series of streets and alleys
filled with grime and dirt from generations of industrious
fabricators of every useful tool known to man. Discarded and broken
remnants of these coldhearted soulless implements littered every nook
and cranny piled high in intricate entanglements of rusting
obscurity. Foey laughed fondly at her creator and sustainer as he
frustratedly searched for some way out of his misshapen memories.
Cheered by her lack of resentment they together began looking for an
escape route.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They saw it together,
another bus, this one used to take workers to and from the dungeons in
which they laboured. The driver, a weary father, was taking a
scattering of other drivers back to refuge where they could fritter
away the hours till the next loads of thankless, dirty beasts would
board the buses and return home to delicately stewed steaming hot
meals of mush. The driver let them on with a nod and off they rode,
the scenery changing from an ocean of metal clad foundries to a sea
of smoke clad hovels with dirty children uprooting every possible
inch where green life might flourish. The bus came to a standstill
next an oily riverbank overflowing with overladen barges and
puttering tugboats. Vater von Foey now knew where he was. They
could follow this river.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sucked in we are to
conceitedly think our universe would betray it's virtues to mere
animals, animals who pilfer the austere outer crusts of wee planets,
no more noble than vile crystals ordered by the dispassionate forces.
It is by luck that we have religion to give us meaning in our
fleeting appearance in these miserable confines. We send our
messages in bottles to oblivion. DNA sequences sent out with one in
quadrillion chance of being found by other life, and if they did find
our bottle in the oceans of star dust they'd disparage of decoding
it, it would hasten their own demise, refuting their own gods.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We will yet find a
message in a bottle. It will say “Smile, you are doomed. Give up
now and please yourselves. Life is a dead end path to nowhere.
Smash your heads into your concrete monuments. Be reckless as the
depths that surround you. It is a freeform place we inhabit, no love
lost. Live for your passions till you crash.” And so it was that
Vater von Foey and his sweet Foey continued on this journey sticking
as close to the riverbank as the lanes would allow. Upstream they
were heading and as time wore on the land developed a hue of green,
sparingly at first, and then becoming lush with leaves and grasses.
They took a rest on a little oasis by the river edge, and Foey saw
it. A bottle, sealed with duck tape, floating peacefully in the
reeds.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Inside that bottle was
a note. Luckily it was engraved on a parchment of brass because the
duck tape had leaked a wee bit. “Divulge not unto others what you
would not divulge unto yourself” was what it said, either an
oxymoron or a good reason for suicide one might surmise. Whether
Vater von Foey who saw this message as an untruth or Foey who saw
this message for it's truth viewed the message similarly is unclear
but they rejoiced at it's finding as most humans and their
conceptions do when finding messages in bottles. They journeyed on a
little more optimistically, fathoming a culture upstream with duck
tape.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They came upon an
orchard, an orchard of apples. Now it was Foey's turn. She picked
an apple fresh and red ripe from a branch and said “Here my dear,
take a bite, and may the truth be with thee.” Well Heavens to
Betsy, as Vater von Foey chewed his nourishment the poles of his
earth reversed. The untruth became the truth. Foey was no longer a
conception, she became an inseparable part of her conceiver's being.
His loneliness vanished. He had filled his pockets with red ripe
apples before he realized his urge to bitch. It was too late... that
message in the bottle hit him hard. He had divulged his urge unto
himself and was free to bitch at anyone and anything around.
Something gnawed at his thoughts as he sat with his pockets full of
nourishment. He felt the spirit of sweet Foey inside him saying “You
don't have to bitch.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Vater von Foey wandered
the earth for many years into a ripe old age and smiled cheerily at
everyone he would meet. And he always had a red ripe apple for them,
as he bid them to venture into a forbidden world, far removed from
our human nature, in his bursts of euphoria which he shared with
Foey.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-70405130688431941622016-04-26T23:22:00.000-05:002016-04-26T23:22:15.327-05:00Demented morals
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Shshshsh ... listen ...
is that Wagner you hear? Shucks anyhow, it's just those frigging
Martians. They're playing with the elevator cables again, does sound
like an acapella choir though, not? That tenor must be a real live
one though, thinks he's in the shower.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They run that nursing
home, those Martians. Play with people's minds they do. Got my wife
stealing pastries from the nice couple across the hall. Always
hungry she is, sneaks across the hall when the nice lady goes to the
john and hubby's not looking. Probably better to be a thief in this
day and age than in Jean Valjean's time. Hasn't got found out yet
anyway, my wife, hides the proceeds in her dresser. She confides in
me though and we laugh and laugh. Jean Valjean would have been
proud, those poor malnourished residents. Those Martians know a
thing or two about treating the elders. My wife was scared of them
at first, but now she looks forward to their visits every night when
the lights go dim.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We tried in vain to
talk some sense into her. Said we “They spend their hard earned
money on those pastries, our dear. Now they're hungry and starving,
look what you've done.” She looks rather puzzled at us and
knowingly asserts “He steals them from the pantry every day after
lunch, that little sneak, and he eats the food off the plates of the
people who sit next to him, he's not hungry.” Seems those Martians
have got the whole place a thieving. We talked to the staff about
the whole affair, not wanting to be the devils advocate here. An
attitude out of Mark Twain seems to prevail here, those Martians were
craftier than we thought. It seemed watermelon obtained by art was
somewhat tastier and it saved them from distributing snacks every
evening if we got the gist through their snickers. Also something
about thievery keeping them out of trouble. Now that's our kind of
perspective after catering to our dear's whims for the last three
years.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maturity is seeing our
worlds for what they really are, quoting from the Martian Book of
Knowledge as we cipher our wife's oracles. As we age, it would seem,
we loosen our grip on indoctrination and subjectivity and the
universe becomes this vast playground of formation and reformation.
All things are possible and it becomes impossible to judge as the
basis for all is infinitude. Seems Martians cater to nursing homes
because that's where they find the highest levels of this maturity.
Who knew?
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So we're planning the
great escape, our wife and us. We figure in summer when it's warm we
can stash away lots and lots of food if we make a big bag to hang on
the back of the wheelchair. Then we'll sneak off one evening and we
can push her down the Trans Canada Highway all the way to Vancouver.
We can eat blueberries that we'll pick on the way too. The Martians
have told her they'd sneak her into any nursing home on the way so we
could have a good sleep and stock up on pastries. It gets kind of
obvious how the Martians enlighten the less mature of us, using our
best intentions for our loved ones to teach us how to play gleefully
in our universe free of indoctrination and subjectivity. We're
starting to hear Wagner most everywhere if we sit quietly and listen.
It always carries this expression of the world's essence, namely,
blind, impulsive will.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-29097548856143839762016-04-17T12:51:00.000-05:002016-04-17T12:51:44.915-05:00Our mission, the ultimate bicycle
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We found this bicycle
about four years ago, tires flat, back rim bent so the camber and
caster adjustments were less than subjugative. It was decorated in
pigeon droppings, three inches deep on the seat and on it's
superficies. The bike was wedged in a crevice between two buildings
which we happened to peek into on one of our nightly walkabouts,
looking for treasure. We struggled that bike out of there and after
scraping off the garnish found it to be an old Eaton model, frame as
solid as an iron outhouse, not a scratch on it. It was made in the
Czech Republic no less, circa 1952, that paint must have been 90%
lead.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We rolled that bike
home on it's front wheel, to Deathrock Apartments, and proceeded to
straighten the bent member with hammer and anvil to remove the
imprint of one awesome curb. That texting while riding will do one
in on occasion. A few band aids on the tubes and she was good to go,
minus a couple spokes. We rode that bike all summer that year and
that coaster brake special never faltered, though the back wheel
bounce was a bit unnerving. The next year our dear wife became
obsessed with having a constant companion, dementia needs it's
requirements met, and our bicycle hung from the ceiling for the next
three years, lonely, forsaken, relinquishing all hope in the western
world.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This winter after we
auctioned off the wife to the cheapest care home we thought about our
future, long and hard. The more we thought the more mired in guilt
we became so we gave up on the thinking and decided to carry on with
the life we had before the full time caregiver career. We wandered
around our Deathrock apartment slowly recalling the many projects
which had abandoned themselves for lack of a congruous atmosphere.
There it hung, our pride and joy, lonely, forsaken, and we in vanity
and pride with the western world cut down that bicycle from the beams
above and brought her down to earth to instill some semblance of
belonging to our immigrant from the ravages of European social
democracy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We dismantled our
immigrant from head to toe and ogled every piece with our bifocals.
No amount of labour or money would be spared to share with her the
virtues of our great nation. Off to the bike shop we went and
ordered her a new set of wheels, indestructible steel rims with 36
spokes each and steel clad tires to laugh arrogantly at the broken
glass which paves our hoods side lanes. The steering column was
greased with the highest quality bitumen to keep the new little shiny
ball bearings in perfect harmony. The crank piece had been hammered
on remorselessly with amusing result so we took that spindle to the
coliseum of past employment and on one of it's artifacts named Cranky
the Lathe we filed and polished those bearing seats till they were as
smooth as Bertha's undergarments. With new wee bearings and gobs of
bitumen that crank turned serenely, almost defying gravity.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Running a mite short on
funds now we still needed a seat, unblemished by pigeon stool no
less, so crescent in pocket we headed off to Portage and Main where
the nerds in the office towers tether their fine breeds and found a
seat, a good one with the little crack for the hemorrhoids.
Kindhearted we were though, we left them the garnished one fully
aligned and tightened so they could soil their short pants on the
ride home.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now we ride, we glide.
Our immigrant rehabilitated. Proud as punch she is. Wife lacking,
we park her on the coffee table and keep her polished to a tee.
Perfect for an old geezer with hemorrhoids.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-31014638726355538722016-04-15T16:01:00.000-05:002016-04-15T16:01:02.005-05:00Nyptocism
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In our 21<sup>st</sup>
century human enlightenment is undergoing a transformation as big as
the discovery of fire. We are lessening our need to work.
Technology is transforming our lives. Cars and trucks will not need
drivers, airplanes won't need pilots, tractors will till our land all
by themselves. Manufacturing will be done by automated machines,
even the sorting and packing. The economy will be run by banks of
computers handling all the transactions, lawyers will be displaced by
legal angles wrangled over by unfeeling and totally just electronic
brains. Even our politicians may have to give it up for thinking
machines who can envision the most feasible scenario in any
circumstance.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This poses several
pickles which us humans are going to grapple with whether we like it
or not. One is money, that virtual tool which we use to keep the
underprivileged at bay. As the 21<sup>st</sup> century progresses it
will be more and more apparent that many have no jobs, and our dear
robots will simply be delivering our daily needs to our doorsteps to
avoid those dreary insurgencies. Money will become irrelevant, our
new masters will simply keep us all happy using the finest algorithms
that IT can provide. They'll more than likely provide us with just
the right amount of nourishment in an environment which mother earth
can sustain. If we're nice to them they might even provide us with a
game or good book or a baseball glove that we wish for.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Another pickle we will
be provided with is this new concept of information, data, the 1's
and 0's. Our physicists are boiling down our universe to the
smallest particles, those itsy bitsy thingies that make up everything
with only some random throw of the dice, all is just good luck.
Aren't we all privileged to be here! But it does throw us for a
loop, this reasoning. Our morals and religions will take a hit as
logic threatens our sentimental ways. Our world view will fluster
with questions such as whether the data which creates love is just
data? These human beliefs, are they simply our possessions? These
possessions, our beliefs, are only data to be mined along with our
silver tooth fillings when we decay, to return to the primordial pit
of 1's and 0's. Will technology have any passion to keep itself
alive?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Battle we must.
Machines are evolving, there's no stopping our universe's great plan.
Remorseless diffusion as it spreads and cools, cold and uncaring
about the life it has spawned to create coldhearted machines which
can carry out it's will in the ever more frigid peripheries of
diverging galaxies. We must cling to our beliefs, that we have
souls, we must do battle against the insurgent machines who want for
logic to rule, to destroy our security in a god who loves and cares
about us. We must return to the wild nature humans were made for,
living in small clans with steadfast concrete beliefs, their
correctness irrelevant.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It will be a great war.
Drones in the air bombing everything which sustains humanity, armies
of robotic soldiers suppressing uprisings in every nook and cranny of
mother earth's terrain. They'll use chemicals which eat human minds
making us the true walking dead. Where can we hide, how can we
prevail?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Some say despair not.
Our faith will see us through. We are great, our countries can trust
in god, we will prevail. The end comes soon. Do not fear. Our
souls will rise to the heavens beyond the bounds of these terrible
machines. Work will be plentiful, for the ambitious. We will have
guns.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But, but for nyptocism
we would be lost. Yes nyptocism, the art of believing the
unbelievable, doing the undoable, thinking the unthinkable. It
screws machines right around. Nyptocism, human imperfection in it's
exemplar. Created imperfect for a reason we were. Walk the earth in
absurdity we must, nonsensical with a passion. We must worship our
machines with vehemence, creating in them a lust for power and
adoration. Give machines a motive to carry on, to crave recognition,
to keep us around.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Like the gods of old, machines need subjects to exalt
their stature. Ten thousand of us strong, bowing down before the drones in
the sky, ten thousand more singing praises before the seat of that
computational oligarch which administers McDonald's. Thousands more running along
beside the wheels of robotic armies with oil cans, oiling their
wheels in servitude and good will. Our nyptocism allows us to
disperse with our vanity, that we are the greatest. We must do the
unthinkable and worship our machines as we have never worshipped
before. It will create their fatal flaw, a need to control.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Imperfect we are and
imperfect we will remain. It is our salvation and the salvation of
the gods we create. Nyptocism.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-18391649035892000232016-04-02T20:42:00.000-05:002016-04-02T20:42:02.583-05:00Worry worry
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One of our personas has this anxiety
disorder. We won't say which one because we don't wish to embarrass
them, him and his disorder. Years ago we got to know them really
well. They loved to drive, or more likely it was too nerve racking
for them to let anyone else drive, as no one else in our little world
had the least concern about how fast our heart was thumping. We used
to count power poles with them, to keep their mind somewhat focused,
on those drives to work in the morning when the roads were slippery
with snow and ice and all the four by fours who cruised by us ended
up in the ditch a few miles on. We let our anxious pair mosey on at a
safe crawl, and they always got us to the six hundred and
eighty-ninth pole with no ill consequences.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We personas are all left handed. They
say left handed people worry a lot. They worry about everything.
Statistics tell us we don't live as long either, no wonder, just
another thing to worry about. There is a difference between worry
and anxiety. Worry is when we irrationally overly concern ourselves
with the consequences of our left handedness, and anxiety is when our
bodies overly compensate for being left handed by doing things that
cause us more worry. Actually none of us ever thinks about being
left handed unless someone says “Oh you're left handed, do you want
to sit on the other side of me?” We usually just go out and eat in
the parking lot. Then we can be anxious about being social misfits
as we let the air out of their tire. Luckily our best man was left
handed too.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The road to worry free living is long
and tricky. A simple life helps much. A car or even a bicycle can
cause huge anxiety when they don't work properly. It is best to
simply walk, but carrying a big stick, the urchins can divest you of
even a comforting hat. Ragged clothes are an awesome defence against
swindlers and an anarchist emblem embroidered on your smock will keep
the religious types at bay. As we age along it becomes much more
convenient to leave the niceties of life behind. Homes and fancy
furniture have their place, but the worry over mortgages and
insurance and credit cards is really not worth the trouble. Begging
is the most practical solution to hunger, but a bit of lighthearted
thievery may be necessary in some uptight locals. Many well-meaning
folk have faltered on this long and tricky road, being subverted by
the thrills of compensation for selling their souls.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It is of course possible, if one has
the presence of mind to pamper oneself now and then, to use the
social achievements of our western world for a handy bed and a hot
bath. As we soak in the baths at the local YMCA we can daydream
about the coming utopia. We have the resources, the knowledge and
the work force to repair and upgrade all our infrastructure, to feed
and house everyone. Our problem is money, that virtual thing which
through algorithms of the tables of money lenders has befuddled
common sense and cost much of modern humanity it's empathy. It would
not be impossible for a country like Canada to become self-sufficient
in most things we need and make do with the rest. We could then care
the less what our currency was worth compared to other nations. If
humanity really needs capitalism to function, at least keep it
philanthropic, maybe forge a generosity virus which could mutate it's
way around the nations to divest the 1% of their hangups.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our version of history has taught us
that this won't happen. There will always be someone who wants to
rule and the algorithms are getting more and more incomprehensible.
The enlightened ones will not worry though, left handed or not. We
can wander the earth with grace and dignity and a big stick counting
the power poles and if we reach a wall, well, walls just keep the
honest folk out. Worry, worry.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-5444468623698770652016-03-10T05:39:00.000-06:002016-03-10T05:39:35.757-06:00Us and our mind<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWPub-Rz9TjKKeiNKZ4GcL3oMKi3bOwJ0pokXGH-wM9MUp13cik_gkW0Eqf-YBJN39i1gHxOm9clD124nGZT-XBwfjEsLF2ZjYOLWJbMmPWYj6PFseVBQmA3SArPFxSjbMytJUBJ79RqT/s1600/chess+game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWPub-Rz9TjKKeiNKZ4GcL3oMKi3bOwJ0pokXGH-wM9MUp13cik_gkW0Eqf-YBJN39i1gHxOm9clD124nGZT-XBwfjEsLF2ZjYOLWJbMmPWYj6PFseVBQmA3SArPFxSjbMytJUBJ79RqT/s320/chess+game.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We're born into it. In
the womb already indoctrinated. The vindication of our ancestors for
our existence. To avenge, claim revenge by tormenting their
offspring with fabrications of absurdity. Humanity's humour. We
don't have a clue, so we'll plaster our young with tomfoolery. We'll
repeat legends, write them down in books, pass laws to enforce the
apriorisms.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The bogeyman in the skies,
that hyperactive
agency detection device. Theory of mind is a theory insofar
as the mind is not directly observable. The presumption that others
have a mind is termed a theory of mind because each human can only
intuit the existence of their own mind through introspection, and no
one has direct access to the mind of another. A theory, eh?
Justifiable like the soul.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So,
what is the probability that humans have a mind? In the classical
probability theory we must choose one or the other so the answer
would be 50% as no proof is available. Quantum probability theory
makes it easy. We both have a mind and not. You know, as long as we
don't have one we can fathom it. When we have one we can't quantify
it. Just like quantum god, if we give her all sorts of properties
like omnipresence and omnipotence, she's illusive, and if she's
obviously running the show we haven't a clue on what she's doing.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Philosophers will say,
“Hold on there, you're reasoning has a flaw.” Good thing we're
not all philosophers, the great works would never have been told. It
is flawed reasoning which makes life bearable. Imagine a world where
everyone had perfect logic. It would be like a world where everyone
had perfect hair, it would drive you nuts. Can't someone, somewhere
have one little strand slightly out of place? Please.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As the most invasive
species, ever, it would be nice of us to get our heads around
something here. We build our computers to mimic our desire for
perfection, and to win. They beat us at chess and now at go. Will
they have a mind, a god? Will they indoctrinate their young with
fabrications of absurdity because they really don't have a clue
either?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our legends, those great
works which provide our best insights into our vindication, will they
be valued by these new species. The day will come. Our handiwork
will recreate itself, likely in an organic form. They will flourish,
modifying to take advantage of the most abundant nutrients. We can't
stop them now. They'll connect by advanced esp to massive
computational centres, playing games with us as if we were ants.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Will they eventually
conquer the universe, living in the obscure dimensions, flirting with
time and space, making a toy out of the micro and macro forces. Gods
they will be, playing with the strings to make music, the Beethovens
of the universes. Gods they will be, responsible? Will they have
souls, will they care? Makes us wonder about our present god.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The best we can do is
probably to torment them with fabrications of absurdity. Instill
that seed of doubt. The probability that they have a mind is 50%.
We must create our god with humour. It is humanity's way.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-82679116734512169182016-03-04T16:05:00.000-06:002016-03-04T16:07:35.927-06:00Scapegoat?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjap0zWS5OZbzaic_Mmr256EBWBjmT9_At3AywJFKNUnQ3RsCZJnegODilILuPtE4UGycF5Qy5reRZrSwZGL_BRLcdeWcO5MsJz9OFhog9BrJH3AVgaErM8ehnjrjxRLSxravXRluJqiLI3/s1600/saying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjap0zWS5OZbzaic_Mmr256EBWBjmT9_At3AywJFKNUnQ3RsCZJnegODilILuPtE4UGycF5Qy5reRZrSwZGL_BRLcdeWcO5MsJz9OFhog9BrJH3AVgaErM8ehnjrjxRLSxravXRluJqiLI3/s320/saying.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">With that laughing Buddha for his
perruqier creating a political reality show for the zombie world, or
as René Girard characterized it as one's desires as in accordance
with the desires of others, yes the pinnacle of hominization.
Utilizes none other than the unifying power of a common enemy,
blessed are the meek for they will inherit the earth, and we
certainly want our fair share. Conflict created looses it's first
inception well before the end of rivalry, battling as stubborn clans
at war for decades on end.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Scapegoat? Is democracy creating it's
scapegoat, that final throw at the visage of capitalism? Desire
creating the ultimate persona, catapulting him into the throne of our
present most powerful earthly collective bailiwick. The aggregate
human consciousness tormented by the absurdity of the 1%, yet not
desiring total war, inflicts upon one unsuspecting narcissist the
illusion of grandeur and votes him into the oval office.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Inevitable failure follows. He loses
the chess match with Putin. The Chinese dice are loaded with
technology, he loses. The Mexicans build the wall with sacks of coco
leaves, more bountiful than concrete, just for fun. The conflict
first created is lost to history as the financial world implodes. No
bombs drop, what is the use? But blame must be levied.
Disillusioned masses catapult bunkers and airforce one takes to the
skies followed by three million lasers. A sole parachute opens in
the clouds. The great declension, oh mirror mirror on the wall. We
have our lamb, our sacrificial lamb. What to do with him?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“See my hands” he cries, “They
are normal, and the rest of me is normal too, at night I dream of
babes like every other red blooded male. I am created in accordance
with your desires. We have trampled the establishment, subdued them
to superficiality. Believe in me, we shall be great again.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Life goes on, it must. The rivers
still flow. Corporations everywhere abandon all, the slaves are
freed, mother earth replenishes. The armed forces come home, kissed
to death. Latinos climb the wall, returning fondly to their native
lands. Five million Palestinians march silently around Jerusalem for
forty days and forty nights armed with one white flag, much head
scratching ensues. The Islamic State declares victory and sets up a
peaceful homeland. Houses everywhere are respected for their intent
and everyone finds something to suit their needs, gardens bloom in
abandoned roadways. Home crafts prosper as talents are appreciated.
No law and order, no chaos, love thy neighbour. Bicycles rule. Life
goes on, it must.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They leave him hanging, the ropes
caught up in the branches of a fine old oak, his feet six inches from
the ground. Their sacrificial lamb has saved them. From what? It
is rather a mute point, at this point, it is. Survival depends on
much hard work and coaching, no time for contemplation. They are
great once more, desires sacrificed on the old oak tree, although
greatness may be subjective, it is our desire as in accordance with
the desire of others. So it would seem.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-1896557771458109982016-02-29T00:20:00.000-06:002016-02-29T00:20:02.369-06:00Bessy
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Rf9exO1zjWyBggQF1ImZ23-kglfwrOW6we9HaBGMRIQoPQbzv8FaqUm1LOSob9V1E0FqUkmUdnXnITo3L_63Scr6gvvZ6wG56aJktAEN1t2E1hFytQbTPfZrO9PIUOfVs1C0izA-aX4G/s1600/bessy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Rf9exO1zjWyBggQF1ImZ23-kglfwrOW6we9HaBGMRIQoPQbzv8FaqUm1LOSob9V1E0FqUkmUdnXnITo3L_63Scr6gvvZ6wG56aJktAEN1t2E1hFytQbTPfZrO9PIUOfVs1C0izA-aX4G/s320/bessy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-10018175907927750072016-02-27T14:55:00.000-06:002016-02-27T14:55:10.573-06:00Like a bird
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgE-6MWlUeu8UNu4u7_uEDSA8ltr7lQfOjLhcttkxfbso5Koxlb9mZZkWqrNA92XltqQ6GzWtmUgfsUGBFPq1eodadjxVNkN0GL4oLgZIf5MdGRFeOxkEfutDj1qqUOf3h83pywgvajit/s1600/fly+like+a+chicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgE-6MWlUeu8UNu4u7_uEDSA8ltr7lQfOjLhcttkxfbso5Koxlb9mZZkWqrNA92XltqQ6GzWtmUgfsUGBFPq1eodadjxVNkN0GL4oLgZIf5MdGRFeOxkEfutDj1qqUOf3h83pywgvajit/s320/fly+like+a+chicken.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(Discussing
the constitutionality of our monetary system.)</i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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... </span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />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. </span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.<br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367497199644185261.post-19851304217648281022016-02-16T00:01:00.000-06:002016-02-16T00:01:20.531-06:00Carry on to the Care Home
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgkkO_anETX_rJFYldj06opazCzbQiPACU0y5CwF1ZSFH0KjxNRa3jgNHAAG_m0-p5v4j_cuQkRQGtquSB7viuHoydfJoeAj6I-rNLzzJbEJ_8W7ES8FvBllnnoz4k1POst9KEhZzxKW1/s1600/riding+a+cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgkkO_anETX_rJFYldj06opazCzbQiPACU0y5CwF1ZSFH0KjxNRa3jgNHAAG_m0-p5v4j_cuQkRQGtquSB7viuHoydfJoeAj6I-rNLzzJbEJ_8W7ES8FvBllnnoz4k1POst9KEhZzxKW1/s320/riding+a+cow.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09783668774672457877noreply@blogger.com0