Wednesday, August 9, 2017


         Everything has changed in the Christian world with the miraculous discovery of the earliest Gospels in 1945 in Egypt.
         When I speak of God, I'm speaking of a reality quite different than the credulous belief system they speak of in most of the churches.

          The purpose is no longer to imitate Christ.
        A deeper understanding leads us to know that the aim is to seek to realize our own identity.
      And to keep digging until your personal identity is realized and
becomes One with the more impersonal divine
suchness, the chastity and Identity of God in His universe.
       In all the purity of the universe there is but one Identity - all the universe is the substance of God.
        So our aim now is to realize the God within -  your ultimate Identity.

        If all the world is one suchness, our true nature is that suchness also.



When in your meditations, if you wish to ask a question of the One Who Is Creating Us, ask.
You can even ask in silence.

If you focus sufficiently when you ask. The answer may well come telepathically two days later.

"Seek and you shall find."

"Ask and the answer will come to you."

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

Sunday, August 6, 2017


Fine sweet songs were playing on the                          jukebox
And she was dancing in the moonlight
As the full moon shone across 
                the calm bay  of midsummer.
So I fell in love and wrote this song.

I wrote the song in the parking lot
In this rural hotel,
And now I'm doing something 
I'm posting the recording of
                    the song
I made as I was writing it
So the recording is flawed;
I can't understand many of the words
                    I wrote.
I must have the lyrics around here
                    somewhere, I hope
                     I hope 

Still I want to publish this song
                     before I lose it                    
The song has quality
However badly it was recorded

Please indulge me,
I promise I'll record it professionally
Right now all I have is a half 
                        broken heart
And a remnant of verses from midnight

                        in a holy place.

(C) 2017 by W.G. Milne
      Johnny Rock and the Angels

Friday, August 4, 2017

ON AN EVENING SUCH AS THIS ---poem from a spiral notebook

Awakening at 3 A.M.
Hear voices  from the street
             people pass
Two ladies in an alley disagree
They fight - screams and shrieks
Guttural grunts, stabs and jabs
Gouge away with broken glass

A man is silent
Leans against the understanding brick

And lets them;
He doesn't judge or bless
But let's them pass
Down into the street
And Ford drugs

He will not guess
Seas of traffic pass
And the tides of the addict
Chemicals, heroin and flesh
The man of many ways
On the wine dark street
With Belladonna beckoning

And from a side street
The alleyways in back
He comes to consciousness
By the back door, where
The strippers smoke and certain
Purchases are made

The TV is on above the bar
And the glazed eyes on the patrons...
Outside a party girl
Engages and plays with men
Decks a policeman with her knee
And a roundhouse kick to the head
Leaves him on the pavement
And enters a restaurant

Outside a party girl
Engages and plays with men
She taunts and teases
And in this alley down the street
Gives men a sense of possibilities

On an evening such as this
We might launch a ship
Beyond the land's grasp
Explore the light of the Pleiades.

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

Thursday, August 3, 2017


So much has been happening from all different directions, that I don't know where to begin.

        As Hemingway used to say:  "Begin with one true sentence."

       Well, that's my intention.
       And a few things leap to mind:

        "I'm just a man whose intentions are good,
O Lord, please don't let me be understood."

                    and also,

        "The road to hell is paved with good

         The other day I was at a friend's house and we were having a few drinks - just to relax and perhaps bring some joy in our lives. There was one guy there who had been to the Ontario College of Art.
         We were listening to one of my songs, a You Tube video/slideshow. I only have so many photos, so I put a lot of my paintings into the videos because I like the colours and the flow.
         This guy was saying my paintings were good - very good. And I didn't believe him.

           My sister, however, worked at the Royal Ontario Museum as a curator and she thinks my paintings are very good, also - better than my singing and better than most of my writing.
She didn't say these words but this is what she meant.

         I'm perplexed.

          The one thing I've never taken seriously is my painting. And I don't want to start taking it seriously now.
          In fact, the other day I discovered I was afraid to start this new, rather large canvas.
And when I'm afraid of doing something, I have a tendency to jump right in and do it right away. This avoids anxiety,
          I'm happy to say the canvas now is a horrible mess. I don't care. The key is to 'just do it' & pretend I'm in kindergarten.

           A friend who seems to be  pissed-off at me most of the time... what she says is,


So that's what I'll do. Stop talking.

I suspect my silence won't last that long.

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne


y back to North Bay. That's when I wrote this song... eventually, I'd lie back against a road sign and I didn't care if I got a ride or not... Then the song came to me. (C)2017 by W.G.Milne. I'm singing and playing rhythm guitar and harmonica. Peter Rowland was the engineer & also played great lead guitar.
The idea was that the song should sound like the waves coming in and the waves going out --- at equal tempo. Not a normal rhythm for a Western song. Song is called, 'NOWHERE TO GO BUT WHERE YOU ARE." This is the take with no mixed songs.**
Hope you enjoy it. Cheers!😉😉

I wrote this song hitchhiking across Canada. I started in Toronto, passed thru north-western Ontario, then on to Winnipeg, then across the prairies... into the mountains - up and over, coasting down the Fraser Valley to Vancouver... then to the west coast of Vancouver Island. Then, soon as we tasted the Pacific Ocean, we turned around and hitched back all the way into Northern Quebec... Chicutami, Chibougameau (SP?) ...round the Gaspe and up to Sidney
til I made my way
back to North Bay. That's when I wrote this song... eventually, I'd lie back against a road sign and I didn't care if I got a ride or not... Then the song came to me. (C)2017 by W.G.Milne. I'm singing and playing rhythm guitar and harmonica. Peter Rowland was the engineer & also played great lead guitar.
The idea was that the song should sound like the waves coming in and the waves going out --- at equal tempo. Not a normal rhythm for a Western song. Song is called, 'NOWHERE TO GO BUT WHERE YOU ARE." This is the take with no mixed songs.**
Hope you enjoy it. Cheers!😉😉


To all the Saints and
Bodhisattvas  who have
vowed not to enter eternal bliss
...God bless the night air,
god bless the sun,
heroes every one...
until the ignorance of mankind
is lifted, until the oppression
is less heavy, clearing the Way,
pointing to signposts and boundaries,
until you yourself
can see, however faintly, the direction
of the path winding and disappearing
along the way.

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

Thursday, July 27, 2017


 I was very interested to learn that Keith Richards
spent time in Mammee Bay, Jamaica. This is where I lived. My father built the first house in the subdivision and had discussions with Teddy Pratt who owned much of the north coast of Jamaica. They laid out the Mammee Bay subdivision.
         This is where I lived growing up for 8 years by the sea
        And so out of this area we also have Johnny Rock and the Angels emerging, playing our own style of rock-reggae. 

     Since I am a musician, what's most interesting to me is the music that came out of
Richards with with the Rastamen of the Steer
Town area, in the Parish of St. Ann, Jamaica.
        I am told that some of this music is on the Bridges to Babylon album of the Rolling Stones.
         I know the recordings exist. Recordings that were done at Mammee Bay and St. Ann's Bay. I can't find these recordings as yet. They're probably in a private collection so far.

        I do like this sweet rocker  from the Bridges to Babylon album. (C) the Rolling Stones: "Might as well get juiced." You can find it on the Stones' album or on on William Milne Channel on You Tube.
          Two other songs with heavy influence from the uplands of St. Ann Parish, Steer Town and St Ann's Bay are:

1.   You Don't Have to Mean It
2.   Too Rude.

              I won't post them here because of Copyright considerations. But check them out!

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne
      All rights reserved.

Monday, July 3, 2017




I don't know whether you know WAIT-A-BIT!,
if not it is of no consequence. For if you know
the North of Canada at all, you probably know a dozen
towns just like it.

There it lies in the Moonlight, sloping up from the Big River,
the Mackenzie River sweeping along its range of mountains
rolling down along its miles of woodlands, the wide river
runs rolling on towards the sea. And silence, the wide
wild silence of the Arctic, tempered by the caw of ravens,
sweetened with the howl of wolves, and seasoned through
all seasons, by endless light and interminable darkness.

There it lies in the Moonlight, sloping up from the
wild river at the foot of the hillside on which the
town is built.

There is a wharf beside the river, and a movable
section of floating wharf which forms a “T”
into the river.

There are three boats upturned beside the
wharf. The boats go nowhere. Men used to
go fishing in them, but the freshwater sharks
that come down from the ocean inhibit
the fish from coming to this corner
of the river.

The bears still catch fish north of here,
ion the shallows where the river runs
very wide. And indeed the 100 pound weasels,
known as wolverines; they have been
seen eating the occasional carcass of a shark.

There's a pair of binoculars at Artie's Bar...
And we watch the weasels cavort over the shark
carcass down the hill on the mudflats by the

The boats go nowhere. The distances are
too great, the immensity is so vast...
So the remaining inhabitants of Wait-A-Bit!,
the ones who have survived ( and I am
lucky to say that I am one) we sit here,
sons and daughters of Intemperance,
and we observe the immensity...

The inhalation of solvents is
discouraged, but the use of alcohol
has been approved of once again,
as being indeed necessary to
contemplate the Eye of the Universe
which is looking back at us.

It's like some of the stories Leacock wrote in the last century, but the environment has changed. The

locus - the town that has been bombed flat by a crazed jealous flyboy. Now the village ( for most

people have left) the village lives in weird enlarged foxholes. Artie's bar still stands. And that's the

one place the pilot wanted his 2000 pound bomb to hit.
As I say the half-mad village of WAIT-A-BIT (they call it that because no one can

remember what the former town was called)
So they decide to wait a bit.... until their memories return.
Each year the village decides to spend its entire budget on alcohol - rather than get electricity.
You get the idea. Think of: "Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town"... then remember: this

place is far more remote and far, far more savage. And it takes an entirely different sense of humour to live here.
Here even the domestic dogs want to kill you!

And that's funny as long as you're inside --- in the foxhole --- 'indoors', as some people say.

Sunday, July 2, 2017


       When you write you cast your mind back to the happenings of another time, & if you focus you'll remember completely, You absorb the feel of the place and of the person you knew then. It's a self-hypnosis in reality. And it works.
             Casting my mind back to my early days in Jamaica, if I think of the vegetation I can see every blade of glass.
              The hoodoo, the voodoo in this is a phrase such as:

          WON'T FORGET TO REMEMBER       

  I've forgotten the name of the brilliant psychologist who taught me this...But he used to work in sports medicine. Reducing pain through the art of self-hypnosis.
        You can use self-hypnosis along with meditation,  SITTING,
to coax the one universal common Mind
to travel to distant places that are deep within.
At first I thought I had to have actually been to a place before I 'remembered' it... But this isn't true. You can intuit other places and travel there when you are in the deep flux of sitting.
I also call this DREAMING WHILE AWAKE.
             No one believes that these fields are accessible to me, but they are. If you wish to travel in this way, it can be done. Sometimes you have to feel out past lives, if you believe in such things.
             As zen master Philip Kapleau said:


And since he paid me a visit the other night when I was sitting here,  I believe him. I felt his presence. And I'm not mistaken about such things much any more. 

               You don't have to cast your mind back always when you write. You can also absorb yourself in the present moment. This might even be a better way to write.

               We're talking about the twilight world
here. And I must admit I love the place.

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne

Saturday, July 1, 2017


 Hangovers help me not to take myself too  seriously.

I DON'T KNOW exactly what I went thru the last week or three days, except here I am at my desk and my testicles ache.

I have about 1,000 pages of erotica. I have to read this very eloquent stuff to see what's going into the upcoming collection called, "TALES OF A SADO-MASOCHIST"  Unless I think of a better title.

Problem is, I start reading my own script and I am taken off to other realms... I can't seem to control it. The sex is so hot I get carried away.
At this rate, the book's gonna take a long time to finish.


I have six hundred drafts of articles/stories. I have to put some of them to bed - so when I'm doing this Writer's Notebook work - please don't expect coherence.

         66% of the prisoners in jail have Hep Cin Ontario. And too often it's three people in a small cell.The one of of three who doesn't have the disease can easily catch it in a month, or two or three months.
        So the government exposes these people to Hepatitis C.  And when a person needs medication to help cure the disease, which he/she caught caught in jail - the government refuses to help that person pay for the expensive medication he needs for a cure.
          Doesn't seem quite fair, does it?

In the dream time that has no time.

"The hero of this book is "TIMELESSNESS."   Henry  Miller

Observing the intersection of the timeless and time: this is the occupation of a saint.  T.S Eliot

His eyes maintain the expression of some unspeakable horror he has witnessed, seen at an undisclosed date... some monstrous reality

          He cannot report on...a dread he can't

                                from WAIT-A-BIT!  writings

        Hank's lips are moving. He's speaking
to himself. It worries me when he mumbles
like that - feels like some kind of stress
madness...And he's been mumbling quite a bit
through the last two nights of winter, fumbling
with the fetish papers he nicked from the preacher's
           A lot of panting and heavy breathing
behind the curtain... I know what these sounds mean, and they're

 perfectly normal, far as I'm concerned.
            It's the frequency of his gasping wrist exercises, this is not normal... 

not doing it all the time like this. It's the obsessive look in his eye he has
as he returns to his corner...this and his constant mumbling.  These factors are irritating and a tad disturbing.


     It's Canada Day. It's been raining so there's a pond in the parking lot across the street. I notice a woman standing there.
     She's looking at a 2 year old boy wearing rubber boots. His boots are splashing in the pond. It takes me way back - to my own children doing similar things - running in the water little rubber boots on... jumping and splashing...
      The mother, with infinite patience, watches
her child at play. I watch also. A moving sight.
And memory takes me there. She stands there for a long time.

(C) 2017 by W.G. Milne

Friday, June 30, 2017


          It was a hot summer that year and my job was to weed the cabbage rows at the Mimico Jail.
I'd made it from maximum security - to medium security. Now I was in minimum security,
but I was still in jail.
       The cabbage rows were really long. And there
were more than twenty of them. But the time I finished weeding the 20th row, the weeds were growing again in the first row. It was 120 degrees out there in the sun. And I was sitting in the earth and weeding.
        I played a little guitar at nights ... in the basement which had a nice echo. Most of the guys in our part of the jail would come and listen. I got wild applause for songs such as, "Big Boss Man."

       "YOU NOT SO BIG

           A lot of the guys in jail were having woman trouble. Their women were fucking somebody else... or at least thinking about it.
This kept us all on edge. Being teased from miles away.
          This jail was the place I wrote "FOREVER AND A DAY." I like this song.
Hope you do, too.
          Peter Rowland's playing lead guitar. I'm on rhythm guitar, singing and playing the harmonica.

(C)1990-2017 by W.G. Milne
      of Johnny Rock and the Angels

Wednesday, June 21, 2017



Once upon a time there was a train
where people could breath and eat with knives and
forks like human beings and we didn’t have the
urge to kill the fat guy on the seat next to us.
      In those days we didn’t have to behave
like farm animals being transported they
know not where, making the sort of sounds
you hear coming from a barn over-packed with  
goats, chickens and cows.. And the grunts of pigs
and the squeals when a foot or a tail was yanked
on stepped upon.
           No. Those were the days of dignified travel.
When we had room. When there was a certain grace
to the dining car.  When passengers could breathe
and have a few thoughts along the way.
          A person might even feel a frisson of
 romance when he heard the lonesome
whistle of the train he was riding on. Bashing through
the deep snows in the winter, watching the pine
forest up  close to the windows, passing by.
 The trip was fun and alive, and tourists liked
it, too.
        No longer.
        Northerners no longer can travel like
normal people. We must skulk
like addicts in small little groups
in the wee small darkest hours past midnight –
to nab a bus which is not packed with people,
a means of travel where we can breathe
A lot of northerners do a lot
of wood chopping. This makes our
shoulders larger than the shoulders
of many southerners.
        As a result you cannot place two
 northern  wood-chopping
males next to each other in two narrow
seats and expect to achieve any kind
of harmony.
         Someone measured my shoulders the
other night (a sordid story I’ll tell you
another time). I am close to three feet across
at the shoulders if I breath in, which I hope
to do when I’m travelling…And I’m not
considered a huge northerner, just a tad ungainly
in that I resemble a gorilla when
I walk.
         So you put me next to
another 240 pound beast from
the Great White North – say Swastika,
Ontario, or Iroquois Falls… well, we get to 
hate each other in thirty minutes.
There simply is not room in bus
transportation to seat two bushmen
        Luckily, people such as we are
tend to bring libation with us – and
so even though there is no room 
to sit down – there is space to lie
down in the aisle – or  you could throw open
the luggage storage shelf above
and lie down there…
        But I have found this makes
the ladies nervous – taking bets
on exactly when the behemoth will
fall and break their mothers’
corning ware all at once and             *** 
once and for all.
Northern women chop wood, too.
And such ladies are quite capable
of knocking a southern liberal out,
if he falls into her lap at an
inopportune time.
      Nope. If the BUS is full
 we’re like BEES in a BOTTLE.
I’d like to know which dingbat
made the decision to remove
trains from the north: the person
who pulled a fast one and turned
northern transportation into a
cruel farce.
      The woman ahead of me
in the bus was making a bit of a
speech to her fellow travellers.
And of course I could hear it 
because I was crammed and
seated in such a way that my nose
was about six inches behind her
left ear.
       She said: “They did it to
punish the north! For not voting
 liberal lately!”
        All the people up front were
talking to her, too, and murmuring agreement. 
         “Whoever did it we owe
him one. We’ll wait…!”she called out rather
 too loudly for what they call ‘polite society’… 
but that didn’t matter.
          We were no longer in polite
society. The bus was stuffed like the
Christmas turkey! I was wondering what
the scene reminded me of… and then I knew.
It reminded me of a bus in a third-world
            In Jamaica, when I was a kid, buses
used to bop along from stop to stop,
careening around blind corners with the
horns blaring. But those buses were fun,
even if you were on the verge of getting killed
every second. Because… you were allowed
to smoke and drink alcohol,  stick
your head out the window and shout to people
in the street. You were even allowed to bring
chickens or a goat on board.
         Also, it was warm, so that helped, too,
if the bus broke down… or if seven or eight of
us had to get out and push the bus the last
hundred feet up a hill. That wasn’t so bad
because of the sunny climate.  
         In Canada, of course, you’d freeze off some
body parts if you attempted this
         The woman up front was shouting 
again. It was impossible to ignore her. 
          “Yes, we’re going to wait!”
The other passengers were cheering.
          I didn’t hear the whole speech
because the guy to the right of me
was breathing garlic into my nostrils.
However he passed me half a mickey of rye
and said, “Go ahead. Finish it!” And I
did… in two large gulps. So the garlic
no longer mattered to me.         
        The woman was standing now.
I couldn’t really move my head, so I 
had to look right at her ass. Her
butt was big, made her look like the ass
of  a mule in blue jeans.
           But we all have our little problems
so I’m not one to judge.
        “Oh, yes, wait we will!” She
was waving her fist in the air. We’ll
vote the bastards out! We’ll get
payback!  We’ll count the days!”

          There was more cheering,
but I didn’t listen any more.
           My mind had moved on
to other things.