Sunday, March 9, 2014


Sunday, March 9, 2014


                         Hank finds a small book with Chinese
designs on the outside. It's a diary. It has a little
lock on it...   it's a pink colour. The kind of 
l;ittle diary book school girls use, when they are
keeping a diary.
              Then at the end of the school night,
they turn the key in the little lock to lock the
pages shut, the lock that keeps her secrets
from mommy and daddy and both her nasty
              Hank turns the key in the lock. He
sniffs the pages. They're a little bit
perfumed, just as a schoolgirl would like.
Hank turns to the first page and starts
to read accounts of his former life...


             I had a big fight at work. Then I quit.
I might have to travel up to Wait-A-Bit and take that
job. At least I'll have some peace and quiet.
            It has to be a quiet little newspaper: 

             "THE RAVEN SCREED!"

            What kind of a name is that? Sounds odd,
worse than odd, it sounds weird. But how weird
can it get in the heart of the country?
            Ah, peace! That's what I need. Put my
feet up and watch the river flow. A little
bucolic beauty, quiet and peace. Peace and
quiet. Might go out at lunch time and
pick some wildflowers... Maybe even
take up photography... get a second floor
window with a view.
           Sit in a cafe after work. Maybe fall in
love with the waitress. I mean, how bad can it


        Hank snorts when he reads this. 

        Frank hears him from across the bunker.

         "Is he laughing?" Franks wonders, "What 
at?" Frank thinks to himself. He hasn't been
laughing much lately. In fact, Hank has been
on the verge of dementia the whole last two weeks...

        Frank watches Hank: "He's not laughing,he's crying!"

             "What are you laughing at?" Frank calls
across the room. Hank's bed is now ten
feet down the tunnel he's been furiously digging
on and off for at least a month now.

           "Oh, nothing. Just a journal I was keeping
in the city..."

             Frank is quiet. He knows he'll get
to see the "Journal" sooner or later. He's
happy to WAIT-A-BIT! Har! Har!
             A storm's been blowing the better
part of five days now.The snow's four feet
high over their porthole... half a foot
of ice on top of that.
             "He'll tell me all he knows in five
more days." Then Frank laughs, thinking about
Uncle Henry - the hanging judge - Wilcox. He
had some dandy expressions!
              For example: "A man can say all he
knows in ten minutes. If he talks any longer,
he's exaggerating!'
              And this: 


              The look of glee he used to have on his
face as he said this! Henry had to laugh. "I never 
thought I'd miss that son-of-a-bitch!"
               "I don't really miss much about him...
the thing I miss is his laugh!" Frank thinks and
stares at the rods of rebar showing through the mud

               Hank looks up watches Frank. Frank
is staring at the wall... reminiscing.
               "He looks like a camel when he does
that!" Hank thinks but says nothing, "A camel
gazing off into the distance across the desert

             DIARY (continued)
             "I'll sit on the porch, smoke a pipe
and watch the sunset. I'll hear the sound of silence...
Silence is golden.
              "Sit out there as the sky slowly darkens,
and the majesty of the stars come out to play...
I'll relax and breath the sweet air. Maybe have a sip
of sweet water... and listen to the call of the loon..."
               Hank is starting to panic. "Saying,'
Things can't get worse than this!' this is a 
very unlucky thing to say. I did't really
mean it. Oh God! I take it back... That's
not what I meant. I meant something else...
I just couldn't express myself
                Hank has learned a thing or
two about the Trickster God from his
native neighbours.
                 At Artie's bar, sitting together,
they tell stories of what the Trickster
has done... Horrible stories about house burnings,
cars sinking in the muskeg... a serious man,
a Prebeterian (sp) who burns his ass on the fire.
             The men are laughing when they
tell Trickster stories. They're laughing, but not
that hard. There's clearly a respect, even
a fear of the Trickster God.
             At first he thought the Trickster stories
were silly.  "There is no God!" he laughed,
"There's no such thing as the Trickster!
Everybody knows this! Where'd you guys
get your education?"
             That remark did not go over well.
Hank was sober enough to see this. The
native men smiled along with him, but their
eyes had grown hard.
               A lot of these guys had been taken
away from their families when they were children,
taken away to Regional Schools. They were
taught their whole way of life was wrong
and evil. And  a lot of these men had been interfered
with sexually... by priests who should have been
looking in the mirror when they spoke about
        . No the 'where'd you get your education?'
remark had not gone over well. But that wasn't
the real problem - it wasn't the reason everybody
had left within ten minutes of Hank's
        The men had left because only a fool
makes fun of the Trickster God. And only
an idiot would drink with such a man.

         Hank noticed that for the next couple
of months, these men kept their distance.

          Frank heard the story afterwards.
And he understood completely what the problem
was. After all, he was the mayor of the town.
Everybody talked to him.
          Frank didn't tell Hank had bad his
faux pas was. He'd explain it to him later,
          "Hank has enough problems already."
Frank thought.
        Frank had seen it all before - various tourists
going through descending moments of horror
and terror. Already he sometimes heard Hank 
whimpering at night. 
         Hank was having difficulty accepting
the reality of his situation. As the John Rock
song, "In this Hotel"goes:

                  And there were no buses here
                   And the train had slipped a gear
                    And the highway is not near!

           No, Hank was already having the night terrors.
Frank could already hear Hank weeping and whining
and praying in a whisper late at night. He didn't
need to hear anything more about the Trickster
God just now... ...
           And he didn't even know about the weasels yet!

(C)2014 by W.G.Milne
     Re: this story, not the
      Blogger format.




Sunday, January 12, 2014



         I got the Fear today.  Most of the time I don't
know it, but I got it with both barrels today. And
it was a very unpleasant feeling.
       Hunter Thompson wrote about the fear. No, Hunter
Thompson S. Thompson wrote about The Fear.
        The Fear = normal terror +  blanket
paranoia + no blood sugar +  psychosis + toxicity.
 This, of course, includes toxic-psychosis
which Frank is fast becoming an expert in. Madness
resulting from being stoned out of your tree.
       Frank has learned lots about the subject,
primarily from experience with the insanity
of his neighbours, Frank tells himself.
Many of Frank's neighbours would say that
the situation is reversed: that they've learned
a lot about toxic-psychosis because of visits
from Frank.
         Santa, the  ex-jailbird and 
criminal attorney, he's even written a book on the subject - about surviving all manner of weirdness including, toxic-psychosis...he now lives just 100 yards up the Main Lane from Frank and Hank's bunker. He arrived by dogsled team in the middle of last week in the middle of a blizzard.
        In the weirdness of some evil drug grasping your brain in its talons...all of a sudden you are in the
grip of THE FEAR.
        Gentle self-talk is useless, and logic has no effect!
on the brain.
         Couple this with a healthy dose of cabin fever...
and you'll know intellectual solutions are useless.
It's time to get right down to the ground of your being,
sit on the earth itself. Sit with your spine
straight and watch the river of your own being
slowly clean itself... and while you're at it,
you might as well start loading your rifle.
Dangers lurk in unseen places. And no place
is more dangerous than the human brain,
when it's on TILT!
           If you've been through at least one
episode of primordial weirdness; if you've
survived your own special blend of toxic-
           For example, if the turkey you're
cooking sits up in the pan... turns that little
light on in the oven... and starts peering at
you through that clear window in the oven
door - you know you're getting toxic-psychosis.
          And then you go back to reading your
book and you hear a whispering. And you look
up and now the turkey's standing in the window
and gives you the finger, then you know you're
gettin' it...And then when you hear the turkey say:
"I WEEL KIEELL YOU!" And he's beckoning for
you to come over across the room, to come, closer than that!
         You know you've got the TOX-PSYCH and
you'd better see an expert to get the cure!

         Then you'll know how Hank has to  deal with most mornings! He's been nutty as a fruit-bat for the last
two weeks. Clocks no longer can be trusted. And the endless bush to the East is calling him again... and the caves of
the people of the Cave-Bear.
Hank writes: "This is a very unpleasant subject at the moment.
I bettor go in search of some major tranks...
or I might fall off the flat of the world...
ooooOOOoooOO! Did someone put something
ugly in my food? Some depraved hallucinogen that gives
a guy the sensation of sitting alone, hot sweaty and
naked...with the spiders coming... and More
Spiders crawling all over my naked skin....hahahahuhuh!
            More spiders crawling in my gut.... and more
scuttling up the road rut, coming, coming, coming
my way....I wonder how they'll taste.
       And me - mortal, mortal, mortal...hee! hee!
and me cats have worms... eeeep! And I been
walkin barefoot in dah kitchun.... ooop! And I going
down like last week's discards at the butcher's...

 Frank thinks, "Oh, oh!"  
He doesn't breath a sound

Hank keeps writing down his secrets :  "See? Whiff of the fear... for you, not me.
More than a whiff for me... For me a real
low blood sugar chemically induced mind-fuck...
Can't talk yer way out of DIS one, Bruno!
        Time for dressing down - like the butcher dresses
(FRANK has snuck up behind HANK and he's reading this
over Hank's left shoulder. He's very careful about
making no sudden noises. Hank might not be able
to shoot, but he's gotten very accurate with an ice
pick... of late.  And he's getting stronger with
 this incessant digging....)

         Oh, the North will make a man out of you...!
And if you already were a man, it'll make you into the
beast you always subconsciously knew yourself
to be....!

         Frank crawls back across the bunker floor....
 Dark thoughts for impenetrable times... Screw it!
I'm going to light one of those horrid yellow candles.
Frank snaps a match alight.

There's a scream from twenty feet down the tunnel!

It's getting bad - any noise, any movement, any
surprise and he comes unhinged - a full-throated
blood curdling scream, like a woman in a swamp
creature horror movie - "Return of the Swamp Thing"...
When the woman first sees the Swamp Thing...The scream! emerging from the murk and the dark...  The scream!
Response to a horrible surprise...

"That's what Hank sounds like when I light a match... what's
he going to do when I shoot something?"

       Frank sits silently back down at the wide shelf which serves as his desk. He drips some wax on the wood. Sets his candle in the hot wax where it stands and burns in
the silence.

"This "dressing down like the butcher,"I don't like that
thought," Frank says

"I don't like that thought, either." Hank replies.

They're both astounded that they've spoken out loud.
If they gave it any thought, they'd be more astounded
that they both are talking about EXACTLY the same thing.

  They don't know they're having a conversation.

Place is much more spacious now that Hank has
entered into his committed digging project.... always
EASTWARD to the east he goes... eastward ho!
eastward, YO! 
He's cleared about twenty feet of tunnel to the east...
What wuz a cozy bunker now looks like some mad
mining project...

FRANK is thinking about some of the thing's he's
read off Hank's notepad... 
"Mortal, mortal, mortal hee hee hee!
 And my cats have worms, are wormy...eep!"

"OK, that's creepy, but it doesn't bother me
too much," Frank thinks, but what was that other
phrase? Oh, yeah...

That's a phrase that'll make you think,
Frank whispers to himself.

Friday, December 27, 2013



                          I want to apologize for my outburst
of insulting talk directed towards various people
and also the reader. I want to apologize
especially to the reader.
           By the way, I've found it and gotten rid of the worst
of it. But it's frustrating. You get ride of one piece
of nastiness, and five  more paragraphs pop out. Yes,
I got rid of one ugly paragraph, only to
find five more take its place, from articles I don't
remember writing...  Kind of like gardening triffids.
You pull out one weed, and bingo!  The ugliness
has spread!
           I must have been in a horrible pre-Christmas
funk. I don't respond well to all the pressures of
Christmas. Why do you think I'm a hermit? I
don't respond well to pressure from any source.
My life has been full or horrendous, diabolical
pressures: 1st from my parents who wanted me to be
a politician; 2nd from girlfiends who EXPECTED
things from me... and 3rd, from the ugly
dark tunnels I lived in with various wives!  Only
when I left each situation did I realize how
miserable I had been!
         Now I live, not pressure free, but close to it.
That's why I have time to write, finally!

         Now briefly I live with a mess of cats. A friend
pressured me into taking the cat. Then I tried to
give the cat back - and that worked for about
a year... But, now the cat has come back to
me pregnant, and last week had seven kittens;
and they're all living in my kitchen....
          Anyway, you don't want to hear
about the smell and stuff like that. But
let me tell you this: if I can smell it must
be bad!
          In the past I have taken various
medications up my nose, and maybe
took a tad too much of certain medications.
The result of the whole thing is I don't
have much of a sense of smell...
well, you can imagine the rest.
          I'm not going to let the cat situation
develop into another form of pressure...
I'm getting pretty slick.  Pressure slips
off my back.... Ha! Ha! At least so far

          The whole thing about writing
and about life is to work things
until you get into a flow experience.
Whether it's the flow of words, or the flow
of lovemaking, or the flow of a healthy
sport - running, cycling, and tennis -
the idea is to work it until you get into
the ZONE.
          The Zone is a flow experience,
and, as I say, this is the aim.

          Now that combination of Wray and
Nephew overproof, full strength,  white
rum from Jamaica (you can light a lantern with it!);
gout in the knee - the pain of gout in the
knee can drive you mad; and a good
solid does of  biorhythms moving into mania...
well, I had a flow experience, all right.
           The agony of gout in the knee;
the clean-headed drunkenness of the
overproof, and the high-paced
metabolism of mania. Rather than shouting
out the pain, I was writing it out into a
stream of intensity that no moral arbiter 
in the mind, and no mental editor could cope
            Looking back on it, it was an
interesting experience, but no way
do I want to go back into that
wild state of mind.
           What I will do is go over
the sixty or so pages I typed up
instead of screaming or swinging
from a chandelier.... and see how
much of it has been published...
That's the plan.   
           And it may take some time.    
          But let me say, I don't think anybody is stupid
to read my stuff when it is unedited. Sorry about
that.  Truth is, some of my best stuff comes out unedited.
That's when I'd read if I wanted to learn about writing
           Frankly, it's smart to read the unedited pages,
if you can stand the incoherence.  I was throwing pages 
out around the room - like a maniac.
You should see this place!
                    My theory is you edit nothing at first.
Then hopefully go over it, with a blue pencil, and THEN
publish it. (I know they don't use a blue pencil
anymore.) Or at the very least -DON'T PUBLISH
maybe getting loaded and starting to
turn ugly.
           It's taken a lot of years to learn how 
to write the way I wanted to - as I speak, myself -
and other people speak.  It's best to learn
hanging out with hookers, drug dealers and the
strong arm boys.
           Most street corners, you'll find them.
           The trick is to not get stabbed, robbed,
or have unprotected sex. If you're going
to have street sex, do it in such a way
that you don't catch anything terminal.
             I guess you could argue that death
is a flow experience, but it's not
what we're looking for right now.
           I want to write the way people talk - minus 
a few expletives.  Sometimes, of course,
you have to leave all the four letter swear
words in - if you're in the middle of the action,
or writing an intense argument. In other words,
there are times when you can't much out at
              What's his name?-Keruoac  had a theory
that he wanted to bring it all out unedited, and it's
claimed he more or less did. I don't believe that.
But maybe he came close.
               Some other writers: Jean Genet came close also
in, Our Lady Of The Flowers...who else? Henry Miller, at times.
 Salinger .The guy who did, "Monkey House", Vonnegut,  
sounds like he's doing it, He's not, his stuff is well crafted, but
he sounds like he's talking straight to the reader.
                   Hemingway, great with the straight
narrative - telling what's happening etc: not so good
with the dialogue.  But you can argue that
point. I don't know why I brought him up.
His work is edited many times.
                   Celine, also, very much so in "A Long Day's
Journey Into Night" , that brilliant book! He sounds like
he's having a relaxed conversation with the
reader.  Seeming like you're talking right to the read
and being unedited - the two things are related
but they're different issues.
                    Both Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs
visited Celine in France in the mid 50s...
he was one  the fathers of writing
with slang and clipped street rhythms -
in order to achieve  the flow.   
                  Stephen King and Elmore Leonard
both very street-sounding dialogue, and you gotta
love them for it. Elmore Leonard's novel-talk
makes you feel like you're in the same
room with him, having a relaxing drink.

                Anyway,   the disgusting images
and the ugly/nasty narrative
the unnecessary rudeness
that was the flow that was natural
to the pained, ugly mood I was in...
But I should have edited it
                  Plenty of women have left me
for this very thing. I come on like a schoolboy,
then a month goes by... and I step into my
natural mania, drink some Seagram's Rye,
and then soon afterwards, have gout in the
knee and...
                 Then I tend to shout...and wave a
cane around...One time  I drove  down a
fairly busy highway - driver's door was open
and I was swinging an axe at other cars, who
were coming too close to my knee.
  And that was just gout in the
knee ... with no other added fuels!

          To be honest, if I wanted to be a writer -
I'd see if I  could get a glimpse of unedited
manuscripts at the library... when you
see a page of the first manuscripts, you'll
see how badly even excellent writers
start out... then watch their improvement
when you see the actual book        
        I'm normal now and clearheaded, coming
out of  depression or mania can be like
coming out of a tunnel.
       But it was worth exploring - the stream
of rude nasty ugliness - it's still a flow
          Anyway, sorry for the excessive
rudeness. I'll read the articles over and
get rid of the worst of it. 




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