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 monster-sized ex-jailbird and 
criminal attorney, he's  written a book about surviving all
manner of weirdness including, toxic-psychosis...
        For example,the weirdness of some evil drug grasping the brain in its talons...all of a sudden you are in the
grip of THE FEAR. And you're in Santa land.
        Gentle self-talk is useless, and logic has no effect!

         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 clear... 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-
psychosis... then there are certain things
that you know; you are experienced in matters
that are very hard to describe. What you can
do is describe similar experiences, because your
own experience will be too horrifying to delve into -
and you will not willingly enter into that
evil country again...
           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...
        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 TOXIC-PSYCHOSIS and
you'd better see an expert QUICK to get the cure!

         Then you'll know what most mornings are like
for Hank! 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... The caves of
the people of the Cave-Bear - a place from which there is,
all too often, no returning!
        Hank writes: "This is a very unpleasant subject at the moment. I'd bettor go in search of some major tranquillizors...
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  rut of the road, 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
He's reading this disturbing passage
from the dark behind Hank.

           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 me to be dressing down - like the butcher dresses down...meat!"
         (FRANK's 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 Hank 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... 
Frank's thinking, " What's
he going to do when I shoot something?"

       Frank sits silently back down at the wide shelf which is 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.

        The bunker 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. "That's a phrase that might
make you ditch your roommate!"

Friday, January 10, 2014


        Any commitment to Northern Ontario is a commitment
to the transportation of people across the North. 
       Is this a losing proposition?
       Of course, it's a losing proposition,
if we look at the situation using a very narrow perspective.
If we look at the costs of transporting one person
to South Porcupine, Ontario, assessing the costs of the
entire railroad against that one person: well, the
costs are enormous...
       But we always knew that. When we built a railroad
4,000 miles across Canada, we knew the costs would
be enormous... but there would eventually be a major
upside. Yes, there would be an upside... And do you
know what the upside would be called?
        It would be called Canada.
         That one man the railroad drops off in South Porcupine,
Ontario, might be a prospector - prospecting for diamonds,
uranium, or gold. If this one man discovers a diamond
mine, how much did it cost to transport that man
to South Porcupine?
        The figures change quite rapidly...the expensive
trip becomes a highly profitable trip, But of course
this is not a matter simply of profit and loss...
the railroad is  the fabric that holds this
country together...And not just freight rail, but
passenger rail.

           The question becomes - what is the
cost of not binding this country together?
What is the cost of having no passenger rail
service to areas that have no highways?
           Living in Toronto, it's hard to imagine
the disaffection of one person walking along
the track where the railway used to run,
walking through five feet of snow with nothing
but a big coat, boots, a 1917 303 rifle and
safety matches in a canister in your
inside pocket - with no sound ....
           No sound except the howl of the wind
whipping granulated snow in your face... and
the sound of your own heartbeat, beating
in your brain with every step growing more
          And why?

          Because some incompetent in Toronto
made a mammoth mistake organizing Ontario Hydro -
a 2 Billion dollar mistake...No, the party
really don't want to talk about that one!
          So what happens?
          Passenger rail service in Northern Ontario picks up part of the tab for a major miscalculation made in the South.
          Is that right? Is this what is happening? Or was
closing Ontario Northland a punitive measure?
          I simply do not understand why the government is closing such an essential service, when the monies lost
running Ontario Northland are such an insignificant
amount comparatively. I mean, we're talking a loss
of  millions, not billions.
          Perhaps someone from the current Ontario
government could explain the logic they're using.
Becuase it doen't seem logical to me.
         We'll get into the exact figures later.

Thursday, January 9, 2014


        I've always wished we had a word in English
that meant "heart-mind"
       Or soul-mind with feeling:  "Heart-Mind-Soul"
An aware, perceptive state of feeling that unifies
with all things... A feeling Mind One with the Universe...
We don't have such a word, unless we incorporate a word such as, "prajna" into English usage.
       The word, "Mind", used alone in our language
has a feelig of coldness to it, which I do not mean
when I say phrases such as, "It is necessary to realize
the Mind of Christ." I mean heart-mind.
Anyway, here's a poem I want to share with you.

Finding Home

The peace that passeth understanding
And that place, this place,
This state of soul, heart-mind above
This realization, soul state
         thru Grace
Can really be reached...
All that is necessary is utter trust
          and giving over completely
To your Self, the True One, the Christ
          the One who we are
           and who is with us

Finally Odysseus
Traveller on uncharted, wine-dark
Seas, comes Home,
Beyond confusion
And Home is not a place
But a state of soul.


       O.K. O.K. One thing you have to admire
about cats is their totally focused attention
to detail.... every little thing is done
with awareness of mind.
     Zen masters are compared to cats
for this very quality .

           One thing I've got to say...
(I can't pretend to be an idiot all the time...
even if it is a role I enjoy and slip into 
 easily) ... you can learn something
by watching a cat closely...Especially
this mother, she won't eat herself
she watches her seven babies eat first.
      The babies don't think to return the

       I remember talking to this big
band leader standing by a cottage
he'd given to his sons. He said:
"One father can take care of seven
children... Seven children can't take
care of one father."
        Smart man. Witty. I always 
respected him. He played a great
trumpet. He died just weeks after
making this statement.

     And can we get any more depressing?
Sure we can! But not today.

      The slow, gentle movements... the
utter concentration...the patience.
What is it about this cat's consciousness
that's different? What can I say
about this being that is exceptional?
      (1) she is so completely there/here.
      (2)her consciousness is not divided:
          she is so completely herself.
      (3)she does not have a divided soul.
       (4) she does not have piggy-back consciousness;
            ie: she doesn't watch herself doing things.

        No. Instead she watches me... 

Wednesday, January 8, 2014


         Now I have eight cats in my kitchen.
And to tell you the truth, I never much liked
cats...but I've learned to like them a bit.
         The fact that, if I were to die in these rooms,
these eight supposedly friendly little beasts
would have my bones picked clean before next
week - this does tend to influence
my already jaded judgment.
            Years ago, when I used to cleanse myself,
dress in clean clothes, give salutations to the sun
etc., etc...I would then take a massive dose of
LSD and sit quietly facing east
and wait for BLAST-OFF!
         I'd then run across the fields and hills of
snow, freezing temperatures... I'd run up
to the nearest snow fence and then I'd rip
an eight foot t-shaped steel post out of the frozen
ground and run to the top of the nearest hill,
where I remember letting out a howl of glee, 
and triumph and menace - in order to intimidate
all the wildlife in a radious of about eight miles.
I was spoiling for a fight. I was daring something
to attack me ... three or four wolves, perhaps, or
ten coyotes.
           The howl, I'm told was loud enough,
and just gleefully primevil enough, to have
neighbours five miles away calling the district
     Ah, well, they weren't my neighbours.
I lived farther north.

         But to get to the point, I remember
returning to the farmhouse at the bottom of
the hill in the dark, with very little
ambient light... The same conditions I could see
clearly in hours before when I was beginning
my long circular hilltop trek of howls, the same
light now seemed almost impenetrable darkness
to me...
             So after a good workout, running and howling
over the snow for five miles and more, I returned
to the farmhouse of my hosts. I stepped inside
and about five cats were staring at me across
someone else's kitchen floor.
             Not a word was said. I stood there quietly
inside the kitchen door.  All I did was return the stare
of these luminiscent-eyed feline beasts, pretending to be
             Well, they weren't fooling me! I wanted to
kill, but I didn't move a muscle. I didn't
have to - just by my staring at them, the
cats started sprinting back and forth across
the living room... 
           I watched, growing more agitated by
the moment. I wanted to join the chase,
hunt them, pursue them and devour them.
          I didn't. Instead, the perfect house guest
at 3:00A.M., I shouted out like a drill instructor: 
        "Would someone come and take these cats before
I kill them all!"
          Several women ran down in their nightgowns
from the second floor, and nabbed their little
darling housepets and got them the hell out of the
way - of the 200 pound, six foot, well-co-ordinated
raving monster who was going to eat
the eyes of their sweet little furry friends.

        Ah, but that was twenty years ago, and it's
hard to find acceptable acid now-a-days. AND THE
        I've fed the little bastards about ten
times  today already, refilled the water, removed
the huge clumps of catshit... 
       It's 8:00P.M. now and I'm just cooking my own breakfast...whereas these
little beasties have eaten about a pound and a half
of my meat already...
             And the mother still has the nerve...
             The mother of seven meat-eating 3rd week
kittens has the nerve to STARE at me EXPECTANTLY...
as if saying, "Well, what's wrong with you, fool? Do your
job!  Can't you see we're a little peckish..."
              I can see the staring eyes of that mother
cat right now, even though their room is in
darkness... expecting me... expecting me... expecting....
staring, wanting more, more, more...
              And I can't blame the mother much. Because
soon as I fill the large bowl with soft foot, seven kittens
are in the bowl...The mother watches patiently...
I can't believe her self-sacrifice and patience. I'm
not patient.... and I don't need any more
expectant eyes on me!

            OK, I finally had breakfast at 9:00P.M.
About cooking a pound of rare lean hamburger... And the
little pricks wanted that as well!

                                  (to be continued, you'd better believe it!)

Tuesday, January 7, 2014


          In dentistry and in hockey, good hands are essential.
Both professions involve unimaginable pain. In hockey we
like to see the pain. In dentistry... not so much.
          I went to see my dentist this morning.  Things have
gotten a lot better in the modern dentist`s office. Agony is no longer an expected event.
          Of course, agony is always better when it`s unexpected.         

          I`m lucky. My dentist has good hands. He can be agile and careful. He doesn`t tend to lurch as he`s walking across the rug... And he doesn`t lunge at you suddenly, when you least expect it, when he has a sharp
implement in his hand.
            "Laughter is the best medicine." That`s the maxim. 

             It doesn`t always apply in dentistry          

             I  find I`m often giddy when I show up at the dentist . I tend to talk too much and blurt out odd statements, like: "I love to hear my sister vomit, she really shouts it out. She makes guttural sounds you can hear across the street!
 It's almost worth the three hundred mile trip for that alone!"
          I'm giddy probably because deep down inside my body is bracing itself for some REAL PAIN...  Real Pain is mostly
a thing of the past, but not always...

              If  you have gout in the knee, you know Real Pain.
If you are engaged in childbirth, you know Real Pain.
               I'm told agony in dentistry went out with those
rubber band drills or woven rope drills and pretend
freezings that didn`t work.

          Those old magnifying glasses extenders
that gave the dentist a really good view of your teeth -
and gave you  an immaculate examination
of the  nose hairs of your doctor. If he is a doctor...
they're mostly gone, too.
             My last dentist turned out NOT to be a doctor
at all.... I was starting to wonder about him. I swear
I used to hear the sound of laughter over the high-
pitched  howl of his drill, or the low-pitched rumbling
 drone of his more primitive drill.
          (I later learned the low-pitched drill had been
outlawed decades before. It was illegal to use it
on humans or farm animals...  ... 
           In this respect it was similar to the elastrator...
But I digress... )
           I`d sit in his waiting room and listen carefully,
pretending to read a magazine. I`d hear the shudders
and surprised squeals of his unseen patients. And then
the low groan that sounded as if it came from a
400 pound man.
          I`m thinking,  "What`s he doing - working at
two patients at once in there? A six year old child and
a wrestler? I mean, mercy!... mercy me!"
         It got so I started taking my lunches into that waiting
room. I knew something was weird and strange. As
your Roving Reporter it is my duty to investigate such
events, such warps in the fabric of time, such weaves

         I saw many mothers with small children. I saw
them have to leave in a hurry.  I`d watch with complete
absorption the poignant scenes... 
        To see a male child, more or less innocent at
the age of four... play with the bright plastic ducks
and inflated balloons in the corner of the old
doctor`s  apparently cheerful rest area... 
        To see the expression  on the 
little toddler`s face as he heard
the high pitched whine as the  modern drill
 did its work
         To see the child`s expression mature as 
the drill started to howl and scream like
some sort of  electronic whistle... and the realization
was setting in: "that was no mechanical device,
that was a human scream."
        The little fellas would start
to bawl and scamper and look around in all directions...
 and back out slowly, slowly towards the door...
       The look of recognition in the child`s face
was priceless.The kid knew the game had changed
he was no longer in mommie and daddy`s parlour...
He was in a different world where unspeakable dangers lurked... even under the plastic chairs and the bright lights. 
      Something medieval had crept into the little tot`s existence and there was no disguising the fact.  No phony
reassurances from his mama
were going to be believed.
          Soon as a new customer walked in
the little tike bolted for the door.  He had no trouble
walking on two legs now. He was running like
he was in the Preschool  Olympics. The mother
had to get up quick, or she`d never catch her son.

          I could hear her running down the
carpeted hall, calling after her child, "Nemo! Nemo!"
Nemo had made his escape and turned the corner
toward the elevators.

           Imagine my surprise one lunch hour
when the police suddenly came in. Six
of them in uniforms and two guys in raincoats
 entered the waiting room.
          They didn`t wait.
          They walked down the doctor`s hall.
 Immediately one was reading the Miranda
warning in a loud voice.  Two more cops were opening
their handcuffs. And was it my imagination
or was one of them carrying a butterfly net?
           No,  I`m sure that was just in my mind.
I don`t remember that part too clearly, as
soon as the cops showed up
I didn`t stick around.

         My new dentist has a genuinely good sense of humour
and that`s always a delightful surprise. But
humour can be a dangerous thing in a dentist`s office,
especially when patients  already have a tendency towards
giddiness and panic.
        The doctor cracks a joke.  When I`m in the chair, I want to tell another. But of course I can`t speak a word
with at least two hands in my mouth. The most I can manage
is an inarticulate mumble.  I find myself shaking with laughter, though I can`t say a thing.
        I try not to make any sudden movements
when the drill is in my mouth.
           A loud noise, perhaps, or glimpsing
a motion out of the corner of my eye - anything
sudden - can revive an atavistic terror. That terror is
of course more appropriate to standing among ancient Indian
 artifacts  and totem poles in the late evening,  than it is
sitting in a modern office.
       Or standing beside one of the heads on Easter Island around midnight in the absolute darkness, when there are 
no sounds - (that`s when you remember the sacrificial
platform down below) - terror is appropriate at such times - but not in a competent modern dentist's office...
when the man actually is a dentist.
                If sudden fears do arrive, this may result
in sudden movements. That`s when you appreciate
a dentist with good hands and quick reflexes. I do subtle
tests when I`m sitting in the chair, to make sure
the doctor`s reflexes are up to par for the day`s
            These tests are totally subjective and I
invite you to make up your own. 
             Here are a few of my favourites:

        (1) Pretend to be dropping a glass of water
and carefully notice how quickly his hand reaches
yours to catch it;
        (2) Carefully examine his retinas, make sure
they are not pinpricks or overly dilated.... If you're
reading this text, chances are you already have
considerable experience in judging the
various hierarchies of intoxication, so use the
observation skills you have already learned.
         (3) Toss him a ball briskly, as you enter his
office - see which hand catches the ball. Make
sure he is using the same hand he catches with
when he places a sharp implement into your mouth...
make sure he's not using his good hand to fondle
the buttocks of his attractive assistant, behind your
back, where you won't notice... it's not so safe for you, if
 he's inserting his less coordinated hand into
your mouth with a razor sharp pick in it;

           (4)  Make sure he's not a sadist, 
I've been informed by a psychiatrist that professional
dentists are the one person sadists most often
 pretend to be, when they act as charlatans and draw up
phony degrees to place impressively on their
waiting room walls... anybody can put up a
diploma. So it's best to check names and birth dates,
accents and countries of origin.
              When I started harbouring dark
suspicions about my former dentist, as I said earlier,
I started having my lunches in his waiting room for
a period of some weeks. Doing so, I was able to
observe his laughter patterns.
             A laughter test is this: if you shout out
a sudden grunt of agony, your true sadist will
invariably laugh. If he laughs each time you
moan in pain - you've got him! He's not
a real dentist. 
           He's a sadistic charlatan,
who has not yet learned to control his
laughter when a patient screams in pain.

         The true professional dentist and
his assistants  will have learned how to
disguise their laughter, control it,
and hide it behind a thin  professional


                                                                                                         RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED, RRR
****NOTE: If you liked this story you'll love "SANTA'S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE"!
             This story is one of the chapters.