Sunday, July 31, 2011



        I was looking at my profile  some place and I saw the words: "Singer, Poet, Mystic, Rhythm guitar." And maybe it was early in the morning before my coffee, or maybe it was a low blood-sugar moment, or an instant of terminal guilt, but I thought the word, "mystic" was pretentious, and I removed it...
        Then I was thinking, "Jesus, the word, "poet" can be pretty pretentious, too!" And hell, yes, that's right - some people are poets some of the time, but are there any people who are poets all of the time?  Certainly not me. And not anybody I've ever met or read about, read, or written about either.... No.... Yeats worked pretty hard at it, and all in all you'd have to sum him up as a poet, but he was an idiot some of the time, just as I am.
         Willie Shakespeare, well there's a guy who almost thought entirely in poetry, but he had his dark spots, too - moments of really, angry, hopeless despair. But read his sonnets and tell me he's not a poet, well. no one's going to tell me that. And Coleridge, look at his essays
on various forms of meter, and he's a duck you really have to call a poet; just look at the focus and concentration he put into his trade. He got pretty good results, too.
         So the word poet fits, somehow, but the word, 'mystic'?  Who on God's Green Earth
would ever be presumptious enough to call himself/herself that?

          Well, take my time in Bali, for example.
           Bali is a beautiful mostly green island in the midst of Indonesia. Indonesia is a huge Moslem culture,  and marketplace in south east Asia.
             Bali is primarily Buddhist; and the people of Bali consider their Island to be the centre of the earth, maybe of the Universe
             One of the most sacred sites on Bali, however is the bat cave. Apparently the bat cave runs the entire length of the island and there are millions of bats in it (no exaggeration). And these are not North American sized bats, these fellas are quite a little bit bigger and faster.
              My friends and associates were throwing a big party on the beach, lighting a large bonfire. There was to be live music, lots of good food, wine, rice wine, hallucinogenic substances from natural sources, dancing, swimming, a real hoe-down to watch the tides come and go on the beach and the sun set and rise and set again... Lots of attractive women, etc., etc..
               Did I go? No!
               I sat outside the bat cave with water and nuts and a small pillow, so I could sit very still. I was there two hours before dusk, so I could see millions of bats swoop off and leave the cave. I sat fifteen feet away from an altar which was just covered in bat shit.
               The mouth of the cave was about twenty (20) feet in diameter. And when evening came, I sat very still and watched an unbelievable outpouring of bats out of the cave. I must admit to feelings of deep fear and terror. I put a rag between my teeth and bit down upon it
to stop myself from making horrible sounds.
                The outpouring lasted well over forty minutes. When I stood up, finally, my legs were shaking. I walked over to a steep hillside and watched the party from a distance. Two hours before dawn, I was sitting again and I felt the wind of an almost solid stream of bats returning to the large cave opening.
                 Once again I sat very still for hours.

                  Now you might think only an idiot would do something like that, when there was a perfectly good party going on nearby. I certainly was considering the nature of my own idiocy for a good part of the night.
                   But when the bats were flying, there was no time for such thoughts - my "piggy-back consciousness" had entirely disappeared. And I have to say, something touched me that night, more than just bat-wings. Perhaps I was waiting for the Voice of the One Who Is Creating Us to whisper something in my ear.
                    At any rate, I pulled vigils like this at different places all over the planet - a sacrificial platform on Easter Island, the steps of the burning ghats at Varanasi, well before dawn. And I have to say, at some spots, vision did come. And other places nothing much arose.
                    One thing I can say for sure is that "places of power" exist on this planet.
                     And it turns out there is such a place, here in my own back yard.

                      See Article - Archeological Find at Trout Lake, northern Ontario, Canada.
                       Now, let's be honest. The above noted attempt at mystical Realization is an example, of a young man still in the kindergarten of the School of Mystics, if there were such a school in the West, which there is not. (Although there is quite a reputable Zen Temple in Rochester, New York).
                       This article is so silly, I'm going to have to stop writing it.
                        Caveat Lector.

Saturday, July 30, 2011



               O.K, they  came to me out of the mists the other night at 3:00A.M., also out of the forensic wards of a major educational hospital located in the environs of the Province's Capital. And if that isn't vague enough for you, let me also say that this event was long ago and far away ha! ha! and well beyond the statute of limitations of all independent nations which speak in recognizable tongues.
               What was being said to me in the middle of the night was scarcely recognizable. But it sounded like this: "There is a woman who feels she must be branded.... in order to achieve what all women wish to achieve." (This blog is now available to all ages, so we must be delicate)
                "We've had her locked up for the past seven months, but we really do not feel justified in holding her any longer. She's basically an intelligent, witty, delightful person - with just one horrible and monstrous and psychic black hole of an obsession."
                 "Sound's interesting," said I. I just happened to be up at that hour, the  "hour of the dead"
in most hospitals, "Tell me more."
                 "Well, we tried ECT on her. (This means electrical shock therapy) And she seemed to enjoy it! Not the shock itself, of course, because she could scarcely feel that - but the idea of being strapped down to a table, fed a tongue depressor, and being hit with something that made her quiver and spasm..."
                  "I understand! I understand!" I say. I believe in shock therapy myself, but I am not licensed to administer electro-shock. I believe more in what I call,  MINDSHOCKS, sudden,
surprising moments that blow all thought out of the human brain, rather like a high pressure hose cleaning out the cylinders and pistons of the gasoline engine. I guess you can say I believe in "Blowing The Mind" as we used to call it, but only in a positive way and for a positive result - to facilitate further and better flow.
                    "She got it in her mind," the Good Doctor was saying, "That only by being tried down naked over a rock and branded on the buttock... could she ever achieve the orgasm she very definitely needs, and one might even say, ' requires'."
                      This called for a drink from the office bottle, which I keep in several hidden drawyers
in the counter beside my desk. (There is more than one office bottle). I pass the goblets around and I pour the brandy. Only brandy will do at such a time of inveterate introspection.
                        I asked the psychologist if she understood the direction this conversation was taking, and boy did she ever! She was ahead of me.  She said, "I vill go downstairs 'maintenant' and light
ze bed of coals."
                         "First a toast!" We all stand. And raise our glasses... "To science!" I say. We all clink glasses and drain our cups."
                          Our psychologist went downstairs. I heard a door slam and then the sound of the heavy garage door opening slowly at the end of its chains.
                           You must light the coals in an airy space.

                            "Where is she?" I ask the altruistic scientist.
                             "Over there!" he points out the window. I walk over and look down. Ye Gods there is a paddy wagon parked in the middle of my driveway!
                              "Of course, she must be restrained... always." says the good doctor.
                               "Understand," I say, "But at least let's turn off the lights!" Flashing blue lights
were circling across the trees and the lake and my neighbour's bedroom window. Oh, and there was my neighbour sitting on his porch steps, staring listlessly at the emergency vehicle.
                                It's O.K. My neighbour is also a medical man. He understands such urgencies.
But was he questioning his association with me, even back then? It was impossible for me to tell.

                               The psychiatrist spoke into a small radio in the inside of his lapel. The lights
went off immediately.
                                I do not think it's prudent that I finish reporting this entire case at this time. But let me only say, the woman was unshackled and then shackled again in a more compromising position. She did achieve her goal, but it was not exactly as she had imagined it would be.
                                 I must caution my readers that Fetish and reality can be disappointingly different. And only a very rare person will achieve orgasm the moment a branding iron touches her bare flesh. The pain is extreme and intense beyond all imagining, and not really conducive to pleasure of any kind.
                                   It is the aftermath which is sometimes rewarding.   

                                                                                              Case 7:  Respectfully submitted.



Friday, July 29, 2011


                I just spent 48 hours in the most mind-numbing pain imaginable. Every time  I put my foot down to attempt a step in the midst of a dark night, in a dark forest, in a pitch- black cabin above a dark lake; every time I put a little w eight on my left foot, the whole world would brighten noticeably.
                It was as if there was a 40 watt bulb inserted in unseen track lighting in the back of my skull. And that bulb was connected directly to my swollen left foot, ankle and toe. And every time I put weight on that foot (which was swollen up like a like a ten sausage boil) the incandescent bulb in my brain  would brighten noticeably
                 There I was standing on a flat rock circled by eight 100 foot red pine trees my foot'd
squeeze down on the ancient granite of the Laurentian Shield, and all of a sudden the forest was bright all around me... And I'm thinking, "Jesus, who turned on the lights?"
                 And the forest wasn't just suffused with light, but a strange intensity of sound helped light up all the trees as well, And after a few seconds of this strange experience of light and sound, all washing around the trees and lighting up towards the heavens, I realized that I was hearing the magnified sound of my own scream, which in some mystic way, penetrated the rocks and trees around me.
                 I was on crutches and as I lifted my left foot off the ground, the forest darkened and I couldn't see so well, and the wall of sound disappeared. But as I took the next step, all was brightness once again...

                It's a strange sensation, and it's one I'm sure that many of you have had when agony suddenly fills your being and pain rings your torso like a gong. At such times you hardly even notice the sounds you make because pain is the more immediate reality, the deeper existential fact.
               Now I come from an ancient northern people, a tribe that has known about pain from the beginning - a sudden mind-numbing pain such as you feel when some fool strikes you across both shins with a steel bar... everything goes quiet for a second or two, then there is this strange brightness and sound that seems to come from everywhere at once.
                The reason my family has always loved to focus on such events of sudden hideous unimaginable agony, is this: such surprise gifts from the cosmos of sheer, unexpected mind-twisting  pain, such moments are, almost entirely, the  source of the sense of humour of my
                 Uncle Fred tried to kill a large ugly fly against the wall of a log cabin, and as he swung
the bottom of the saucepan (8 inches in diameter) in an attempt to crush the fly, he connected with cousin Walt's forehead instead of the fly.
                  There had to be about twelve of us sitting around the woodstove drinking a mix of moonshine, alcools, and various juices ( called a "Purple Jesus Punch"). And after Fred connected
there was silence for three seconds, and the sound of a gong, then a wave of hilarity such as I had never heard in my entire life up to that point. Several guys were rolling on the floor; one man fell out through the door. And my entire  extended family was screaming with laughter, crying they were laughing so hard - laughing so that they couldn't catch their breath.
                It's one of those moments that stays with you for the rest of your life, and always gets a response out of you, if the person survives the event, and sometimes even if he doesn't. It's as if God's Flyswatter comes down and, "WHACK!" it's all over. And even if death occurs, if you look closely around the family circle, you'll notice that most of the buggers are surpressing a laugh

                As I was making my way out of the woods, down a goat path towards the lake, each time I stepped on the hot swollen foot, the night'd light up and my screams would fill the trees.
                 It was a forty hour ordeal without alcohol or painkillers, and about a six hour wait in the hospital with sweat running down my back, and down my forehead and between my eyes, trying all the while not to scream and scare the kiddies in the emergency room.
                    A few low-pitched quavering grunts of pain did escape my lips every twelve minutes or so when I moved my leg; and it was enough  to make two or three infants cry, but that was about it. I noticed that after about 2 1/2 hours they moved me into a back room, where I waited another 3  so hours. My hideous bellows were more acceptable back there.
                      I must say though, the experience of 40 continuous hours of agony, clears your mind in a most surprising way. Even now, back at my office, after I have swallowed a handful of anti-inflamatories of the highest strength available, even now the room seems preternaturally bright, as a thunderstorm sweeps the streets outside. I must say (now that's  its over), that it was a cleansing experience, rather like the rain just now below...
                       Ha! Ha! The experience of that quarter mile portage, dragging a canoe through the night, bellowing like a mad ox and swinging my axe at the stars - well, it will be one of those 'special' moments of my life. You never forget experiences of mind-bending  pain. And now that it's over (Oh please say that it's over!) I've already started to almost chuckle about it.
                       Well, no that's bullshit. It's too soon for laughs. All I get is quavers of fear, and I fall forward on my knees and beg and spit up flem at the same time.
               Then when I scuttle back and crawl up onto my chair in the twilight, a sense of holiness fills the room...                                                     
                This is how we pray in the north.
                                                                                                                             Caveat Lector.

Thursday, July 28, 2011



            The difference between being  (A) Being "Born Again"  and (B) experiencing  Christian  "Realization" is a great difference. A great divide separates the two.
             (A) The path of most modern day Christianity is the path that leads to the "born again"
experience. What is necessary for this path is to follow the principles of the "established Bible"
with blind obedience.
                  Unfortunately,  blind faith leads often to further blindness - the acceptance of "Creationism", six thousand years back to the garden of Eden and a world created in seven days. It's Daddy's World. And you know what?  There's nothing really wrong with blind obedience in daddy's world. I'm a daddy myself; and I do appreciate it when my children do what they're told, when they're told.
                  So long as they remain children, that is!
                  You have to say "no" to kids  or they don't feel loved. Also you have to say no or most kids wouldn't live past the age of 8.
                    But blind faith only takes a person  so far. There's a big difference between  'trusting' that things are all right and 'knowing' that things are all right.
                     Now that we are adults, and we know how to cross the street ourselves, neither the Church nor the Government needs  to keep ugly facts from us, unless, of course. they have something to hide!

                      (B) The path of Realization. Realization comes from  "a great spirit of inquiry." It is what happens at the end of the Grail Quest.  Christian Realization exists, though millions might argue otherwise. But in the spirit of honesty, Christian Realization does not differ much from Buddhist or Hindu "Enlightenment"; kensho or satori also exists in Islamic terms, which a study of the Sufis will make plain.
                        There is a purpose to the dance of the whirling dervish, and that purpose is to clear the surface mind and allow for "inquiry" deeper and  deeper into the psyche of the dancer.
Think of it in terms of "the zone" fine athletes all over our Globe understand' start with the zone,
an awareness without thought, then allow the mind to go deeper.
                         At the end of the journey, there is Realization. The problem with being born again is this: it's the same person who is born again. Realization involves a change of identity, so it's a very different animal.

                          This is what the earliest Christians taught, make no mistake. Now they are derided as being "gnostics". But the gnostics were just early Christians seeking a "knowing experience" of the Christ, who they knew to be their ultimate identity. Not some special  teacher with miraculous powers, but rather a heart-mind so basic as to be the eternal reality of all men and women. 
                          And when the Christ, the Anointed One, is known to be the basic reality of all men,
is this not the real proof of His divinity?And we are linked  to the Same? If this divinity is the innermost nature of us all, then what's the problem?  We don't need to study the life of a teacher who lived 2,000 years ago.  We don't need more priests! 
                          We need Modern Shamans, guides who can lead us on that longest journey - to the place that is closest of all - our inner Home, our soul, our innermost nature:  God within. "Cleave a block of wood, I am there. Lift up a stone and you will find me there." Gospel of Thomas.
                           In the east, when a person says, " I have found the answer, I am Buddha! Between heaven and earth I alone exist" he is congratulated. Then he is told he has  much work yet to do.
                           In the west, you start saying, "I have found my innermost nature: I am Christ!"
Believe me, you will not be congratulated."

                           All this will change as our society matures.
                            But the maturation of the Christian world could have started 2,000 years ago! Instead some evil deceptikons stole the keys to the Kingdom and camouflaged the way to the door.

                                                                     *   *  *


                    Almost without exception, the Empire Church has treated its flock as children or "sheep" if you would prefer. Let's be honest, it has been far more profitable for the church
to keep its congregation in an infantile state.
                    After all, there are lots of things that kids really should not know. The complete translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls, for example. It's better not to give a full translation. The church is looking out after you - it's considering your best interests - by not allowing a full translation.
                    You must remember, every one who was appointed to translate the scrolls
was a cleric of some sort, and by their actions, you can see they all agreed. There are some facts the congregation should not see. "Because it's past their bedtime!"

                     John Allegro was the only man who came up with a full translation of the scrolls and fragments he was allocated. And when he told the truth and personally released the translation
of his part of the task (within years, not decades) he was maligned, "discredited" and publicly rebuked. His career suffered terribly until his death
                 Note: He was never actually discredited, because his translations were dead on. And John Allegro has been completely vindicated in the last ten years, or so.  (See the work of Jan Irwin in "The Pharmacratic Inquisition" - Youtube). There is also a Russian scholar who has  completely vindicated Allegro.

                  Allegro took the time to learn ancient Sumerian, which turned out to be a key in understanding the hidden codes in both the Old and New Testaments. Sumerian, it was also discovered, was the unknown link between ancient Greek and Hebrew.

                  In 1945 there was  the discovery at Nag Hammadi, Egypt. It was the same situation as would be found later at Qumran. Scrolls two thousand years old were discovered hidden in earthen jars in caves by the Nile. In this case, actual gospels were discovered. Several of these gospels were meant to have been in the Bible.
                   I've written about these facts in earlier blogs. But I've got to say: "Some of this stuff really burns my ass!" The lies! The damned lies! The utter mendacity!



               Realization has been passed down to us over many thousands of years; it is ancient and
fundamental; it has even been called the "Fundamental Fact" of human existence. Through it subject and object become one; the lower I dissolves completely into the great I AM. Until there is nothing left, and integration is complete.
                But there must be nothing left of the old identity. Why so? Why did ancient priests sing
"Hymns to Annihilation"?  Why would they want complete ego death?"
                Because " Once you are nothing, you are everything", one mystic says; "You can see clearly, and "no longer through a glass darkly."

                But this is tricky, the psychologist says: "Complete ego death before a person achieves psychic health can lead to actual death - unless something arises to fill the void within."
                 Well, yes.  There is a down side. When we have a system in the West to re-assure the seeking pilgrim that he/she is not going crazy, it will help  in a major way. Each seeker, every one, must pass through the dark night of the soul and the Chapel of the Black Hand .                  
                 It's not easy... No one ever said it was. For it is a quest that will cost the journeyman not less then everything.
                 "And when I was nothing, I was everything!"  D.H.Lawrence wrote in his poem,  "Song of a Man Who Has Come Through."        (See his "Collected Poems.")

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


ROVING REPORTER RANTS: BRING BACK THE LASH! DEALING WITH CLERICS IN PART...: " Admittedly, I have had some bad reviews. Some! Did I mention that I have received a few curses in Latin? Well, here goes then. ..."


         Admittedly, I have had some bad reviews. Some!  Did I mention that I have received a few curses in Latin? Well, here goes then.
          It seems it's O.K. to talk about mystical union with the One who is creating us, but it is not acceptable to enter into the psychological depths of the intricacies and necessities of  a Woman's Orgasm in the same article. This is what, sacrilege? What century are we living in?
          May I suggest to you - it's not such a big step from the 21st century back to the 16th century, when they had public lashings and brandings! But it wasn't all fun and games.
           Do you know how long the Spanish Inquisition lasted for? A hundred years? Oh, no the private torture chambers continued long and long. And the public didn't get to see! Nor did they get to see the hidden repressed spasmodic orgasms of the long-robed clergy... Nor do we now, for the most part, but we get to see them weeping in their beers the morning after, begging for forgiveness.
           ( The Spanish Inquisition continued on for 600 years.)
            My position is this: forgiveness is the Christian way. Ho! Ho! But before we forgive these pale, limp-wristed members of our clergy - skin that makes 'em look like they've been hiding under lily pads all their lives: it's our absolute and holy duty to put them through a few hoops.
The hoops should be: (1) Fearful public humiliation; (2) a taste of the lash over some months.
As Charlie's Nana used to say most mornings at breakfast, from the time Charles was three: "Cowards fear pain; and they hate to cower in public; and to scream like eunichs every time they feel a taste of the Lash! This is good for their grovelling souls; and to expect more of the same each Sunday morning, with exacting  regularity... It makes them think."
            "And one thing you can be sure of: never will such a half-man/ half-newt transgress again! In fact, it's quite possible you'll never see the fearful little shrimp in public again for the rest of his life!"
             "No one will miss him! Besides, the Lash is cheap! It doesn't cost a hundred grand a year to keep the little fruit behind bars.  And also there is the social aspect to consider: it's fun for the whole family to watch such a wimp begging in public - on his naked knees, "Please don't lash me again. No, please! And his weeping and loud bawling: everyone enjoys that! Especially when he tries to wiggle and crawl off into the audience; and there's no escape nor mercy anywhere."
              "Then she'd pat me on the head," says Charlie, and she'd look into my eyes with the deepest seriousness: "Never forget, sonny, 'Hilarity is to the public's good.'"
               Says Charles. "I never knew what that phrase meant. Nor do I ever want to know."
           (3)     Oh yes, the third hoop that must be written permanently into our Criminal Code is this: "Any anal tears the perpetrator causes, he shall receive in kind." Now as a former defense attorney I must admit, this provision sounds a bit ominous, especially when followed by this following clause "All provisions of this section shall be judicially interpreted solely in terms of the tenets of the Old Testament."
                  This entire section is a bit like  Wonder Bread - you eat it and wonder. And I can only shake my head and wonder about the implications. Though, having listened to the Affadavits of Charlie's grandmother, I must say, "All in all I approve wholeheartedly."
                  You must weight the limited pain to a few dubious defendants against the health,
happiness and psychological well being  of the entire non-offending Community.

                 I do forsee a few possible legal problems with any admissions against interest the clergyman makes in public, while under the lash. But we'll deal with those ducks when they start to quack.
                 One thing I must say, though, after a six months program of screamings and lashings, our public prisoner would have no psychological blockages left. Though he might have developed a few tics, involuntary quavers and shudders he'd prefer no one ever see him do in public ever again.
                   So it goes. Explore every mystery, no matter how disgusting the journey might become;
your Roving Reporter will see it all the way through to the end!
                   "Discard nothing. Everything may serve."  Carpe diem.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011


          Things have been turning sour for me the last five or six days, and nobody gives a damn, and I'm not sure I care too much myself. All I needed was a short period of time when nobody showed up naked, nobody tried to sell me suspicious objects from underneath his coat; and nobody tried to kick in my door in a shrieking frenzy, screaming horrible things up from the lane out back.
           There are times when a person has to say "no" to everyone and everything, sit in a comfortable chair and catch his breath. "Breathe," as a healer said to me recently. Breathe right
into the earth; take your shoes off and let your feet feel the earth. I did this back of the house, but then I saw two cars I recognized coming my way, so I had to duck back inside and play possum. I want to say that this breathing business works, and I'm going to try it again soon.
            I have a thought: "Everybody hates me!" But what kind of twisted, pitiful thinking is this - not to say paranoid? Everybody might hate you from time to time, but it's highly unlikely that they all  will turn the foul beacon of their hatred on you,  at the same time. 
             It's highly unlikely that everyone's going to hate you/me  at the same time for the simple reason that no one is important enough for everyone to think of at once, and therefore hate all at once. As my father said to me one time when I was sixteen, when he saw me staring at a pimple on my chin for a long time in the mirror: "you wouldn't worry so much about how you look, if you realized nobody is going to pay  much attention to you anyway."
              I had to think about that one.

              When a wave of paranoia overtakes you when walking through a public place,
when you feel: "O God they're after me!" And you try desperately not  to break out into a mad wild run, and flee through the mall...  Maybe my father's advice will help: that people don't pay attention, and maybe it won't. But remember this saying of a famous psychologist: "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that someone isn't actually following you!"

             The truth is, the editors back at the office of "The Talk of the Town Press", Bay City and
formerly of Ottawa told me I'd better lay off the Study of the Female Orgasm until they could look more deeply into the legal ramifications of the matter. "It's not so much the articles that we're worried about," Calvin tells me: "It's that the paper might actually be liable for 'the primitive methods' you employ in your field work'.
               "Primitive methods are essential," I said.
                Calvin held up his hand and said, "Let's talk another day. Today's been dark enough already."
                 And it was going to get darker.
                 My neighbour, Tim, dropped by and when I told him about the legal liability worries of the editors, he laughed!
                 "That's not the way I heard it!" he chuckled "I heard that two of the editors think you might be turning into a dangerous asshole! Writing about mysticism one week and sex the next."                 "The two subjects aren't really different at all. And every case was researched minutely. Everything really happened and was reported inconsiderable detail."
                   "It's the field work that worries them and your methods They feel the editors can be liable for putting you on such an  assignment. Also, you're offending some of the wives."
                    Tim took off up the lane.
                     I sat on the steps to the lake, having dark thoughts.

                     All at once the full moon was emerging from behind a tall white pine tree. Suddenly a great howl called up right behind me, about 100 yards back.
                      "I hope that howls a dog and not the howl of the Wendigo calling me home," I thought.
                       The howl started up again. I could see the dog, right across the bay. "AAAAAAOOOOOOO!" I howled back. Then the dog replied. Then we howled together.
I could feel this primal scream therapy blowing out the cobwebs of my brain. I was feeling better already;I was feeling marvelous!
                         It's a primitive cure, but it works for me. The dogs across the lake started in, and I could see we were going to have a real party.There were fifteen or twenty dogs now. I could see the lights turn on one by one in the houses across the lake.
                         Primitive methods!  
                         Sue me!




Friday, July 22, 2011




        In the wild and wholly North, things have a way of working themselves out. When you're living in a one acre clearing in a cabin north of the 60th parallel and the next village is 37 miles away and you're a nine year old girl, you are somewhat at the mercy of the elements.
       What elements am I talking about? Not the deep patches of snow or the torrential stream that doesn't freeze over evenly, or the last three of your father's sled dogs.
        No, the dogs like you because you feed them moose meat or cariboo, which you have shot yourself. No the elements that cause you trouble are the following: (1)You must be careful about the wolverines. There's a little known fact about wolverines - if you track a wolverine, the wolverine will circle back and track you
        Now a wolverine is a big weasel. You don't want a big weasel on your tail. Because weasels don't fight fair - never have and never will. The notion of "fairness" really doesn't occur to wolverines. And if you ever sat down beside a wolverines ha ha, and took 3 hours to explain fairness to him ( if you could  get a wolverine to sit still for 10 seconds, which you couldn't)
chances are you'd see the wolverine roll around on his back and laugh.
         Problem is, wolverines don't seem to laugh. Otters seem to laugh when they're sliding down wet rocks and splashing into lake water. They seem to do a hell of a lot of chattering together, which seems like laughter to me. There's a pack of them down from  my cabin.
          When wolverines fight, they go straight for the balls. And they're really quick and they're
low - about thigh level to a Kodiak bear. A wolverine will consistently drive a Kodiak bear away from a kill the bear has made. These 1000 pound bears want to protect their balls just like any other sensible male, aware that  his "man"hood is dangling 3 inches below his groin - detachable and free. The wolverine keeps making quick snaps and thrust with his powerful neck, and the Kodiak bear ( or grisley bear) runs away.
             Wolverines also have a nasty habit of pissing all over their food and then burying the food, leaving in there for a week, and coming back and eating it when it's extra tasty. Wolverine piss smells as strongly as a spray from a skunk. If you start to irritate a wolverine, he'll break into your cabin, tear the place apart, smash everything, steal  your food and piss all over the remains. Grown men have been known to abandon their homes. Some northern tribes believe the wolverine is the devil.  Enough said. 
          Polar bears are a whole different ball game, sweet as they look on Coca Cola commercials, it's a mistake to approach one in the wild, because you are on the polar bear's food
chain. It's a mistake you'll only make once. I have never seen a polar bear and a wolverine engage.
And I'm not sure I want to.

           Back to the story. The second element (2) the nine year old girl has to worry about  is the northern lights. When you're far enough north, the northern lights make a sound: they seem to sing to you. And if they form a circle pattern and thrust down at you rhythmically and repeatedly; you can get lost in them - effectively you become hypnotized, if you're sober, If you're not sober, if you eat those funny red-capped mushrooms that seem to grow near evergreen trees, and then you stare at the northern lights... you may not get up for days....**
            And then you have to worry about the third (3) element of danger in your environment: if you lie still for too long: you'll be raped by your insane uncle, who has sniffed too much gasoline.

             Nancy was raped by her insane uncle every day for two years, from when she was nine til when she was eleven. And she lay still for it because if she didn't, her uncle would rape her younger brother. Then she took matters into her own hands and when uncle came at her one more time, she stabbed him 189 times in the face and the chest and the groin.
              Then she fed uncle to the sled dogs.
               Problem solved. No investigation required. 

                Three years later a visitor was abusing her mother, so she shot him right between the eyes with a 303 rifle.
                 Same problem, same solution.
                  The dogs got fed.

                   In this case, I am assured that Nancy is orgasmic, and I believe her. Her illness is really
not of a repressive nature, because she found her own solution. She was a victim, but she didn't stay a victim for three decades.
                    Her neurosis manifests in a very common way - common to women who have been abused at a young age. She flaunts her sexuality, in order to taunt and tease and piss off everyone.
She's actually still quite angry and she is sexually obsessed. So she'll walk down Main Street with her breasts exposed, which is not really a problem. But she is judged by a lot of Christians, especially when she stands outside the chapel door exposing her teats during one of those boring 
Anglo Saxon hymns.
                      The pastor tends to call the cops, because "she is causing impure thoughts!"
                       Not in me!
                        The police can't really hold her anyway, because it's no longer illegal in Canada
to walk around sunning your breasts.
                         In my opinion, all they can really charge her with is, "Causing a disturbance." But she doesn't really make any noise.The police think the situation is funny, and you have to agree with them. The root causes aren't funny, but the present manifestation.

                          I have to admire her courage. She found her own solution to a difficult situation, and she's not really crazy, though she sometimes pretends she is.
                           I had a problem yesterday, when the mother of my eight year old daughter showed up and Nancy was sitting topless in my living room. Things got quite noisy. I pleaded for she and my daughter to stay, and said there was really no problem. But pleading doesn't work in this world. Nor will it work in the next.
                      Diagnosis? Nancy has "pain-in-the-ass" syndrome. She can be a real pain in the ass!
                      But I like difficult people...     I must.

** By the way, the Lapplanders have a system for mushroom-eating, passed down to them by their ancestors. They discovered, through the wisdom of the ages, that their reindeers loved to eat the red capped mushrooms with white flecks. (Read a children's fairy tale and you'll see one, or read about the early Christians...)                                    ( amanita muscaria ) 
                            Some of these guys are a little too close to their herds, and I can only suspect
that their ancestors were closer still. They observed  their reindeer eating the mushrooms. And because, I can only surmise
reindeer piss was part of their regular diet - an early morning drink perhaps, before they had booze or coffee. And these "poor" primitive people started getting extremely high. When they went out in a sled pulled by reindeers, their sled started to fly across the night sky (so high they were). They started a myth about a fat holy man with a big sack (for gathering mushrooms), who'd wander around evergreen trees where the mushrooms grew. And he dressed in red and white, like the mushrooms.
                          And he'd get high and his sled would fly, and he'd laugh: Ho! Ho! Ho! And so we get this lovely story, more fact than fiction, usually told around the winter solstice: all as a result of:  reindeer piss!
                          Mock nothing!  Everything may serve.

                                                                                                              Case 4. Respectfully submitted.

Monday, July 18, 2011


                    They think we are a bunch of Puritans! Even my native friends think we're a bunch of
PURITANS.... well, mostly the women think this. Because they are the ones who work the gardens, bleed every month, carry the water and the wood, do the cooking have the Children and PRETEND
to take the priests seriously. 
                      Then we make 'em walk to the LIQUOR CONTROL BOARD and buy us our booze!

                       That's what we have up here - way the hell and gone up into the Great White North.
You can't walk into the rather austere room of the CONTROL Board hammered, or even pretending that you're hammered, or laughing too loudly. That way you you won't get a drink. And you  can be banned for weeks....!
                       In the Victorian Era, (which Charlie's grandmother stepped right out of... Hell, she was born in the 1880s. She was Victorian! And she was not kidding about the LASH! ). In the Victorian
era. if a table leg had a curve to it, or had a gathering at the knee, or. worse still, an ankle. These
suggestive   'wooden body parts' were covered up with cloth... I think this was mostly in England,
but I'm sure there were some clothed table legs over here! There probably still are clothed
tabled legs in parts of New England and Ontario.
                       It's not the fad so much in L.A.
                       And I  haven't seen A Liquor CONTROL Board south of the Canadian- U.S. border.
Nor do you see this phenomenon so much in Mexico or Peru. And I'm told that Sweden and South Africa are determined to get rid of linens on table leg ankles. Though certain of our Zulu brethern
and my Jamaican Rasta friends are getting to like cloths on table legs: because it gives them a place to hide from their women!                       

                      We have a rock and blues festival up here in North Bay. It takes place in August.
And 80,000 people attend and buy drinks. The festival takes place in a large park overlooking
a lake. Two people I know well were having sex on a tiny island about fifty yards out from the 
crowds. The woman was kneeling on all fours ( to keep a look out). The man was kneeling behind
her. He was moving in a strange fashion, rather like a dog humping in the street.
                       On his face was an expression of pain. Well, he was in pain because tiny rocks and
sharp pieces of shells were digging into his bare knees.. He couldn't have lasted much longer because of the pains in his knees.
                       They sent a police boat after them! But they didn't stop screwing. It became a race
between the couple finishing the act and the arrival of the police boat. 
                        Now the crowd caught onto this action and they stopped watching the stage. And eighty thousand people started cheering the couple on. With a loud rhythmic chant shouting something like, "GO! GO! GO!" It was hard to make out the words.
                         Well, the man didn't orgasm but the woman certainly did. And I'm sure the
woman helped the man out later.
                          But this wouldn't happen it Sweden. Would it? Please e-mail me at Of course, in Sweden naturally they'd be having sex. But would they send the police boat?

                           The point is: WE ARE A BUNCH OF PURITANS! And it's not good for our health.
I mean, we impeach a president because someone's giving him pleasure with her mouth! Come on!
                            And we despise the Taliban because they want women to wear veils? We're in the same league, I can tell you - only everybody's wearing a psychic condom they're not aware of.
Sexual liberation? It lasted fifteen minutes and we forgot what we learned.
                             I can tell you, Europe is laughing at us! Well, maybe not England. England understands us perfectly. But at least the English are intelligent enough to have developed a strong and sophisticated industry of sadomasocism. (Though I'm told members of Parliament keep trying
to turn back the clock and criminalize practices the nation should be proud of. Fools! Give the matter to the Tourist Bureau instead and have them advertise the Whipping Trade overseas.
I can tell you a lot of North Americans would come, and need to attend, and they'd be dropping their pants while pretending to study the Parliament Buildings)

                              I was laughing, too. But not with a police boat approaching.


                               And SEX!  OOOPS! No one ever wanted to openly admit there was such a thing .
Things aren't so bad any more. But a  perverted repression and all-pervasive guilt still resides
deep down in the psyche of North America.
                               And if you don't believe me, let me hypnotize you, if you live in North America 
(And even if you don't). And we'll do some regression therapy together, and we'll see where you're
stuck and why.
                               And I promise not to bring out the electric sex toys until you're awake!

                                Years ago all the liquor bottles were hidden. We weren't allowed to see them.
That might have been an inducement for us to get plastered. Everything was hidden behind a white
partition wall. You had to write out your order quietly on a little slip. Then a government employee
in a smock would walk through a little door in the back, and bring you your bottle.
                                It was like watching a woman strip, when she never did take her clothes off.
And I'm at expert at stripping and the tease. I lived at a Burlesque Palace for a year and a half.
And I played guitar there every day.
                                So that's one ambition I've achieved. I'd always wanted to play in a band in a strip club, ever since I saw this woman take her clothes off and dance around this thick hanging rope, in a tiny club in Vienna with a hot three piece band.                     
                               Oh, and to be fair I must say:  now when we walk into the Liquour Control
Board of Ontario, we can actually SEE the bottles! And we can touch 'em, too! And the people
working the cash registers are pleasant people, not judgmental fools!
                               So Europe is laughing and other parts of the world, as well. And that's O.K.
I was laughing, too, until they sent the cops.

Sunday, July 17, 2011


          . I have spent some time in Northern India and I grew up for ten years in St. Anne's parish, Jamaica. I've sat around campfires with people that's all they had was campfires, who were still willing to share the little food they had with me.
             And they were happy to share that food with a stranger, and I made sure to give them food
back as soon as possible. Otherwise I would have been acting without honour. And when I see modern Canadian tanks shooting into the lands of a destitute people, I am ashamed of my country
for the first time in my life. Because we are acting without honour.
              You cannot mess around with people living at a subsistence level, as are many of the people living in Afghanistan. (Watch, "Love Crimes of Kabul" and you'll see what I mean). Some of my army buddies call me a 'bleeding heart" or a "milktoast". But they smile and they're
joking when they say it. And remember, these  are the guys who haven't been there yet!
And I'm a better shot than all of them -    ( with one exception). The guys coming back tell a different story, and they are not quite so happy with themselves.
                I spend more time in the Northern Canadian bush than I should probably admit, and the only people who can stand to spend more than a day there with me are native people. Because a lot of native people are used to the bush and they don't go crazy when they are in it. And they roll on the ground laughing when I start, "Shouting at the Birds".
             They don't fall prey to that, "I'M LOST!" panic and start running back and forth until someone runs into a tree or steps through a canoe. And then you've a twelve mile "walk" with a broken leg up over rock and down through swamps, and the agony you feel... or worse  - the indifference you can feel  - lying still and watching every square inch of your body seethe with insects!
             And you're at peace.... only you shouldn't be a peace. Because peace at such times is dangerous. Peace at such times will kill you: you'll be eaten alive.
              Sometimes steps have to be taken, whether you want to or not.

              We are living at a time when all the civil rights of the populace have been suspended
in Canada and the United States, in North America, once "Land of the Free", we incarcerate
more people per capita than any another country in the world.
                And that was before the Patriot Act and the Anti-Terrorist Bills in both our countries.
Hell, now we can be incarcerated without trial, so watch those jails fill up! Oh, they're already full?
That's why they're building large "containment camps" - for the crowd that is sure to follow!
                When the full reality of the Treason that has been perpetrated sinks into the hearts and minds and souls of the North American People, they will become so incensed that I think we might
be look at a lynchin'  - like what used to happen in stories of the American West.
                  When people catch on that we have been screwed around, by some Fat Cats who think
they're above the law and immune to prosecuting, the military industrial complex is going to need
those mercenaries they keep hiring. But they won't be enough. And several States in the West will have to be walled off to form a big enough containment camp.
                    What's happening in Egypt is going to look like a kiddie hotdog picnic in the park when
it truly sinks in that we've been sold a bill of goods
                     I'm not blaming our troops, for they are stuck in a Bad Situation, just like we are in the populations, feeling like marks. Because it's terribly hard to fight an enemy who may not exist.

                 We may be fighting an enemy that exists only in some treasonous fool's imagination -
that fool being the one who made up a bedtime story for us, so we'd wake up hopping mad in the morning.

                "The year 2000 will be branded in history as the 'year of the Doomed Election,' which caused millions of Americans to question themselves & suffer loss of Self Esteem for seemingly
unexplainable reasons"......"the Presidency has been corrupted and the U.S. Supreme Court.
Millions of Americans will never again be Confident that their vote will be counted in any election."
(Hunter S. Thompson, my friend all too briefly, R.I.P.)

                                                                                                                        from, "Hey, Rube"
                                                                                                                        Hunter S. Thompson
                  What's insulting about the obvious fraud that took place in Building 7: nobody's even bothering to make an intelligent coverup! Now that's arrogance, and what does that tell you?

Saturday, July 16, 2011


         I'm going to try to keep this article short, because it is not a Case Study. Our psychologist is indisposed. And our attending physician looks at me with the old  fish eye. Is it something I've done? Is it something I've said?  Does everybody hate me?
          Who cares? If you're not careful a few negative thoughts can transform into a real BLACK MAMBO SNAKE OF A NEGATIVE SCRIPT. Negative scripts usually derive from parental voices,but this is not always the case. Sometimes it's too much exposure to an evil priest. Or it can be a thieving predatory Uncle. Or maybe your grandmother fixes you with a cold, condemning stare
and says something understanding to you, like: "They should bring back the lash!"

            And this is a perfect segue into the case of a Male Masocist, who we'll call Charles. We'll maintain our policy of anonymity, because a person can tell an intimate story after a few drinks and be horrified that he said a word in the morning. And if that person feels true dread about what he might have said, he doesn't want to see his story appear in some kind of headline the next day!
             CASE 3 - CHARLES

             This case is just as Charles related it. (I might have added an adjective here or there).

           " I can only imagine the horrors she visited upon me when I was a naked babe of six months, lolling and gurgling in my bassinette, fondling my infantile erection and watching the seagulls
fly past the windows to the south."
            "I seem to remember a few of those early times quite clearly. I remember being sexually stimulated before I reached one year of age. Many people will say, 'Oh that's bullshit!' But I can tell you, the existence of infantile arousal is a fact that is beyond dispute. I remember quite a few very intense moments while I was still standing in my crib with the walls up, so I wouldn't chase some hot number down the stairs on my hands and knees.There were those two Scandanavian
maids.. but they are another story."
             "There are a few other suspects. I had visitors when I was in naked in the mini-bath. There was my grandmother, "Nana" who had a snake-eyed cold streak sometimes when she stared down at me. Her primary interests were: Flogging, Punishment, and the Lash!  So I was not imagining her evil eye. I am almost certain that my early arousals did not have anything to do with this reptilian mind from the Victorian era. She was not a woman who believed in titillation. You can trust me in this."
             "Then there was my mother, who was a hot number; and in the fifties, stylish women wore tight skirts that hugged the hips and descended to constrain the knees - almost as if they were in
bondage.Thoughts of bondage prey upon my mind, even to this day.  I remember watching her hips sway as she sauntered teasingly out of my bedroom. I was standing there, a prisoner in my crib. I probably was screaming and begging her to stay. I remember the feeling of begging which arouses me even now."
               "I discovered this recently, to my  shock and surprise. Helplessly begging for a woman's favours, even grovelling while I beg: this is a real turn-on for me."

                 (I know this is not the subject of this BLOG. But  a masocistic fetish is very similar in men and women)

               " I remember there was a party going on downstairs. I was allowed to join the cocktail party before going to bed. I crawled under my mother's skirt and it was some kind of crinoline affair. I stood under her dress for about twenty minutes while my mother talked to other drinkers. I remember staring up at her crotch and buttocks all tightly encased in a taut girdle. I stood there looking up for what seemed like twenty minutes. It was probably closer to five minutes - but no less than that! A young fella can absorb a whole lot of reality in that length of time!"
               "I wanted to stay at the party for obvious reasons. I remember feeling heat in my groin.
Then she carried me upstairs and said goodnight to me and I watched her teasingly walk away,
as deliberate in her taunting as any hooker I followed down Mainstreet in later years. Exactly the same, really. And then she killed the lights and slowly and with exacting firmness shut the door. There was a sadistic streak in the way she shut the door."
                "I was left to my own devices and it took me a long time to catch my breath and lose my boner. All my life I've been trying to analyse why I've been a masocist aroused by pain and and a
humiliating sense of my own helplessness. For the longest time I had no idea what happened to me! Now I think I have a clue. But discovery has taken 30 years."
               "And to be honest, as I grew to maturity I found these truths about myself highly embarassing. What man wants to be intensely hot and tumescent over feeling ineffectual, helpless and powerless? It has been very hard on my self esteem."
                "After 2,000 hours of psychotherapy, I see that embarrassment  can be part of the fun.
But it's only when I'm in the control of a dominant woman with a sadistic streak that I can have any fun at all."

                 After reviewing  Charles' story, let me enumerate one  definite principle of sexology:


               Charles: "Yes, begging mother not to leave. I wanted her to stay, for all the wrong reasons. And I can clearly see her sauntering away, slowly, teasingly swinging her hips, while I was panting and begging her to stay, screaming and pleading. I remember her shutting off my bedroom lights, walking towards the light in the hall. and without turning around, I remember she deliberately and very firmly shut my bedroom door. I have reenacted that denial many times throughout the years in many demeaning ways."


                    O.K. It's time for me to be even more honest, which I hope you will not hold against me!
(Isn't this a country song: "If I Said you have a Beautiful Body, would you hold it against me?)
There are five people who participate in this blog, on the writing and experimetial end - no, I must say, "Six." For there are the courageous women who form this group.
                      There is nothing, nowhere, and no place: where any human being from six to one hundred and sixteen is any more vulnerable than in his/her sex. Now that's just a fact, and you can trust me in this: I used to be a singer-songwriter, and I led my own band and played a terrific rhythm guitar. And in all honesty, women used to line up by the stage to have sex with me.(Though truly for the first six months, I had NO IDEA what these gorgeous,intelligent patient and
pneumatic, clear-eyed, strong and hungry female human animals were doing in a line.)
                        Let's say there were eight to fifteen women before the stage in one very orderly
line that formed a near perfect right-angel with the line of stage monitors ( a line that defines the front of the stage.) 90 degrees! And these were quiet cats. They didn't talk to each other. They had no need to talk to each other. All these fine women (with great musical taste and fulsome limbs)
they were of one Mind. And let's call it the Mind of Diana the Huntress.
                          I'd walk by behind the amplifiers and when I glanced into the crowd, what I was
seeing was a phenomenon so strange that at first it did not compute in my brain. I remember
asking Charlie, our bass player, who was still standing on stage with his guitar, patiently
watching the sea of people get more and more roused to demand an encore: I asked him, "What
in God's Name are all those beautiful creature doing?"
                          He said, "They're waiting for you." And he smiled. Charlie is a little guy with one big sardonic smile.
                           "You're out of your mind!" I replied and he could see I meant it so he started to laugh. Now Charlie, was an experienced musician and he'd been to a lot of shows and many recording sessions. So I tended to trust him. But not in this case. This was too weird even for me to digest.
                            When I was 20-30-40 years old I was a good looking man. People told me this, but I never really believed them. And by the time I was mature enough to see a semi-semblance of
reality, I was no longer particularly good looking. In fact, I'd avoid mirrors until noon, because I definitely did not want to see my big bloodshot eyes staring intently back at me first thing in the A.M. The experience was frightening because I could see my own mortality clear as a coconut in a
dancing palm tree. And no one wants to see this before their first stiffener (in my case 190 proof full strength Wray and Nephew white rum fed with an eye-dropper into strong Blue Mountain coffee).
                               What's the point? The point is that any one of these women would have ignored me in a half-empty restaurant. These were Alpha females and they really looked the part. I'm an Alpha male, but I do all kinds of things to disguise this fact. And usually my disguise as a half-assed
sheepish comedian works.
                                 Any man with half a brain, and who has studied Greek mythology and the Grimm fairy tales KNOWS that fifteen women of the tribe of Diana the Huntress standing together
 with silent intent is a situation more dangerous than an 8.0 earthquake. Any one of these gals could absolutely devastate your life. And ten of them together might decide to divvy up your body parts for souvenirs. 
                                 With a bottle of whiskey in me I'd shake all their hands, kiss their cheeks, respectfully look in  each woman's eyes and solemnly greet her, then lead four or five of them
upstairs. But almost always very little happened because I've been gradually turning into
more and more of a monk. We'd get down to bras and panties and underwear and do a lot of fondling. But we had very little out and out sex,
                                  I'd order up five bottles of red wine and some club house sandwhich and we'd eat and talk and many times we'd all pass out in the same bed and I'd wake up at five in the
morning with all these lovely women coiled around me. And I'd gaze a long time at each of them
with utter attention. And I loved every one of them in my heart-mind and I stroked their hair, and I asked the Lord of the Meeting Rivers, God of Poetry and Song and the One whose presence
rides the clouds and I asked a blessing for all of us. And that's what we received.
                                   These women were not coming upstairs with me just because they wanted
sexual love; they wanted  an embrace  and a communion of the eyes, and a glimpse of that
wondrous lover they'd always seen just a little bit out of reach, the magic man who was always disappearing around corners. This is the love they heard in my songs, and this is why I suppose they followed me upstairs. 
                                    And I loved them for the constancy of their dream. And when I left them
still safe and asleep, I was usually weeping as I looked back one last time and saw them
glowing in the light of early dawn, imbued with a beauty too strong for me to bear.