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Saturday, August 31, 2013

LITTER CRITTERS! BIG KITTEN IN THE BUSH AND PUBLIC SERVANT WITH ATTITUDE!





                      There I was, sitting against a great round stone, my feet extended before me in the grass... relaxed as anyone has any right to be...staring at the sky... dreaming...
listening to bits of birdsong, pure liquid notes...
           
              I feel asleep... It was six AM at the
edge of the woods in northern Ontario, and I`m happy
to say the flies were dead. at least, most of them... Though
I am told no human being is farther than 13 feet from a spider most of the days of their life.... there`s always a spider just four yards away....
          Whether this is true or not I have no idea.          

           


           Now I`m asleep. And I`m dreaming of something pleasant and I felt something  thick tugging at my pants...  a sweet dream,
no problems - clear sailing in all directions.... Then
something sharp nips me in my ankle.
            I wake up mad with the sun in my eyes.
I cant`t see a damn thing, except...I can feel...
 sharp pins and needles in my ankle...something`s nipping at my jeans!
            I sit up, bend forward like I`m doing yoga,  open my eyes, and try to let them clear. 
         Two minutes pass. Something is staring right back at me into my eyes from two inches away. It has the most pale  eyes I`ve ever seen...
            I don`t know whether to kill it, pet it... or laugh.
My first impulse is to scream... or throw the evil white-eyed
little beastie right into Lake Temagami... right now with
the wind up and the  waves white-capping in late August.
                      The little critter is pretty playful.... My black lab friend, Eric, who lives with me is panting in my right ear  beside me. He is watching the little demon with me, just as
I am.. His tail is thumping in the sand.

            I ask Eric, "Can this guy eat meat?"
`           Eric says: "Woof!"  
            The  pale-eyed tiny demon bites my nose.
This answers the question about the meat. The little
beast is a meat eater, all right!
            The question now is: "Can the not so little kitten digest meat, after it bites it?"
             I taste blood in my mouth.I want to kill the nasty little thing, but I don`t.




              There`s a chilly wind that blows right across the the length of the lake, even before  freeze up happens.  And there`s nothing pleasant about that wind - especially if you
are paddling a canoe...
              You have to pull  the canoe up on shore... if you have no rope, I find it`s best to lay a rock gently inside
 the boat. Then lie under the damn thing, or sit under a tall white pine  and wait for the storm to pass.

              No point being in a hurry in a time like that...

              I have one bit of advice about  Bush Survival.
And I can make all the advice I`ve every heard about
not dying in the bush, I can make it simple. It all
can be reduced to one Rule.
               The Rule can be reduced to one sentence
about how to survive in the wilderness... everything else
follows from this one Rule:  "NEVER HURRY IN THE BUSH!"
               Those of you who have spent a couple of months in the bush, on the water alone - you`ll know EXACTLY what I`m talking about.
            

   "It`s bloody when you`re born
and bloody when you die,
and sometimes bloody in between."
         
        I looked deeply into the eyes of the large
kitten. It`s quiet for a second appears to be happy. It
tries to bite my nose. It scratches my right hand.
I throw her in the air and let her land (safely) on

a tree.
          From a distance I look more closely at her.
Even at a distance, she hisses at me. What a little
demon!
          Rewarding bad behaviour, I put some milk
in a bowl. She sticks her head in the milk
and makes rude sucking noises.... I get it. I get
it. I understand.
         I put some  milk in an eye-dropper
and slip it to her - the glass tube
into her mouth... this is the idea. She starts sucking 
hard and happily...
         I say, "OOooo, you`re such a little sweetie.
She stops sucking and hisses at me...
This is one tough  kitty.



        
         There is something wrong with this situation.
The kitten`s big, big enough to eat solid food.
I cook some hamburger meat for her/him. She
won`t touch it. She sniffs at it, leaves  it.
Like she didn`t know what it is. The damn
cat looks about ten weeks old. Her eyes
are open and she is robust enough to be
unpleasant and nasty most of the time.
          I know nothing about cat litters
except I`ve seen a few...unwillingly.
The litter critters are cute, I have to say
that... but then again, all babies are
beautiful... even  young snakes,
I suppose...  (if anyone has pics of young
snakes, send them to me and I won`t 
post them! Ha! Ha!)
                                                                                        

          I call the humane society
and I say, "I think I`ve got a sick cat.  She won`t
eat meat... and she scratches the shit out of me."
         The woman on the phone says: "Not eating meat is a bad sign..... scratching the shit out of you is a good
sign."
         "Easy for you to say! What kind of a woman
are you?  Are you sure you should be
answering the phone in a public office?" I ask.
         She laughs and laughs... takes a deep breath
and says, "You`re an idiot." Then she hangs up.

  
           I call her  right back.She insists I take the cat to a vet
before she sees it. I make fun of her for that
attitude.
           I present the  problem to the woman on the phone one more time  about the cat scratching the shit out of me
and hissing every time I move...
         She says: "Maybe you`d better bring that nasty kitten in to the office here, after all... After talking to you for three minutes, I think I want to adopt it."

       Now I`m out of milk and birds are staring at
the little bit of hamburger I have left, which I`ve
cooked on an open fire outside.                                        
       There are a bunch of ravens in the white pine 
above me.  They are gurgling and hooting
and looking at the scrambling little meal which is
the kitten  on my head.
       They`d eat me, too, if I was dead.. But I`m, not and they
know I`m not,,, Pale eyed cat hissing at my bleeding twitching nose is just about beak size for the flying crowd above me.
             They`re up there in the branches wondering if I`m going to  eat her first.That`s not going to happen.
             But peace has not been declared  yet.
The damn thing`s under my shirt into my armpit now.
I want to go back to sleep... but that`s impossible
               People talk about finding peace and quiet in the
wilderness...but the wilderness is not always peaceful. Right now it is anything but quiet. The damn thing bites my armpit.
I sit up and shout.
            
             I pick the  critter up and 
by the back of the neck and flick the tip of my third finger against its nose. It (she?) hisses at me. I toss it gently
against the bark of the tree and it just hangs there, not moving.... The heavy cawing from above starts again...
            "Shut up!" I tell everybody. Nobody shuts
up.... The damn birds are really making a racket now.
I don`t like them. They don`t like me. That`s just the way
it`s going to be.
             I am getting to like the little tooth and
nail demon, though.She`s a fearless little thing. She doesn`t budge an inch, staring up at the big birds. I thinks she
wants to attack one of them. Her little nub of a tail is starting to twitch...as if she wants to crawl up the trunk towards them.
 It looks like she`s stalking them!

              Wait a minute!  What the hell is that?  She doesn`t
have a tail!
               Ah, shit!
                How did this happen?
                 Where`s mommy?

                  This is no domestic cat. 

                    No wonder she doesn`t eat meat. She`s
probably just three weeks old. This is a baby bobcat!
She`s hungry!  That`s why she keeps nipping at me...
and making teeny growling sounds... AWWW!  She`s
beautiful. And she`s not happy.  She`s getting desperate.
She`s sucking at the tip of my index finger.
                    I have to get her some more milk. I stand up,
move out from under the shelter of the white pines.
My head is soaked in a rain shower... I slip her under my
shirt and try to hold her to me with my elbow....No problem.
She`s holding on to me, too. I feel about fifteen little pins and needles piercing my left side. Damn!
                   I flip the canoe right way up and slip it into the water. I kneel inside the light little boat... knees right on the 
 fiberglass bottom, I can pick the canoe up with four fingers...
That`s how light it is.
                   I put the orange life preserver under my
right knee. I put my scarf in the neck of the life jacket
and I lay the kitten in the hole,and cover her with what once was an expensive scarf.  She hisses at me. 
                  I start to paddle across the stormy open water.... It`s about half a mile across the lake. I`m more or less keeping to the same direction as the wind blows us about...I paddle across towards the old log camp where I know
there`s some more milk concentrate.
                 In about twenty minutes I can feed the sweet
little demon... After she`s eaten, maybe both of us can get some sleep.
                 No one`s talking.  There`s just the water sounds
and the wind.


                                                          

                              
         




Thursday, August 29, 2013

IF YOU DON`T OFFEND SOMEBODY, YOU CAN`T TAKE A STEP!




          Years ago a friend came to ask me a question.
He was studying Buddha`s philosophy and he was taking it seriously...So he asked me, "How can I live and not
kill sentient beings."
      We were living in a small village and we had street
sweepers, who passed by at six A.M.  I said, "You know
those guys who sweet our streets each early morning?"
      "Yes," he said.
       " Every time they sweep a broom across a sidewalk,
thousands of organisms are killed.  You can`t live, you
can`t take a step without killing something...Without killing
sentient beings, you cannot take a step."

        Thinking back on this discussion, it feels like I was
quoting the beginning of the Bhagavad Gita
when the god gives Arjuna advice....




         So...  this is exactly what I was talking to myself about... what concerns me....
I do not want you to suddenly see a
nasty, ugly.... truly offensive passage from me -
one that`s like a kick in the pants...

That`s not my game or my idea,,,,   ,,,I don`t have
a game! Or an idea! But some pretty ugly moments
can emerge on the virgin page
             
               
           
                   I do not want to hurt your
feelings.... with some sudden eruption...   By being...
 the prick that I often am.

             I`m hoping you have your bad moments, too,
yourself - like when you step on a nail... or
your cousin convinces you to take the wrong
medication anally... or....
           Or... anything! 
            Perhaps you will be understanding....

            You know those beautiful look-outs you
see when you are driving along a highway....
say, in Pennsylvania .... after turning a corner
and rising up above a cliff....?
           And you pull over off the highway...  and...
you look at the magnificent view.... well,
you don`t need some fool to kick you in the face
right then...!  Is that right? Is that correct?

           The problem is... humour is based on exactly such surprises.
           It`s annoying...And when it`s really ugly and a shock, it`s funny!
            
           Still...  I don`t want
to bore you like some noon-day preacher.
I really hate those guys!
         They are duplicitous fools! And one thing
I don`t want to be is duplicitous ----
         Being a fool doesn`t worry me so much...
No fools, no fun!

          I suppose there is no answer to this dilemma,
except more careful editing.  That`s what I`ll try to do.
         

 

    

         
        
           





Wednesday, August 28, 2013

MAN LOSES TESTICLES (BY ACCIDENT) TALK SHOW HOST STARTS TO LAUGH.... ................plus GRADING ARTICLES LIKE EGGS, TYPING STORIES LIKE MOVIES....to protect the DELICATE, HUNGOVER, SENSITIVE AND INNOCENT

STORY TYPES:

A    =  Sensitive

B     =   Dirty nasty, blues singer, political prick

C     =   sADIST and Masocist,  S&M  Adept... Joy in
             Pain....  Sex and Power

X     =     TWISTED FREAK


       I get letters to this effect: "I read one of your stories and you are a sweet back-woods mystic type. Today I read you
and it`s all about perversions and violence.  SEX, VIOLENCE, AND SPIRITUAL MATTERS.  WHAT THE
HELL AM I GOING TO GET, DAY BY DAY??!!!?"

      Well, to answer I must say, "WHO KNOWS?"   
       I am of the following opinion: to write well you must write
with no repressions or inhibition whatsoever.... I guess the editing comes later.  But I`s rather not edit out spontaneous
bursts.... just want to edit out the boring stuff...
       So let`s try this grading system.

      I am not some kind of sick split-personality type,
but I am a different type (if we can type it)...There are
many people within me.  We all share the same soul, more or less.  And what`s important to me, each of us knows what the
other person is doing. (Otherwise I`m psychotic... which in psychological parlance means, "fucked"!)
       If you study a  Tibetan  Spiritual Text, you might
be surprised that many personalities in one person
is considered normal, by at least one writer. I defer to his
greater wisdom, and I won`t worry about my situation.

       All these types are real!
       To quote Walt Whitman: "Do I contradict myself? Very
well, I contradict myself!  I am large. I contain multitudes!"
      
              I do have a problem here, however. I don`t want to
offend you people who are interested enough to read some of these words for whatever reason.  You`re the only friends I have....pretty much... 
       I`m more or less a hermit, after all.
Also, quite apart from friendship, and respect for one`s
people, there is the matter of advertising revenue.
       I`ve already been told that I`m too much of a twisted freak to advertise on Google.
       So here`s what I propose to do:    Attempt to divide up
articles into 3 types.   (A) stories are the type told by the sensitive mystic, poet and spiritual guy, ballad singer; (B)type stories are by the dirty, nasty blues player, the criminal defence attorney, the pissed-off political prick; (C)stories done by the S&M afficionado, the expert in whips, crops, canes, chains, sadistic twists, apologies and humiliation...Inc. In other words, stories by the TWISTED
FREAK GOOGLE objects to.
          There is also the religious maniac who wants to pillage and burn and brand "SHAME" into the foreheads of
those church fools and lackeys, thieves and con-men, and
 evil manipulative greedy condescending FAT FRUITS (no
offence to our gay cousins)
who have twisted our religious history out of all recognition...
so we can`t find our native path, our heritage way to redemption.
            No, why should our priests and ministers show us
the way to redemption, when the GUILT-FORGIVENESS COMPLEX pays so much better!!!!!!!!!!!!   
           These supposedly sexless eunichs who told us
when to pay for forgiveness, should we just forgive them or should we make them pay?
            There`s a bit of my Victorian grandmother in me,
and I think we should endorse public lashings...
It`s cheap and it provides relief to  most of the population.
       Whew! My goodness!  My God!  Even I can`t shut him up, and he`s in me!... albeit a very half-sane and heated part of my psyche. Let`s call his articles Type X.  And I`ll mark the story at the top, in case you want to avoid the whole damn thing, as I do.  

       


including me...

        I seem to have lost the thread RE:  PERSONALITY GRADING JUST LIKE EGGS for my stories.

        I don`t know whether this downloaded video works . 
It`s about a guy who loses his testicles by accident.He`s on a talk show... and when the host hears his voice he starts to laugh!!!!             Funny!        Say no more!
        This is my first try at putting video in a blog... but if you can play it - the video above - it`s one of the funniest scenes I have seen in a long time.
        I highly recommend it.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

HOW TO LIVE LIKE A STREET PERSON ------ MEETING FRIENDLY KILLERS





       I always thought - if you really wanted to study a society
civilization, culture, it would be fair and best if
you were five people - each of you living in a different
socio-economic milieu...
        If you could be five people, 
you could live at five different economic  levels at once, then you
could  study society... with some justice, and no worries about prejudice towards certain ways of life.
        Why would you want to do this?
        Freedom is the goal in its many shapes sizes and morphs...  If you experience being rich, you realize it`s not the goal you thought it was - you don`t have to have it. Being loaded financially has it`s disadvantages, believe it or not.
You become dissociated from the other people. It`s goal - big houses with large yards, this ends up in isolation and exclusion - injecting codein into your groin, like Howard Hughes.
              Though, honestly, riches have an up side, too.
DUH!  But we all know wealth is desireable... Being rich
you learn what you are missing....
             Bob Dylan`s line: "Helpless like a rich man`s child."
That line makes the point for me.


        So I decided to live as a street person and see
how that felt... I`ve been fairly broke recently, so
pretending I have no money is not going to be a
stretch.
        Anyway, I got a phone call from a guy called,
"Sideways" Bobby. He said he`d found my notebook.
         "Hey, that`s great, where`d you find it?"
         "Sherbourne Street and Queen.... There`s a park
there.  Do you know the park?"
         "Yes," I said.
         "It was sittin` on a park bench right beside the phone booth."
         "Well, anyway, that`s great.. How can I meet you?"
         "In the book it says reward," Sideways said.
         "For sure! How about twenty bucks?"
         " If it was a normal notebook, that`d be about right.
But there`s stories in it... I read three of them. They`re pretty damn good.  I`m sure you can sell the one about
the woman whipping the guy in the balls as he`s
giving her head...!  Everyone liked that one! It`s gotta be
worth money!  Did you make that up, or is it a true story?
 he asks.
          "It`s a true story," I say.
          "Yeah, it`d be kind of hard to make something like
that up!   I felt like I was right there with ya.  Blew my load
more than once over that scene, I can tell you."
           "Well, that`s the idea," I say. "I want my stories
to inspire someone to do something."
            "Well, you sure inspired me all right... and about
five other fellas in my  extended family were jerking off, too.
... up and down the hall.  The book`s a hit!"
            "I should meet you.  You sound like a good guy...
              "Yeah, come on down."
               What should I bring when I come, booze-wise?"
I ask him.
             "Start with 24 beer, and then we`ll wing it....
              I was about to hang up and he said, "Oh, yeah
  and a bottle of rye."
              "No problem," I said 
               About an hour later I was driving downtown
with a couple of hundred dollars, a case of beer and
a bottle of rye.

              I met Sideways Bobby and he did walk
a little funny... sorta like he has at a prep school dance
and he was avoiding everybody, skirting round the
outside of the room... trying to avoid any grade sixers
girls who might ask him to dance... He seemed like a devoted wallflower...and then  add a little lemon and a  twist of paranoia.
              Bobby skulked into his own doorway, "Landlord
hates me," he mumbled back towards me.... At that moment
I noticed a large shiny knife in his right suit jacket
pocket... which seemed to have been re-inforced
somehow....
              "Ahhh.... Can I ask you something?"
               "Shhhhhh!  Wait until we`re inside!"""

                We went inside... and then there were
three of us - the new guy, a great big indian fella,
who looked as if he`d prefer to cut our throats
with a razor, rather than talk to us... He didn`t say
a word, but he brought us three glasses... set them 
emphatically in front of the couch Sideways Bobby and I were
sitting on.
         The couch was the only item of furniture in the
whole room..... the room wasn`t large,  about twenty by twenty,  but still....
         Bobby jerked his thumb off towards where the
large six foot six,  first nations person was standing.
Clearly he looked homicidal.
          I poured about four inches of whiskey into each
of the e ounce glasses....The Indian topped us up.
so our glasses were full ---- of (oh, oh) ditch-fighting Canadian rye whiskey.

          When I go out on the town these days, which is rare,
I worry more about   creating a horrible scene, playing
a hilarious prank... or scaring the piss out of
a room of diners...
          Sometimes, if I really have drunk too much rye
and I`ve had no water chasers, and I`ve eaten nothing in the
last couple of days ... I have a tendency to
climb church towers and ring the bells
and call out to the town, with my arms outstretched
in an embracing posture ... calling the whole fucking
town forth to WORSHIP!
           Well, I`ve spend some timee in various locked
units....and it wouldn`t happen except for the
sense of humour I have when I drink.... snake-kicking
Canadian Rye Whiskey----- it`ll get you off your reservation even if you ain`t supposed to be on one... ha! ha!

      We all have our own private resevations that we`ll be arrested if we step off...  Mine is rye whiskey.

       Now all three of us are sitting on the couch -  it`s a four seater,  so the three of us can just bearely fit...
       Sideways has wolfed his first six ounces of rye... then he gets up, stumbles across the room... walks   smack into the wall which looks like real plaster and pisses himself....
       Now he`s on the floor and talking to someone who is not
in the room.
       And so at this moment it`s just me and the big Indian on the couch.I notice he has a straight razor about for inches from his wrist on the arm of the couch.
        He`s six feet six insches tall;  he`s bigger around than
an oil drum!  He doesn`t NEED a fucking razor!
       Neither of us should drink another drop of  more rye
Canadian Rye.... There are 10-15 ounces left in the 40 ouncer.
      "You had any breakfast?"  I ask him
      "This is breakfast," he says
      "Me too," I answer.
        We both start to laugh... This guy`s OK.  He`s
just as crazy and paranoid as I am.... And he`s been locked
up, I can tell.... He`s wary, but at the moment he doesn`t
give a fuck  about any cops or insane addicts, crazed mad-jealous husbands ("horn mad" as they used to say in England)... neither do I... No one`s coming at us now,
I`m happy to say.
         I attempt to use my cell.  Shane grabs my wrist
and has the razor to my throat. I could have dodged it
but I`ve accepted Shane as not being a total
loon.  
          He gives his head a shake, says, "Sorry. Thought
you were a parole officer..."
           I laugh...."Not me!"I say, "And I can prove it...
Got my record back where I live... but now... too drunk to drive...Im trying to order more rye.  That OK?"
           "Yes, sir!"  he waves  both his arms at me
in some kind of a back-bush salute.

            We sit back down. I wave him over.  We put our heads together; " Look, we can`t be insane and drink any more rye together.  How we going to do it?
             "I tell you when you`re losing it," he says.
             "And if you are losing it?" I ask.
             "Then you`re fucked!"

             I`m liking this guy more and more....
             "No problem.... only the deal is we put our
weapons in that corner drawer."
             He squints at me... says, "Weapons?"
And he grins.
             This guy is smart.  He`s just playing a role - the big
dumb guy (with very fast hands, I noticed). He`s not
dumb.  He`s bright, bright, bright..."
             "You bugger," I say, looking him in the eye. "When did you know?"
             "Looking at you, I assumed... You were too confident
in a strange situation... nonchalant. I know you`re a writer,
but still... I scare the piss out of most people... Most people leave in a hurry.  Here you are buying me rye... You had to be armed," he says.
             "You first," I say. He stands up and blots out the sun
and puts his gleaming straight razor in the corner drawer.
I stand up and extract a one pound lead sap from under my
left arm. I put it in the drawer.
           "This could crack a skull..." he says.
            "I hope so!" I laugh. Then say,  "Depends how you use it."


    







 

Friday, August 23, 2013

CAMP ISLAND, THE CITY, AND THE WOMAN WITH THE BEADED SHIRT.





               For years I lived by the lake. On an island,
or on one or two other sites.
               I lived in houses, too, but I had to
stop that. I couldn`t hear when I lived in houses.
        People visited me when I lived in houses
and some people told me what a beautiful home I
had. But I couldn`t hear the pine tree behind the house.
I couldn`t hear the pine speak to me,
so I left the house.
         Now other people live there in that expensive
house. Now I don`t, but now I can hear
the pine again.
                 I had a tent on the island near where the
 old cottages used to stand, behind the sand cliffs.
There I could hear the wind in the trees
and the sounds of the waters on the shore.
          The island was an old place, and my
grandfather kept the forest safe for the
last century . So the trees on that island
are more than 100 years old, the white
and the red pine.
          . There used to be lumber camps on the
island, and trees were cut from other lakes.
But my grandfather didn`t let them cut
the trees of the island. That`s why the
island is called Camp Island. There
used to be lumber camps there,
but the trees were never cut.
        
            For a while I lived in the City
two hundred and twenty miles to the south of the
lake. I went to school in the city and to
university there, too. But there were so many
loud sounds in the city that I couldn`t
hear a thing, so I returned to the
lake, where there were no loud sounds, and
where I could hear everything.

            In the city, everything was so loud
that I started drinking whiskey to shut out
the noise. Then after a while I couldn`t
hear the noise. I just wanted
more whiskey.
           I took the train back north, and I walked
to my cabin by the lake. Someone had burned
the cabin down. I bought three more bottles of
whiskey and I drank them on the floor
of my old cabin, which wasn`t there anymore.
Only the wooden floor remained.
          It was October, late in the autumn; I
sat on the wooden floor and drank all
the whiskey.  All I was wearing was
a pin-striped suit from the city.  It was
 a summer suit. There was no
warnth to it. But there seemed to be
warmth in the whiskey, so I drank all
of it.
         I fell asleep and I started to dream.
I woke up in the night and tried to drink
water from my tin cup.  All the water
in the cup was frozen, so I couldn`t
drink it . I went back to sleep.
          I slept all night, and in the night
I really started to dream again. I dreamed
all the waters had pulled back from that deep
lake.  In my dream, all the waters
had withdrawn, revealing all the rocks
in the bottom of the lake, the hills
and cliffs that the waters had hidden before.
In my dream all the bottom of the lake, its
small cliffs and many small sharp hills -
they all were made of garnite... like glowing
rubies, all the bottom of that
lake was deep red, crimson sparkling gems.
The paradise that was the lake revealed
itself to me.
          I woke up frozen. My mind was
awake but I couldn`t bend my arms
or legs.  After a while unable to move, I managed
to sit up. As I sat there in the cold
I realized I was sitting by a sacred lake
and I didn`t want to leave it again.
        I got a small light canoe and I paddled
around the lake, time and again. No one else seemed to
live there,  I paddled down to Camp Island,
where there was plenty of warm sand and beach.
       The sand was warm in the sun there, when the sun
shone, so I paddled down to Camp Island, 
one dawn... and when the
sun rose, I sat on the sand, where the old cottage
stood.  And I let the sun warm me.

          I smelt smoke, so I walked through the forest
of tall  straight red pine.  Someone had built
a small log cabin on the east-facing shore.
A woman was sitting outside the cabin. A deer was
standing beside the woman. The woman was
sitting on the ground.  Several squirrels
sat by the woman and a muskrat was sitting
across from the woman on the ground.
         I watched closely. The woman was talking
to the animals. I could see her lips moving
as she was talking, but I could hear no sounds.
The animals could hear her, though, and they
stayed beside her and watched her and listened.
        I sat on the pine needle floor and I watched
her talking to the animals and the animals listening...
I fell asleep. When I woke up later,
leaning against a white pine, I smelt coffee.
There was a cup of hot coffee right by my hand.
I drank the coffee.
         
        The woman was sitting in front of
her cabin, stitching something. When she
saw I was awake and drinking the coffee,
she waved at me. I waved back and walked
over to her cabin,as I drank the hot
sweet coffee. This is how I met
the woman who talked to the animals...

         I noticed she was stitching a symbol
into a bead shirt.... I asked her what
the symbol meant.... 
       "This is the symbol
for the deer who was here," she said.
" The deer is gone, so I stitch the sign of the deer 
in the shirt... until he returns."


          I noticed there were hundreds of symbols
in her bead shirt. I asked her what the symbols
were.
         "These are the symbols of all the animals,"
she said, "Even the ones who have not been here 
for a long time... I keep them here in this shirt.
Here I keep them safe,,,,Until they
return again."
         
         It was a strange story but it was 
a true story, too. There was
nothing I could do but believe her.
         I knew the animals were in the beaded
symbols of  her shirt, and I knew the animals
would return.

         
.






                                                         (C)2013  story by William Milne

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

HOW I DISCOVERED THE GOSPEL OF THOMAS


                      


     HOW I DISCOVERED THE GOSPEL OF THOMAS   



      

                Why My Sense of Urgency Was Extreme                  ___________________________________             



        When I started waking up, things were different
than they are now. There was no internet and prejudice
and narrow thinking were winning  the day. In fact, narrow thinking had won the day. In North America, we were in an
impossible position.
       Britain and Europe were in an impossible position, too.
         We were on the wrong path and It was 
difficult for people to find the right path.We
were living in drought conditions - there was
a real dearth of information in the
popular mind.

          I remember very well the day, when I was
nineteen,and at the University of Toronto.
I walked in to Emmanuel College library, which
was a good quiet place to study and read.
          I got up to stretch my legs. I walked
over to a tall narrow window which overlooked
the grass of the quad in the inner part of
Victoria College.
          There, without really looking for it,I found
a thin dusty hardcover book, black and unread
and stashed away between bigger books
 on a non popular part of the library.
          I pulled the thin dusty old unread volume
out and I read the small letters on the
cover. On the cover, it said:  "The Gospel
of Thomas."

         No one had heard of the Gospel of Thomas -
and the way things were going, no one
was going to hear about The Gospel of Thomas.
The suppression of information had already
begun.

          Imagine how you`d feel, yourself, if on your
own you discovered an unknown Gospel -
a gospel discovered in 1945. But no one had
spoken of it in 25 years!

         Well, I flipped!
          
         The next day, I did the only logical thing:  I got up early, had a good shower, ate nothing, dressed all in white and took a strong stimulant to clear my mind.
        I sat on the grass outside
the library, watched the sun rise and
went into the library.
         The library was open early and the lights were
on. I went straight to the thin dusty
volume and reverently took it off the shelf.

         The sun shone on the desk and I felt
a warm glow as the room brightened up
 when I sat in that old
stone library by myself that morning.
         I opened the Gospel of Thomas and I began
to read.
         The opening phrase all alone on the first page was:

HE WHO FINDS THE EXPLANATION OF THESE WORDS WILL NOT TASTE DEATH.

        That`s quite an opening, I think you`ll
agree!
           O.K., those of you who have
had the experience of light suddenly filling a
room in a golden glow, you can
imagine my reaction, starting almost to levitate
in that old stone chapel....
          The stone walled library was starting
to feel ancient. 
           The words I was reading were ancient.
            The next words I read were:

"HE WHO DRINKS FROM THE BUBBLING WATERS
FROM MY MOUTH, HE SHALL BECOMES AS I AM,
AND I SHALL BE HE, AND THE HIDDEN THINGS
WILL BE REVEALED TO HIM.

            My God! What I was reading had little
to do with the Christianity I had been taught!
            It appeared to me that everything I had
been taught about the words of Christ was wrong.
Not only was what I had been taught wrong, it was
errant nonsense.
             First of all I was amazed. A new
truth was revealing itself to me - and this truth
was the most ancient truth of all.
             As the sun was dawning through
 the old leaded glass windows, I read. And
these were the words of CHRIST!

"CLEAVE A PIECE OF WOOD, I AM THERE.
LIFT UP A STONE AND YOU WILL FIND ME THERE."

         I saw the hand of God in this. How could
I not have... There I was, a young man, versed
in law and literature, and learning how to write
        I took the narrow dusty black volume
with me, I walked out onto the grass illuminated by
the early morning sun. I had the Gospel of Thomas
in my pack sack.
          I got down on my knees, dressed all in white,
my body cleansed and having fasted for twelve hours
I put my forehead into the grass countless times.
And I gave thanks to our Lord of hosts,
the Lord who rides the clouds and rules the heavens,
the Lord of the meeting rivers, for revealing this
for revealing this truth to me.
         Again and again, I abased myself, praying,
kneeling, again and again pressing my forehead
into the grass. I remember saying the Lord`s
Prayer out loud . I remember hearing my
voice echoing against the walls of the stone
 buildings of the quad.

         Classes were not to begin for another
hour and a half. I remember seeing Northrop Frye
walking by, with papers for his morning lecture.
I remember he was observing me quite closely
as he passed.
         He walked into old Victoria College.
He opened the heavy wooden door, and then
was gone.

        This is why you hear the sense of urgency
in my voice sometimes as I write.
         I thought this new ancient truth was
on the verge of being suppressed again,
so I started making copies of this gospel,
found at Nag Hammadi 1945.
         I remember re-writing the Gospel of
Thomas and making a drama out of it.
In the drama, God talked to the poet
and to the Christ. It was a three way
conversation.  And I thought it
was actually happening.
        Even to this day, I`m sure
the conversation actually happened.
Go ahead, call me crazy as a bedbug!"
Others have.
        I made about thirty
copies of the gospel and the
dramatic short book that emerged
out it, as I examined the text.
          I placed copies of it in about
thirty places throughout Ontario -
just in case the bastards tried to stamp
the Revelation out again.

            Needless to say, my life changed
from that point on - and the more deeply
I read the gospel, the more my life
changed.
             I stopped eating and I focused.
I drank water and I focused on the gospel.

            Then I did the only logical thing I could
think to do. I drove two hundred and fifty miles north of Toronto.
            I started walking through the bush and getting 
 the feel  of most of the hilltops surrounding Trout Lake,
to the East of the City of North Bay.
            I walked for miles and
miles in the bush, climbing hills.
 I was looking for a place of power.
            I found one - I found a place 
that felt just right.
            It was on the top of 150 foot  granite cliff. 

             I started cutting down  small hilltop oak trees. 
I cut down about fifty of them.
            I discovered they were too heavy
to move by myself. So  I went to the Sturgeon Falls Burrough`s livestock auction.
            I bought a big young black workhorse at the
auction.  I had to coax the horse up to narrow goatpath
to the top of the cliff. The horse helped me drag the logs to
the site atop the face of the cliff.
             I hired three men. Between the four of us,
we were just able to lift one 14 foot log. That oak
is heavy wood; it`s also holy wood, I was thinking.
            In two months, the hut was built.
It had a desk, a bed, a wood stove, two
windows with wooden shutters. The hut was twelve
feet by fourteen feet. with a tar roof and plank floor.
It was just big enough.
            I read the Gospel of Thomas carefully,
over the months and I rewrote the whole thing, not
changing the message,but making a drama out of it.
          I lived there all  through the winter,
with the screaming wind up over the cliff, and the
snow and the ice and the northern lights.
          There was no electricity, and no way to drive
there. I just had oil lamps and no radio. It was
silent and beautiful - just the place to work
on a gospel that had been deceitfully hidden
from our Christian world and kept out of our Bible.

         I didn`t know what other people thought of
me and I didn`t much care. I didn`t share
with very many people what I was doing up there.

        


                                         







           I propose to start sharing what was written on that cliff top with you. I'm putting a copyright on it in order to protect the text on the internet, and so I can derive a living out
what I  have done.
           I want to make one thing clear, however. I physically
sat on the cliff top and wrote these words down, but many of the words passed through me, as light suffused
 the place I was sitting.
           Often I found I was understanding only the top
of the page, but my hand was writing the bottom of the
page. My understanding had not reached the bottom
of the page.
            Later I would understand what was written on the
bottom of the page.
             What I am saying is this: though I am putting down
a copyright on this page to protect the text, I did not
write all of this text.
              When I was confused, exhausted and I couldn't
finish a sentence, another Hand finished the sentences
for me. I was reading, after all, the original Gospel and I
wasn't entrusted to do the whole task.
              Our Father in Heaven finished many of these
pages for me, and if you don't think such a thing is possible,
I have to say you are mistaken.
              I would not have had the courage to write
some of the contents of this text. You don't have to
believe me in this, but I know what has happened,
and I have been shown what is true.
                                                



              For many years I have been afraid to
publish this text. I was afraid for my own life.
Now I'm older and I realize this is not about me.
              
              It is about all you people in the world
who will carry the dream.





                                              (C)2013 by William G. Milne

Friday, August 16, 2013

nuts and not so...nuts

you know the one about
Igor who`s looking for
a normal brain for Frankenstein
and he chooses a normal one
all right - Abby Normal?

well, more or less, some kind
of mistake has been made with
all of us... and that`s what we call
Destiny... and that`s part of it also
I know this whole thing is not just
random bullshit...

I can`t do anything expected of me
anymore...not at all! last year
it took me a year to mail a
letter

I can`t/won`t/will not do
normal stuff that would be fuckin
good for me and maybe would
keep me out of jail
and the crazy houses

I almost punched a guy
in the head because he was
sitting next to me
listening to a walkman
earphones and the music went
click ""click  click

I suppose it was the artificial cymbal
sound... anyway the music was
so horribly 4/4 with a godless
lack of syncopation
I wanted to kill somebody
while waiting at some church
to get some food

fuck food! that`s what I say
if I have to go thru shit like this
to get it... oh yeah and then
I get moralistic with myself
and I want to kill the bugger
in my head most of all

the Mine Captain, oh I`m gonna
get that prick one or these days..
he judges me and makes me
feel bad...BAD

and so
no birdsong at twilight
no sun on the storied stone
of the old country church
at the crossroads
in disuse now

but I sit there alone and
give thanks
thanks that I`m finally
alone 
away from all the noise
and stupidity
and bad smells of ass
and breath

I don`t mind the smells so much
but the way people look at me and
think I`m nuts...
and they`re right i am nutsI am a maniac!
and it`s just as well

someone`s got to talk about the bell on the hill
about the church without a roof in the meadow
about a kitten`s paw on a frozen pane
of glass

about the still light in the cedar grove
 behind the chapel..