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Thursday, February 27, 2014

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A TRAIN



            Once upon a time there was a train
where people could breath and eat with knives and
forks like human beings and we didn't have the
urge to kill the fat guy on the seat next to us.
      In those days we didn't have to behave
like farm animals being transported they
know not where, making the sort of sounds
you hear coming from a barn over-packed with 
goats, chickens and cows.. And the grunts of pigs
and the squeals when a foot or a tail was yanked
on stepped upon.
           No. Those were the days of dignified travel.
When we had room. When there was a certain grace
to the dining car.  When passengers could breathe
and have a few thoughts along the way.
          A person might even feel a frisson of
 romance when he heard the lonesome
whistle of the train he was riding on. Bashing through
the deep snows in the winter, watching the pine
forest up  close to the windows, passing by.
 The trip was fun and alive, and tourists liked
it, too.

        No longer.

        Northerners no longer can travel like
normal people. We must skulk
like addicts in small little groups
in the wee small darkest hours past midnight -
to nab a bus which is not packed with people,
a means of travel where we can breathe
again.

          A lot of northerners do a lot
of wood chopping. This makes our
shoulders larger than the shoulders
of many southerners.
        As a result you cannot place two
 northern  wood-chopping
males next to each other in two narrow
seats and expect to achieve any kind
of harmony.
         Someone measured my shoulders the
other night (a sordid story I'll tell you
another time). I am close to three feet across
at the shoulders if I breath in, which I hope
to do when I'm travelling...And I'm not
considered a huge northerner, just a tad ungainly
in that I resemble a gorilla when
I walk.
         So you put me next to
another 240 pound beast from
the Great White North - say Swastika,
Ontario, or Iroquois Falls... well, we get to 
hate each other in thirty minutes.
There simply is not room in bus
transportation to seat two bushmen
together.
        Luckily, people such as we are
tend to bring libation with us - and
so even though there is no room 
to sit down - there is space to lie
down in the aisle - or  you could throw open
the luggage storage shelf above
and lie down there...
        But I have found this makes
the ladies nervous - taking bets
on exactly when the behemoth will
fall and break their mothers'
corning ware all at once and             ***
once and for all.
        Northern women chop wood, too.
And such ladies are quite capable
of knocking a southern liberal out,
if he falls into her lap at an
inopportune time.
      Nope. If the BUS is full
 we're like BEES in a BOTTLE.
I'd like to know which dingbat
made the decision to remove
trains from the north: the person
who pulled a fast one and turned
northern transportation into a
cruel farce.
      The woman ahead of me
in the bus was making a bit of a
speech to her fellow travellers.
And of course I could hear it 
because I was crammed and
seated in such a way that my nose
was about six inches behind her
left ear.
       She said: "They did it to
punish the north! For not voting
 liberal lately!"
        All the people up front were
talking to her, too, and murmuring agreement.
         "Whoever did it we owe
him one. We'll wait...!"she called out rather
 too loudly for what they call 'polite society'... 
but that didn't matter.
          We were no longer in polite
society. The bus was stuffed like the
Christmas turkey! I was wondering what
the scene reminded me of... and then I knew.
It reminded me of a bus in a third-world
country.
            In Jamaica, when I was a kid, buses
used to bop along from stop to stop,
careening around blind corners with the
horns blaring. But those buses were fun,
even if you were on the verge of getting killed
every second. Because... you were allowed
to smoke and drink alcohol,  stick
your head out the window and shout to people
in the street. You were even allowed to bring
chickens or a goat on board.
         Also, it was warm, so that helped, too,
if the bus broke down... or if seven or eight of
us had to get out and push the bus the last
hundred feet up a hill. That wasn't so bad
because of the sunny climate. 
         In Canada, of course, you'd freeze off some
body parts if you attempted this
feat.

         The woman up front was shouting 
again. It was impossible to ignore her.
          "Yes, we're going to wait!"
The other passengers were cheering.
          I didn't hear the whole speech
because the guy to the right of me
was breathing garlic into my nostrils.
However he passed me half a mickey of rye
and said, "Go ahead. Finish it!" And I
did... in two large gulps. So the garlic
no longer mattered to me.         

        The woman was standing now.
I couldn't really move my head, so I 
had to look right at her ass. Her
butt was big, made her look like the ass
of  a mule in blue jeans.
           But we all have our little problems
so I'm not one to judge.

        "Oh, yes, wait we will!" She
was waving her fist in the air. We'll
vote the bastards out! We'll get
payback!  We'll count the days!"

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


Saturday, February 22, 2014

FORGETING THE NIGHT BEFORE ; EDITOR666 MOVES SOUTH, TO EDIT THE WORK OF YOUR ROVING REPORTER....................... ----------..........-.IMMEDIATE ANIMOSITY ARISES





         I  feel as if I'm hungover, but that can't be possible,
can it?
         I used to have just about every bad habit you can name,
but now I'm older and wiser. OR wiser because I'm older.
But his doesn't prevent me from behaving repeatedly
like a crazed slathering fool , sniffing after the remains
of the cake at  a toxic birthday party.
        
         
         I've gotten out of the habit of writing each morning.
This is strange because writing is an activity I really
enjoy.  Editing...not so much. So...not so much editing.
         
          However...
Editor 666 has made it down from the Arctic,
and I've given him a room... we'll see if this works out.
He's not the type of guy who understands the word,
'compromise'. Reasonable discussion, he cannot engage.
          And his table manners are atrocious. 

          But I SUSPECT need an editor... so I have been told.

I believe in living in the now. And that's when I want him
to leave.... Now!       
         Here goes:
   
         I thank God that the Christmas season is over.
I tend to go into a real nosedive with the weight of the solstice approaching. A Bob Dylan line comes to mind: "a trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field."  Those pre-
 solstice days make me feel that way - bogged down... in a magnetic field...
        
Editor 666:  "LIGHTEN UP! You son-of-a-bitch!  I'm not reading you so I can been dragged down into a sub-oceanic trough of morbidity and terminal  mind-warping depression!
I'm already depressed out of all remedy, after my
five month stay with the Mad Poet of Rat River!
         
 Writer:       I don't remember drinking last night, but I slept
on stage behind my amplifiers, and that's not usually
a good sign.
         I seem to remember someone handing me a pewter
stein of hog-wrestling-strength moonshine. I knew what it was
because I could see the little wavy lines above the surface
of the drink, even in the lights above the stage. That usually means it's really evil shit - just
what I like...a drink so strong it'll curl your hair, or your
toes, or both at the same time! A drink that'll hit you
hard front-on, straight-up, then circle around and bite you
in the ass! 

Ed.666: "You're really pushing it...And you're boring me!"

         O.K. This is going to get ugly. For one thing, an editor is supposed to edit, not insert his opinion into the text
every 200 words! 
                     The problem is, the prick is one of the best
editors alive today. I just have to find a comfortable
place for him (comfortable for me)  like a heavy cement-
walled basement with a vault door, locked from the
outside.

                    Now, I know the Mad Poet of Rat River, and
I'm aware of the utter disaster his cabin was in.
I know he couldn't find most of his own writings...
and he wrote all the time... so you figure it out.
Ratty has some kind of complex... I do not even
want to speculate about it.
         So we called Editor 666.

         Editor 666 was caught in some 
bowel-wrenching
scandal in New York City, some company
involved with the New York Times -
he was caught in an embarrassing situation
with a director's wife. In fact he drove
her car into the hotel pool at midnight.
       So he wasn't going to
be a manager any more...!
          I hear he was caught in some pink Tutu...

Editor666: "That simply is not true."
           
Writer:            "Not true, eh?  What was that pink
thing wrapped three times around your neck?

Ed666: "I think it's called a feather boa."
         
 Writer:            "You think? You know what it was!
You haven't had a moment of uncertainty
in print in the last ten years!"

Ed666: "There are many, many things... that never should
             have appeared in print! About half your writings
              ought to have been excised."

Writer: "You forget... when you get mouthy the way
             you are right now... You forget the hammer
             I keep right here beside the keyboard...
             I use the hammer for rodents of all variety -
             including editors."

Ed666:   "..."

Writer:  " I thought that might quiet you down a bit...
             When was the last time you took a bath?"

Ed666:   "...."

Writer: "When is th last time you slept?"

Ed666:  "..."


Writer: "My God, he's asleep now! He's staring out
                      the window with his eyes open...How does he
             do that? Must be a trick he learned in New
             York!"

              The writer is now waving a hand in front
of the editor's face. Not a peep emerges from the
editor....
              And his pupils are not contracting or dilating...
Is he dead? No... I can feel his breath on my
hand...
             He's sitting up straight in a straight back
chair... He looks like he's thinking, staring at the wall...
I've always suspected he's got some kind of bloodless,
lizard DNA in his veins.
             Maybe he's hibernating.

             Boy, if he were awake, he'd be editing this! I'm
sure he doesn't want this new bit of information
to get out! He's in some weird form of
'stasis'. He looks like he's thinking, staring at the
wall...
            I bet they paid him when he sat like this!
He probably had them all fooled. He's in some
kind of suspended animation.

Editor 666: "..."

Writer: "He probably's got himself trained... in some
            deep and twisted way... Likely his eyes
            pop open in some weird semblance of
            consciousness, every time I write 1000
            words."

Editor 666: "..."

Writer:   "He's not dead and he's not awake...
             He has just the slightest hint of a pulse.
             
 Editor666:   "....    ...."
              
Writer:         "..."             

Editor666:      "..."

Writer:            "Maybe he's shedding his skin."

Editor666:    "..."

Writer:          "..."
  
Ed:                    "..."

Wr:               "..."

Ed:                     "..."      "..."


Editor 666:      (whispers... talking to us, not to the writer)
       
Says:        "See how dull it is when I don't step in?"


Wednesday, February 19, 2014

L'ETRANGER, THE OUTSIDER - CAMUS AND VAN GOGH, THE EYE OF THE ARTIST

L`ETRANGER, THE OUTSIDER - CAMUS & VAN GOGH, THE EYE OF THE ARTIST

                     *           *                *


L`ETRANGER, THE STRANGER, THE OUTSIDER ——- THE OBSERVER WHO WATCHES FROM THE EDGES OF SOCIETY -THE ARTIST, THE LEADER ……………………………………………………………………………………………..VAN GOGH SENDS HIS EAR TO THE WOMAN HE LOVES FROM A DISTANCE






           Some years back, I was studying “L`Etranger” by Camus,
which is: `The stranger`, “The Outsider”…

      The man standing  outside the restaurant windows in the large  city -
 Paris, Toronto, New York, London - he might be
highly intelligent, but he does not partake of the affluence
of society; he`s not included in the good times or good food; he`s not invited to  cocktail parties,couples groups in fine restaurants.  He is totally excluded for one reason most of all: 
he is an observer.
         The only consolation L`Etranger has for all this rejection and ostracizing - 
he knows that most fine artists
live lives as solitaries. Oh yes, they may be in the
midst of a family, or they may not. But one thing is sure -
they are alone. They are alone now, and they have always been alone. 
Even when they are in a bar attempting to
talk to others, or at the funeral of a loved one,
the artist might be acutely observing the scene;
but he is detached, an outsider - he is The Stranger.
           There are too many examples of this “healthy sickness” - too many examples to count: Van Gogh,
why didn`t he have sex with the prostitute? Why did he
send his ear to her? 
           Because he was too detached?   Likely so…
Detached, yes, alienated, apart from… observing…
He saw her closely; he saw her so completely
that he loved her in a way she had never been
loved… 
          She may not have known this… (What do
any of us know about the people around us?) 
But she likely sensed it - she may not have sensed
his love; she might have thought it was lust… but she
certainly sensed his attention.
         He was detached. He saw her every colour, uncertainty
and frown. He probably never took her hand, or
shared a coffee with her. But he loved her in a way
that no one ever had…no one had ever seen her
so completely.

        Although, if you look at it from the woman`s
point of view. perhaps she would have rather had a meal and sex 
with the man instead of being observed so closely… even if he
looked at her with utter love, what good was that to her?
She might have thought…  She was busy.  She had
a child perhaps and cats to take care of.
         I`m sure she would have preferred to take the man`s
hand… but to endure his disconcerting stare?
         Who among us want to be observed so closely?
Most of us have our  guilts and paranoias…
who has the gift of repose?
          Sometimes the artist.  And sometimes not.

           Van Gogh likely would have preferred to take
her hand, also, or to pat her rump. But it was not to
be. He was too much the outsider, too much
the stranger…
        If he had been able to hold her hand, he would
not have had to send her his ear.
        Of the few women I can think of at the moment -
none of them would be more likely
to spend time with me, if I sent them
my ear.
        What do you think, my lady? If I sent you my ear,
would that patch up the differences between us?
Would that make everything all right.
         Or would I be taking another trip
up the hill into a locked unit?

          Close attention makes people uncomfortable.
They have their own lives to lead, and they do not
need some maniac perched like a jackdaw on the back
of the chair next to them… closely watching
the expressions on their face.

        But most true artists are exactly that: painters
and writers have been primarily that - observers…. 
Maniacs,madmen, excluded outlaws and pariahs
they are the watchers no groups are comfortable with…

      And so the artists are found looking in
through the glass  into the restaurant from the cold sidewalk…

Shivering in a wet raincoat with two dollars and forty cents
in your pocket… if you go to a cheap restaurant, you
can just about buy a coffee.

And when you go home, you can eat your oil paints
instead of bread.


                                                                      *



Thursday, February 13, 2014

SANTA'S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE - PART 1

    


SANTA GIVES YOU URBAN SURVIVAL

      Any survival situation is interesting.  Toxic Psychosis
is definitely a survival situation. - often the danger is more
acute for other people.
      Extreme paranoia, however induced...can be a danger
to other people. If the subject feels he is under
attack, by let say six schoolteachers walking their dogs
across a public park...
      And if the subject is in the same public park, hiding in the
bushes and watching carefully at the approach of the enemy.  And the subject naturally has already gained the higher
ground...
       And if the subject is the survivor of several jail
fights and has learned the art of using anything
at hand for a weapon.
       And let`s say our hypothetical subject has
just snorted six ounces of Peruvian Marching Powder.
And has walked out of the family home at the start of
dinner. And he has slammed the front door
very loudly as he begins his fast search for higher
ground... And some fiend has cut the cocaine with
(Angel) DEVIL DUST - PCP....
       Now he`s carrying his shoes in his left
hand....And he`s having trouble putting these
shoes on - because every time he sits down to pull
on a shoe, he starts to levitate...
       And levitation is a problem I`d prefer
not to discuss before breakfast....
       
        Time for a cup of coffee. 

        Well, that`s why we call them drug fiends,
children. And they might attack out of the
bushes at any time.
         
        Because even if you`re only sixteen
and even if all six of you weigh less than a
thousand pounds, and even if you`re walking Labrador
Retrievers, not Dobermans. The DRUG FIEND
 walking with the king  SEES THE SCENE
                                  DIFFERENTLY
 than you your school-teacher buddies do!
        
         The drug fiend sees danger everywhere he turns.
He is in what the doctors like to call, a "FIGHT OR FLIGHT"
situation.
   
          You see, you think you`re walking along in a
safe park  and it`s a balmy spring evening, and you`re 
talking to your wives, whoops! wife. And the dogs you
are walking are frolicking along looking for bushes to sniff.
           But you see, that`s not the reality at all...

           In fact, you are walking 2300 years ago...

           You don`t hear the shrieking citadel geese, because
you are not aware that you are approaching the citadel...
and the bushes your dogs are sniffing give rise
to the bushes on higher ground where the brave soul
defending the city from Etruscan Invaders... awaits.
           And he passed right through that little fight-or-flight
problem six minutes ago. This Drug Fiend is a brave soul.
            He is defending the lives of his people. And he
has been doing military exercises for decades.
             He`s been practising hurling sharp implements against a reinforced wall in his basement for six years now
taking speed all night, night after night, for years
and lifting weights after his fingers have become too blistered from whipping around all those six-pointed stars
at the human head drawn in the wall 30 feet away
from his barricade.
         He works out nightly in his Roman exercise gallery.

          Your dogs have transformed themselves into the
200 pound snarling beasts ( precursors to the brave Rottweiler breed, only larger and trained to eat what it
kills - trained to eat and kill the citizens of Rome.)
         Our brave fiend is truly lost in madness now.
But for him, remember, the situation makes sense.
It doesn`t to you, but you`re not making the rules.
You`re not the director of this very real theatre piece.
             Well, you`ll see the problem developing...

              When you see the 320 pound, extremely agile,
shoeless monster burst from the bushes you are
attacking.... when you hear him howl in a chattering
fashion teeth flashing in a snarl which may also be a laugh...
               When you see him running downhill in a leaping
motion... running past your company  to your left - down
the hill and cutting off any chance of
dignified escape...    or any escape at all.

                  Well, then it`s time, my friends, to start seeing
the situation the way he does.
                  TIME WARP does exist.
                   principle: The craziest among us, he defines the time and space.

              If you see him BOUNDING, moving the way you have never seen a human move - chances are, what you
are dealing with is an entity rather less and rather more than
human...
             iT`S IMPORTANT TO QUICKLY READ THE SIGNS!
             (1) bounding,  that`s a sign
             (2) when your domestic dogs have stopped barking
                  and now they`re just pissing themselves where                    they stand, that`s another sign.         

             It`s a sign to run like a motherfucker!
             
             Go ahead, sprint for the bushes.  Forget
about ripping the shit of your $1000 suit.  Run through
the bushes... don`t worry about what may be permanent
facial scars as the undergrowth tears at your skin. That`s
what plastic surgery is for.
            Run right through the brand new one by six pine
planking of your neighbours fence... Let the men do that for
you, ladies.Chances are they`ve got a good head start on 
you anyway...

principle: When reality strikes, forget what ought to be.
            
          LET GO OF THE LEASHES OF YOUR DOGS! They
can outrun you - one good thing about animals, they
never forget how to flee...

          Ask any 20 year cop who`s worked the inner city
and the ravines... Ask him about the mysteries, the delights
and the insane dangers of fiends on PCP.
           I have heard horrible stories. Babies have been
eaten... A man crossing sixteen  lanes of the 401
with an arm in his mouth... unworried, as if he`s
going to church.  I have heard horrible stories.
        And what I have SEEN is far worse than what I have heard.

        If you`re lucky enough to SEE such a beast approaching, shoot for the centre of the chest. 
(Fuck luck! If you`re unwary, you won`t see a thing and you`ll be dead) Chances are he`ll be too fast for you to hit him in the head...
        Shoot him three or four times in the chest.... then
run like the demons of hell are nipping at your heels.
Because THEY ARE!  RUN LIKE HELL!
         And don`t for a minute think... just because you`ve
hit him four or five times in the chest with a 303, don`t think he`s dead.  He won`t be,
           With all that adrenalin and lead in him he can still
run faster than you can.Don`t bother checking to see
if he`s wear body arm.. MANIACS DON`T NEED VESTS!
           Throw a chair or a boulder thru somebody`s
living room window... get your crew inside and shove a couch into the ungainly opening you have made in the wall. Ha! Ha!
           THEN CALL 911.
                       
            Forget cell phones at times like this --- your fingers
will shake too much to use them...
            Shove the couch into the wall opening. Get any of the men with you who are not weeping on their knees and praying for SANTA... get them to rip legs off chairs off chairs for added impact defence.
            Remember, I AM SANTA. If you`ve been to jail
you`ve probably already met me - and you know I tell you
no lies.

            Tell the house owners of the house to "SHUT UP AND FIND A GUN.!"
            This guy`s still coming for you. Don`t ever think he`s not. He might be catching his breath.  No, scratch that - he
DOESN`T NEED TO CATCH HIS BREATH.
          Forget the weak and the slow, your friends who were walking in the park with you...
they`re dead already!

           The cops`ll get there quick.  A lot of the guys like
situations like this - and thank God for that! 
         Never criticize a certain love for violence in your constabulary. What do you expect? It`s their stock and trade.
At times such as this you`ll wish they were more violent -
at times like this you need ravening beasts

             Fuck luck! When someone`s trying to kill you,
the only response is -  TRY TO EAT HIS SKULL!

             I`ve been through a few situations like this
and I`m still alive... And this little article might just save
your life...
             There`s no time to think when the rams`horns are
blowing in the hills.

                                          
                                           
                                             Respectfully submitted. RRR
 



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Wednesday, February 12, 2014

THE BELLY OF THE BEAST AND HEAVEN'S DOOR - A DISCUSSION OF MANIC-DEPRESSIVE ILLNESS;----------HOW TO PREDICT YOUR DANGEROUS TIMES




                                 I've been in the belly  of
the beast for three weeks now, underwater, in the
tunnel. And the worst part of it - I didn't know it.
I thought the Doom that I was feeling
was permanent: feeling doom was simply reality, just the way it things are. Learn to live with it.
            Right! That is horrible advice!


            I feel just fine now. The cycle is moving
along in its inexorable way and I don't worry about 
a thing. I can organize twelve things at once
that's what I think in the manic part of my life.
And the problem is, at that particular time, I
really can do it!
                        So I get twelve projects started,
and people agreeing to work with me. I
can make million dollar deals. I once
put a bid in for a gravel pit.
            I put in a call to the owner at
7:30 A.M. and he was up.  I asked
him how much he wanted for his pit
trucks, conveyers and loaders. He said
7 million.
            We phoned each other back
and forth. By breakfast I had him down
to 4 million.I'm good at that kind of
bargaining. 
           Problem was I had about
three dollars in the bank. 
           There was also the fact that
I didn't really want or need a gravel pit
to begin with. You might say, "How crazy
can you get? Buying something
you don't even want."
          Well I can get a lot crazier
than this. Once I get an IDEA and
I'm manic, well, I'll follow the idea
through rapidly...
          
            It's all this manic energy running
through me. You can make deals that
you think you can manage. And maybe
you would be able to manage a major
enterprise, if you stayed in that manic
state.
            Problem is, next comes depression.
And when you are in deep clinical depression,
 all your ability to follow through is gone
and all urges to follow through are extinguished.
You are immobilized. And you can be in
serious trouble.
           In deep and ongoing depression,
 the only creative urge you might have,
is the urge to end the utter misery
of your worthless life...(you are saying
this to yourself. The negative script
is a component of depression - and the voice(s)
in your head telling yourself how stupid and useless
you are, how lazy... And on top of these things,
what a shit you are!
            This continuing script, in my view,
has to be attacked.


            One quarter to one third of manic
depressives kill themselves. So obviously
it's a dangerous disease.
             I hadn't been taking my diagnosis
seriously. I just thought I was way, way out
there. I started plotting out my cycle for
the depressed period, way before I knew
about any diagnosis, I knew I was subject
to a disturbing cycle.
            
             There's a short period of time
during your depression, I call it "the depressive
peak." That's when you have to really
watch yourself. You can really go over the
top, during the peak ( which might be
3 days or thee hours or three weeks).
 You have to counter the negative self-talk 
with  positive images, which you have prepared
repeatedly.

         There are ways to train yourself
to picture  one scene of a place you love,
or a person you love with whom you feel
grounded, or tender moments with a dog or cat.
 You find these moments of joy within yourself
(And sometimes it takes a week to think up
even one such image. Don't worry. Just
don't stop. You need the positive image to
counteract the ravening beast who is calling
you names, deep in your own mind. )

       Press one index finger on one hand
against the index finger of the other hand.        
This becomes a trigger for you.
        Every time you press the two
fingers together, you imagine your
beautiful scene.
        When you have a horrible
suicidal thought, you trigger the scene
to offset the doom and gloom of
the thought , and it helps...truly
it does help. But it takes a while
and it takes practice.
       You have to practice. The
non-medicinal cure takes work.
It works better if you can borrow
a hypnotist to help you with your "imagining
sessions"     and to help you embed your image
into your mind so you can call up the scenes
of joy and happiness quickly, when  you  are
in desperate straits. When you are under 
attack...
       We all get in desperate straits. I used
to hit the depressive peak every thirty-four
days. I'd map the times of my cycle. I had to, 
to protect my life, it was a lot better when I knew
the timing of each phase my cycle time  map.
        I used to call it my 'psyche map'. At
least when you are attacked, 
when this dark curtain is pulled across
your heart and mind, you know  when it's
 coming. You have a calendar of days.
       You have a map of your own psyche. By
writing down notes on each stage of your
cycle, as you pass through each cycle,
you can nail the time frames down. It will take
about three times through, to get a somewhat
accurate cycle time map.
       You know when your depressive peak is coming
 And more important you know when it's leaving, and
you know it IS GOING TO LEAVE.
         You know this dark beast is
leaving. And you have a projection
as to how soon it will leave. So you
know this terrible darkness will stay for just
so long. 
          This way you are dealing with
a finite situation. You are no longer facing
 infinite misery. The feeling of Doom 
will NOT stay with you for the rest of your life.
         
          Just this one little step
can make a huge  improvement
in your life. You are going from
passive to active.  And that
always feels good and helps relieve
the feeling of "helpless" and "hopeless"
       
       Of course , there are
exceptions! I've just come out
of a 2 or 3 month depression
and I didn't even know I was depressed!
Sometimes it comes up on you from
behind...
       And creeps into your being
slowly, oh so slowly that you don't
feel its presence or it's growing
power over you, until you're  in a situation
that seems impossible to change.
(This is starting to sound like a sci-fi
 movie)
.     The weird stuff happens. There's
no denying this fact. But I'd say the 
'psyche cycle',the timing of your cycle,
which enables you to project your dangerous
time... I'd say this works and will help you
8/10ths of the time. 




                                     Good luck and happy hunting.
                                     Respectfully submitted, R.R.R.
                                     (C)2014 by William G. Milne 

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

NANCY SAYS:, I CAN'T FOLLOW YOU.. YOUR STORIES LEAP ABOUT... THE CURE? EDITOR 666 HAS ARRIVED





FORGETTING THE NIGHT BEFORE


         I  feel as if I'm hungover, but that can't be possible,
can it?
         I used to have just about every bad habit you can name,
but now I'm older and wiser. OR wiser because I'm older.
But his doesn't prevent me from behaving repeatedly
like a crazed slathering fool , sniffing after the remains
of the cake at  a toxic birthday party.
        
         
         I've gotten out of the habit of writing each morning.
This is strange because writing is an activity I really
enjoy.  Editing...not so much. So...not so much editing!
         
         BUT:

Editor 666 has made it down from the Arctic,
and I've given him a room... we'll see if this works out.
He's not the type of guy who understands the word,
'compromise'. Reasonable discussion, he cannot engage.
          And his table manners are atrocious!
          But apparently I need him.

      
         So here goes:
   
          Thank God that the Christmas season is over!
(The season of the mushroom man, old Saint Nick
under the pine trees preparing the winter's
harvest..)
        I tend to go into a real nosedive with the weight of the solstice approaching. A Bob Dylan line comes to mind: "a trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field."  Those pre-
 solstice days make me feel that way - bogged down... in a magnetic field...
        
Editor 666:  "LIGHTEN UP! You son-of-a-bitch!  I'm not reading you so I can been dragged down into a sub-oceanic trough of morbidity and terminal  mind-warping depression!
I'm already depressed out of my mind, and out of all remedy! 
               After my five month stay with the Mad Poet of Rat River.Hell! Most people would go through a psychotic
breakdown!
         
       I don't remember drinking last night, but I slept
on stage behind my amplifiers, and that's not usually
a good sign.
         I seem to remember someone handing me a pewter
stein of hog-wrestling-strength moonshine. I knew what it was
because I could see the little wavy lines above the surface
of the drink, even in the lights above the stage. That usually means it's really evil shit - just
what I like...a drink so strong it'll curl your hair, or your
toes, or both at the same time! A drink that'll hit you
hard front-on, straight-up, then circle around and bite you
in the ass! 

Ed.666: "You're really pushing it...And you're boring me!"

Me:         "O.K. This is going to get ugly. For one thing, an editor is supposed to edit, not insert his opinion into the text
every 200 words!"
 
                     The problem is, the prick is one of the best
editors alive today. I just have to find a comfortable
place for him (comfortable for me)  like a heavy cement-
walled basement with a vault door, locked from the
outside.

                    Now, I know the Mad Poet of Rat River, and
I'm aware of the utter disaster his cabin was in.
I know he couldn't find most of his own writings...
and he wrote all the time... so you figure it out.
Ratty has some kind of complex... I do not even
want to speculate.
         So we called Editor 666.

         Editor 666 was caught in some 
bowel-wrenching
scandal in New York City, some company
involved with the New York Times -
he was caught in an embarrassing situation
with a director's wife. In fact he drove
her car into the hotel pool.
       So he wasn't going to
be a manager any more...!
          I hear he was caught in some pink Tutu...

Editor666: "That simply was not true."
           
            Not true, eh?  What was that pink
thing wrapped three times around your neck?

Ed666: "I thin it's called a feather boah.
         
             You think! You know what it was.
You haven't had a moment of uncertainty
in print in the last ten years!

















                       I just got back from two weeks in the Big Smoke. (that's Toronto for those of you across the seas.)
           I'm back now but the trip was nerve-wracking.
     I used to make the trip every week, when I was performing,
but I can see now I'm relying on habit to keep myself 
between the white lines, both mentally and physically.
          So now I must have routine. Routine can be very helpful - to keep myself from going bat-shit and running naked across people's back yards, at 3:00 A. M under a full moon, all the while howling out a Rastaferian chant I happen to know. And beating a drum.
           
          Nope, none of this
           No obvious displays of absurdity... this is
the pattern I'll follow. This is the plan.
       
           Every time I start to write, well... most times... I have
a big doubt that I can do it. I have the Fear to face the virgin page.
        
         My sister, Nancy, told me she had trouble following me
in some of my stories.
        I said: "I'm often drinking when I write the articles..."

       And, I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this
story...so if you're having difficulty following my thought -
it's understandable. Maybe there is no thought; or perhaps
a glimmer is growing in the vast world down below -
in the huge and vast darkness within, unconscious regions.
far below, deeper than any ocean's floor.
          ((You can travel in that darkness.))
         
       Bukowski's advice was, "Don't try."
 In October 1963, Bukowski recounted in a letter  how someone once asked him, “What do you do? How do you write, create?” To which, he replied: “You don’t try. That’s very important: ‘not’ to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

                                        I'll take that advice.
                 
                   The vast  ocean within - the storm
on which we ride...light years of darkness.
                  You can travel in this darkness.
Without taking a step, you can travel  far.
You can go very far indeed.
                   But...

                   A certain calm is required. 
                   And I've just had some kind
of panic attack that I was out of wine.
A real, panting, hard=breathing, ass-kicking
attack of nerves. I turned the whole fucking place
upside down, armchairs included. In about 3 minutes.
                   It's ironic
that I should be writing about inner travel exactly
now.   But this contradiction doesn't matter.
We've got a journey to take and now the train
has fuel!

     'DO I CONTRADICT MYSELF? VERY WELL,
I CONTRADICT MYSELF.  I AM LARGE,
I CONTAIN MULTITUDES."       Walt Whitman 
indeed.

       All I can say, Nancy, is you may not  know how rough
I feel these mornings. Rough. I mean really rough... Hands shaking, belly swelling with what I hope is gas... Apparently my LIVER is fine.

        So I write down any sentence - just to start
the flow... and to see where these words will
take us... in our travels through the Mind,
our  journey through unspeakable depths. 
                Any sentence can open the door in the wall.