Thursday, December 25, 2014


          I saw this post entitled Walker Ballantine.  And there was nothing in the post.
            Well, that's not very fair to Walker or Mr Ballantine.
This fellow started out as a character in my list of other names by which I call myself from time to time. I always
figured a little camouflage doesn't hurt - especially at such times as you are being pursued. Or such times when you're just certain you are being pursued and it's your imagination
only. Paranoid spells.
          The characters I create, some of them
become pals of mine. They're me and they're not me.
Walker has somehow developed a personality of his
own. To be honest, I often like this alter ego better than I like myself.  And unlike me, when I go through depressive patches, Walker Ballantine is usually fun to be with.
         Besides,  Walker has written all my erotica. When
I write erotica, I usually put these tales in bright blue notebooks. And then I stack them in the other room -
Walker's room. I keep these stories because they are well
written and arousing as they are to me when I write them,
after the passion has passed, I read them the next morning.
And these fetish stories are so extreme.... that the morning after, when having breakfast in a local pizza house, I read them again.
            When I read these stories in the morning, a strange metamorphosis has taken place.  Walker's hot and sexy story
of the night before often becomes quite hilarious the morning
            I type the damn things so fast, sometimes just using one hand because my other hand is busy, I type them so fast that I have no memory of the hot scenes the morning after.
It was nothing for me, using certain stimulants, to type up a smoking cloud of sixty pages single spaced for me to read at breakfast.
           No memory at all.  So at breakfast I'm reading these words afresh. I'm no longer in a sexual frenzy. I'm hungry and happy and clear-headed, so that when I read the first few pages I'm astounded at what I'm reading. And rather than get aroused, I see these pages for the true comic effect
they have.
        Many times I've started to laugh in the restaurant, laugh so hard that tears come to my eyes
and I have to put a hand in my mouth so as not
to shout  out loud laughing and shock the other diners.Also, I press my knees tight together in case some other unacceptable kind of accident might  occur,
while I'm undergoing convulsions of hilarity.
       I noticed the other day that I have a thousand
pages in these bright blue notebooks. I'm going to have to publish some of these stories on a site that is clearly marked
OVER 18. The writing is too damn good to throw away of keep private.
       It's Walker Ballantine's writing that gives such arousal and so many laughs. Well, I thought I'd better say something in his defence.  What a guy!
       May he never stop his strange activities!

Thursday, December 18, 2014


               I've got a case of DREAD this very moment,
this very moment.  I don't feel I can step outside.
A storm blew in last night, a wind from all directions,
and white, white, white snow everywhere...I hear
the snowploughs scraping along the street. And
I have all my  Christmas shopping to do
and no money,
        I really need a drink./ But what is this urgency?
I got the Fear, the pre-Christmas panic mode.
I'm supposed to be an expert at survival in these
times.... but now, not so much... the madness
has set in and I'm looking both ways.
I don't want to be run over by something.
         A train whistle blew. I jumped.
The sound seems to have  come
from my bathroom - but that's impossible - we're talking 
about 100,000 tons of heavy metal.  Still
the whistle was fucking loud, loud enough to be
disturbing,  My nerves are shot and if things get
any worse, I'll...
       Things can always get worse. Make no
mistake, dread knows no bounds.Fear respects
no fences. In the land of Nod machines grind it out,
whether lubricated or not.
      I took a bus once... to escape. That didn't work
out quite so well. I left a hut in the Great White North
and found myself in a locked  cell in the Big Smoke. The
influence of the native people in this land
has never been fully understood.
       My hands are shaking too much to
turn a page... I was looking into "Guillermo's Inferno."
Guillermo is a savage book . And at the moment
I'm afraid to look into it.
        Felt  like I was almost hit by a train. No EXAGGERATION.

        You ever walk along railway tracks after midnight?
Everything's silent. There's a bit of a moon over the horizon...
and a slight breeze in the leaves of the forest.
       Everything is still silent, but what you see is -
you see your shadow ahead of you on the tracks.
You see your own shadow in the headlight of the
train sweeping up behind you!
   If you're fast like me and a bit of an athlete,
and if you're lucky, too,you dive for the gully off the tracks...
 A split second later the train whistles by in a whoosh
of wind and air.
       The engineer sees you at the last second,
and he doesn't blow the train whistle until the train
has already passed you... And you're lying
in the ditch looking up in wonderment at all
the heavy steel rolling past. All of a sudden.

       Assumptions can kill you. I had
assumed you could always hear a train coming.
Not so!
        This freight train was rolling downhill
and the engines were coasting. The night was
silent and the train didn't make a sound whistling
up behind me until it was past me down the tracks.
      Death can come quick like that.

                                                                                      (C)2014 W.G. Milne

Tuesday, December 16, 2014



            WHEN I WANTED to have sex with a woman,
I I'd tell her I loved her.  And believe me, I did at the
time. Every woman I said, "I love you to"... well,
I still love each and every one of them... when I think of
each one I have fond thoughts in my heart.
              But what good does this do for the woman?
Not to say that hot sex and orgasmic joy aren't important.
They bloody well are. And to help a woman come to orgasm
for the first time in her 35 years, this is a service of sorts.
I don't wish to disparage this sort of thing.
              I'd be in bed with one woman in the afternoon.
Then race across town and have dinner with a second
woman then take her home. Then around midnight
I'd head off and have sex with a third woman. And
believe me, I'm not bragging.
            I no longer think sexual unions are that important.
But I'm slightly older now and I am not longer
utterly controlled by raging testosterone.
            The problem with having sex with three different
women in the same day, you have to lie to them.
Often these gals know they're being lied to and they
don't much care. But not always.
           The aspect about lying, which no one talks
about, is that it becomes a kind of hell. Not  for
the persons being lied to... but for the liar.
The hell the liar enters is not so much that no one
believes him. The hell the liar comes to reside in
is this: he believes no one else.
          After a time,  he becomes certain that the woman or women he's loving... he becomes certain that she or they
are deceiving him. Then jealousy takes over... and a
terrible rage follows the jealousy he feels.
         I remember kicking down doors late at night
and seizing any suitors that happened to be there
by the throat, and shaking them like a dog shakes
a rag in his mouth.
         After a while, the whole gig gets tiresome.
And it takes up nearly all of your time.

       With sex & desire -- you always want more.

      "Now that you've got what you want, do you want more?"
                                                       Bob Marley

          With unconditional love -- when you really think of the
other person, when you care about that person whatever she does..... Haviing been a terrible person yourself, you  can forgive the crimes and misdemeanours of others...
 You might get hurt, but you realize you've hurt
other people, too... so this is a kind of karma,
something you deserve.
      When you love others unconditionally, a joy comes of this,
When you feel " the expanding of love beyond desire" * are in love with the universe.... And because
the universe is a sentient being, your love is returned
        All the people you have known, all the women you have
loved...become One Love. And yes, that's the title
of a Jamaican song..

       When you love a particular rose** (person)while seeing at the same time  all his or her defects, pettiness, selfishness, stupidity etc,  this is the beginning of unconditional love...
and this is the beginning of lasting joy in your life
this is the beginning of peace.


                                                                          *   T.S. Eliot
                                                                          **  "The Little Prince" ST. Exupery

                                                                                 (C)2014 W.G. Milne

Saturday, December 13, 2014


               So I wake up this morning and before coffee
I'm sort of half watching a movie called, "Two Weeks Notice." Hugh Grant plays a ruthless real estate developer who lives at the Grand Hotel,
supposedly in New York.
       I realize that people love these rags to
riches stories where two poor people fall in love and
realize that one of them is rich, yada yada, or something like this. Of course, they always end up
driving away in a limosene and everybody's
happy, happy, happy at the end.
              I like happy endings, even if most of
them are utter nonsense... I figure life is
depressing enough, and people don't need
other poeple to prick their balloons,
however unrealistic their dreams might be.
              The fact of the matter is that
no matter how happy the bullshit ending
is, it can never match the real cosmic joy possible
in the smallest corner of the universe, available
to all of us right here, right now.
              But this is rough stuff and hard to
get to, since the divine altar and playground
is atop some magic moutain with slippery sides
 that is always difficult to climb.

              So here are some ironic facts. The Grand Hotel in the movie is in Toronto not New York.
I know because I lived in the hotel for several
months. The hotel was not glitzy when I lived there.
The hotel had been a grand hotel, but it was
run down. It had high ceilings and big bathtubs,
but that was about all.
             The truth of the matter is 
is I was in the midst of an alcoholic bender
and I had just found the dubious wonders
of crack cocaine.
             The bar downstairs was seedy in those
days, just the way I liked draft rooms. I'd
go down and sit at the bar and drink plenty
of draft and then watch whatever deranged
floor show they put on that evening.
             One late afternoon I ran into a guy
who looked just like Harrison Ford. He was drinking
right next to me. Eventually he asked me for
a light. I gave him one and realized, "Hell! This guy
sounds just like Harrison Ford!"
             I told him this fact and it turns out
he was very aware of it. Why? Because he
was Harrison Ford's brother. It turns out
he had just come back from some adventure
in the Arctic.
            So we had plenty to talk about
because I'd also worked up and down the
Mackenzie River. Even if we had had nothing in
common, after about my fifth or sixth draft,
I want to talk.  So did he. Was his name
            Anyway life is ironic, I'm thinking.
I,too, have aspirations to develop some
land which I purchased decades ago.
But I'm not a ruthless developer. Each lake
is someone's drinking water, sooner
or later.
        My story is more of a riches to rags story,
but I was also living at the Grand Hotel
talking to Harrison Ford's brother. And life
to me has always seemed to be
highly romantic.
            I'm always happiest not knowing
what's going to come around the next
corner. What I believe is required
for a happy life is, "A SENSE OF POSSIBILITIES".
 I had that sense back then.
           And I have that sense right now this
morning. So I'm a happy camper.
            The great mysterious Circle of
Life keeps spinning around, repeating 
similar stories over and over again...
with ironic differences.

           I'd have it no other way. 

Friday, December 12, 2014


Find my books at amazon, when you google
this link: WILLIAM MILNE: Books, Biography, Blog ...
Visit's WILLIAM MILNE Page and shop for all WILLIAM MILNE books and other WILLIAM MILNE related products (DVD, CDs, Apparel). Check out ...

1. William Milne: Books, Biography, Blog ...
Visit's William Milne Page and shop for all William Milne books and other William Milne related products (DVD, CDs, Apparel). Check out pictures ...

1. William Milne: Books, Biogs, Audiobooks ...
Visit's William Milne Page and shop for all William Milne books. Check out pictures, bibliography, biography and community discussions about ...

William Milne (Author) ... (6 December 2013); Sold by: Amazon Australia Services, Inc. Language: English; ASIN: B00HBQU75E; Text-to-Speech: Enabled.

        The above is what I found when I googled my own name with

             I have an Author's Page at amazon
with "SANTA'S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE" listed there.

The other books are:

MOST ANCIENT GOSPEL FOUND ANEW.There's plenty of humour in  most of my books...
In the book, "MOST ANCIENT GOSPEL FOUND ANEW", there's not so much humour.

(As I'm sure you now, the "BOO###### numbers listed above are identification numbers of my books at amazon). You don't except humour when discussing the 2nd Coming of Christ.


         Now I find this book to be hilarious! Not all critics agree.  One of them even sank so low as to call me a pervert.
        You be the judge.
         Some of the chapters are derived from cases
in THE FEMALE ORGASM CLINIC, which I ran fictionally for several years as a highly successful therapist.
          Orgasm repression in female patients
is a dreadful psychological illness, which
I invariably cured. Sometimes with the aid
of electrical devices. 

          (You can read most of the first chapter at amazon for free)

Thursday, December 11, 2014





Saturday, December 6, 2014


          I tell ya, I've been pulling my punches. And I'm
sick of it!   It's hard to relax when
you're only half saying what you mean
out of what? Out of FEAR that I''m OFFENDING somebody?
               NAH, it can't be that can it? I've been  offensive
(without even trying) for so many years that
most people cross the street when they see me coming,
or they pretend not to  see me at all,  as they look up at
the sky, or squint at some billboard off in the
distance, until I've passed by... (and they're sure I'm not likely to  return)
                 It's not so much that others hate me, it's just
the people who don't know me think I'm weird, so maybe
there's an element of fear in their approach.  Me, I just
make sure they're not armed.
                Just like you have to do with your neighbourhood dope fiend - when you get a little near to him - make sure he's not carrying a firearm.  The large gleaming bowie
knife he fondles and keeps lovingly at his side, you won't have any trouble spotting that.

        This is not how I live my life ( pulling
my punches, and showing  fearful restraint) 
 I'll be damned if this is how I'm gonna write.
           People say to non-expert writers, "If
you could only write the way you talk,
you'd be a great writer!"
      Well, damn right! When I talk with pals
in a bar, I swear a lot.  Swearing helps in
humour.  Sweating is necessary when you're
mad... and swearing is essential sometimes
when you're having hot, dirty sex.
       Writing is like all these  activities.
Writing is best when you swear, when
you don't pull words to be polite, when
you're spontaneous... and when you're
relating a story about dirty sex.
       Obscenity?  There's no such thing!

               THOUGH there are some gestures


        Well, you can’t write, if you don’t hit the keys!
        Whatever your state of mind
         However deranged you might be
          There is no thought too ugly to consider
           There is no truth too ugly to see.

         Some of the best writing I ever did
was right after I was charged with a serious
criminal offence. I shot a man. And I knew
very well I had no choice about it.
         It was a self-defence situation,  defence or
death.  I was also defending members
of my family.
             When they finally let me out on bail... after 90 days
solitary confinement... bare-assed - dressed in
some nutty asbestos top....
          the cell was dark....
          and there was no water in it....
           I did not have water to drink unless I asked for it
thru a slot at groin level, I asked : "Could I have some water,

            I was  deeply offended that I was charged. I was
angry in a way I had never been before. I was hopping mad. It was liberating.  I wrote,  "Guillermo's Inferno"  in an utter
state of flow... I was in such a rage... I never
bothered to edit myself.  I never even considered it.
           So this is it!  The unedited brilliance
of a mind liberated thru accusations and solitary confinement...
           No punches are pulled.
           If you expect politeness, go elsewhere.
Really dark, funny dark... Not for you if you're feeling delicate this morning. Not for pussies.


I'll post the first few pages of this book... then offer it for sale at
a soon to be announced site.

              But I'm half Jamaican.  "Soon come" can
take longer than expected.