Geysers of Money

With a map of volcanic activity and a piece of rhubarb as a wand, Turnip gave us the itinerary. The project launch was set for next Tuesday and Molly Ruble reminded us to each bring a sandwich and a pop. I couldn't sleep that night. I was more frightened than I had let on and when it came to giving the salute my voice wavered a little and Jenkins looked at me as if to say 'You'd better not chicken out, Spammy.'

Jenkins is one to talk. When we ransacked the tool shed at the school and stole six bags of manure it was Jenkins who crapped out, so to speak, and went home. I was scared but it didn't stop me from emptying one of the bags on Principle Moore's steps.

I was a soldier, nothing more. So was Jenkins. We were just muscle and a body. Turnip was the brains and it was him who came up with all the plans. We all looked at him like he was nuts, though, when he brought Molly to the clubhouse one day in July, but she turned out to be a really good organizer and I thought she was o.k. to look at, too. Besides me and Jenkins, there was Billy and Glen, soldiers too, and sometimes Bobby Plaskey came around but he was older and thought the stuff we did was stupid. As far as I was concerned this was a revolution. Or at least a better way to spend the summer than at the Methodist Camp reading bible stories and swimming in that gunk infested pool.

By the time Tuesday came I had almost forgotten about the volcanoes except that Molly phoned my house and told me that I'd better bring a flashlight, too, in case we had to go down into one of them. I told my Mom I was going to Glen's and instead I took the path behind our place to Plaskey's, where we were meeting. I didn't like Plaskey. He was always making up stories and just when he finally got you to believe in some moronic story he'd dreamt up, he'd bust out laughing and then it was free-for-all of finger pointing and screaming over who believed him the most. It was him who started calling me Spammy after all I could find for a sandwich was a can of Spam my Mom had lost in the back of the cupboard. I liked Spam, besides it was just a sandwich.

It took us almost twenty minutes to reach the first volcano, or at least the location according to Turnip's map. It didn't look much like a volcano to me. It was barely a mound but Turnip insisted it was an old volcano, dormant now, and that all we had to do was dig it out a bit and it would probably erupt, shooting a geyser of lava a hundred feet high into the air. I looked around and wondered if the lava wouldn't set the trees on fire, or me for that matter but Turnip brushed aside the questions and Billy and I were first up to dig. It was pretty slow going mostly because for every two shovels full of dirt I'd pull out of the hole Billy would dump one back in. Jenkins and Molly were gathering stones to make a ring around the volcano so that the lava flow wouldn't reach the trees and Turnip, Glen and Bobby Laskey pretended to be busy with the map, looking around and pointing at things very importantly. After about ten minutes of digging I looked up and noticed they were gone.

"Where's Turnip?" I asked Molly, who was still hauling rocks from the underbrush for the lava-dyke.
"They said they were going for more supplies." She said, and she didn't seem concerned.

But I was. When another half hour passed I knew they weren't coming back and I convinced Billy it was o.k. for him to quit digging. There was no volcano. Molly couldn't believe that Turnip would trick us into digging a hole, to excavate a fake volcano, just for a laugh. It was the first time I considered that maybe girls weren't as smart as they seemed. I wasn't surprised but then, I was born a cynic. I looked at Billy, covered in sweat with dirt creasing his forehead and decided it was time for lunch. I felt really sorry for Molly, though. She just couldn't understand why Turnip and Bobby would want to go to such elaborate means to play a trick on us.
"You'll get used to it." I told her. She started to cry and left us there to walk home. Billy and I sat on the grass for a while longer eating our sandwiches and enjoying the afternoon. It was then that I came up with the story I told to Turnip the next day about finding a strongbox in the hole we had dug and splitting the money in it with Billy. I have to admit that I got beat up at lunch but to this day Turnip still thinks Billy and I hit it rich while digging for his friggin' volcano.

Just a Theory

The conversation wobbled out of control and it occurred to me that everyone was talking at once. Two or three themes, tangents galore and a dozens of important points all charging up the field to meet the enemy; the opposing opinion. I have my own bright ideas and feel the need to drop one-liners of wisdom into the mix but, every now and then, I like to sit back and take in the swell of voices and to pick out, randomly, a line or two for juxtaposition. I like to listen to the cadence and rhythm, punctuated with laughter and short bursts of animation or to listen for the links that bridge one topic with the next, often spanning logic chasms too wide for serious examination. One thing becomes clear, however, and that is that we like to live our lives in theory.

I don't want to live my life in theory. If I can strip away all the plans that run in circles in my head, if I can forget, for a minute, the design I have laid out before me, resist the temptation to dream about the past and hope for the future, what do I have? I have this desk, this computer, the cat running in circles after his own tail, the sun beginning to drive the grayness from the room and the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air. That's it. No worry for the things that haven't happened, no desire beyond the regulatory hum of my body and nothing to feed the daydreams I lose so much of my time to.

For a minute, maybe less, I can revel in the sensation of peace as my anxiety about work leaves me alone, as the worry about the state of my relationships eases, as I loosen the stranglehold of societal expectations and let fall away concerns about my credit rating. I often talk about perspective but this is a state where perspective is useless; there's nothing to perceive, at least nothing beyond what my five senses tell me about this minute, right now. And therein lies the problem.

The addition and subtraction that goes on, as a matter of routine, to the theories about how to live a life lead to perceptions about the future and the past. We extrapolate what fits and blow on it. The embers catch and we see ourselves, illuminated, somewhere in the future, without any clear idea of how we got there. Do I look content? It's hard to tell because the light is bad, the picture is hazy and then finally I realize it's just a wish that has nothing to do with this desk, the cat or the smell of freshly brewed coffee. It's an idea mixed with intent and dreams. I won't know until I get there, and by then this day will be an obscure moment lost in a string of dimly lit reflections in which I won't recognize myself.

I don't know; it's just a theory.

A Traitor, A Spy and Gay!

In 1936, Nikolai Yezhov accepted the mantle of People's Commissar for Internal Affairs, or head of the NKVD, the Russian secret police. He was fawning Stalinist and eager to prove his loyalty, which he did by arresting and executing about half of the military and political establishment during the Great Terror. As war approached he cleaned house, effectively swelling the population of the already over-stuffed GULAG system. In a stunningly stupid attempt to stamp out those he considered anti-Stalinist traitors, he called home most of Russia's impressive espionage agency and had them executed for...wait for it...espionage. Although the numbers have been skewed by anybody who has an interest in Russian history, the generally accepted total of deaths attributed to Yezhov runs somewhere around 20 million.

As sometimes happens in places where a veil of secrecy and obfuscation of facts can serve as a tool against insurgents, it took the rest of the world a long time before anyone started caring. Long before the Western world sat up and took notice, Yezhov was dead and forgotten. He asked to be relieved of duty in 1939 probably because of Stalin's growing embarrassment over the pile of bodies, although he was no slouch himself when it came to murdering his own people, and shortly afterwards was arrested and accused of being a traitor, a spy and a homosexual. He was executed by the system he so effectively ran for four years in 1940. I'm pretty sure he was given sufficient time to mull over the irony of his situation before they hauled him out and shot him.

The machine roared on, however, reducing the numbers of fatalities somewhat, until Stalin died in 1953. When the GULAG system was finally disassembled in 1962 the stunning details of the penal system in Russia started to become public. Not surprisingly Yezhov's reputation suffered in both camps, so to speak. He didn't start the fire but he fanned the flames of a conflagration that still haunts the dreams of thousands of survivors, their families and descendents. Most of us dream of fame and some of us achieve it.

Bend With Your Knees

Nobody tells me what to do. Not even me.

"Make a list, that way you'll remember everything.", she said. The idea of a list makes my skin crawl. I would rather get to the store and stand there in the middle of the aisle, trying to jog my memory, than to make a list. Like my unwavering sense of direction, my memory is accurate. It's my ability to access the memory that needs work.

When I get to the store, I assume the position in the middle of the aisle, and mentally walk myself through the apartment. In each room I look around and identify what's missing. It's hard. Cartoonish characters pop up to distract me, that guitar riff from 'Sweet Home Alabama' plays endlessly, and scenes from Scorsese movies fade in and out, with me standing in for DeNiro. I once re-lived an entire episode of 'Married with Children' rooted to the spot in front of the shampoo. Yesterday was a stunner, however, as I actually managed to find the 'list' in the back of my brain, underneath my swelling pride, and I came home with everything I needed. First on the list was a new pair of walking around shoes. The old walking around shoes are crumbling beneath me and I decided to go all out this time and spend upwards of twenty dollars on a new pair.

I went looking for shoes without laces, simply because I'm getting really tired of having to bend over and tie them up. Laces are for chumps. I was dismayed, though, when I discovered that laceless shoes are more expensive. It presents the same sort of mystery that I gave up on when I was a vegetarian. It's much more expensive to not eat meat than it is to eat it. This world continues to confuse me in multitudinous ways. I have capitulated and now eat meat and will, for a while anyways, have to tie my laces like all you other slobs out there. The laceless shoes remain on the list, buried in the back of my brain, beside the filing cabinet of useless facts and the pride I dust off every time I wash my car. I need to clean out all of this old junk at some point but it can wait. It will get done; I've added that to the list.

Put Up Your Feet

With the words, 'starless and bible black', Dylan Thomas illustrated a sober view of Welsh society, under the thumb of Christianity from Roman Times onward. In one the most controversial cases of public reform, a series of 18 sittings that consisted of more than 400 witnesses, testifying on both sides, took place and the Royal Commission on Sunday Closings in Wales effectively halted the sale of alcohol on the Sabbath.

Welsh religion, before the Romans, consisted of the ancient practices of Druidism. These practices still have weight but have moved over to incorporate Judaism, Islam, Buddhism and a few others. All in all, Wales is a place where you can find religion if you want but their long running battle with the Church of England took the form of quite a few 'revivals' in which this group or that group would campaign and defeat the last bunch. Wales is known as the land of revivals. John Roberts led one such reform. Based on temperance, his campaign would result in two things: Pubs closing on the Sabbath and a drink named after him. Serves him right. Wales had developed a reputation wherein the strict censure of fun was born hence the 'bible black' reference from Thomas, who was known for his love of all things alcoholic.

To the everyday workingman there was only one answer and that was to take a very big tankard and fill it full on Saturday night so that there was no need to go without beer on Sunday. They called it, of course, a John Roberts. Don't underestimate the power of the people to remember your life's work with a joke.

Politicians come and go. Religions flourish and then wane but after all is said and done it's nice to sit down and have a beer to think over the days events. As the song says, "No, no, you can't take that way from me."

What To Do With Your Free Time

This post features an excerpt from an interview I gave to 'Spilt Milk', a magazine published in Kansas after a recent appearance there.

Spilt Milk: I have to bring up something that we've been dying to ask you for a few months now. This has two parts and with your indulgence I want to explore your shameless self promotion and the sudden appearance of a number of nude photos of you that have been sent to various publications around the country.

M.A.Thompson: Shameless self promotion? I hardly think that I'm guilty of that.

S.M.: Oh, I don't know about that. Weren't you the one who paid to have your photo published on the side of milk cartons across three states as a missing child? There are seven separate civil suits pending against you, three in Kansas alone. You don't think of that as shameless self promotion?

M.A.: Look. First of all, it was a simple misunderstanding. I forgot to tell my mother I would be away for awhile and she tends to over react. It was nothing more than that.

S.M.: What about the counterfeit money with your face on it and the words 'look at me' that the federal government says is the basis for an ongoing investigation? Are you being indicted on counterfeiting charges?

M.A.: I'm sorry Brent, but I can't talk about that right now. Let me just add that the intensity with which my fans react to my appearances is sometimes a little too ferverent. What can I do?

S.M.: Well, that brings me then to the pictures of you that keep popping up every time you show up. I was sent three different photos myself, the last delivered a half hour before this interview began.

M.A.: Really? Do you have them with you? Again, Brent, I can't control the actions of a few crazed fans. They express their appreciation in ways which are sometimes not in accordance with local custom. I can't help that. Unfortunately, in my youth, I made a few errors in judgment and I have to live with the consequences.

S.M.: In your youth? Come on, the last one is of you doing a headstand in a motel ten minutes from here and the time is stamped on the front of it. It was taken two days ago.

M.A.: I don't know what to say, Brent, I guess I'll have to keep the blinds closed from now on.

S.M.: It must be a Canadian thing. Which brings me to another point. Why is it that no one I talked to in Canada had any idea who you are. What I mean is, exactly why am I doing an interview with you?

M.A.: Jesus, Brent, do I have to do your job for you? You called me. I'm afraid that's all the time I have for you now. I have other appointments this morning.

I'm hoping it will be in next month's issue. I will never get tired of yanking American chains.

A Convenient Pleasure

I chipped away at the ice, with a screwdriver, for as long as I could take the wind, howling down the alley, rattling the ice covered trees and suggesting to me that inside was better than out. No one was waiting for me and I didn't want to go anymore, anyway.

Our national pride gets bumped and bruised when we have to admit defeat in the face of the elements, though, and deep inside I know I could still be a good Canadian even if I didn't have to struggle against such an overwhelming force. Six people dead in an accident so close to home scares me out of any desire to show my mettle or my stubbornness to admit helplessness in coping with winter. My father died at the outset of the Ice Storm of '98 and memories of struggling to wakes and the funeral service, over unrecognizable features, blurring into sloppily crazed ice sculptures is enough to ease my guilt at confining myself to the apartment until spring. I often think that if I had been around when this place was discovered I would have packed my pemmican and snowshoes and headed south, leaving this desolation for hardier folk than I. My aversion to the snow and the cold is no secret.

Inside the fire pushes wave after wave of dry heat around the room and the coffee pot has been doing double duty. The cat thinks he wants out but I can take his sulking stares; I tell him I know what's best. Do I? With my slippers and my three layers of clothes I shuffle back and forth, cramped and constrained to watching movies and re-reading chapters I've almost memorized and I contemplate the pictures a friend shows me, of the Spanish beach she's been living on and wonder, 'just how transferable are my skills'? I have feverish dreams of blue oceans and wandering endlessly down a road, tasting dust every time a car passes. I do it to myself, I do. Someone tells me I would never appreciate the heat if I didn't get a yearly reminder of what's it like to be cold, to the bone, and I reply that I would like to be the judge of that.

Ah. The gurgling sound of another pot of coffee done signals an end to this. The smell of frying bacon is heavy with the promise of a warm belly and the windows have steamed up enough that I can forget what lies on the other side. I am a man of small pleasures and easily distracted when it's convenient and right now it's very convenient.

Heat Bugs

Cicadas. Burnt grass, sharp as razors. The inside of a raspberry bush. Gravel stuck in my sandal and pants that won't stay up. The long exhale after a day watching the horizon wobbling and bouncing in the heat. The sting of sweat in your eyes and the smell of evergreen shrubs as the field rises, outcroppings and gopher holes, and a view across the creek that constricts your throat and the dust that hides newly minted tracks and lazy ant-hill meanderings following the sun as it beats on your neck. Four new rocks for the collection and a rash of poison-ivy that means a cool bath in baking soda, with an upside down view of the stars through the sky-light and one last look into the night, sitting side by side on the back step trying to stay awake to see one more fire-fly and to hear the bull frogs singing from the edge of a day that seemed short in the way that sadness seems long. I'm half way there and I'll be home soon.

Poor You

We had to leave the car at the road and carry everything down. He was tired and in a bad mood and purposely took light loads. The hill was so steep that he slipped and fell anyways. He scraped up his knee pretty good and sat for a while, with a wet cloth to mop up the blood every couple of minutes. I watched him through one of the windows in the cottage and even I wanted to smack him and I have the patience of a saint.

In the twelve years that I've known Quentin, he has grown from a shy thinking man into a insolent self-pitying man. He spends so much time thinking about the perceived threats he hears in the words of those who surround him that his ability to discern his inner paranoia from the outer reality, which is sometimes hard, has made it impossible to like him anymore.

I remember something a girlfriend of mine once said to me. She was relating her day to me and it included seeing someone out of the blue. She was insulted when this old friend called her by a nickname she hadn't heard in years. She said to me, "Why is it that people will not accept that I've changed? It's been ten years. Everybody changes, right? Why would he think that I'm exactly the same person I was ten years ago?" I told her it's because no one really changes. She left me soon after that.

That's not really true, however, and despite what I said that day I believe that every second could contain the seed-the germ of an impetus, the line to cross- that could well bring on profundities by the truckload. I just don't go around saying things like that in public. After having made a few of these important announcements you might wonder why I would give up on someone like Quentin. What it comes down to is essentially this: If he believes the world is shit then it is, for him. You know people like this.

So, we rode out the weekend with him bitching about this and complaining about that and I was hoping Monday afternoon would come without someone popping him in the mouth and we were so close. My reputation for saintly patience has been tarnished because as we were packing the car, waiting for Quentin to gather his stuff up, which took the exact amount of time for the rest of us to load the cottage into the car, I lost my temper. I pushed him around a little, with him yelling his head off the entire time, calling me things 'tough guy' and 'big man'. Then I just threw him in the lake. I did, however, solve the problem of never having to worry about his hurt feelings again.

Some of you might think that I was a little rough on poor old Quentin. Fuck you. Sometimes you just need to punch mealy mouthed little whiners in the chops and be done with it.

Yes, some people can change and in ways that are very profound. Look at me, I can spell now. On the other hand there a lot of people out there who will refuse the offer of a seed, or the germ of an impetus or to cross the lines they draw around themselves. Leave them where they lie. Just remember that the next time you see them they'll likely run away from you.

Ah Debra

Musicians are an odd bunch. Moody, mysterious, cranky and often riddled with flaws, they none the less are latched onto the gate of reality by a pair of ears that swivel and arc themselves in the direction of anything interesting. Aural inspiration.

I was well on my way to being the consummate progressive rock bass player (if you don't know what progressive rock is, ask your computer nerd dad) and had a hatful of disdain for anyone who didn't listen to music that tapped out a 7/8 beat or a band that didn't include a rack of ancient synthesizers and stage set designed by Roger Dean (again, ask yer Dad). Needless to say I had a pretty high opinion of myself and a heightened awareness of the impending beating I would receive by playing my Gates of Delirium album at 10.

Still, I was curious to know what the big deal was. I went to the dance and for the most part was pretty unimpressed with the music. Then the band played a song that forever changed my perspective and I discovered the art of the perfect pop song. If there is any one reason I'm not in a Genesis (circa 1972) cover band doing the northern Quebec circuit it's probably Donnie Iris. It started simply, a couple of verses, the tension building over the steady pumping of the bass and drums, the voice growing more and more hysterical until it smashed into the chorus of "AH Leah" and I was crushed. It took him about three minutes to turn me into a musical anthropologist searching for elusive 'perfect pop song'.

Top Ten List of Songs That Stopped Me Dead In My Tracks (in no particular order)

1. Ah Leah-Donnie Iris
2. Got To Get You Into My Life-Beatles
3. My Name is Jonas-Weezer
4. Carlotta Valdez-Harvey Danger (Hey, this is my list-make your own!)
5. Solar Sister-The Posies
6. Jane Says-Janes Addiction
7. Your Ex-Lover is Dead-Stars
8. Subterranean Homesick Alien-Radiohead
9. God Only Knows-Beach Boys
10. Debra-Beck

Eyeless in Gaza

Samson, blinded by his enemies, stood in the temple of Dagon and asked God for one last favour. He didn't deserve it. Samson was a Nazarite, a member of a sect who vowed never to touch the body of anything dead, vowed never to drink wine or anything made from fermentation and who vowed to never cut his hair. Samson was a crappy Nazarite.

He killed people by the hundreds, lit a couple of dozen fox on fire, lusted after cute Philistine girls, also forbidden, and killed a lion with his bare hands only to cut it open to eat the honey from a beehive the lion had consumed. In short, he wasn't a very nice guy. God knew it and decided it was time to teach him a lesson.

Samson's weak point were the girls and when he met Delilah she set about to bring the big man down. She was working for the Philistines, who really wanted to see Samson dead, mainly because with one hand he slew them and with the other he fondled their wives. The funny thing about the whole ordeal was that Delilah had to illustrate to Samson that if he kept lying to her about his true nature, he was defying God. Samson thought about it and realized that she was right. He told her about the hair and she cut it off making him an easy target for the Philistines. They dragged him off and put him to work in a mine. It took Samson a while to get around the idea but he knew that there is only one way to be with God and that is to surrender your life to Him.

The Philistines were, if the bible is telling the truth, a bad bunch who never did nothing for no one. They decided to throw a big party and make Samson do a dance or two and as he leaned against a pillar in the temple he asked God for one last favour and he pulled the temple down on all of them.

The moral? Guys are idiots and girls are deceitful. Sounds about right to me.

Just a Bad Night

There are times in life when it's impossible to not gloat a little.

I've never been a very dedicated gambler. That's surprising to me, as I've always been aware of my own shortcomings when it comes to habitual behavior and addictions. In a strange way I've always looked at people who gamble a little sadly, as if my own habits are somehow less unsavory. I'm aware of the hypocrisy so don't feel the need to point it out to me.
It was a couple of years ago, now, that some friends were visiting from the States and, to my knowledge, I've never met an American who didn't consider a night at the casino the first choice in entertainment. I protested and rolled my eyes when they suggested it but they claimed they wanted to evaluate our government sponsored casino and see if it met with their approval. I didn't bother to tell them that appealing to my patriotism was useless and we suited up for a night out.
As I remember it, I was a little 'under the weather' and bitched about having to wait around for these jokers to spend every last cent they had before we could go home. They put a time limit on the fun, just for me, and I had to shut up.
As soon as we hit the floor they they careened off in every direction and I went to the bar. Remember, I have bad habits, too. I ordered a gin and tonic and struck up a conversation with an old guy sitting beside me. It was polite but strained and so I left him alone and set out to try and have some fun. I wandered from table to table, sometimes coming across one of the guys, sometimes sitting in for a hand, but mostly I just walked a huge circle around the glitter and noise.
Somebody told me once that the bells and noises the slot machines make are all tuned to the same major chord. It's a subliminal tactic to reinforce the positive vibe on the floor. I wondered what would happen if some joker in maintenance re-tuned them to nice minor and imagined the crying and the carnage that would ensue. Or maybe they could be tuned to play the theme from the Godfather. That would be fun to see.
As the night wound down and some of the guys appeared, looks of drunken woe plastered on their faces, I decided to drop a dollar into one more slot machine. It spit out $250. Needless to say I was pretty pleased with myself but I horrified my friends when I went to cash in my chips without playing again. I knew the odds and I figured that with the forty dollars I had spent I was up over $200.
As I said, sometimes it's o.k. to gloat, which was what I did all the way home. Everyone re-counted their spectacular losses, prefacing it with, "I was up by seven hundred...". I listened to about as much rationalization as any man could bear and just tuned them out. It didn't matter how much they lost, they all knew they were better than the odds; it was just a bad night.
I admit it. I had fun but the lights, the glamour, the promise of easy money really has no sway over me and I suppose I should count my blessings. I settled back into my seat, ignoring the conversation and began to imagine the havoc I could wreak if only I knew how to tune a slot machine.

American Outlaw

I sat with this newspaper man, on a stool next to the stove. It was an intolerably cold night and the saucepan was on as I made a fine negus to warm us up.

"I met the man", I told the reporter, "about two years before the supposed run in with Earp."
The newspaper man rode the edge of his seat as I went into detail about that day.
"Earp was a nobody, then, but Allison had a reputation as a cold-blooded killer. I, personally, don't believe a word of what Earp said. There's no way he could of stood tall against Allison. They say Bat Masterson was there, too, but I know for a fact that he was nowhere near Dodge that day."
With a quick glance up, this reporter, Collins, couldn't disguise his disappointment in my story.

"What do you want, kid? The truth? Well, it's nowhere near as exciting as the legend, is it? Earp started telling people that he run off Clay Allison but think about it. Allison had twenty five cowboys with him, guns or no guns. Even Earp wasn't that stupid. No, as far as I know, Earp never showed up that day. " I added a teaspoon of sugar to the negus and handed it to Collins. "It's hot.", I said just before he took a sip and scalded his tongue. This kid was a fool, looking for a story that never happened and some fifty years too late, to boot.

"Look at it this way," I said. "Allison is dead, run over by his own wagon. Now Earp is dead. Most anybody who was actually there is dead. You got two choices, the truth or a lie."
I opened the stove and added another stick and as I sat down the kid was closing up his book and putting away his pencil.

"Hold on there, kid. I still got stories you might like to hear. I was in Cimarron in '76 when he threw that printing press into the river. He was pretty upset with them for printing all that garbage about him. He paid for it, though. $200. He was just trying to make a point."

Collins didn't bother to open up his notebook again. I sat, saying nothing, for a minute or two and then I gave in.

"All right." I said. "Let me tell you about the time Allison pulled that dentist's tooth with a pair of pliers after the dentist made a mess of Allison's mouth."

What was the point? The Shootist was a legend and who was I to argue? Sure, I made up a few stories about Allison and then I elaborated on a couple of my own. What's the harm? I'm just an old cow hand and it's been months since anybody's bothered to come up here for anything, and it was nice to have the company. And I had met Clay Allison, once.

Nothing New

Caution is a bitter pill. It doesn't taste good but it will help.

Part 1:
You didn't know that a cartoon could offend? As I was sitting in a doctor's office I picked up a Far Side collection and was pleased to see a section of the book that high lighted all of the panels Gary Larson received criticism for along with letters from the readers who found some of them offensive.
I've always found his cartoons funny; that's just my sense of humour. I even found the complaint letters funny as I'm sure I was supposed to. The accusations hurled at him from readers was, sometimes, very volatile and yet he understood why people were offended even as he was surprised. Did he apologize? Sometimes, in the manner cartoonists do, which was to express his regret and imply that he really doesn't advocate stringing up cats as bait or that short, fat kids are all stupid. Was he punished? Sure. Papers dropped him, threatened to drop him and sometimes just edited his work without his knowledge or permission. When you make a living drawing cartoons and no one will carry them you learn to appreciate just how far you can push an envelope.

Part 2:
When I was in University I met a guy who vowed to bring down the system 'from the inside'. What system he was talking about, I'm not sure. He was a radical, loved to quote (incorrectly) Nietzsche, claimed to be a Nihilist and eventually ran off to South America to help someone do something important. I heard his name again when he was arrested in Quebec City a few years ago for hucking a rock at a cop. He was an extremist, loved being considered extreme and probably still is extreme. I didn't much like him then and I don't like him now. I don't trust him and as far as I'm concerned his aggravated and aggressive behavior is dangerous and it's possible that he may hurt himself or someone else at some point in the future. A nice white boy from a good family in southern Ontario. Imagine.

Part 3:
The worst time to be a victim of a noisy neighbor is three in the morning. You've got to get up early and he's having a party. There's one of you and twelve of them and you convince yourself they're doing it intentionally. Worse still, he complains about the noise you make at 11:00 a.m., telling you that he works nights and has to get some sleep. Then he tells you, "By the way, would you mind not parking so close to my car? Somebody put a scratch down the side yesterday and if I find out who...", and he looks at you like he already knows who.

What do these things have in common? Nothing. I'm just rambling on. Like I said, caution is a bitter pill but if you have something sweet to wash it down with, you'll be alright.

Visitors

The small light above the stove, left on to guide the sleepers who stumble and shuffle with a subconscious urge, bathed the apartment in a warm glow that belied the cold floors and the chill of the early morning. Fresh with the faces of the past, each calling out to be saved and, ultimately, left behind, the half awake perceive half the world and half the dream, superimposing one upon the other. I pulled on the jeans left on the floor only hours ago and weighed the need for a shirt against the time already passed since I had pulled myself, mid tempo, from the reconstruction of a past remembered dimly and added to by the guilt of my self-destructive drives; from the deep sleep and the cues of deceit, a regretful dream of the haunted.

I learned long ago to trust the instinctive pull of my deepest thoughts and only rarely am I left without results to satisfy my trust. I climbed the stairs and turned on another light simply to prove to my would-be visitor that, "No, I'm awake. No bother. Please, come in.", knowing that such politeness is rarely believed, but necessary.

These instincts, only barely perceived by the sleeping mind, work to assemble the narrative, forcing some perceptions, letting other conclusions settle like snowflakes in a globe shaken and left, while the dream supplies the associations to the real world and all I knew was that someone was waiting on the other side of the door, waiting to be admitted, waiting for recognition, waiting to be allowed entrance and never once did it occur to me that it might be more fantasy than real, because it simply is both and either is enough; both are equally important. Why? Why am I climbing these stairs, in the middle of the night? Who is there? Why do you come to me, like this, into the small hours before dawn where I live exposed and vulnerable, where the curtains drawn across my reason entangle my emotions and leave me bereft of defenses? Who has come out of the past, out of the cold? Who desires entrance and address and who requires my attention, long forgotten but never completely lost?

I stood in the harsh light, cold and half dressed, pausing only for a second before I pulled on the door and stood dumbfounded staring into the empty night. Had I taken too long? Had they despaired at waking me and left for solace elsewhere? But no, there is no one. The snow is undisturbed, no footprints to see, leaving me more disturbed than resolved, simply because the visitors, the demons demanding of me my time and my attention are calling from within. As I shut the door I shivered, not from the cold but from the knowledge that as I descend these stairs I will find, ensconed in my rooms, the visitors I see only in the darkest hours before dawn and who have the power to pull me from the deepest sleep to demand an accounting and restitution for the things I've done to them. Sweet sleep, I fear, is beyond me now.

Sitting Under the Bodhi Tree

Somewhere around four thousand years ago a young man, well educated and from a wealthy family, ran away from home. Having been sheltered into adulthood he was shocked to see the everyday suffering that so many people had to put up with. This realization sent him on a quest into a kind of religious asceticism. He spent years depriving himself of any comforts and ended up more confused than ever, hungry, dressed in rags and generally shunned by society. Deeply aware that he was no closer to discovering an answer for why life should suck so much he sat down under a tree and vowed not to move until he knew how to help people get along better in the wide and terrible world. This is what he came up with.

1. There is suffering in the world.
This isn't as obvious as it looks on the surface. He's not only talking about car wrecks and train crashes, floods or earthquakes. He was talking about the shitty things we think, the anger we feel, the sadness that permeates everything we touch and the hopelessness we sometimes all feel. Suffering. He's not telling you to accept it, he's telling you to recognize it, look at it and differentiate between suffering and those moments of happiness and contentment. You sometimes suffer.

2. There are reasons we suffer.
The root causes of our suffering. The root cause of the pain you feel is not the coffee table but the inattention that made you walk into it. The root of suffering isn't always the obvious answer. You don't hate your job because you get yelled at all the time, you hate if because your not doing what you want to do, what you know is right for you and what could fulfill your personal desires.

3. There is a way to feel better.
There are very concrete ways for you to be happier. Steps to take.

4. This is what you need to do:

1) Take stock of how you view the world. Perception is all we've got but if yours is that you're screwed you won't get far. Do you want to be happy? Be critical of what you see, but work at not holding onto perceptions that might not do you any good. Are you biased? Why?

2) Think about it. Are you sure? What are you doing? Why do I do this? Think about the things you think. Right thinking means think about what is right.

3) Pay attention to the world around you. When you drive, drive; when you eat, eat; when you wash the dishes just wash the dishes. This is much more difficult than it sounds. What do you think about while you are vacuuming? Probably not vacuuming.

4) Be careful what you say. You don't mean it but since no one else can possibly 'know' what you mean watch your mouth. If you don't want to spread it around don't say something stupid or aggressive or childish. Think about what you want to convey and then say that.

5) Do the right thing. We all know what's wrong and right in a general sort of way. If its wrong to steal then don't steal. If its wrong to spit on your little brother then don't spit on him. This, as it turns out, is pretty hard to do too, for some reason.

6) Make a real effort. If you've got something to do then do it right. Not half-assed or tomorrow. Just do it. Now. The right way.

7) Concentrate. Active concentration is concentrating on the present moment; what's going on right now. Be aware of what it is you are doing. Do you ever drive somewhere and not remember the specifics? No conscious memory of what exit you took means you are not concentrating. This is hard, too.

8)Do what you want. I mean, do what is right for you. Are you a butcher AND a vegetarian? A school teacher who hates kids? If you have a profession that spreads around ill-will you will become ill-willed. Who's gonna want to hang around you then?

That's it. Seriously.

Do I believe it? Yeah. I mean, none of these suggestions will lead me into a worse place than I am now. Most of it is a kind of common sense our parents try to teach us when we are young. I really don't know too many people who actually live their lives according to these precepts, though. Not personally. What the hell is wrong with us? Are we trying to be unhappy? Why, yes we are. So the next time you hear yourself saying, "My life sucks.", think about why it sucks and think about this post and think about whether you're really trying all that hard to change it. I'm done now.

The Lighter of my Life

George laughed to himself when he saw the young man, doing his best to be a gentleman, fumbling to light the cigarette of the petite, but buxom, blonde on the corner as he rushed to work. Try as he might the young gentleman couldn't keep the match lit in the slight breeze that blew up the street.
"What he needs is a lighter with a windhood." George said to himself and then he stopped short and leaned back on his heels.

I lost my Zippo a while back. This, by itself, is not surprising as I am in a constant state of dispossession of all my worldy goods. At any given time I am likely looking for something which I have misplaced. Think about it. You've probably heard me say, "I can't find my...." Losing your Zippo is like discovering you're not wearing pants, however; it just won't do.

Since 1932, Zippo has been making windproof lighters. The design is essentially unchanged. The flint spring pushes the flint to the wheel and the wading, soaked with lighter fluid fuels the wick, which lights when you spark the flint. The windhood, arguably the kicker for the success of the product, will help keep the flame lit in the wind. It's a simple yet very effective design, tested by seventy-plus years of production. Mine was made in Niagara Falls, the only place besides Brandford, Pennsylvania to manufacture them, in September 1998. While not exactly a collectible, it has a certain importance to me. What have you carried in you pocket for eight years?

I'm sure you'll all be happy to know that my Zippo made its way home to me, with a little help from my friends. Now if I can keep it out of Evy's hands there shouldn't be any more problems. Of all the cats out there I had to find the pyromaniac.

George? He got his patent in 1936 and has made over 400 million of them since then. Not bad for an idea that came to him standing on a Pennsylvania corner, watching as that man tried over and over again to impress a beautiful girl.