Thoughts, karma, love of what’s holy – ramblings. You tell me…




I’m writing these words, today, right now – in the moment, as a gift to a child. To the child me that only wants to play and have fun. Take them. Know that any time any place if you come out and want to play there will be no rules to bind you. No word counts, no obligations to make a certain thing of your play. Just freedom and sunshine and a backyard with hedges and the smell of grass. A fence you can climb over and run down to the road and back up the other side so you can look back toward home and see the place you came from – the green trees – and know there is a hidden path and wildflowers beneath the canopy. All this is for you. All of this is your place to play and write and have fun. It’s going to be just fun. It’s for you.

All gentle and playful and detailed – stark. These morning bare trees with their boughs black against the first whispers of dawn. Pastel yellow capped with grey – the clouds lay softly from the city to the horizon. Spiral fir trees, broad trunks and thick branches of the poplars etched at the crown with the finest pen. Leafless sentinels.

I feel a sadness of loss for a human being, but also a calm gratitude. Something joyous. As if the ache of humanness becomes gilded at the edges with the realization of how precious it all is. It shouldn’t be felt that I’m glad in any way for his passing. But when I go I hope this love-lit veil at the surface of the pain is the only thing people remember when time passes and the ache of loss has diminished.

If you only feel the demeanor of your friends or acquaintances through text or social media you don’t have connection to the whole person. An instant of sharing – a smiley or a sentence or two – some concocted meme – none of these is a full plate. At their best or at their worst a human is too much for simple digital rendering.  And it’s all academic, it doesn’t even bear mentioning except that it occurred to me and I have a habit of noting things like this and jotting them down – it’s pass-time – little more. This isn’t an accusation or a condemnation. No anger or despair is driving these thoughts. This is rambling – a mind allowed free reign and I think unfettered.

I remember a conversation many years ago with a friend – recently reconnected on Facebook – we discussed and attempted to discover whether a writer could truly be understood by a reader – whether the power of observation is truly transmitted by written words and we decided right or wrong that the experience of mind couldn’t be as vivid in a reader as it was a century or even a moment earlier in the person who wrote the experience out.  And the noting of these thoughts – same rules apply. I’m more than this, I’m less than this – I’m a world of contradiction. And you – you’re left to interpret without timbre of voice or a codec of facial expression.  There is no summary except to say you’re pure and you’re vital in all of it. In this you are god; or – as has been noted – you are the universe observing itself. What chance does it have for satisfaction drawing from such a shallow pool.


He’s a pencil of a human. And shorter than you’d expect from a man who pitched a World Series save. Unassuming too; no one in the neighbourhood knew he was a baseball player – Christ – someone who’d even made it to ‘the show’ would have been revered, let alone a winner – a true hero of the diamond.

No one told the cops – no one said a word. Detectives looked all over – searched houses for a hardball – one to match the welt on the side of the victims head. No dice.

It’s on top of the little league trophy in the community centre. It’s passed around in September every year when the recreation league wraps up for the season and all the kids put on sweaters and go back to school.

He pitched three perfect innings in relief to win the World Series in 2006 and one of the filthiest sliders you ever saw, that dropped a foot from the sidewalk to the middle of the street – clocked that bastard trying to abduct Angie Singer from her front yard right in the temple. Dropped him like a sack of shit. I’ve never seen anything like it.


Here’s how I listen to jazz. This imagery isn’t in my mind the whole time but it comes up repeatedly and it gives me joy: while a tune is on – imagine you’re sitting at a bar table with four or five friends – up high on bar stools. You all have your favourite drinks and in this bar smoking is allowed if you’re into it or if you’re not – it isn’t. In my bar it is, for reasons that will become clear. Listen – let each individual at the table represent an instrument in the band. That guy is Miles’ horn. That guy is Art Blakey’s kit. The guy on your right is the bass player – you get it.

I imagine the Miles guy talking the horn part – leaning in a little when it’s an intimate passage, gesticulating with excitement to accompany some improvised passage – shaking his head yes or no – and all the time mouthing words – moving – emulating the sounds coming out of the trumpet – not acting them or interpreting them, but ‘feeling’ them outward – like some accidental dance.

The drummer is the busiest – at the same time always in the background – rocking a bit – one finger pointing up to highlight moments – repeatedly opening and closing the other hand to a fist, waves a cigarette – the smoke stays behind on the air.
Solos? The subject leans forward, looks left and then right to get attention and begins to explain a solid point – with both hands out front maybe throwing an imaginary ball back and forth between them. When it’s someone else’s turn he’ll sit back, shrug his shoulders and cross his arms, and the guy next to him will take up the conversation.

And pay attention to the eyes – the eyes and facial expression of these people are particularly important. Happy, engaged – joyful conspirators.

These people are making points – in agreement – never arguing. Always animated – every person adding atmosphere, either active or swaying in the background.

And if two players are involved – both will be leaning back laughing – hands in the air and raucous.
Involved and loving. Never angry or fearful.

This is music to me. It speaks emotion. Endearing conversation. Jazz in particular and especially improvisation.


To listen to music – hear genius in a simple guitar riff or the descending cadence and perfect resolve of a piano phrase – and not wish anything about it. Just listen.  Now – to write with the same freedom. Write like a child at play. Look at the beautiful day and spill that joy onto paper. Find a story within. Tell a story for, or with, or from this child.


Starting over isn’t a challenge of the present or an expectation for the future it’s a divestment of the past. I read a piece recently that made me think. Just empty your metaphorical pockets. Put it all down. Don’t judge the pieces, just drop them, step over them and walk on. Free some time. Free some space. Don’t gauge the loss of weight or the possibility these moments afford. Clear your mind and take a few steps. That’s all. Empty your pockets and walk.


It’s all empty.  I wonder – how long is this void? How far out does it go? The start of it seems a lifetime away – back there. I don’t see any light ahead. There’s nothing to follow. A misty, empty road. If it was travel or if it was years ago, everything would be alright. Travel equals destination and years ago it would have the feeling of freedom. I wonder where those went?

It’s like being in an enclosure – a rectangle extending into the past and directed toward the future. It’s grey inside and there are no markers anywhere – walls, ceiling – near or distant. Trying to write on the walls doesn’t work. Speaking – the sound just dies on air. The music that saved me before is just repetition. Those songs become reminders of an uncertain length of time. Back to when they were joy. Sleep is useless. You lay down in a corner knowing what’s waiting. Maybe a dream. Maybe there will be a dream soon.


I am weary. I am tired and spent. There is a kind of calm though. A restful feeling mixed with either defeat or resolve. I went forward and faced a fear and an uncertainty and I prevailed in thought and feeling – people are telling me that I performed admirably and that they’re proud of me and I think the underlying calm in this is pride for myself. But my body and my mind and my heart need rest.
I’m certain I could sleep a whole day away.

I don’t know how to describe what’s changing in me. So much pain and so much disappearing in order to just be and provide comfort. I have become a kind of veil – present but malleable and directed by other people’s wind. I feel so calm.

If I look at the future I feel this calm moving forward and through the things I do and the things I give. I don’t know if any of this makes sense. I know this isn’t about me in any way. The practicing of that – embodying it – has shown me something different. It’s not as if I’m a selfish or unkind person. I allow others all the freedom they need and more. But there’s a confidence that that way works. It’s done so well here.  I’m both interested in this and in need of rest.

What are the symptoms are of a mind occupied by worry? The hidden ones. I suppose if you looked through my writing and examined my behaviour over the past years you could see them stand out.  I know now that after they are passed, all the possibilities expired, there is a lifting of the fog. It’s slow. It’s not a flash of light but there is some kind of calm comfort that descends, and it’s a gift – an unexpected beauty that leaves you simply happy. Simply happy is a place that holds all manner of possibility – so many things are included.  So many gifts.


I lay in bed this early night wishing for a comfort that I’ve been missing. So; there is a woman holding me from behind – spooning me, fingers in my hair and whispering that everything is alright and there is nothing to worry over. Another woman is in front of me and I can lay my head on her belly – she is also cooing a comfort in words and maybe even in song. Finally – a woman rocks slowly at the end of the bed rubbing my feet and legs with oil.

These people aren’t sex. They are peace and freedom and courage.

I don’t care who you are –  you must have some measure of this as your right – someone will stroke your hair, talk to you and comfort you. They will lay with you and hold you until you fall asleep. And you can imagine whatever number of people giving you comfort as is your need – every night until you fall asleep.

  • There are times when your faith is so strong that it can’t be unseated.
  • There are times when nothing spiritual is mixed in – just purity of purpose and the feeling that life is perfect on its own – without human skill.
  • There are times when your understanding of how it works is the scaffold on which the entire thing rests perfectly and you hope it will perpetually.
  • There are times when it takes a little work, but inertia is something we’ve come to trust and the moment is here to do that again.

Everything after this scares me.  After this are the ones that start with things slightly askew and flow downhill from there into situations that make a person want to cry ‘failure’ and skip this day.

I want to live where no day is fragile. I have lived there. It wasn’t long ago.

I do not want to live where the first thing you have to conquer – even to get your underwear on – is self betrayal. Where you have to talk yourself into worthiness in order to make it possible to live.


It’s a young man’s game.  It’s always a young man’s game. Fuck ’em though. If I were face to face with me from Forty years ago the elder would shake his head in shame. The younger wouldn’t break stride. Not even to wonder who the old asshole might be. From both points of view – fuck ’em. Really.


I can smell 8am shadows on Naramata back roads. I can put my ideas and feelings for sale up against the value of that treasure and its millions of rooms filled with moments. Dust on a floor and the flat-pallet mattress where you sleep – a hiding place for dollars and dimes. Top corner – near the wall.

Watermelon. It’s ice cold and it smells like freshly cut poplar bark but no one else thinks so.

What is the reason we’re compelled to tell stories? Not people who write, but everyone?

A story being defined as having a conversation with someone about a trip to Ikea. Or even a post on social media. Why do we need to justify our position? And the term justify is a condemnation as sure as any other attack. Why do we insist on broadcasting our situations, decisions, likes, comforts, intentions – outward? In order to vet them with an authority? But who is the authority? That idiot beside you? The person across a desk at the motor vehicle department? There is no better arbiter of what is suited to you than yourself. I think for most of us this is true. I also know that we lie. We lie in the most insidious self-serving manner(s) you couldn’t invent with murder in mind.

Why do we do it? Validation, I suppose. And the word can be sliced into myriads of shapes and pieces and mixed with a thousand other ingredients. In the end its validation we’re searching for.

And, I’ll begin here what my wife used to do – I’ll climb down the ‘why’ rope and see how far it goes; why validation? Because we’re insecure I suppose. Why are we insecure? Well, because we see ourselves as lacking in some way I suppose. Why do we see ourselves lacking? Well – we want more – we’re comparing ourselves and finding ourselves with less than the others – I suppose.

To gain knowledge – why?

Evolutionary advantage?

Is fear involved? ie – fear of not being accepted translates into a need for validation (flag waving) to calm the spirit.

A thought for those trained to trust the science of evolution. A good one – better than most.

Some old broad – a hard-rid case – wrinkled, sad, defeated even – walks in and you should be able to feel her courage;  you should be able to feel what got her up today.  There’s a story – this person with sunken eyes sticks a knife into you – empathy leaks and you punch out a story of sorts. Some empathy – some muse, some bicycle-balance through traffic with a heavy bag on one handlebar and the danger of a side-slip, ass-over shoulders wipe-out onto the pavement. All of this from a glance at one individual, and to what end? Am I afraid of her? Afraid of becoming her? I have no idea, but the result, before I can call it anything, before I can tell you how it happened or why – I tell this story in my head. It takes a millisecond. It’s concocted from left-overs and temperature changes – run through the calculator and multiplied by eons.

So – that? That-there? That last little piece – that’s what my attempts at writing, or beginning something look like. A series of opinions – still wet behind the ears – tripping over each other on their way to fight for teats – and not a sure thing among them. Jesus, fuck – can I make a story some day?


Danny learned how to derive better / closer experiences with these baffling creatures. He learned accidentally how to encourage their opening up to him. Here’s how – he would get one to fly close and then he would lie to the rest. He would tell them that these flights were more intimate than he had a right to and the difference between reality and the breadth of his enhancements helped the ladies allow themselves leeway and his reputation found root. So – you want to judge this kind of behaviour – but don’t move too quickly. Life is life. People invent ideas. People find means. Necessity is the mother of invention. Is necessity morally ambiguous? Of course it is. Necessity is given priority based on the same judgement as any other attribute. Who, what, where, when. How much? Third world necessity has much less political punch than some other types. And you can name them. Go ahead. Do some of the work yourself.

The problem is how profoundly I am affected by the behaviour of others.

I do not have a problem looking in the mirror. There’s no fear of what I’ll see looking back – teeth and claws from the past – yesterday’s embarrassment nipping at my heels. I just go forward – maybe thats all we ever need. I’ve never had a problem with justification – in all of its guises – I’ve come to enjoy using the term ‘experience’ as my get out of jail free card.



The smell of beeswax and honey and pollen on fingertips. The wax is lubricant and glue, it’s imbued with scent from the honey and pollen, like moss and like nectar but sticky like glue and redolent of a layer between hardened sun-dried bark, and the wet xylem of trees, tracheids and vessels – plants in general which flow water and life upward to flowers and back downward to roots.

The scent itself is so compelling it could be a membrane. It is insistent enough to create an image of itself in your mind. How could that be? How does it know what it’s showing you? A flat piece of brown board – fungal on the surface with shades of deep oak-green in the sunlight if it’s turned just right.

Also – it should be moist. How does something made of stickyness and flowers know what’s expected of it?

The furry backs of the bees run away from your fingers when you brush at them.


Plot idea; it’s an exotic locale – the setting – a place where leisure is practiced with the same commitment as religion or politics. So, even in an atmosphere where it is common, he is considered a layabout – but he reports occasionally to an employment service in order to have something concrete to speak of when in the company of people from whom he may someday have to ask favours.

It’s in this condition he is surprised to be offered a situation – unrelated to his life’s experience or training and is equally surprised when he is awarded the position.

As it turns out though he is very good at it – offering people advice across a desk so that they can see things clearly and for the most part, clear up their problems on their own.

The position is with the Provisional Office of Advocacy and Abatement. A kind of place where people might find help if they need to stop things from happening; specifically government processes that they’ve begun and no longer wish to experience or follow through.

A woman comes to see him – she no longer wants to support her indifferent family – there are two cousins and a mother in law who have come to live with her and her husband. She wants to change documents so that she has a different last name – revert back to her mother’s maiden name – as her father was also a ner-do-well and she would rather forget him too. He finds her detailed. There is a kind of thread through the things she does.  What s the strangest thing you’ve ever been asked to abate?  What’s the most expensive abatement?


Here’s a thought – I read or heard this recently – can’t remember the origin, but here you go; what things are best done at 3am? The question has me interested. I want to ask it of someone and then judge them – judge their answer. I want to look at someone and feel their answer. Here’s what I think – it has moon in it. Tea. Streetlights. Nudity. Certain streets in certain towns. A lot of solitary being. Some reading. A healthy dose of drunk.  The question makes me want to set my alarm. It makes me want to remember a hundred of the last 3am awakenings and participations. None of it is threatening, sleepless or even deprived. It all seems accidental like a gift. The awakening from a dream in a gentle manner – the desire to see what’s out the window at that moment.

It’s a bit of Kipling. Some Calvino – certainly Dumas and other of the older masters with their swords and kings.

On this street though there are skunks, cats and a river – some cyclists and a monthly wave of thieves that are outed on Facebook feeds on their way to somewhere else in the city.  Wishes drift through streets – trees and bedroom closets – gutters and up-high rhythmic splash cymbals and slap boot bass thumps down below – it powers the cycle of the songs. Every three in the morning tips the release lever over to allow the next day. The occurrence of time continues based upon this part and its movement. You think it just happens, but it’s mechanical and possible to stop. It allows interference. You just have to know the design.

And I think there is more than one person who does.


The only thing that makes me happy now is composing words into sentences on paper. It’s putting thoughts out – typing my ideas and those that occur to me (by grace or by muse or by my own concocting of them) and keeping them so that I can see them again and agree that they have some value. Interestingly enough today’s one thousand words failed miserably and stopped at about the five hundred-seventy mark.


I’m losing ideas – or I’m losing the experience of documenting their evolution. Ideas seem to disappear before they can be born. See if you can follow this – I’ll be as plain as I can; lately when I sit somewhere and close my eyes in order to spark the remembrance of an important train of thought – something trusted to memory – I will have the experience of an entire applicable scenario playing back in my head in fine detail – a good idea – relevant pieces and subtle shading all included. But when it’s time to open the eyes and have the beauty and complexity of it speak for itself, the only thing remaining is the urgency of the promise – the excitement of it – a need to write it down, but none of the myriad of words that would guarantee or even explain its composition – its components, rudiments or rules.

It’s as if important details, life changing dreams or realizations are being stolen from me, or even played before me like a carrot on a stick, as enticement to keep me in the game. Seriously – I feel like numerous ideas have been lost – and what’s worse is that this presents as a case of something important forgotten – not just an experimental piece that needs examination – but something concrete that’s been left in the dirt and lost completely. It’s only when very calm or very tired.

Ideas – plots, scenarios. All gone.

Or how about this – they never existed – and maybe this feeling is a shard of something different. Some kind of episode. Isn’t that something?  Who would think like that?


I wouldn’t know how to care for or feed another human heart if I won one. Here is another attribute of which I should be proud; I am solitary. If I can’t be proud of that and I have no map to the happiness of anyone but myself, then what is the fucking point?


I don’t see it happen – I can’t draw a line between the two states – but I know if I’ve made peace with a day. On one side of this agreement is a state of unrest – a feeling that I haven’t completed an obligation. A guilt or a sadness on my or on another’s behalf. On the other side of this arrangement is relaxation. Calm. Awareness. A kind of small power. I don’t know where the line is crossed – I never do. I don’t know when the decision is made – I never do.

In the early evening I’ll feel the unrest and I’ll start to wonder what’s wrong and how to fix it. Then, sometime later after I’ve lived another hour or two I’ll feel different – I’ll feel there is a future to this night – a promise of comfort in a bed and a slow surrender to sleep with no veil of lies, worry or wonder. Whether something is done improperly or undone intentionally – no days end littered with threads.

The only difference between the two sides is time and incidental actions. If decisions are the difference between satisfaction and unrest – regardless of their validity – then – I suppose the best way to go forward satisfied is to flip coins and get on with it.


It’s always this way. The most beautiful things (a women? a touch? a glance?) elicit feelings – aside from any kindness offered the brain and heart hold imagination – and they spill these stupid imaginings at the smallest cue. Even at this age. Isn’t that something?

But – this – you take one of those veils – suggestions which light small fires and understand that the story this tells is fifty years deep – it’s each possibility from when you first learned of love – all the way until now. Each possibility. Every last one.

That’s why they light up.
That’s why.
The stupid imagination.

Every. Goddamned. Time.


I’m looking at a notebook. At the words scribbled about a year ago – on set – for Damnation – and I feel revulsion. I wonder why? It feels like I don’t like the pompous ass who wrote them. I dislike that attitude, and anyone who has a blog, a notebook or an opinion page anywhere should just shut the fuck up. No one needs your shitty idea of what you think is right, wrong or notable. The world can’t stand the weight of one more caped, crusading do-gooder out to make the shiny shine and the smelly ashamed and willing to wash.

Give up.


This goes here:

In Chapters with Tess and trying to find something, anything to read. She’s buying today – it’s a Fathers day gift. I’m browsing all the stacks, the aisles, all the shelves from Bio to Sci-Fi – everything. And I feel defeated and I feel sad and a bit depressed. Where’s the excitement? Where is my excitement for the introduction to a new piece of story? Where is this cool story that I need? Where is Run Silent, Run Deep – my mother gave me when I was nine – submarine story? Where’s the Hardy Boys? Where is the tree fort halfway down the slope toward the railroad tracks? Where is the smell of blood in a nose that hit the dirt before arms and hands could break the fall? Where is the midnight run?

Where is the ten year old? Why am I so defeated? Why the fuck am I afraid? I’m in a book store and I’m scared of the fucking books. Everything I look at is either idiotic enough to be insulting, or it’s by someone who is so accomplished – so polish-perfect and impressive to me that I find them threatening. There is no in-between. I want to just read a book. I don’t want to marvel at the brilliance. I don’t want to be shifted in my seat by talent.

I went with Joan Didion, “We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live”.

But I’m going to find a Hardy Boys book at Fair’s Fair tomorrow – one I don’t remember. I don’t expect it to work, but I have to try it.


I want to have an idea so good, so quirky, original and with such gravitas that people drink it down – lap it up – swallow it whole. There are no questions. there are no spell-check oddities in its construction a month or a week or a day later. I have an idea and – bam – that’s all.

I want to wake up with a perfect manuscript in the hands of the right people.

I want to come to life complete with a few pieces in the bank and some room to move.

I want to look out over a landscape on which a percentage of the populace is realizing truths that I’ve handily outlined for them in a compelling, riveting manner.

They are familiar with names I’ve made up – imagined – and grown into heroic and muscular humans – sex soaked and intellect shining beautiful beings costumed from eras of romance and danger.

I want my hand to move over the landscape and enliven them with some simple pleasure in being, and a greater appreciation for themselves and all living things as a result of yesterday’s immersion.

The end.

Isn’t there a trick you can do with your fingers where you separate an imaginary piece of line between the two – and the delineation of that space represents a thing or an area you’ve created which can be realized as a peaceful spot in which to exist and no one can change it – not even with a magic word? It sounds like bells. It’s crystal and it’s not destructible. I could live there and just be quiet and no one would know.

I keep having these quick little dreams – they all seem to contain solutions and I keep forgetting their point – or awakening to reality before it can be revealed in thought.



There are not enough notifications of random situational or somewhat connectedness on Facebook. Like ‘all these things happened while you had that nap, and they all contain a form of salt.’ Or – Some groups of brothers living over seven hundred miles apart have been identified since Tuesday.’



Rent’s gonna go up – some sniveling shit at work has decided to be a rat – not that this world should even care – seriously who do you think you are? Tell the boss? What – are we fifteen?

The crib is for sale and we might get three months notice. I’m too old for this crap. By a long shot.

There’s a picture of Hank across the room that offers the old way out. For God sake. How can this still be my life? How can anything so tenuous still be even on the radar. And I know what the answer is. The answer is a price. The answer is a form of currency.

Short-story, money. Long story – well – just look back. Some guys would give anything for this view. Some guys would give anything for these shoes. Some guys want the stereo, some guys want a girl. Some guys just want to sleep in.

I want a beer and a cigarette thank you very much, keep the change and send one to those two over at that table while you’re at it.

Bring me a book – mine – the one I’ve actually finished. I’ll settle for a story.

How about a girlfriend? How about a hard-on?

I think a drink and a smoke are in order – let me get dressed up – I just have to find my balls.

I feel that while in a dream I have imagined a tool – a wonderful piece of missing equipment that bridges two, three or even four or five ideas that truly help – or that solve a long sought equation – but somehow I’ve done something wrong and for some reason that tool is lost now – and it’s no ones fault but mine. I want to change it all back, but somehow that initial change has washed everything else with something unable to be fixed.

I can’t make this work now – it’s all lost and I can’t remember either the initial tool and its promise or power – or the path that originally had it so obviously apparent. This is such a loss. I feel so bad – but I can’t find it. I just can’t find it again. And I feel this over and over again. People use that curse on others, “…how do you sleep?”

And I feel it again and again every time I wake up. How could I have lost that dream?
I just don’t know.
Wishing for a new start is over.

Dear heart, by the grace of god I am out of new beginnings. There used to be that tomorrow feeling – that new sunrise possibly that could fuel a step forward – a step out of anything. And it’s not that my steps have become any harder – harder to see or more foreboding than anyone else’s, but by the grace of god there are no beginnings left now – there are no new roads in some glorious morning light.


See if you can follow this one.

Venus is rising out the window at 7am. The goddess of love. I think of Brittany – her small, tight ass cheeks – smooth legs, shaven cunt. This is a lovely way to start the day. Across the street the lights are on in the dining room of the Bed and Breakfast. A solitary runner and dog jog up the street.

So I type the experience out – Brittany – the prostitute and my impressions and experience and immediately there begins in my head a conversation with someone describing the event and forgiving myself in explanation. That might as well be it – it looks and feels like ‘talking to myself’,  but it’s likely the act of seeking forgiveness.

It has to be imagined;   I’m sitting reading, Kate comes by on the way home from work. She stops and I say, “Katherine the Great Hair and eyes to die for. How are you?”

She’s taken aback a little – we use our proper names each time we meet – Katherine, Douglas. It’s a kind of joke, and I came up with the Katherine the Great hair for obvious reasons – adding the eyes to die for when I typed her name into my phone contacts.

Anyway the imagined conversation goes like this;   there is some kind of introductory banter and I honestly don’t know how in my head it gets to this place and maybe that’s symptomatic of something, but it always starts with me explaining.
How are you at secrets? I’ve been burned at work before and I’m not going there again. I need to know I can trust you.
I have an agreement – a woman friend – working girl. She’s almost 30 I think. That’s where I go when the need arises.
A prostitute?
I’m sexually invisible Katherine. Really – who do you know who would be interested in this?
She answers and the conversation continues until I’m explaining my entire life and the breakup with Erin and moving out and all of that becomes prelude to us sitting in my apartment having tea and then she decides she would like to enjoy the experience of being a whore too.
Absurd – isn’t it?
That’s how you take a situation you’ve allowed to develop and rationalize it into normal.

I do that frequently with this one. It happens in a similar way. First there is the idea of someone finding out. Erin, Tess, the people at work. Then there is an interior discussion and a jury of my thought-peers goes to work on the situation.

There are hearings – a rehash of life and the circumstances I’ve either invented or let happen that would have contributed to the current fuck-up. There is a piece by piece dismantling of my moral character – in an attempt to find an answer to the question – how could anyone let this happen? There is alarm at the vehemence of the attack of me upon myself and then there is the best part – I concoct a reality in which my behavior is not only respectable, but revered. The independent thinker, the straight line through truth that no one else seems to be able to find. The isolated go-forward bravery that carries a certain type of human being outside the capsule and allows them to flourish where no one has gone before.

I vacillate between being a ghost with no conscience and a moral pathfinder.

If you were a sixty year old man, and you were told there was a minute possibility that your dick would not perform again after your impending surgery, what would you do?

I chose to spend a little money – and ride that pony one more time.


When you become a little too optimistic for your own good – remember – someone has successfully marketed a product to people who tend to become frustrated by the inconsistent shape of potato chips.

This little shit who refuses to finish a single word let alone an idea. A brilliant guitar track lost in a tragic vocal mistake – Jack coy. No regrets – shit vocal.


Dr., I think the reason I can’t imagine a complete story is because my mind is not connected with reality. There is a chance some connection might grow back eventually but at this age I may not have enough time. When I sit down to write I can get a few pages of beginning or a lovely afternoon at the beach complete with gulls etc, but everything runs out quickly and the stories stop at two or three thousand words.

Suppose that’s all I’m meant to do. That’s not a horrible thing except that I have a desire to tell a story – that’s important – but I don’t know what it is.

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.

The disconnect must have happened long ago. Maybe. I think it’s a result of something I can’t see. Like a deal I made with habit that presupposed a trade off not explicitly defined in the terms; here – you can drink to your hearts content, but we’re taking situational awareness away for good. Or; OK you can masturbate to pornographic images but you’ll never again see a relationship with real stories again.

Things that were dangled as bait to a boy who couldn’t read the contract.


Believe it or not,
the old woman said,
and I tried to picture it:
a girl,
the polished white ribs of a roast
tied to her boots with twine,
the twine coated with candle wax
so she could glide
across the ice—
my mother,
skating on bones.

—J Lorraine Brown


In the end it’s not harm or sacrifice, it’s self care. To be finished and have no more to say, that’s time to sit down with a rope and say goodnight.


Someone’s made a mistake – a few of the peasantry have acquired pots to piss in.


Kate Bush composed and recorded a song called Somewhere in Between and managed to capture a moment perfectly. But the success rests only in the music as a whole, and the chorus. Lyrically the verses don’t get there. They’re trying, but the subject is too big for words. There are none that can get there. It’s best to brush on the idea and let imagination do the rest. The chorus does this. And the music – the music is perfect.


I wonder if I’m defined now by these griefs – father death, mother death, sobriety, leaving family, unrequited love, daughters decision and the writing bug.

May your mead be colder than your beeswax.

Just another morphene sunshine afternoon.

I believe underfunding of education is the biggest problem humans face.

You can deconstruct all the arguments there are for something different and you’ll always (I believe) end up at not enough knowledge (education).


The creator allows you to carry life because you are like a medicine that has a purpose.

I don’t have what it takes, god. I don’t have the drive to see anything through. I have a bit of talent and I have a bit of perception but I don’t have any drive to finish anything – if there is something wrong then I don’t have the balls to admit it or the wherewithal to fix or deal with it.

I think I would like to have this thing that I feel is lacking though. So, if there is any gift that I am to receive in time to enjoy it before I die – that would be a personal request. That and a pair of perky tits, a beautiful, shaved cunt, pretty face and a fucking cool, smart woman on which all of that is placed appropriately.

Investigate the trustworthiness of oral histories. Specifically the Lakota.


Nobody knows everything. This person knows these hurts. This other person knows some of your hurts as well. No one person knows all of your problems, hurts and the wishes that come from them. You don’t tell one person all of the things.


Expectations – it’s all about what’s expected. Anticipation or just planning.

Dude in a suit walking toward downtown is going to perform some dance today and he will be rewarded with a certain amount of cash – that will eventually turn into a condo or a beach house or a wife or a couple of whores or a trip to the Super Bowl or a generous donation to a Buddhist temple but don’t count on that one.

Girl wearing shorts is walking across 14 St. She expects to find a bank deposit made when she checks online later today.

Her landlord expects the same thing at the end of the week.


I spoke to a counselor today after work. She is a shrink I think. And I said a lot of stuff. After the call I was tired; really tired. And I fell asleep. I slept so soundly that it feels now as if I slept for a whole day. And when I awoke the thought occurred to me that the two potential suicides that I’d mentioned might have already happened and I began to cry. I thought of calling her to ask if I am really alive – but I don’t have her number – it was blocked when she called. Medical professionals do that.

Now I’m siting at the computer looking out the window and things seem strangely three-dimensional. There are animals everywhere. Two hares across the street – huge – with black tipped ears. Three young squirrels, siblings – are wrestling in the crotch of a cottonwood. A magpie has just lifted into the air off of a roof to my right – and it rides a thread all the way out to a tree on the other side of the street – gliding – no movement of wings at all. And the feeling of it moving on the air makes me dizzy – like I’m falling.

I haven’t talked to a human yet. I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I did it.


I can smell smoke from a newspaper burning under the focused beam of a magnifying glass.


It’s about a girl riding a bicycle. Her hold on the handlebars, the sandals, basket – everything – her hair and the length of the skirt. It all tells the story that she is slightly unsure of her ability to pilot all of it through the streets – thus the endearing quality of her courage – and you fall immediately and completely in love. When I look at her do I envy the youth? No. Do I want to possess it? Maybe – I can’t tell – I don’t know what the right words are. Do I want to love it? Of course – but now we have to define love (it has to be interesting. Tricky. Doesn’t it? What attempt at defining love would be easy). I don’t need to possess. I don’t want to own. I’m done with cohabitation.

Love isn’t a gauge.


Katerina Witt eats barbed wire.


I have set this up so fucking perfectly – you would expect that piece of language to be followed by “…that – etc.” You would expect that it’s a preface to something desirable – a way of getting to a description. But no – it’s just – I have set this up so fucking perfectly. I am alone – I am sober – I am content – I am able to read, write, eat and sleep. This can’t be beat.


Picasso was called ‘morally worthless’ by one of his lovers.


That skirt is just right. Tight in the right places and perfect length. So – lose the sandals – seriously Birkenstocks? A different top – something white – some lace about it – sleeveless – and drop that manbunned milk-toast idiot. Find a real philosopher – someone who’s actually felt existential dread instead of a Star Wars fan. Then – walk down the street again. Notice the difference.

There once was a seven year old girl who was photographed running naked down a road shaking napalm from her limbs, who grew up outside of Toronto and became mother to two children – and she never once asked for her own goddamned pronoun. Not one victim of the Holocaust ever belied their lack of a pronoun.

And I’m the last man on earth who will ever rub off the label of privilege, but I’ve seen more people suffer greater indignities in silence than you’ll ever understand – until you age a bit – and none of them wants a fucking pronoun.

There are those who will perform a little play in front of you when you first see them in the day. It’s their invitation to view their worship of other lives – their propensity to present a character equal to that which they have imagined you to be. They want to present a Scout to your Atticus. Or some other eager matching. They wish to play – but their world is short – with no long plans and no way to translate the interaction into reality aside from employing a surrogate – a hero capable of impressing you.


Never heard of Henry Green – maybe that’s all I’ll ever hear of Henry Green, but he’s now a favourite of mine.