A Reticents Dream...

The future holds Pie, more blogs

There is Pie in my future. Maybe in yours, too.

This summer, a few of the good people on this earth will set out on an expedition that will see them land - with any success - on the steep slopes of Pie Island, Lake Superior. Though it has yet to be mentioned - I'm positive it would come up sooner or later (and it appears I have fulfilled that prophecy) - the inviation to join the expedition is, here and now, officially extended to the distant Jemp. His company might just be the icing on the proverbial cake, or, better yet, the whipped cream atop the Pie. (Who said 'better?')

Aside from that thought, there will be more blogs in the future. A prophecy that has already, most likely, been fulfilled. And again, and again, and again. . . . If not all, most of my friends will have themselves a haven on entangled within the net that they can slip into from time to time and make themselves heard, seen, read, etc.. People need people. Those same people have an inherent urge within them to know more about, and understand, other people. If they aren't looking exactly within themselves, they are looking at others, in true voyeuristic fashion.

Welcome, Kyle, to the world of whatever. You are now a piece of meat, but you want to be, don't you?

Yes, the future holds more Pie and more blogs. Chew on that.

In tha Dogg house

Well, it has been so long that I actually forgot my username and password to login to this joint. It only took several attempts to identify the correct key for the portal, but I did it. Whoopee!

Still kind of pressed for time, I have not come here to post long-winded fluff, but, instead, to allow all to see what I have seen: a tidbit of information in the most recent tbsource - delivered to your doorstep every friday (if you are fortunate enough to have a doorstep, and providing you live in Northwest Ontario).

Most of you are not strangers to my affinity for Calvin Brodus, better known to the displeased ears of my parents, among others, as Tha Doggfather of Rap: Snoop Doggy Dogg. Most of you also regard him in a certain way, whether having heard his lyrical genius flow and smooth, pimpalicious beats or not: he is a sexist man-whore, a materialistic misogynist, a ho to the pimp that is Hollywood, a porn star, a chronic user of marijuana, etc., etc.. Or, perhaps you have other opinions of just who Calvin Brodus really is. Or, perhaps you have no opinion at all. If the latter is the case, take into consideration the several stereotypical descriptions I just gave you that are most often associated with the poor fella, and peep this:

"A Snoop Dogg concert in Las Vegas was recently cancelled. Snoop was previously scheduled to headline a private party at the Rio Hotel in Vegas, but it was called off due to pressure from the State Gaming Board and Las Vegas Police department. The authorities expressed concern about "gangster rap" and are discouraging casinos from booking rappers in the future."

[Sidenote: The linked article goes on to explain that there were several deaths related to hiphop, or something to that ridiculous affect, but I see no real justification. The deaths, I can only assume, had nothing to do with Snoop. They would lilke us to believe that the deaths of black people is their own fault, but, in tha larger picture, who really buys that?]

Whoa! Anyone else feel that? That should spark some sort of reaction, big or small, out of almost anyone. Most won't care at first (or at all), but even then . . . did you read that statement? Las Vegas, of all places, and known for its infernal debauchery, sex workers and headlining nobodies, denies a man from performing his art, his talent, his show, to the hoards of drunken 'downtown money wasters' (to borrow a title from the Black Crowes).

First, this should tell you a little bit about the mammoth scale that Las Vegas operates on. Most cities would be all over having a premier artist such as Snoop play their venues. I guess Las Vegas has no need for him, they already have Celine Dion.

Secondly, the city, if it can be called that, seems to be run by the Gaming Board more than anyone. But what are they scared of? What do they worry about when they are faced with the prospect of hosting a Snoop Dogg concert in their city, an event that has occurred all over the world for several years, everytime without any major reported 'hitches'?

The whole deal seems absurd to me, but I think that the city of Las Vegas is worried about Snoop's image because he epitomizes, in a way, what Las Vegas used to be (and still is). Las Vegas has worked hard to create a clean-cut image for itself, one that was non-existent back in the day. Bringing in bus loads of old farts to spend their pensions and creating illusion all around them in order to avoid being exposed for what it really is are Its top priorities. Las Vegas is a sham, though, no doubt a sham that I could deal with for a day or two, if only to watch the droves of people who create a living, but oh, so dead, city.

Shit, they let Hunter S. Thompson roam their hotel and casino floors and streets with a head full of drugs and barely said boo. The absurdity of this matter has me perplexed. I understand that Las Vegas has no need for Snoop, but to deny him to play there . . .

By the way, what is "ganster rap?"

This sea bird sanctuary is inhabited by large numbers of brown pelicans, frigate birds, laughing gulls, common terns and Costa Rica's biggest community of brown boobies.

i love boobies.
hahah
yeah...they are pretty sweet
shit, i havent seen any in a while now.
i want to teach in thailand next year. or go to australia for teachers college. i need a beach. and a blonde.
my sitings are few and far between
yea
yes
do it
YES!
i want to get some healthy colour
haha
winters are drab
I want some sand in my hair.
no doubt.
sand is nice
yessir it is.
sometimes i think of that little soccerplaying bodyboarder that we ran into first day in Jaco.
the girl?
of course, not the guy. if there was one.
the oh so hot one...with a perfect imperfection appearing as a gap in her teeth and proving that we werent in fact dead yet
haha
she was hot
Awesome, i will save that quote!
and she had a gracious offering...what a delight..how awesome was that...a bunch of whities fresh off the bus...screw the hotel, it can wait...we need to see the beach and the ocean and replenish our malnourished souls for a while...
i loved that place
that day
that day was the stuff that dreams are made of. I am really really hurting for some hard travel, its so damn rewarding.
she was so cute and nice and wow...i felt like the loser in the movie who just stands aside trying to figure out where the ambush would come from...who was tricking us? was she a decoy? who is gonna thief our bags?
yeah
me too
the idea just sends me reeling
Seriously dude, I thought that guy she was talking with would tief my shit the moment i ran into the water with her.
We were the whitest things around.
funny shit.

Past the dishes, general mess, and the snow I can see a soft glow.

The light at the end of the tunnel that has become where, how, and why I live is viewed best in my control area. My bedroom has become my complete and only sanctuary and soon I will never have to leave its walls at all - save the necessary trips. By the end of the week the laptop will be just that, atop by lap. No more broken desk. No more unwanted, talkative distractions. No more having to live in filth.

I tried for a while, perhaps completely unnoticed (so it would seem, although I can't imagine how), but now concede to throw in the dirty dish towel once again. Seriously, FTW. At least, F this W - this world within these walls. It could all be me, and that would be fine; all in my head and nothing more. Whatever. It is there and that is it. I will adjust accordingly. I can only control my own actions, and only to an extent.

I will descend into modern-day troglodyte status and love the freedom and calm that it will afford for me. Maybe I am disgruntled, but I have a solution, one that will work, no less. I will paint my own picture (thank you) instead of having it painted for me, or, at least, instead of having the colour palette chosen for me. I can live with that.

Still, more and more, a reason to look forward, against Buddha's teachings, but a necessary task in this time and place. Live now, but keep hope alive.

Completely aside, I wonder what Buddha would say about Andy Dufresne?

Peacing out,

pigger

Don't Call It a Comeback

Clint Taurus may have been a lemon, but never could he be called yellow.

For two years that six cylinder beast tanked me from A to B, and sometimes beyond. Fond memories of plowing through the Thunder Bay winter roads, ahead of the snow removal crews, ahead of everyone. Grumbling like an old wooden boat because the muffler had long since fallen off, it took me, and others who were lucky enough to feel the plush embrace of its soft, wine interior, to the Hoito, Thunder Bay Restaurant, America, and Red Lake - anywhere, anytime, anyhow.

Nothing could stop the grey tank. Oh, the price of gas might have limited his driving days and the loose struts certainly caused a raucus internal ruckus, but the stereo could be turned up a little louder to drown that out and the gas prices were no overall match for my desire to drive him. Of all the things to have gone wrong for Clint (soon to seize engine, completely F'd transmission, rear tail-light out and broken, struts, creeping rust, lack of muffler and tail pipe, missing front-end undercarriage, several paint marks from poles, etc., and all the special characteristics that developed that only I knew and understood) nothing did or ever could crush his spirits. He was a tough one through and through and never wanted to give up. Precisely why I feel a bit guilty as I look at all that is left of him now: a bent, rusted and gnarled license plate and the $100 cash I was given to finally let him go.

I hope he forgives me.

Now his fate is to be stripped of his dignity and sold for parts while he freezes, naked, in some cold and lonely lot on the edge of town. No, no come back here. A final putting to rest of a great and beastly lad; of a beautiful transporter; of a friend.

Oh Clint. You drank too much, but when that belly was full and the weight was felt through the wheel by my hands and down through my body, I loved to drive you so. I would take you out on the open highway and use your gears the best way I knew. I could drive that car faster than anybody - too much gas at once and he would rebel, reluctant to speed on under all the pressure. You had to ease him into it, give him some breathing room, and then...he would happily cruise on down the road as fast as I would tell him - like Thomas the Tank

My beastly, crippled friend. You did me proud for what seemed like an eternity. I knew everything about you: your strenths and innummerable weaknesses, but in knowing these was able to keep you that much longer. But, now I have said goodbye, one last time to make it official, to have that closure that is so often needed in inevitable tragedies such as this.

I will miss you, sir.

R.I.P. Clint Taurus 1992 - 2006

Just then a passing stranger -
and the music played,
no sleep in the house of Us

There It Is

I had so many things - just little. I cannot recall all of 'em now, but I will press on with what I still have access to before it is too late. Tonite I learned several things, as I usually do in a night's unravelling, but one important lesson was the revelation of one man's life. This man, who shall remain nameless - he is too good to give up, a secret dandy I will guard closely until I can further investigate come the warm blooming months of summer - I have already given too much - leads a lifestyle that I have dreamed of living for almost as long as I started forming thoughts, certainly as far back as I can clearly recall. O, what a life this man leads. He has done with society and so-called norms what I wish to do every Thursday morning with my trash bags; kicked 'em to the curb for someone else to deal with, and, rightfully so (we are both tax payers, I think...I know I am). This man, in his outlandish and desireable dealings and lack of concern for the acceptance of him by others, has become a complete and self-suficient and very rich vagabond. O, saying more would give him away, probably to no readers of this Dream, but taking the chance is not worth risking such a hopeful and very possible prospect for a sit down of breeze and shit and bull shooting. I'll come fully loaded to this man and fire! Bang. Bang. Bang. Get ready, Lil' Darlin. I've got my eyes on you and my life just might depend on it.

I also learned, from a very insightful drunk, that there, on average, is one drunk at every party. I think what he meant, and I have to cut the guy some slack (he was drunk), was that there is always someone drunk before the rest...although I do feel bad for the people whose table and floor (hardwood, luckily) he spilled hot candle wax and decorative pepper all over. But hey, tis the season.

A few days ago I missed out on a free coffee at the nearest Tim Horton's. Turns out somebody felt the need (kudos to him) to pass across the counter one $100.00 banknote as an early gift, leaving instructions for Tim's employees to use it to pay for as many coffees as would be allowed until the money was all gone, into the hands of Corporate Canada. Ok, so it was a great and unselfish and fitting gesture for the times. The young man, slightly older than myself and wearing a long knee-length beige wool coat looking rather bohemian, stuck around long enough to greet the last lucky exiting customer: a surprised and upbeat older man exited the building where the Santa imposter (good human imposter?) was enjoying seeing the benefits of his good deed come to life while smoking a butt in the cold. I only caught the tail end of the man who brightened several dozen mornings for the working dreary, but I was able to piece together the account with lingering talk of amazement and wonder and delight back inside the shop, and I witnessed his quiet and strange exit as he hopped back in his Bobcat A300, tucking in his coattails as he took a seat between the joysticks and bumbled off to face the day. I wasn't as impressed as most were. I do things like this, on a smaller scale, almost daily. I certianly did appreciate his act of kindness, however.

Finally, I have been mourning the loss of Kerouac lately. Four more years and he will have died 40 years ago. Reading Desolation Angels is hard for me in the sense that he defies, at least stretches, all realms of reasonable and acceptable writing style. Stream of Consciousness, Sontaneous Prose, whatever. How does this help in my studying of the craft? Still, Kerouac writes from the heart and soul and very outer edges of the thought producing mind, leaving all behind in place of the truth. I ache for the man - not now, but in his past life. Mostly, I guess, I just ache for my yearning and my self-pity, for the fact remains and always will that in this lifetime I will have only the long written words of he and his friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, along with several films, recorded interviews, and literary criticisms to further develop my understanding of the man, although I don't see how anyone could come up with the latter.

Criticism? Kerouac? No.

I love and idolize a dead man. I love Jack for at the very least giving us this: "Offer them what they secretly want and they of course become immediately panic-stricken."

I can't say for sure what Kerouac was thinking or referring to when he wrote these words in On the Road, but I can say for sure how I apply them in my tiny ripple of existence. They apply to the people who have such problems in life that they must incessantly, and probably unknowingly, use people to make themselves feel superior, or just better. For when I meet people such as this, I simply turn up the juice and give it to them in all the kindness my heart can afford, which happens to be a lot. People see, hear, and feel this kindness and are at a complete loss - they become panic-stricken, immediately. They don't know what to make of your pure and severe kindness. They don't know what to make of your love. They are stumped, and most importantly and hopefully they experience a change, whether slight or large but always significant, inside themselves. This is easy because most people, secretly or not so secretly, desire nothing more than a little love and attention from the things that they can relate to most in this version of lonely life: other people.

It's a shame we have rules and laws that govern most (not most, but some...and that is a lot) of our abilities to love one another. The few ruin it for the many; the brave trod on and love all.

Where's My Blog?

Something the good women possess when they reach that age of affirmation, when they become self-confidant. It seems to be only something that I can describe as: an assuredness about themselves regarding just what exactly they are; their ultimate functionality and dominance over any other living being this side of Heaven. They reach that certain age, and this depends greatly on the societal stature, but mostly with how they present themselves, and, subsequently, how they perceive themselves…. How dignified they seem. Do you not feel the same way? A woman can reach that status before you ever even know her, and, certainly, before you even afford your eyes to feast upon her. There is definitely something warm and special and strangely lascivious about portraying such sure kindness and refined charm. How many like this can there be? I feel it with the formation of a new smile – the initial parting of the well kempt lips and the brazen white of always uniquely placed, but extremely sexy, teeth. It shocks me with each flutter of tell-tale eye-lids, the kind that offer a thousand promises of hope to the yearning hearts and eager eyes of young boys and big-hearted men. What is a fair measuring tool of such stuff? All one can do is add up the softness of touching hands, the sweetness of slinky ‘s’ sounds, and that one electric moment when the tongue snugs itself 'tween the upper front teeth and lower fronts, in a soft, cradling vice, in order to further tantalize with the beginnings of a perfect “Thank you.”

Three nights ago I had the first dream that I have been able to recall in long time. I hadn’t realized it, but, until that point, I had not remembered dreaming for a long period of time. As it turned out, I had a second dream in as many nights. Both dreams seemed to stretch all governing factors, even as dreams are regulated – or, not regulated. The first had me putting my pigeonholed trust – it seemed I had no other choice at the time – in, not only the hands of a strange old hippie, but in the care – at the hippie’s suggestion – of several Great Lake Manatees in order to safe my compromised and soon-to-be-abandoned self. I had just previously been hosted to a very fine tropical paradise just across the lake, opposite the city of Toronto. A hidden oasis where nothing but fun and games occurred and the people were all very fantastic and the women were all very special, in all their unique ways. I also remember being magically brought back to a warm reality in a mysterious and unbeknownst fashion. The Manatees had, after-all, brought me back to my safe life the well-known normalcy of strangeness that makes me feel all the better. However, when I come to I find myself walking down an alley. Not a stereotypical dark and spooky and ya shouldn’t go down there but you do because you are starring in a 70’s Cult Horror Film and you have no real choice as if you exist for someone’s enjoyment, but not your own. This aforementioned alleyway took me to the back of an aged shop that revealed itself to be a great ol’ bookstore. Dammit, would you believe this bookstore, filled wall to wall, floor to roof, with books of many varieties and categories, but only one theme: that hidden oasis that had just hosted me with it’s harmless and completely hedonistic activities, like some sort of Roman Atrium amongst the scavenged sylvan surroundings that lie just across the lake from that opposing, and terribly imposing, city, behind that corporate retailer with the brightly lit signs.

The second odd fiction placed me somewhere unknown, perhaps old memories strung together in a new mixed setting creating something of sense for that time and place in my sub-conscious. There was an issue of having to deal with hiding two lifeless bodies, at least, somehow being involved – not having taken the lives, but being stuck, again, somehow pigeonholed unfairly, to deal with the mess. That, coupled with the trailing terrorist group and law enforcement agents respectively and the inherent and implicit responsibility I felt to take care of this toddler that always seemed to be in the picture, but that remains to be of mysterious origins, really had me on my toes.

I had a vision the other day, I call it a vision because at this point I cannot recall it, but I most definitely remember experiencing it’s occurrence, and it seemed to come to me in a daze. The place that I was first taken to (the hedonistic utopia, of sorts, that I first described), after being blindfolded and surreptitiously sedated, was just beyond a store with a bright high-standing pole sign, as well as a large and equally as bright sign adorning the side of their building; a Canadian Tire or Blockbuster, that sort.

Of course, so much more happened as I have only given a small gist – serving as a reminder of each strange play; each foreign account. I will probably look back with bewilderment on these two abstracts and remain as lost about the subject as I presently remain about the meaning.

-Part 3-

March 10, 2005
10:00 AM
Sta. Elena, Costa Rica

Directly out of my travelogue:

The standoff is over. The papers read: 9 dead, 17 injured.

At our hostel, the Pension Sta. Elena (very nice place and conveniently located), smooth jazz tries to touch some part of the mind that has not been poisoned by the events of the past 36 hours. Perhaps the DJ feels the mood will be brightened, even slightly, by such happy melodies. But I say BEWARE.

Beware of the jazz; the music that can turn on you faster than you can say Charlie Parker. Jazz is a musical storm of mixed emotions, taking you to the highest high and then, almost instantly, and before you know it, dropping you down into the dirtiest, sad low. I honestly don’t see how this will help, although I suppose it is more appropriate then Eminem singing about Jessica Simpson’s ass. And, besides that, the music must come on again sometime.

The standoff is over, but the painful reminders are seen everywhere: riding on the backs of ATV’s, sobbing, clutching tightly to the driver – not for safety, but because they may be all that is left; are marked with ominous placards on the streets; are the still closed cafes, restaurants, laundry services (where all my clothes happen to be – worse things have happened); are the pock-marked buildings that took, aside from human lives, the brunt of the wildly fired bullets. Yellow ribbon reminders are rolled up in the trashcans reading, “DO NOT CROSS LINE.” The mood and the talk are reminders enough.

Slowly, the town will regroup, re-open and continue on because they can. We will stay. I think it is a poor time and a poor reason to choose to leave at this point. A lot of tourists have already abandoned the good people who depend on them. Some of the locals are right back to work while others still sit on corners, or stand aimlessly, in disbelief; still surveying the remains of a violent and deadly 36 hours. Jokes are cracked here and there, and why not?

A new age Hunter Thompson (less writer, more photographer), who I first saw in the bar we took refuge in when the standoff was still in its infancy and getting into our hostel (a small parking lot away from the bank) was completely out of the question, has always turned up with his dirty vest, gator boots, ripped jeans, Imperial hat and vintage yellow-tinted glasses. He usually toted a digital SLR camera and an opened beer, or two (thank goodness for carrying straps on cameras).

Apparently the proprietor of an advertising/marketing company in town, and, as I just now overheard, a former marine who has seen “worse,” the new Hunter’s concerns seemed to lie with getting the dirty shots and then following them up with a celebratory beer whenever possible. “I just got some crazy fuckin’ shots, man. Let’s go have a beer.” Yes, he was, in his mind, ‘the Shit.’ I heard him gloating about bullets flying past his head as he lay low on a rooftop adjacent the bank, where a number of hostages had been kept in the vault: some shot, some released in exchange for ‘Super Pollo.’ He joked, mostly to his own amusement, about shooting right back with mega pixels. How clever.

This guy was a real piece of work, as they say, but I doubt he will be anything more than a small fish in an overflowing pond, forever gesturing the act of licking another female photographers asshole and using his camera as his, clearly overblown and disproportioned, penis as he simulated ‘giving IT to her.’ Yes, I watched him do this while the innocent lady trying to do her job continued on as having no idea what was happening behind her, or simply just ignoring the shithead.

I’m sure the long-faced, traumatized locals really appreciate somebody like this, an American no less, living in their town and gloating about the violence that he has glorified with his phallic prosthetic.

I was finally able to pick up my laundry, which the nice expatriate woman gave to me free of charge. I was stunned at such a simple act of kindness (the price was $2 – not out of my budget by any means) during such difficult times. I really felt for these people, for this small and usually peaceful town in the clouds. I offered, very sincerely, any help I could to the nice woman that gave me my clean and folded laundry, but she just smiled and thanked me and walked away.

What could I do? These people had been through a catastrophe – they needed time to heal. The next day we left Sta. Elena. As the bus pulled onto the road I could see shopkeepers opening up for the first time in days, making the first order of business to replace the white bows that adorned their windows and doors (used to show support of a water treatment system) with the new black bows that I could only assume were for the victims of the shootout.

Adios, Santa Elena. ¡Buena Suerte!