I'm sitting in front of a toppled tree stump, staring at the four tortures arms that were once roots. It's cold. I'm in Jasper. The people I am camping with are still asleep. They seemingly will never wake up.
Looking at this end of a dead tree, I realize it's dead roots stretch out into the earth. So what? There are stones popping up out of the earth like new potatoes. There's a rock nestled in the twisted roots. My fingers are cold, typing this on my iPhone.
The car is locked. I can't get a book out. I can't get my stuff to go have a shower. I can't get the cable to recharge my phone.
I bought M&Ms at the vending machine. I'm tired of eating crap. Someone is moving in one of our tents, but I'm not sure if they're getting up or not.
My hands are cold. I hear squirrels an birds and distant cars. I could really go for some hot oatmeal.
Other campers are awake. Just not us.
A zipper!
This tree over here is oozing mustard coloured sap. It looks like an infection.
Wake up!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The New Colour scheme
Welcome to the new colour scheme. I picked this one because I once had a windsurfer sail with the same 70's era colours. It's the only other instance I am aware of, ever, where somebody thought this looked good.
Plus, Nik went to some effort to give me the power to change the scheme to something stupid and inconvenient, and I thought it would be rude if I didn't make an effort. So there you go.
And, for those of you who are keeping up, I'm off to be trained as a worker bee tomorrow morning!
Plus, Nik went to some effort to give me the power to change the scheme to something stupid and inconvenient, and I thought it would be rude if I didn't make an effort. So there you go.
And, for those of you who are keeping up, I'm off to be trained as a worker bee tomorrow morning!
Mindfulness and Bud the Buddha
There's this buddhist practice known as mindfulness where you're supposed to be aware of everything going on around you at all times. The idea is that most people sleepwalk through their lives instead of actively participating in it.
Why would you want to be mindful? As far as I can tell, the smugness. You can point at other people and say:
"You see that idiot over there, waiting for the bus, his mouth hanging open, wearing baggy jeans, headphones in his ears, his eyes yellow from not blinking? He's a mindless asshole. But not me. I'm fucking MINDFUL."
(And then you trip over your untied shoelace and hit your head on a lamppost.)
I like smugly feeling superior to other people, so I am considering looking into this whole "mindfulness training" thing. The big problem is the way Buddhists try to cultivate this ability -- by sitting on their asses for hours and hours, doing nothing. They call this "meditation", but to me it kind of sounds like working for the government. Only government workers sit on their asses doing nothing for years, not to attain enlightenment, but to attain retirement, which pays better.
But back to Buddhists. Beginner meditators are supposed to sit there and concentrate on their breathing. If your mind drifts to other things -- and why wouldn't it? -- you're supposed to gently return your thoughts to your breathing. This can go on for hours and hours.
You know, it would be easier to sit there doing nothing if there was a TV or something to watch -- something to keep my mind active. Like an episode of Jeopardy.
Personally, I would like to be mindful, but I don't want to do all this work. Isn't there a faster way? Like, a pill or something?
***
We interrupt this blog for a message from our sponspor.
Want to become enlightened, but are too lazy to sit and meditate? Ask your doctor about Zenloft.
"I was meditating six days a week, 10 hours a day, getting whacked on the head with a board... That's when I thought I'd try Zenloft. Now I am at one with the infinite, and I don't have horrible pains in my legs and knees. Thanks, Zenloft!"
Caution -- Zenloft may cause constipation, rectal bleeding, seizures, drowsiness, and excessive smugness.
***
The weird thing about Buddhists is that they're always talking about this guy, the Buddha. They're almost as bad as Christians going on about their guy... What's his name? Moses or something. Abraham. Some guy.
Anyway, here's the story of Buddha -- Bud for short.
Bud was a prince. His dad was super sheltering the guy, and kept Bud locked up in a compound where he never saw sickness or death. So, like Paris Hilton, only in India.
One day, Bud wanders out of the compound and sees all kinds of sickness and death and old people for the first time. This freaks him out. So to deal with this new understanding of the horrible world, he abandons his wife and kids, throws away all the wealth he could have used to make the world a better place, and goes off to learn to meditate.
Kind of like when Paris Hilton got arrested and spent half a day in jail.
Bud starves himself, sits under a tree, and meditates for years. He gets all skinny and angsty. Some say the Buddha was the first emo.
One day, Bud realizes all this meditating and suffering shit is stupid. He wasn't happy as a rich and spoiled prince. He's not happy as a starving, poor wretch.
"Wait a minute! Forget wallowing in luxury and wallowing in misery! I should do something in the middle. I'll follow the middle path!"
And thus the middle class was born -- a class of people who simultaneously sneer at the wealthy for their excesses, and sneer at the poor for their laziness. You want to talk about smugness? That's the middle class.
Once Bud was enlightened and middle-class, he went on a speaking tour, explaining his philosophy to his friends. Here are some highlights of what he said.
"If I point at the moon, don't stare at my finger, retard. Look at the mother-fucking moon."
"I don't know what the fuck to say to your stupid question, so I'm just going to hold up this flower. Look! Dave gets it! Or he's pretending to. Dave, you are such a suck-up."
"Nothing lasts. Everything changes. Get fucking used to it, you morons."
People recognized Bud was wise, so they kept him fed and clothed. And so Bud didn't have to work for a living -- not even for the federal government.
And I think we can all learn a lot from his example.
Why would you want to be mindful? As far as I can tell, the smugness. You can point at other people and say:
"You see that idiot over there, waiting for the bus, his mouth hanging open, wearing baggy jeans, headphones in his ears, his eyes yellow from not blinking? He's a mindless asshole. But not me. I'm fucking MINDFUL."
(And then you trip over your untied shoelace and hit your head on a lamppost.)
I like smugly feeling superior to other people, so I am considering looking into this whole "mindfulness training" thing. The big problem is the way Buddhists try to cultivate this ability -- by sitting on their asses for hours and hours, doing nothing. They call this "meditation", but to me it kind of sounds like working for the government. Only government workers sit on their asses doing nothing for years, not to attain enlightenment, but to attain retirement, which pays better.
But back to Buddhists. Beginner meditators are supposed to sit there and concentrate on their breathing. If your mind drifts to other things -- and why wouldn't it? -- you're supposed to gently return your thoughts to your breathing. This can go on for hours and hours.
You know, it would be easier to sit there doing nothing if there was a TV or something to watch -- something to keep my mind active. Like an episode of Jeopardy.
Personally, I would like to be mindful, but I don't want to do all this work. Isn't there a faster way? Like, a pill or something?
***
We interrupt this blog for a message from our sponspor.
Want to become enlightened, but are too lazy to sit and meditate? Ask your doctor about Zenloft.
"I was meditating six days a week, 10 hours a day, getting whacked on the head with a board... That's when I thought I'd try Zenloft. Now I am at one with the infinite, and I don't have horrible pains in my legs and knees. Thanks, Zenloft!"
Caution -- Zenloft may cause constipation, rectal bleeding, seizures, drowsiness, and excessive smugness.
***
The weird thing about Buddhists is that they're always talking about this guy, the Buddha. They're almost as bad as Christians going on about their guy... What's his name? Moses or something. Abraham. Some guy.
Anyway, here's the story of Buddha -- Bud for short.
Bud was a prince. His dad was super sheltering the guy, and kept Bud locked up in a compound where he never saw sickness or death. So, like Paris Hilton, only in India.
One day, Bud wanders out of the compound and sees all kinds of sickness and death and old people for the first time. This freaks him out. So to deal with this new understanding of the horrible world, he abandons his wife and kids, throws away all the wealth he could have used to make the world a better place, and goes off to learn to meditate.
Kind of like when Paris Hilton got arrested and spent half a day in jail.
Bud starves himself, sits under a tree, and meditates for years. He gets all skinny and angsty. Some say the Buddha was the first emo.
One day, Bud realizes all this meditating and suffering shit is stupid. He wasn't happy as a rich and spoiled prince. He's not happy as a starving, poor wretch.
"Wait a minute! Forget wallowing in luxury and wallowing in misery! I should do something in the middle. I'll follow the middle path!"
And thus the middle class was born -- a class of people who simultaneously sneer at the wealthy for their excesses, and sneer at the poor for their laziness. You want to talk about smugness? That's the middle class.
Once Bud was enlightened and middle-class, he went on a speaking tour, explaining his philosophy to his friends. Here are some highlights of what he said.
"If I point at the moon, don't stare at my finger, retard. Look at the mother-fucking moon."
"I don't know what the fuck to say to your stupid question, so I'm just going to hold up this flower. Look! Dave gets it! Or he's pretending to. Dave, you are such a suck-up."
"Nothing lasts. Everything changes. Get fucking used to it, you morons."
People recognized Bud was wise, so they kept him fed and clothed. And so Bud didn't have to work for a living -- not even for the federal government.
And I think we can all learn a lot from his example.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
It Bites
It bites, and it bites, and it bites. I'm it. I'm the thing that bites. Or it's inside of me. And it has teeth like an alligator and it's a violent baby - puts everything in its mouth and chews.
Watch out for me. I'm an ugly vampire. I'm a beautiful zombie. And I can eat anything.
The hole inside - it guards the hole. Grabs people and things and food and throws them all in the pit of need. The bottomless pit of need that's like a black hole of the soul.
Alligator teeth and a gray leather tongue and eyes that are all bloody and blind. No arms, no legs. A snake? A worm? A cock with teeth and bloody eyes?
Chomp down on the earth and shake it. Break the entire world's back. Make violent rape love to the molten core at the centre of the earth.
That's what I'm dealing with here. Keep your distance. I have a monster inside me. His name is Omen. His middle name is Lust. His surname is Apocalypse.
Watch out for me. I'm an ugly vampire. I'm a beautiful zombie. And I can eat anything.
The hole inside - it guards the hole. Grabs people and things and food and throws them all in the pit of need. The bottomless pit of need that's like a black hole of the soul.
Alligator teeth and a gray leather tongue and eyes that are all bloody and blind. No arms, no legs. A snake? A worm? A cock with teeth and bloody eyes?
Chomp down on the earth and shake it. Break the entire world's back. Make violent rape love to the molten core at the centre of the earth.
That's what I'm dealing with here. Keep your distance. I have a monster inside me. His name is Omen. His middle name is Lust. His surname is Apocalypse.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Pregnancy Tests
They're expensive, those piss sticks. Not sure why. I mean, I don't know how they work -- a girl pees on them, and you either get one line or two. Obviously there's some kind of chemical inside it, that is affected by pregnant piss. But what kind of chemical is that expensive?
Maybe they just make them pricey because they have you over a barrel. Your woman is FLIPPING OUT because she thinks she's knocked up. She wants to know what's going on right goddamn now. And as a chivalrous, modern male, you're supposed to pay for the pregnancy test. Those are the rules. I think they even covered this in a very special issue of GQ.
"Pregnancy Tests: Must You Pay?"
Yes, you must.
Last time I checked, a pregnancy test is around $25. And the last time I bought one, the woman insisted I buy a second one, just to be on the safe side. That's $50 to ease her conscience -- and she then refused to believe the tests and we ended up going to a walk-in clinic. I blew $50 so you could then drag me to the doctor? We could have done that first!
Come to think of it, this means pregnant pee is different. Shouldn't you be able to taste the difference? They should train pharmacists in this kind of thing.
"Here's my girl's pee. Is she pregnant or not?"
And the pharmacist gargles the piss for a few seconds.
"Dude, you're totally in the clear. Not pregnant."
Or maybe they could equip every pharmacy with a piss sniffing dog. Just hold the urine up for Lassie to take a whiff. One bark yes, two barks no.
Not that I am into pee at all, but which do you think tastes better: regular pee, or pregnant pee?
This is why I'll never be in charge of handing out government grants. I have all these really stupid questions I want answered that no one else cares about.
Out of curiousity, I just did a google search to find out how expensive pregnancy tests are. I found this helpful answer on Yahoo! Answers.
"They're a dollar in a dollar store, maybe $7.00 in a drug store, and Planned Parenthood offers free or cheap pregnancy tests but you have to make an appointment."
They sell pregnancy tests in dollar stores? What kind of a cheap, uncaring bastard do you have to be to buy a pregnancy kit at a dollar store? Yeah, I know I was just complaining that they charge way too much for these things, but, a dollar?
"Honey, come on, we're on a budget!"
Or maybe this way you can have twenty of them in the medicine cabinet.
Now I want to get one. Not for Michelle to use. For me. I want to pee on a stick. It's pointless -- I may look pregnant, but I never will be pregnant.
Maybe if I eat a lot of a particular food, I can get a false positive on a pregnancy test. Like, brussel sprouts or something.
How awesome would that be? Michelle comes home from work, and I come out of the bathroom saying:
"Honey, I've got some bad news for you."
And she looks at the pee stick and it indicates I am pregnant.
I am a mean, mean person. I apologize in advance.
Maybe they just make them pricey because they have you over a barrel. Your woman is FLIPPING OUT because she thinks she's knocked up. She wants to know what's going on right goddamn now. And as a chivalrous, modern male, you're supposed to pay for the pregnancy test. Those are the rules. I think they even covered this in a very special issue of GQ.
"Pregnancy Tests: Must You Pay?"
Yes, you must.
Last time I checked, a pregnancy test is around $25. And the last time I bought one, the woman insisted I buy a second one, just to be on the safe side. That's $50 to ease her conscience -- and she then refused to believe the tests and we ended up going to a walk-in clinic. I blew $50 so you could then drag me to the doctor? We could have done that first!
Come to think of it, this means pregnant pee is different. Shouldn't you be able to taste the difference? They should train pharmacists in this kind of thing.
"Here's my girl's pee. Is she pregnant or not?"
And the pharmacist gargles the piss for a few seconds.
"Dude, you're totally in the clear. Not pregnant."
Or maybe they could equip every pharmacy with a piss sniffing dog. Just hold the urine up for Lassie to take a whiff. One bark yes, two barks no.
Not that I am into pee at all, but which do you think tastes better: regular pee, or pregnant pee?
This is why I'll never be in charge of handing out government grants. I have all these really stupid questions I want answered that no one else cares about.
Out of curiousity, I just did a google search to find out how expensive pregnancy tests are. I found this helpful answer on Yahoo! Answers.
"They're a dollar in a dollar store, maybe $7.00 in a drug store, and Planned Parenthood offers free or cheap pregnancy tests but you have to make an appointment."
They sell pregnancy tests in dollar stores? What kind of a cheap, uncaring bastard do you have to be to buy a pregnancy kit at a dollar store? Yeah, I know I was just complaining that they charge way too much for these things, but, a dollar?
"Honey, come on, we're on a budget!"
Or maybe this way you can have twenty of them in the medicine cabinet.
Now I want to get one. Not for Michelle to use. For me. I want to pee on a stick. It's pointless -- I may look pregnant, but I never will be pregnant.
Maybe if I eat a lot of a particular food, I can get a false positive on a pregnancy test. Like, brussel sprouts or something.
How awesome would that be? Michelle comes home from work, and I come out of the bathroom saying:
"Honey, I've got some bad news for you."
And she looks at the pee stick and it indicates I am pregnant.
I am a mean, mean person. I apologize in advance.
What?
According to legend, Jack Kerouac famously believed that editing is for pussies. Self censorship, he called it. Going back, fixing words, making them pretty -- that's like wearing a condom when you masturbate. I don't know if he'd put in such a charming fashion as that...
But the idea is, if you're all worried about being pretty, you're going to fuck up what you're trying to say. Maybe that's it.
Honestly, I've always avoided reading Kerouac, because I found him impenetrable, bland, and etcetera.
Recently, I bought a copy of Dharma Bums. I have yet to open it. I read the first few opening lines. And lately the idea of not worrying so goddamn much about every word makes sense to me. There is a rhythm in stream of consciousness. That sort of dance can come natural, if, like me, you usually spend hours going over every sentence and breaking it like taming a wild horse.
So why not just let it flow, sometimes? Why not let the horse run wild? Maybe I've tamed so many sentences, they don't all need to be wearing saddles and all that accouterment shit.
See, so long as I am revisiting all the rules, picking them up, weighing them, trying to figure out where the rule came from, who stuck this in my head... So long as I am reevaluating all the rules, why not reevaluate the literary rules I live by too?
Why not? Why must my art be this? Why must my writing be that? Why does God need a starship, to quote the worst and the best Star Trek movie ever made?
Can you even tell I didn't polish each of these sentences until they struck me as decent enough to let out of the stable, to gallop all around the internet, in a meaty merry-go-round of writing shit?
You can't tell. That's the sweet irony. Agonizing and agonizing and rewriting and editing and carving the sentences, when I can just let them grow all by themselves without trying to warp them into something else.
Fuck you, Kerouac. You goddamn brilliant bastard. I assume you are brilliant, though I have read very little by you.
(There's a new barking dog in my neighbourhood and he just started barking and he's not going to stop. I am going to go outside now and rip his fucking head off and shove it up his ass. Oh great, now another dog is barking. A fucking chorus of retarded, territorial animals in fenced-in backyards, yelling nothing at the sky. Just like me and my typing, I guess, so who am I to fault that stupid, fucking, annoying dog?)
Oh. They stopped. That's better.
Now I forget what I was saying.
But the idea is, if you're all worried about being pretty, you're going to fuck up what you're trying to say. Maybe that's it.
Honestly, I've always avoided reading Kerouac, because I found him impenetrable, bland, and etcetera.
Recently, I bought a copy of Dharma Bums. I have yet to open it. I read the first few opening lines. And lately the idea of not worrying so goddamn much about every word makes sense to me. There is a rhythm in stream of consciousness. That sort of dance can come natural, if, like me, you usually spend hours going over every sentence and breaking it like taming a wild horse.
So why not just let it flow, sometimes? Why not let the horse run wild? Maybe I've tamed so many sentences, they don't all need to be wearing saddles and all that accouterment shit.
See, so long as I am revisiting all the rules, picking them up, weighing them, trying to figure out where the rule came from, who stuck this in my head... So long as I am reevaluating all the rules, why not reevaluate the literary rules I live by too?
Why not? Why must my art be this? Why must my writing be that? Why does God need a starship, to quote the worst and the best Star Trek movie ever made?
Can you even tell I didn't polish each of these sentences until they struck me as decent enough to let out of the stable, to gallop all around the internet, in a meaty merry-go-round of writing shit?
You can't tell. That's the sweet irony. Agonizing and agonizing and rewriting and editing and carving the sentences, when I can just let them grow all by themselves without trying to warp them into something else.
Fuck you, Kerouac. You goddamn brilliant bastard. I assume you are brilliant, though I have read very little by you.
(There's a new barking dog in my neighbourhood and he just started barking and he's not going to stop. I am going to go outside now and rip his fucking head off and shove it up his ass. Oh great, now another dog is barking. A fucking chorus of retarded, territorial animals in fenced-in backyards, yelling nothing at the sky. Just like me and my typing, I guess, so who am I to fault that stupid, fucking, annoying dog?)
Oh. They stopped. That's better.
Now I forget what I was saying.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Pet Peeve (language)
I heard today an instance of a form of sentence that bugs me.
It goes "I hate to say it, but (something racist or sexist) "
Look- everyone around you hates it when you say it, too. If you really hate it, then indulge yourself for once, and don't say it.
/rant
It goes "I hate to say it, but (something racist or sexist) "
Look- everyone around you hates it when you say it, too. If you really hate it, then indulge yourself for once, and don't say it.
/rant
Actively Unintelligent
Wild pride, a perverse and violent love of self. Intricate and elaborate, a soul like a maze mixed with a Swiss watch. Each part hides what the other parts do.
Narcissism? You'd think. But self love isn't always a sickness. If anything this whole world of ours seems designed to breed self loathing and distrust of self. But I'm a maze Swiss watch. I'm elaborate and real. I'm blood and bone and bottomless.
You are too, of course. I'll share the wealth. Everyone is blood and bone and bottomless. It's only fair.
Listen: we need to live. Time is always running out. But really, there's no rush. If you're not ready yet, it's okay. But I'd advise you to start livng soon.
And here's the thing. They'll say you're crazy. You're not. All that maze is real. It's there. Wander inside of it. Look at the pictures on the walls. Feel it. Be it.
Yes, they'll all say you need to be reasonable, rational, logical. Sane. But they're none of those things. They're faking it. Everyone is faking it. And they get scared when others stop faking it.
The scariest statement there is is "I don't know". They all pretend to know. When they say they know, you challenge them on it. You say, "Thats crap. You're a liar."
Be the Swiss watch maze of blood and bone. Bottomless. Infinite maze of blood and bone and mechanics and art.
Narcissism? You'd think. But self love isn't always a sickness. If anything this whole world of ours seems designed to breed self loathing and distrust of self. But I'm a maze Swiss watch. I'm elaborate and real. I'm blood and bone and bottomless.
You are too, of course. I'll share the wealth. Everyone is blood and bone and bottomless. It's only fair.
Listen: we need to live. Time is always running out. But really, there's no rush. If you're not ready yet, it's okay. But I'd advise you to start livng soon.
And here's the thing. They'll say you're crazy. You're not. All that maze is real. It's there. Wander inside of it. Look at the pictures on the walls. Feel it. Be it.
Yes, they'll all say you need to be reasonable, rational, logical. Sane. But they're none of those things. They're faking it. Everyone is faking it. And they get scared when others stop faking it.
The scariest statement there is is "I don't know". They all pretend to know. When they say they know, you challenge them on it. You say, "Thats crap. You're a liar."
Be the Swiss watch maze of blood and bone. Bottomless. Infinite maze of blood and bone and mechanics and art.
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