Well.

I think I have killed this 'blog.'

Excellent.

Creepy People pt. II

'Really?' They reply.
Then I have to stop, as I figure out that perhaps I have gotten ahead of myself. 'Look,' I say 'Think of magic as a sort of wayward psychology; as a process of understanding your own consciousness.' Again, at this time I lose their attention. Man, I should have never mentioned sex. 'Most of our consciousness is based upon experience. What we magicians try and attempt to do is experience different things, to go into our mind and creative processes to either break things apart or put them together. Solve et Coagula as the alchemists would put it.'
'So,' somebody says to get me back on track, 'what does sex have to do with it?'
'I was getting to that,' I respond. 'There is a state of mind that everybody can achieve, a place where everything seems peaceful and open, where your mind is almost looking in at itself, trying to understand itself. I like to call this gnosis.' I can see that the word puzzles them somewhat.

'Look, this has been around forever. It's as old as the mind itself. Throughout history we have found many ways of achieving this; prayer, meditation, rituals, incantation, studying, dance, fasting, physical exertion, writing, hypnosis, and even sex.' My listeners brighten up with this. 'Unfortunately, somewhere along the way this last aspect was lost for some time, at least in the west.'
'Probably due to religion!' Some liberal will cheer.
'Yes. Probably due to religion.' I agree. 'And also the industrial revolution perhaps. Anyways, for me at least sex is one of the best ways of achieving this special mind state. But it is also the problem, and I think a major reason that people steer clear of Magik in any way.'
'How so?' Asks a listener.
'Well, we can all agree that sex is a zesty delight, a pleasurable experience. But there have been those in the past, and those alive right now that make it the entire basis around which magik hinges. And they usually are not the silent ones. They get their heads warped by the whole 'experience' part of consciousness. They can take it to an extreme. These are the creepy people.'

A silence usually follows this. 'I can give you an anecdote, if you will. A few years ago, I was working at a video store. I was the only one working at the time; and I had somehow entered into a discussion with the sole customer in the shop. We were talking about Aleister Crowley and Kenneth Grant. The man was stout, pot-bellied and had a slight lisp. At several points throughout the conversation I saw his eyes almost recoil back inside his head, as if relishing some terrible thing he had done in the past. After this happened again and again, I decided to cut the conversation short. 'Well, best be getting back to work!' At which point his hand shot out and grabbed mine. 'We really will have to talk about this, just you and I.' I reclaimed my hand quickly, regained some composure and just said, 'probably not. Have a nice day.' And he left the store.'

My crowd at this point is somewhat rightfully disgusted. I explain to them that it seems like this man totally expected me to enter into some strange sexual relationship with him, because he knew a thing or two about magik. But you see, sex and especially strange sex is just one of the many things that make magik interesting, but also give it a very negative aspect. I explain that perhaps people do not realize that sex should go along with perhaps the most powerful benefit of magik; called agape. This is a simple expression that has many sides, but can probably just be explained as love. Fantastic, forgiving and truthful love. Make it the keystone of your magical expression and things will be fine. My imaginary listeners disperse either excited or writing me off as a simple weird type of hippy.


So there it is. I seem to be a magician. If you want to know more, I can show you where to look, but the information is there and has been for some time. Look to people like Austin Osman Spare, Aleister Crowley (but tread carefully with this guy), William Blake, Carl Jung, Peter Carroll, Robert Anton Wilson, and for a thoroughly modern magician; Alan Moore.

But I will not guide you by the hand, nor touch it; creepily.

Creepy People pt. I

When I was first invited to join this blog, there were in my mind, certain things I was hesitant to write about. How much do I want to give away about myself without sounding like an absolute nut-case? Should I just write about inconsequential things? Perhaps I cannot keep silent any longer. We live in a somewhat accepting society, one in which it would take a great deal to 'put people off,' so to say. Now, as I accept that when you read the next few paragraphs I am about to write, you may feel like I am pulling your leg or just being sensational. I must assure you that I am being very earnest with my admission and that I hope you allow me the same courtesy and understanding and curiosity that you would should I be sitting across from you.

I seem to be a magician. Is that what it's even called? Hell, I don't even know. The style has been called many things. Mystic, witch, occultist, wizard, hermetic, chaos magician, sorcerer, Thelemite and weirdo. Personally, I prefer occultist or as Erasmus Herzen liked to call me 'a Rosicrucian.' Well, that's partially right, but far too specific. But for all the names, magician is the one that sticks. I do not dress in dark clothes, I wear no trinkets or jewelry besides an earring, I have no dripping candles in my room, no crystal balls or incense. I live a very normal life which I conduct in odd ways. The way I conduct it is very important and not something that I shall share; for one reason in particular. When I do so, say, at a party or something, people rush off like I've just ignited a stink-bomb.

So yes, Magician. First thing I usually get asked when I say this is, 'Well can you do tricks?,' either seriously of jokingly. I laugh (laughter is actually the most important part of being a magician, it really is) and blush a little, but answer sincerely;
'Yes, if you give me time.' This tends to confuse people because tricks usually rely on being spontaneous and the tricks that I have pulled off never, ever happen suddenly. If they did, I'd probably be a far different man than I am today. No, the tricks that I accomplish are small things that are in aid of me becoming a better and more willful person, but most importantly- Understanding the world and my role in it.

The next thing I'm asked is usually 'So what, do you believe in gods and devils and demons and that stuff.'
'No, and yes' I reply, 'I'm open to every idea, but also not at the same time.' By this time, those who have been patient suddenly leave, writing me off for being a 'crazy.' Remaining an agnostic magician is a very beautiful thing. I shall have to quote at this point the greatest magician of the last 150 years, Aleister Crowley, who put it better than anyone ever could about what to believe in, so far as magic is concerned-

"In this book it is spoken of the Sephiroth and the Paths; of Spirits and Conjurations; of Gods, Spheres, Planes, and many other things which may or may not exist. It is immaterial whether these exist or not. By doing certain things certain results will follow; students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophic validity to any of them."

So, yes I think there may be Gods and devils, UFOs and ghosts. I also think there may be volcanoes and buildings, horses and chairs.

My perception and understanding of things is very unconventional. I have accepted this fact. If at this point somebody should ask the question (which nobody ever has, I really wish they did), 'Hmm. That's interesting, why aren't more people magicians?'
"Well, because of several factors. For one, it actually takes time and work. You make your own world.' I'd remark.
'So, you don't follow anybody?'
'No, but you listen to certain things and people and choose your own pieces of the puzzle. It's a great deal of work.'
'How so?' They would ask quizzically.
'Well, you have to understand certain things about yourself, and build from there. Once you have done this it moves to murkier water.'
Here's where they'd lean in. 'Murkier water? Like what?'
"Well, there's ritual... Ritual and err...' I would pause.
'Yes?'
'Sex.'

End of pt. I


Oh, and Happy 200th Post, Knowing Doing!
Let's keep on Knowing, but do more Doing!

Happy Bloomsday Everybody!

Yes, I know I've been a non-entity on this blog for a while. I promise to be better. It brings to mind a song I once heard, while walking from Dublin to Galway.
It goes a little something like this:

The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
  (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
           Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
  (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
           Jail him and joy.

He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,
  (Chorus) And religious reform,
           Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
  (Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
           Butter his horns!

(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt
   on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!


        Balbaccio, balbuccio!

We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox
   and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.
When Chimpden first took the floor
  (Chorus) With his bucketshop store
           Down Bargainweg, Lower.

So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited
   company
With the bailiff's bom at the door,
  (Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
           Then he'll bum no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast viking
And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war.
  (Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war
           On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls
   Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny
Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
  (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
           He is, begod.


Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann,
   the rhyming rann!

It was during some fresh water garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo
  (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo!
           The general lost her maidenloo!

He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
  (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo.
           Noah's larks, good as noo.

He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
  (Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
           Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?
  (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
           The largest ever you seen.

   Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!

Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting
For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and the Danes,
  (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
           And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
  (bis) That's able to raise a Cain.

- James Joyce

Enjoy your June 16th! May your house never be big enough for all your friends.

football is retarded, as is my "opinion"

Hi, this is simply a short post to express my scorn and smirking indifference to the spectacle of the 2010 football world cup. See, I'm worldly enough to call it what it is... a world cup, but simple enough to admit my heavy shrug, my profound yawn, yes it's profound because the oxygen will not enter my lunges without earnest and well-funded coaxing. Yeah, young men showcasing their thighs whilst chasing an inflated ball sort of sucks sucks in way that is difficult to express without money. Luckily, money is a large part what makes young men chasing and kicking balls so meaningful to so many non-thinking human beings. Maybe this team will win, or perhaps maybe that team will win.... how exciting? Yeah, an obsession with young men sprinting around a carefully manicured field kicking an inflated toy around is the stuff of immortal legend. Wow, like, there is a super competition about who can kick the most balls into the most goals. I can't wait to see who wins because no one will forget and everyone will be talking about it forever more, just like the last world cup, which was also like very exciting and important.

Seriously, the universe is mocking us when we place our identities on the flexing thighs of unthinking young men. Is it really so exciting that a young man might kick a ball into a guarded net? Who gives a shit? No one. Seriously, let it sink in... no one at all cares about whatever young man protects and kicks a ball into a "guarded" goal. Woe betide, woe plague the many idiots, likely many corky thatchers, who assume that because they breathe and defecate that they are more important than the basic and forgettable individuals who are nothing but the extra help (this sentence is especially incoherent.) Life is great, for the worm.

I fully acknowledge the offensiveness and mean-spiritedness of this post. My many friends who love the sport, please accept my sheepish apology and know that I was a little drunk when I wrote it. What do you expect? My Irish heritage demands such things, ahem, such rants, from time to time. Enjoy the flexing thighs!

Lock up your daughters...

I will be writing something... Personal, shall we say, in the next week.

Bobbing for memories of mom

It's Mother's Day and appropriately I've been thinking about my mom. I heard the clamor of Caribou's Bowls and was as usual plunged into confusion, my gossamer-delicate grip on the present instantly dissolved and I became submerged in contemplation of my briney origins. I was with spoon and bowl, incessantly raining blows upon the half orb, and if I'm not mistaken both my hammer and correspondent anvil were coated in a sweet paste-like substance. Yes, now I remember, it was mom's doing, a batch of chocolate chip cookies were soon to be birthed from the oven, and I was biding my time exploring the mixing bowl's sonorous potential. I'm not exactly certain this memory corresponds to an exact experience, but I can assure you, one and all, that it is probable that I have once or twice hit a bowl with a spoon. Perhaps you too have had this opportunity? Moms the world over are well-known for demanding that their children at least help to get rid of the remaining cookie dough. Here I do not wish to place too hard an emphasis on "cookie" because I can only imagine the undocumented variety of sweets mothers everywhere make for their children. And doesn't it soon follow that the banging of bowls by means of spoons is a human universal?

In any case, the minute universe of my toddlerhood was well acquainted with mom's baking, and I would with skill and painstaking diligence clean the bowl and spoon the best I could. Like a greedy fledgling I elbowed my siblings away but alas, mom was always there to ensure an environment of sustainable equanimity. Perhaps I did indeed whack a bowl or two, a whacking for the ages perhaps not (perhaps ageless bowl whacking must be left to the caribous) but at least it can't be said that e. herzen never once met wood to glass. Ah yes, these wisps of personal antiquity, cored deep and essential to one's life, yet somehow off limits other than as glimpses of echoes of shadows. These thoughts about mom's cookie preparations and bowl whacking stayed with me all day, fitting given that it was basically her day. But what wonder and coincidence was this?! Was that a mother walrus I saw, bobbing gently in the arctic seas, her newborn cub cupped in her enormous frond-like flippers? Yes it was. I watched as she cradled him like my mom used to do in the pool with me. My memory of this is also one of those wisps of glimpses or whatever, but this time the outlines are stronger and I'm certain that I was cupped like a walrus cub by my mother. It's as clear to me as the ringing of bowls or the fact that a pool is really just a large bowl, a bowl big enough for walruses to swim in.

All of this chatter about spoons and bowls, gently cupped and bobbing walrus babies, and me and my mom has me thinking about origins. My origins are ultimately in my mother, and not just in the walrusian, which is to say mammalian way, but also in her kindness and patience, her sensitivity and concern, and her unrelenting encouragement - "go on, hit the bowl erasmus" - "please son, I want you to hit it" - "no really, there's nothing preventing you from hitting it" - "the spoon was designed with only bowl drumming in view." Life can be tough, at times it really is a large quantity of bodily evacuations, but it's also filled with warm cookies and safe and sound baby walruses. I will remember these things because of you mom.

The beliefs and passions of our elders

I've heard that dreaming becomes more complex and vivid as we age. I think I read it somewhere, or perhaps an old person told me so in between fork-fulls of green beans or spinach. In any case, our elders like green vegetables a lot because these foods generally receive sympathetic recommendations from the venerable MDs who listen to the whizzing of their phlegm-filled lungs. It's kind of sad that the world that old-folks lived most of their lives in has so quickly become obsolete. They didn't know any better though, so while their lives are sad, grossly limited compared with those of us coming into our own during this blazing present, it's not their fault that everything they paid attention to and enjoyed is primitive beyond belief. Who now can imagine going to a concert without the familiar glow of smart (brilliant, fucking genius) phones basking our faces in blue light? How did anyone enjoy anything without recording it with the intention if not plan to post it on the internet? What a waste, those old folks and all of their old-school experiences. What's the most they might be able to do with it? Only the most talented and motivated among them might have tried to express what they had experienced with anything more complicated than "It was a great show."

The most shocking difference between the old people and the new is that us new folks don't need to know anything anymore, whereas the old ones had to go medieval and use books, and words written on cards and papers and stuff. It must have taken forever. Luckily for us, there are some really smart business people who make machines for us to buy, and if we want to know something (but we rarely do, knowing stuff is like, super old) we can use the machine to tell us. It's the new knowledge; so long as the business people keep making things for us to buy, we'll continue reaping the rewards of the cutting-edge times we live it. The old people didn't realize how dated and tacky their ways of life were. But let's be fair, what websites had they to inform them of their folly? Fortunately, ours and future generations will rest easy, knowing that our lives are forever cast as the most special, least tacky that ever were. Even our distant grandchildrens' grandchildren will be amazed at our skill at choosing between this colored computer or that one, this phone which beeps like this, or the one that beeps like that. "What skills they had in that gay old time!" the future grandchildren will exclaim via a businessman's consumer product in their minds.

The old people need their vivid dreams because they cannot handle the failure that their lives have been. They cannot grasp the wasted years, the half-hearted existences they've been forced to endure through no fault of their own. Sure they had radio, television and cars, sure they had pharmaceuticals and CAT-scans, but what are these compared to our ability to watch everything that's ever been filmed within a seconds of having thought of it? What are lawn sprinklers and air-conditioning compared to the next iphone or the next generation of Honda robots? "Not much," will be the eternal judgment of posterity. So let the old people dream the rest of their muted lives away. Let's not disturb them modern folk! Set your machines to silent, glance only discreetly at your phones so as not to disrupt their stupors. And when they smile at you and motion to you to sit by their sides, do not worry because your ear bud cannot be seen. That way you will appear to be listening though you are not. At least this way the semblance of humanity will persist, virtually speaking!

*Title comes from this

Economists are not important

They can go have sex with themselves. They should put on some flavored chapstick and then they would enjoy kissing when they fornicate with each other, because when it comes to passionate love making, even economists are able to put aside their immortal love of competition and get down to the deep funk, the pungent bass, that is physical love. I think that really the world is deeply stupid. Like Colbert says, the world should shut up and make my tube socks. Here on the holy continent of North America, we have no need for anything at all. Our working class can choke and die. All the blue collars on all the people who do not wear the suit costume can also go have sex with themselves - their existences aren't necessary. We need only those with white collars, it is they who toil to make the earth rotate the sun. Holy moly their collars are pristine and sterile!

Economists are complete assholes. I'm pretty sure not an individual among the herd has a clue about what's going on. Goldman Sachs has just recently been called out for showing its penis to a bunch of children. I don't think they're even remotely ashamed. They can go have sex with themselves. And with the stroke-inducing wages and profits they "earn" being slithering charlatans, they can certainly afford to dig their own shallow graves, courting the dumbest, blindest worms for their pending decomposition. Because one day soon, not soon as in days or months, but soon as in years, they will indeed lay inanimate in the earth and the worms relied on for consuming redundant flesh will be reluctant to chew on such tainted corpses. It's well known that worms, insects and other microscopic organisms are reluctant to consume the flesh of animals which have no motive other than the most base momentary advantage.

I can't take the abysmal stupidity and greed that is everywhere. We are yapping seagulls fighting over a single french fry. Posture yourselves one and all! Make your selves look good, and practice your appearance so that when you really are in "public" you look the successful part. Maybe one day you too will man (Who are women?) the computers and make important decisions which either gain or lose money for people you pretend you care about. Fuck them though. Life is only a game and if people expect to meet genuine people who do not want to break them, to tear their spines from their skulls, they are fools and children, which are the same thing. Real people, meaning real men, are those who waste no time in punching numerical values into private databases - "10,000, 12%, 1 quarter" - these are the symbols which lead to reality. What could be more important than trends in desktop computing and networking? Trick question: Nothing. All the rest of us can stand aside, admire the suits from afar, oh my god their ties are so skillfully tied! They can go fornicate with themselves... they can certainly afford it!

Untitled

Original painting, untitled.

Cover those up.

I have recently been ruminating on what designates 'Private Parts' and what is 'obscene.' At least in this wonderfully liberal society of North America we have about five specific 'private parts.' These can be unanimously agreed upon as: the anus, the vulva, the scrotum, the breasts (females only) and the penis. Not every human has all these 'privates' as we are aware. Each of our sexes has the pleasure of having an anus. We also both have breasts , in some odd sort of way only a females breasts can be classified as being 'private.' A man's breasts are clean and wonderful and hairily spectacular.

So, a woman has to cover her breasts up, obviously. But then again, when we take a closer look, we may notice that the breasts themselves are composed of at least two specific parts. There's the mushy, soft flesh tissue and there's also a part of the breast that kind of sticks out and is usually a different colour than flesh; it's usually darker. This is the nipple, this is actually the naughty bit of the 'private' part of the breast.

Allow me to explain. In olden days, a woman's breasts were all naughty. Every last bit of it. In fact, at one time here in North America, a woman's skin besides her face and hands were 'private parts.' But I digress, women usually kept all of their breasts concealed from our sensitive eyes. And then something happened. Something unusual. Perhaps there was a sort of consciousness change within all of us. Women began to show more and more of their breasts. There was cleavage. This would be the fleshy part of the breast when two breasts meet at the center of the chest. We could all agree that, yes; this certainly was part of the breast. But being liberal North Americans, we didn't seem to mind. This cleavage continued for a great many decades. It's primary use was bait for ensnaring men for a mate, or just an evening of fun. Eventually, a style of swimwear- the bikini - was given a bit of modification from the beaches of Florida. These garments pretty much showed all of the breast except for the dreaded nipple. Sure, the outfit was provocative and perhaps teetering on the edge of 'obscene.' With a progressive attitude, we put our foot down and declared, "The breast is a private part! You can show bits of it if you want, but you may not show that nipple!' There was celebration and jubilation between the sexes.

But where will this end? There have been rumblings among the men. I too share this sentiment. 'Hey, if they are allowed to show that, why can't I show this?' It has been commonly known that all parts of both the scrotum and the penis are naughty 'private parts.' Could this change, can liberal North America challenge the norm in any way? I have noticed that the penis too has it's specific parts. There is the tube-like wrinkly bits called the shaft. There is also some more wrinkly hood-like bits called the foreskin (which some men don't have) and of course the dreaded head. The head of the penis could be unanimously agreed upon as being the nipple of the penis.

Is it time for us as a liberal society to allow for men to show a bit of the penis? If the head is covered, could the shaft be exposed for the same purpose as the fleshy soft part of the breast, the purpose of ensnaring a mate? May there be some kind of garment that could show off this obscene 'private part' of a man that we could all again collectively agree as being provocative yet still tasteful? Somehow, I think we may soon find out.

Happy April Fools.

Click Click

Apparently, some bloke called Terry Richardson has been shaking things up in the world of photography. He is a notable figure, photographing such people as President Barack Obama and Arnold Schwarzenegger for various magazines. He also takes very erotic photographs, most of the time with him in them with various models. Young models. Which is interesting because Terry isn't exactly a very attractive guy. This may be why some people have a problem with what Terry is doing. That amongst other things. Anyways, look at his work and judge for yourself. You can find his stuff littered around the internet, so I'm not going to link to anything specific.

Nowadays, Terry finds that he is the subject of a witch-hunt. For some reason I knew that this debate was just around the corner, due to a current fascination and proliferation of these varieties of erotic photography. Terry is just the one they chose probably due to the fact that his is such a visible figure.

There are many questions that this witch-hunt brings up. An artist in a similar vein, Clayton Cubitt (whose work is quite good), has just posted some interesting questions about the situation and the artistic value such work conjures or dispells.

What do you think?

Rhino of the sorrowful countenance

I've never seen a living rhinoceros but I have spent some time in the company of a dead one. It's not so bad, he still looks good, his improbably solid body still exudes a strength and vitality that impresses and intimidates. His name was Bull and he lived for almost half a century by some estimates. Occasionally I'll sit beside him, preferably by his right side, because then I do not have to see his melancholy face, which the taxidermists have banked off to the left. From what I've learned Bull was born to a comely she-rhino in the wilds of South Africa, his father was undoubtedly a handsome stud, but also a negligent one if my friend's sad visage can be speculated upon. Bull likely ate some unforgettable grasses down there, and I can only imagine the immense size of his boundary-marking excrement piles. The potency and linearity of his urine must have been a sight to see, and if I could, I would have fashioned a comfortable saddle on which I would perch, and accompany my unhappy friend as he tended to the sovereignty of his territory. I wish that this were so because then I would understand what has caused this great animal to express such sorrow.

Eventually, Bull was captured by some well-meaning conservationists, no doubt alarmed by and moved to offset the stupidity and greed that was then motivating idiots to reduce these animals to a memory. He was a teenager at the time, still far from his prime. Still, there can be no doubt that his territory was well marked and tended, I suspect even the old bulls would have thought twice about dousing one of his shrubs with their own pungent calling cards. I also wonder how Bull was captured, what was he doing at the time? Perhaps he was grinding his horn against a rock or tree, hoping that the ominous sounds would dissuade these feeble un-horned creatures from trespassing. I imagine that his last thought, before the darts sent him to sleep, was something like, "You got to be kidding me! I'm going to trample these hairless dogs into the ground if they neglect for another moment the inviolability of my property." The next thing he knew he was on a ship, hopefully a large one to offset the rhino's tendency to seasickness, being shoveled batches of stale grasses by more of those hairless dogs. "These bitter grains do not allow me to forget the injustice done to me," he likely thought.

Soon enough Bull was plunged into the profound solitude of zoo life. Undoubtedly the hairless, hornless dogs who tended to his well-being loved him and patted his considerable flanks with a gentle empathy that was understood by his singular wisdom. After some trial and error, it is likely that he was provided a steady supply of choice grasses, which went some lengths in calming the rancor of his lonely heart. His immortal prowess was lost on none, and zoos from around the continent dispatched their best rhino maidens to his pen, where he would court them and mount them, doing his duty among the last of his massacred species. But was his passion diminished by these brief affairs? No, though Bull carried out his duties beyond the expectations of rhino maidens and hairless dogs, still his inner eye gazed back in time to the geography of his homelands, and the herds of free maidens that would be coaxed into his domains by the pungency of his urine and excrement piles. At these reminisces, Bull would emit a low bellow, a peculiar sound whose meaning was lost to all except the two bison in an adjacent paddock. They and they alone knew well the depths of the sorrow contained in Bull's primordial lament over his lost world.

Lonely Tree

Splat.

It was one of the strangest things to happen to the old girl. Mind you, she's much older now and such a thing occurring these days may have scared her to death. Her guards were equally scared, for her protection of course. Their mouths would be open wide as they dropped their lances and rushed to intervene. She would of course have no idea at all what the hell was happening. Neither would the crowd, who could only watch as a large red sphere was hurtling toward Queen Elizabeth's head.

Backtrack. May 7th, 1981. It has been two days since the death of Irish Republican Bobby Sands. After 66 days, Mr. Sands body had just given out. The Irish prisoners who joined him in a hunger strike all shared the same values, the grandest of which was an Ireland free of British rule. The United Kingdom was furious, they called Sands a lunatic and a terrorist. The Irish citizens stood by Bobby, even electing him a member of the House of Commons while in prison. It was a political hunger strike, a showdown between criminals and Margaret Thatcher. The 'Iron Maiden' stood fast, making speech after speech about the crimes of the Irish and the ridiculousness of the Hunger strike. Every word she spit brought sympathizers to the Irish cause- Has this woman no heart? Weeks went by, the doctors would shake their heads at the horrible visage of Bobby, lying on his back in the cot, looking disdainfully at a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage and toast, steaming on a table beside him.

Eventually, Bobby Sands passed away. His body a shell of nothingness save but a heart full of conviction. The leader of the strikers was the first to go. Ireland rightfully mourned. England mourned as well, with the death of Bobby Sands came the death of the idea of a kind United Kingdom. Thatcher had murdered it with her rhetoric and lack of compassion. To the Irish, the Sands' withering away was the beginning of the end for the English in Ireland. For one day, the world turned it's eyes to one nation, and in particular, to the life and death of one man. Reactions were damning. There were worldwide protests. Protests of sadness for Bobby's death, and protests of anger towards Thatcher and more specifically; the country of England.

The sovereign of this nation found herself to be enjoying a trip of goodwill in the country of Norway on the seventh day of May. She had decided to get out- to meet the people. Her advisers advised against this, but she blew them off with the flick of a wrist. She was the queen, everybody loved her. Or so she thought. Once out amongst the commoners, there was indeed a great many admirers, but every so often could be heard 'You killed Bobby!' and 'Murderer!' Of course she was aware of what was happening in Ireland at the time, but that had nothing to do with her. She was but a symbol of a nation which was now a boogieman. Nervousness crept into the minds of her guards. They began to crowd around the queen.

'For Bobby!' came a cry. The queen heard this and prepared herself. A large round red object was lobbed from somewhere in the crowd. She stepped aside as this object hit the ground and ruptured, spilling red liquid all over the cobble stones of the street. The remnants of a balloon could be seen. The queen was hurriedly shuffled into her car by the guards.

A shallow gesture to be sure, throwing a balloon full of tomato sauce at the Queen of England. But Bobby meant something to some people. To the republicans of Ireland, he was their martyr. To the English, he was their shame. To the world, he was a man who died for his belief that sometimes all it takes is one action, to change a great many things.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day - May your home always be too small to hold all your friends.

Unusual things for sale. Cheap!

It is no secret that I am a lazy man. Even though I walk around with my eyes open and regularly scratch at the innards of my infernal nostrils, I'm basically sleeping. My reason for this is because, 1. Life is tiring, and 2. There are too many details. If I might flesh out this last point, please humor me and listen to my plight. Now take the time to look around you, at all the stuff in your immediate vicinity. Though you might be sitting in a padded cell, still you will notice the extravagant plenitude and variety that characterizes life on the earth. Allow your eyes to settle upon a certain, small area of the wall. What is happening there? While at first you will demur, "Erasmus," you will think, "Are you a ridiculous idiot or what? Why should I expend my finite energies in such fruitless enterprises?" But I tell you: wait a moment and soon the noisy din will quiet in your ears, the dramatic complexity of the slightest most seemingly meaningless thing will take possession of your senses. Here's a concrete example of what I mean. An example so precise and tangible that you can take it to a pollster who will fashion out of it an immortal fact, an exact measure of this slippery reality. To the example then:

So I'm at this moment "cooking" some rice. You'll notice I've placed the term "cooking" in quotation marks, which indicates that I'm not comfortable throwing that term out there so casually. This is because it's really the pan, water and heat that are truly responsible for the cooking, while all I'm doing is sitting here attacking the ghosts of boogers which are forever disturbing my peace. Which brings me to my ripe and low-hanging example: Basmati rice could not smell better. When I pull my finger out of my nostril even for a moment (a moment of neglect is all I can suffer) the sweetest fumes dance wildly upon that abundance of nostril hairs that guard this portal to my skull. Or more simply, with less verbiage: Basmati rice smells sweet. Now this is just one example, a tiny one, of the offensive quantity of sensory experiences that could not be properly described in thousands of volumes of the most exacting prose. That is why life is so tiring.

But what of this not terribly unusual insight? The thing is, I am plagued by the weight of such detail and it is for this reason that I find life so tiring. What of this not terribly unusual confession? Well, since I'm being so nosy I guess I'll reveal more: I'm not wearing pants. But I lie, I am wearing pants. The thing is, I shouldn't be so lazy, and so what if the world is filled with so much that cannot be experienced or imagined? Maybe it's for us to accept our minute, laughably small, glimpses at the vastness of the world and get on to assaulting our nostrils? Probably. But here's my pledge. And being a fully modern man, I mean next to nothing by this promise: I pledge to do my part and describe the idiotic things that I experience and imagine to the best of my modest talents, though they be often trapped in my lethargic indolence, ahem, laziness. So the next time the rustic bouquet of that sweet grain from the Indian subcontinent distracts me enough to stop picking my nose, you can bet the house that I'll have a lot to say about it.

Flashman vs. The Masses

I had just read recently that last winter in England, used bookstores were selling five times as many paperbacks as they had at any point. They were delighted of course, used bookstores are one of the toughest enterprises you can get into. Most fail, all struggle. But new life was breathed into these wonderful markets of loved and sold literature. You can just see the smile on the face of some plump sixty year old shopkeeper after just having sold his collection of Flashman paperbacks to an eager twenty-something for about five pounds. 'Goodness' he'd chuckle to his customer, 'I remember reading those as a lad.' To which his patron's reply would only be a mere shrug and exit of the shop. 'Ahh. Job well done.' he'd say to himself, 'Still, not the priciest book on the shelf'. And in a few moments later the bell would ring anew bringing in more souls craving the soft paper novel.

The main reason for this upsurge in book purchase was, dare I say it, not some Harry Potteresque revitalization in people sitting down and reading. Nay, the reason for this occurrence is more than simple and just a bit interesting.

You see, England and Europe has been having one dastardly winter. By our standards we would surely scoff at such temperatures, alas; they are made of softer stuff. There were weeks on end in London which would dip below twenty degrees. Many of the houses and 'flats' as they splendidly call them, are not very well heated. Yes, you probably see where I'm headed here. It would appear that the fine folks of jolly old England- those Kraut-defeating, Nazi-squashing, Bosh-bashing citizens- have been burning books en masse. Now now, they're not doing it for ideological reasons, that would be outrageous. Streuth, the people of the United Kingdom are just cold. Literally.

Where's the problem with this? Is there a problem? I know of many that would be aghast if they knew this was happening! 'Books are sacred!' they would retort, 'the written word will be all we have once everything has fallen away!' Well yes, paper does last a long time. But it also burns pretty good. Especially the earlier works of Ray Bradbury. There are many great books in the world. The greatest works of art are arguably in written form, and even some of them can be slipped into the pocket of your jeans. However, there is also a great deal of books that really don't need to exist. Yes, it sounds harsh, every once in a while somebody will read something from the past that has been passed, and discover something magnificent. No doubt it happens. But for every one of those is a million books that would be better served as mulch. We just publish too many books.

The great thing about the fastened sheet is their timelessness and the fact they are a physical object. Film fades, music deafens to the ages, paint cracks and fissures. Books are here and real and you can hold them in your hand whenever you want to. And should you be cold and you are out of wood, a book really can be your best friend. For a couple of minutes.

...Doesn't mean they're not after you.

There are some things you cannot unsee...

This thing is going to be huge. In fact it probably will be the biggest thing of 2010. We're talking Youtube huge.

Which is strange. Because this program is so goddamn filthy sometimes.

It's called Chatroulette. CLICK THE LINK AT YOUR PERIL!

What it does is basically a video chat room in which you randomly get linked up with somebody else who is also on Chatroulette. If you have ever wondered whether or not humans are sad and disgusting, look no further. My third hit was something that I cannot unsee. It was ridiculous. It makes me sick thinking about it. It was... Urgh. It.

My first reaction was - 'Hey this is kind of interesting, you know, hooking up the world on one big chatroom. Man, the internet is an wonderful thing.'
Then you start to think- 'What kind of people just want to randomly talk to a stranger?' And then you find out really fucking fast what kind of people find this interesting.
Excuse me, I need to find some bleach.


Another experience, right here.

Days upon days and days in between

The days became weeks which became months and so on, years and decades and what not. The decades began stacking like a neatly arranged pile of split wood. You would think that wood of similar properties would burn similarly, but not the case. Deep and profound singularities exist for each individual log, while one blazes like the sun, another generates less heat than a fart. And so, many years passed without flame. For decades the fire was not potent, nay, it was a bitter kindling, a feeble glimmer in the dim light of mortality. Marshmallows pierced by the finest twigs would in vain droop near its half-hearted flicker. What fools those marshmallows were who hoped to ignite close to that minute spark! And the truth of this was in time made known to them and because it was so chilly they began to shake, rattle and quiver upon their twigs, and they retreated into space where warmth might be found next to a twinkling star. What optimism had you, sweet marshmallows!?

Question: Should the marshmallows have brought with them walkie-talkies? It's something to consider when one ventures out into the nooks and crannies of deep space. I wouldn't wander around out there without a walkie-talkie. What do you take me for, an idiot? You'd need to be without a trusty walkie-talkie with which to share all the most interesting details of your plummet into the black depths. I list all the hottest spots and cheap deals: "Here's an asteroid, there's a planet, over there's an alien, winking its human-like eye at me. Its spaceship is rather crude." I'm a human, and we should expect such keen traveler's insights, but who would have guessed that marshmallows are so hearty, out here in the infinite vacuum? "I think I'm coming up on the beginning of time," a marshmallow says to me from its walkie-talkie. "You're coming in loud and clear," I tell him, "aren't these great walkie-talkies?" At first there is only static but then, out of the nothing I hear, "Brother, it is not the impressive constancy of these fine walkie-talkies which pleases me so," and again the line went to fuzz, and nothing was heard but a crackling cackle of radio waves in the heavens. "Shit!" I said, "god damn it!" I shook the walkie-talkie and rapped it against my palm. "Work you bastard!" I exclaimed. After waiting a little while I decided to give up, and turned off my walkie-talkie.

Slumped in my chair, I scratched myself and thought about a glass of water. I couldn't tell if the ringing in my ears was coming from the fridge or was a momentary echo from the cosmic static which overran my head and my patience. "Oh well, travel well marshmanaut," I said, and got up to get a glass of water. But just as I made good on my intention to possess a glass of water, who should roll into the room but none other than the space adventurer itself, the Laika of marshmallow rocket men. "Wha!? You're back already, but I thought you were gone for the afternoon, exploring remote galaxies in your quest to find warmth?" I said. The marshmallow did not answer, but its mind was soon made known because it quickly rolled over to me, up my leg, and finally snuggled up into my armpit. "Wha!?" I said, and to my amazement the little lump of sugar paste burst into flames right then and there. I got the message loud and clear, no need for walkie-talkie: Though little more than a smolder, life is not death, nay, but its opposite. And where there is an agitated molecule, there are opportunities for marshmallow roasting.

Dum Dum dum Dum Dum

The Oh Oh Oh Oh and Oh

Months and months and months ago (actually, almost a year ago) I ventured home to my beloved sweet province of British Columbia. With such delight did I meet the fragrance of a February spring, a luxury only to be desired in the rest of the country.

But this sweet taste of home was accompanied by an intense bitterness at the sight, smell, and sound of the approaching 2010 Winter Olympics invading my hometown and the rest of the lower mainland. This bitterness lead to a fuming and almost adolescent fury - as a result I had great aspirations to detail to you the lunacy, the disastrous economic hazards, the environmental destruction, and the social hierarchies made prevalent by international tourism. I had articles, links, photos and other images, I was going to talk of the culture of individualism that comes with capitalism, the decline of democracy that follows profitable enterprises, and the blind hypocrisy of the Olympics in general. I was going to look at how tourism destroys small town industries and how citizens of an apparently egalitarian society would have to pay for the elite class to live in luxury condos built on the land previously inhabited by those of lower economic standing.

And then I thought: how would this written rant be different from any of my pub/party alcohol-driven conversations of the past year where I sputter helplessly as people nod sympathetically?

And I realized that as a citizen of another city, another province, I would not be able to look upon this any more deeply than through the eyes of a visitor. I am no longer a local, and so even though I see my once self-sufficient hometown reduced to a string of roadside box stores which service the traffic to Whistler while the downtown core suffers a dry death, I can only look at this situation as an outsider with a nostalgic tie to the past. I have not had any good experience writing in this passionately cynical and yet fully cliched sophisticated moronic manner.

But I do enjoy drawing in it!

Wink Wink and a Nudge Nudge.

Because I'm in a foreign country, and I feel bad about my lack of contribution; I present an excellent essay. Take the time to read it, you won't regret it. This goes double for us boys.

It is written by (as I am sure you may know) one of my favourite writers of all time; Mr. Alan Moore.

I present -

BOG VENUS vs. NAZI COCK RING

Enjoy! I know you will, you naughty naughty person.

Not a bad start, though neither is it good

It's a pristine year, untarnished by my procrastination and flatulence. Is that what life is? Always judging oneself by the stench of one's flatulence? "Now that's a terrible odor" I say to myself which suggests that I am greatly dissatisfied by the nasty gasses which pass from my ass. But on to serious subjects. There are great injustices which are currently being perpetrated on the earth. In general, the perpetrators are males, often they have beards, and when they shave their beards they speak for the sake of logic, which is to say they speak for the interests of that vacuous cow, money. Idiotic currencies are their fodder and they chew them into an unrecognizable grist so long as their bank accounts are well stocked. Oh, the absurd idiocy of our times. How to quickly sell the shit that one has, that's the essence of life. Alas, by which I mean, "oh, shit."

But bringing my thoughts down into the lower rungs of abstraction, into that field of the imagination where dreams and reality merge, I can see that what I've written above is largely incomprehensible. The generalizations are a bit too wispy, a bit too vague and even when they are shaped into a pointy thing, such as the statement about ruminating cows, they lose all coherence. The truth is, I know very little about cows, other than that they have several stomachs. If I weren't so afraid of them I'd probably have something to say about how sweet calves are, maybe I'd have a story about one particular cow, say a plump Jersey, ripe for milking, then perhaps my remarks about cows, cuds and cancerous moneygrubbing twits may have held water, or milk in this particular case. Unfortunately, given my ignorance and lack of experience, such comments fall flat and flabby, flapping in the breeze, not unlike an empty udder incidentally. No, these weak metaphors, which I feebly link to grossly abstract generalizations have very little purposeful impact, sorry to say. Least of all on me, and even as I type I'm filled with contempt for the words which become these absurd sentences and idiotic paragraphs.

It's time to get practical. Finally the time has come. For so long being impractical was working well for me, but no longer if I am to sustain this rich and satisfying life of adventure and gallantry. Step one: take a step. Step two: consider what the meaning of "step" consists of, in this particular case. Step three: realize that considerations of the meaning of words is characteristic of an impractical sensibility, and drop the project at once. Step four: feel a little silly, no, stupid, that so soon in my campaign for reform did I get tripped up in old habits. Step five: recognize that use of the word "trip" in step four was somewhat clever given the verbal meaning of the word "step," thus leaving me feeling fortified and confident. Step six: feel so good that perhaps a game of solitaire is deserved as a reward. Step seven: skilfully align cards according to order and suit. Step eight: notice that two hours have passed and nary a step taken nor game won. Step nine: reproach myself for lack of will power, make earnest pledges to change my ways. Step ten: leave new beginnings for another day.