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.