Freedom

 His name was Freedom and he began to walk out of the building, a wooden man now alive and full of energy and thought and the occasional compliment. His steps were lanky and rough but after about 2 minutes they were determined and loosened and creative yet inept. “I must get back home,” he thought, and he was ready for the walk to the land of his people, the land where he was chief and loved. His face was still wooden however and it had a deadpan expression, an expression of journey and of soul and of forgiveness and a face of the land which created him. He has to warn his people of the disaster that the Europeans’ bring in the form of blankets which contain smallpox and virus and disease. Freedom had a long way to go before reaching his tribe. He remembers his days as a trader, trading tobacco and sage and eating peyote for the spiritual rites of his religion. He would hand younger tribes folk mushrooms and what we know as “mescaline” and they would journey in the forest and envision a land where everything was equal. Shaman. The fish in the stream, holy, the dirt on the ground and the flowers on the trees, sacred, and looking up in the sky, which was created in the beginning of time, as their evolution began and they would look up and think how their ancestors looked up right into this sky and prayed and it was the same sky and stars and peacefulness that they looked at centuries ago. Keep the faith alive through drumming and chants and ensuring the women of the land were safe, even after their husbands may perish in war and disease, they would still be taken care of and treated with fertile respect and love. Family. Freedom was the creator and he allowed his people to enjoy themselves in dance and ritual to acknowledge the past and fallen and be appreciative of the land which gave birth to them. The tribe does not care about the woes of today, they care about the ritual which has been passed down from generation to generation and conceived by their people ever so long ago. Freedom progresses freedom and belief and values for a younger generation to be instilled upon and remember and finally, to speak like a story when they are older and they have little tribesmen of their own to keep the heritage alive and speak kindly of birth and land and the spiritual journey in which began life. Freedom knew about quests, he was finally free from the restrictions of wood and people glancing at him every day in thought and in laughter. Look at the big Indian, splattered high school children as they walked by. Freedom stood his ground. He set up camp somewhere in a marshland and did not have a compass, nor food, no real direction, only the spirits guiding him through the forests, back to his land. He slept for about two hours and it was still dark so he woke up and continued forward. He eyes were beginning to crack open yet he could see as clear as the day in the nighttime fog and he heard bears running up mountaintops away from hunters and friends of hunters hunting for blood just to say that they hunted. A bear shot down and Freedom had tears in his eyes. Smiles on the hunter’s faces as they checked the teeth and paws and claws and, with a rifle under their arm, went back to hunt some more. They left the bear behind as well as a hunting knife so Freedom saw this as opportunity. He skinned the bear and wore the skin as a headdress and started a fire and ate the flesh and thought about the hunter’s laughter. He didn’t eat the flesh, but rather danced over it so it could maintain eternal life. The bear perished into the soil the next day and Freedom was warm from the pelt he dissected. Now remember, this is a time before Wayne Newton and Tori Amos, where Freedom walked and spoke to the spirits in his journey. The sun was shaded by the treetops and Freedom was worn out and warm and anything was possible. He positioned himself on a path that was made by his ancestors and he followed it along the trail where he would pick nuts and berries and eat them and he sometimes ate bark to freshen up. Freedom found a little creek, Peace Frog Creek, he named it and he bathed and drank the fresh water and looked at the fish swimming between his ankles and calves and pelt. This all happened before the Indian Act. Before the dependence on the Ministry of Indian Affairs. Before an apartheid. Simplicity is life and all that happens is the result in the belief of the spirits. Freedom struggled up the path and knelt to the ground and bent over and kissed the leaves and grass and fallen trees in the forest. He saw a vision of his children and his tribe and they were in trouble and had no more food to eat and he stood up and began to run. He ran every which way and stopped and spun around and ran some more. Freedom is fast. Freedom runs in our veins and in our mindset, in our dreams and in our homes, in our ditches and in our books of legends and heroes and myths. Freedom lives and he is coming home. The sun was at it's peak in the middle of the sky and Freedom continued running until the sun went down. He lay in a farmer’s field beside the forest and looked at the stars again and thought to himself, I am almost home, I will make it; I will honour my land with its chief of the land. He slept but was awoken in a flash of energy, and kept running. Freedom was hungry but soon he would be fed by his family and his tribe. Freedom stepped on his land and looked around and a bit of vomit curled up in his throat and he swallowed it back down and then a gush of vomit poured out his mouth and through his nose and on his feet and calves and chest. Freedom looked at his land and all he saw was high rises and dwellings and bars and churches and a veterinary and a legion and all this new, civilized, nature destroying construction. Freedom was trapped in the wood for decades and at this point of our calendar, Freedom’s land was swallowed by development and money and business and greed. They destroyed his land and pushed his family onto cheap, worthless reserves to symbolize property and nature that was literally worth nothing in the bank’s eyes. But they were paid for their land, so the casinos could take your money. So the journey meant nothing, Freedom was reborn and then cut down ever so quickly. So he turned around and took out his hunting knife that was left for him and he cut his throat and the blood spilled onto the moss and caterpillars and dirt and rust and stems and leaves and even, the ants which wished him good luck. He knelt down with life still in his head and he kissed the ground and he was gone. Freedom was gone, he got sucked up into the ground and Freedom was never seen again. His body was back as one within the Earth and as a grave marker there was a wooden sign, a seven foot native Indian and it exploded and pieces of wood went all over the place and got sucked into the earth. Years later, Freedom’s resting place was turned into condominiums for the rich and wealthy and they smoked cigars and read magazines and laughed at the wooden native Indian in their store and now, only in our memories, Freedom lives.  

KNEE part 2

Where am I? I ask as I wake up and I have a big ass beer in my hand and we’re watching the Leafs and he’s there too. Smiling at me and waving. What has happened? I walk over and he turns around and asks me if I am feeling better and I say sure and he smiles again. He clinks my drink and I look down and see both his knees intact and comfortable and strong in a pair of shorts. No scars, no damage, no nothing. F*k all. The waitress comes by and places about 5 lbs of wings on the table. No napkins or wet naps though. Little condoms of wet naps. 7 different flavours of wings. Nothing to brush my teeth with or comb my hair. Just food. Yum. I look at my belly and it aches and growls for the taste of BBQ sauce, and even mild. We dig in, there are three of us and we start talking about the game. Our shinny. Our release as we watch the professionals and stuff ourselves fat of grease and bone and oil and grease. What is going on? What just happened? And he looks at me and smiles and hands me the controller and the Leaf game is paused and I pressed start and we’re playing. Avatars of each other, and I see them on the ice and I eat another wing. And I body check him and he goes down and we cheers and we play again. We finish the wings and play again. We drink our beers, then we play again and it gets late and he says he has to tuck his wife into bed and I remember that I have children and the other two mumble and groan, single and unwanted, smelly and toothless. And I shake everyone’s hand, full of grease and touch my face and nose and eyebrows. And we smile. And we play the game again. We walk to the car and smile and hug and then he gets in the drivers spot and I get in the backseat and we’re off. Looking for new avatars to play, to enhance the game, to promote the real life of our beings. And we say good night and I walk home and I lay down on the couch and she’s there and she asks me where I was, and I tell her surgery went a bit off course today but I’m okay. She kisses me hard and tough and mutters good night. And my mind is still on the game and his knee, as I fall asleep again into darkness, concussed, unconscious. Good night.

part one of two KNEE

Knee

I know the f**ker has a bad knee, a pus**y knee and a goddamn nervous twitch in his ankle that I could f**k him up real good with. Skate into him hard and just cut through his knee, end his f**king career. He already tried to end mine last season in practice, f**king practice. Going at my groin with the stick. Piece of shit. He knew I was aching and now I know his weakness. His Achilles heel and then he will never play this great game ever again. I spit on his pictures in the newspaper, which should be me. I assisted almost 4 goals last year and scored 3 and he scored 7 and 12 assists. Big deal. He can’t do shit with a busted knee and ill make that happen. Make him cry and ruin him forever. Sobbing. Like a little bitch. A little bald, stubborn, bitch and we used to be friends for god sakes. Playing on the same team. Side by side. On the same line. And we used to be friends but now I cannot stand the a**hole. I’m jealous and I know that but that should be me in the pedestal, happy joyful peaceful. A real player, a grown up hockey player who can hit hard and score goals and not some silly shot taking bastard who signs contracts with Nike and Adidas and forgets about me, his old friend, his brother, his teammate. But no, he just signs and signs and signs and I want my picture taken too.

Season opener. I’m fit enough to skate and so is he. He has “healed”, his knee is not just stringing off his leg anymore but tucked up in a nice little package underneath his knee pad. His Armour. I can slash him, body check him and trip him too, what shall I do? I insist that I am on the same line as him. This is my moment to shine. I see him smile through his visor at me. What a nice smile. I’m gonna f**k him up motherf**king good, the a**hole. As soon as his stick touches the puck he’s mine. I’m not going to describe every skate pattern and time on the clock and all that silly junk. I’m focused on him and the puck and his stick and his skate and his knee. I want his knee. I want it gone. Obliterated. Destroyed. Then I will laugh, laugh til I cry and wet myself. And here’s my moment to shine. He’s in the middle of the rink and my adrenaline is pumping. My heartbeat increases and I’m gliding slow and soft. Hunting. Waiting, It feels as if I am having a a heart attack through my jersey. Pulsating. Now I’m in the moment and my brain stops and he has the puck and I'm looking at him in the eye. He knows I know. I produce a hearty momentum and then I'm off. Full speed. Direct flight to his right knee and I slide and hit him, hard, and it breaks his knee but I hit my head and all I see is darkness, concussed, unconscious.  

Leading up to Madness, Leading up to Savant

NOTE: Written in early 2014 while I started working on Idiot Savant. I think I had a couple shots of whiskey halfway through though. There's always choices in life. Or maybe we just have to close our eyes and go along for the ride. If you can attach both, you attach a lucky stream of mental consciousness in areas created for true methods and in depth story lines. And you are reading:

-the-storyline-

The Last Train to Toronto

            Walking down the streets by myself can be hard to grasp sometimes.

            The crawl, I crawl like a baby wandering aimlessly in the summer night and she lifted me up.

            Was this a plan? Did I miss my cue?

            Yes and now I’m stuck in the gutter in the barren wastelands looking up at the sky crying severely and it all begins to make sense now. A coca cola can thrown at my head. Get out of here and I could have but I wasted out and left the doors and the sirens in their sewers guided me to a den where I was the winner making silly tee shirts with round circles upon them.

            She was there. And all I did was run on the spot and jump and make silly faces by looking in the mirror which existed only above the spotlight.

            Going nowhere and fast.

            I’m done and down and uppers and rounders and little stories in my brain haven’t clicked in yet. She deleted my work with a harsh fuck you and I don’t swear anymore except in the shower when I try to masturbate but the radioactive material in my cell phone carried in my pocket has left me limp.

            I can sell Viagra to myself, dropping the blue pills in my Coda soda and coffee and spilling, no wait, tossing the only thing I have left in this city.

            You are 60 feet tall as I sit on the couch and I think and I’m in my own little world sometimes but that’s what I want you dear reader to think since I rhyme so hyne with errors and spell checks in my brain as I sit there, mouth ajar and whistling the song of the saint in the background.

            The background to the movie I'm making and I remember that it’s a movie and the whole world is watching it. Dorian on the couch. No legs no bottoms no cottons no linen. Only lust and envy and glutton and shame. She took my hand and he handed me a bottle of water and I slowed my perceptions down to smile at the licensed event as I begin hitchhiking home waiting for something beautiful to pick me up while my thumb is out.            

And my friend did.

            He picked me up and his car blew up and the engine light went on so I left.

             Is there a common theme here? My love tells me to publish but I know the hackers have entered the building and are doing that as fast as possible at the moment. Jobs won and lost and buried beneath the sand, growing pleasures in the innovation that is being created.

            Nobody wants to play with me.

            I could write a song but that would be shameless. Entering the backdoor when the sign clearly states that it’s only reserved for the picture beauty queens and my offal face is unable to look itself in the mirror.

            A book read at you and me changed the story-line quickly. Leaning on the side of the white bench and the bubble to confess my sins to the almighty then and him a clean slate. A sponge grasping every single inch of information non moment wise because i'm slow and I just reflect after words.

            Is it beyond a doubt that i'm in cahoots with my friends date, as she paints in her villa shots of a backward stranger comparing art to the words written beside the works. Again, you me. 

            The whole city laughs at my medium and I walk briskly down the street feeling like an ape in an air filled balloon. Ooga booga. The past haunts me dramatically and I need to find someone, well for them, I need to find someone to work with. And we’ve hit realization.

            What am I to do? Isn’t that the unique question we have? Besides what will happen to us next or who we are really? What are we really? I ask questions and don’t listen to the answer. But the pen is on fire. Ripping through the paper so thick and bound and here’s the full account. The confession of a half blind chemist.

She was there dancing. Toronto. And I missed the opportunity. Confessions of a half blind chemist.

Eyes closed and tongue in the air. Montreal. Take the bus. Confessions of a half blind chemist.

Teeth chattering, cold rain. Budapest. Run across water and salt. Confessions of a half blind chemist.

Pink tutus and wine. Paris. Tip your hat to the new foundation. Confessions of a half blind chemist.

Time spent behind a desk. Brazil. Throwing pencils at the ceiling. Confessions of a half blind chemist.

            Now kneel and create your own religion for we have just received 5 confessions of a half blind chemist. And the tweets will begin for I have joined sides with the machine and have frankly lied to myself. I am ashamed to pick up the phone and call the people I care about because I’m not the person I want to be yet and feel as though I have failed. But I love them so much and I will sacrifice myself for the greater good to save them. I’m a good boy. Boy. Pan is now in Hamilton to shoot clay disks for the weekend. And he left.

            I could have tried to sneak into the set with martini in hand, but I know my time will come when I look through the lens of my masterpieces and all those who humiliated me (and there are lots) will smile and make eye contact. I need more friends, but the key is to approach me. I will be your best friend if you approach me. Had this dream stopped? Or maybe I’m just a hack writer with my sunglasses on, reading the cahier, and pointing fingers where to go for the sympathy of the one below. Get rhythm if you get the blues. The pillow is weightless as I do my sets and build my muscles in my legs to a shattered dream of bartending, not smiling, but I will. I always smile, in my head.

Stop. Attention CK. Stop. There’s been a slaughter here. Stop. Sending for the shipyard. Stop. All steam ahead. Stop. Sincerely, Dziga. End. Or beginning? Or does the ending foreshadow the beginning. You must have the start to have the end. This is the start.

And she left on the last train to Toronto.

The Geelo Dome, part 2 of 4

So why give something back to those who betrayed them? It was just in their nature, and their grace, knowing that some day they may help another angel from falling. And every day a handful of ink on the field and another glass piece laid down. The minions now had no concept of time since they now had the ability to travel three times in all aspects of the day, and these three times, could let these night walkers to the point of being mischievous but they all knew that this dome was needed and actually cared immensely to those in the light of the day. And words, words would be honoured in the glass pieces, a poem:

To those who seek the light of day

With angels and the union who frequently play

together in time of joyfulness and will

The ones who protect those who stand still.

And every word of this poem was etched on every single glass piece a minion would lay down on the dome. And three times, a minion could create, their souls would be absorbed through the field of various colours and they rest there until one day they could be watered by a living angel once the dome was completed. The colours began to melt into a colour of colours of all species and natures and rainbows in our world, there was yellow and blue and mctorquoise too. A little rad and red and bent out of lemon. Batches of flowers were these minions and there was lilac and syracuse and venture and edapuss. The minions kept working for three times and were gone. To create glass above and even rivers and shrubs beyond. This dome was unlike any zoo or museum, or anything really happening down in Hamburgerville but whatever remained in the hearts and souls of the groundlessly doomed. And inch by inch of glass and sacrifice made for every colour, the centre began to be noticeable to the angels in the left and the right. Not completely invisible but a presence and every day minions would work continuously and the angels never saw past their peripherals but slowly began to smell the roses and the daffodils and the yellowchins and the appledim. They could taste the air fresher than pudding or tapioca or pizza or pie. Every day passed and the angels could see the colours and remember the fallen until one day the dome was only needing four more pieces of glass to make the waterfalls and the ground dirt was beginning to moisten. There were only three minions left and all three of them, had only 1 cloak left, they had used up the previous two cloaks and so, the last minions put one glass on, then another and then finally the only last one left they could manage but couldn't complete the masterpiece.  

Part 3 of 4,  at  7:15    01-15-15

The Geelo Dome, part 3 of 4

But, there was one piece not covered by glass and the minions felt they had failed and the angels were unable to see the centre until something was placed upon the open openness. And then a shining purple moon, almost like the sun, filled the open space to give light inside the dome. Then the angels saw. They saw the magnificent. The others saw the fields waiting to be watered, for there were no rain only vast waterfalls streaming all over inside the dome. Different named waterfalls for angels that would lead and angels that had been lost and angels who helped minions before their fall. And under each and every name there was a poem. There was a poem for Henky and Josh and Tyler and Losh. One for Heather and Tim and Jacob and Limbe. And three verses for Larry, and Carry, and Mosh and Frosh. And the angels would read and tell their baby angels the stories.

The land was full of decrepit paste

Where those who speak were shunned so deep

A land with no future no glory no haste

Where the angels had fallen would creep

There was Asher and Mancy and Kathy and Joe

Even Rebecca and Tasha and Comby and Alone

Ted was the first and his brother, no foe

And a healthy bucket of welcoming Shaloms

The land by it self could not prepare together

Since only the minions could understand what was forth

So the angels took from the waterfalls and gave to the dirt

Lives of the fallen, who had built this in a tremendous birth

Those minions lived like us

So true and so fair

And every son and daughter began to prepare

They took from the falls of water and transformed the dirt

And so, with every splash of water placed on the ground, the being of the minions would grow and grow fast. A minion of many colours in flowers and cloth, and even a nice big home-cooked collected pot. Whatever was needed by the angel was given, by the water and purple moon that had broth life to the angels and minions and to grow and to grow. There was no room for the rich and wealthy angels, for their bellies grew bigger outside the dome and still were made to look left and not right. These cats are not needed in the purple sun dome, for the peace and harmony were shared by the ones who remained honest, even as a minion, wishing to help even the hopeless fool.

The colours amazing, so bright and so true. They began to grow flowers just like you. Gather up a dozen doilies and give to a friend, where the waterfalls were blooming such ancient known horticulture for man. Like peppernomes and yepperdomes and even sometimes you could see a red zefersong. And the people played these harmonicas, and guitars from the tree shrubs hanging over top and the small angels were taught by the minions by book of a lot. It was a book of only little pages, a tiny book, that was picked up only when the moon was shining and the book was read as the sun and moon went down. These minions they wrote the story of creation, how the dome was created and how the purple sun and moon appeared only by virtue, a small chance living without the last minion's glass. The trees were not tall but bared just the paper they produce. Stories like “fiddle and riddles”, and books just for you. The first one you picked off the tree smelt oh so fresh and when you opened it, you were always on the right page, laid out for you by this intellect of a tremendous draping tree. Every time you smelt the growing colourful grass it would be so perfect and every sense an angel had, could smell and see and even close their eyes and still be able to guide themselves as the minions would guide them from the minions that the angels had watered from the immense waterfalls. Buckets and buckets and walkers and throwers and even a mountain of late night bloomers.

No longer this city known to be Hamburgerville, but the city now, Home of the Dome and angels from every parts of the land, like the Hemopers and the Jacobsons and the Titanium Goddesses and even, on a dreary day, the dome would welcome, through the sliding glass door, the Plangers and the Wiscots, who began making their own dome in townships all over the non dome, god given, land.

And for those outside the dome, were beasts who swelled for the money the minions had been pushed around for and fallen, they ate and they drank and grew jolly and fat and laughed in the wrong and thought they knew the world, since the only thing they saw, the colour orangeandgreen in their opaque kazoos. For they would never be angels nor minions, only flames of a match box, sparked with greed til they turn up disappeared in a shadow that would haunt only themselves in self doom.

Part 3 of 4, 8:00pm  01-15-15

The Geelo Dome, part 4 of 4

But the capital city of Home of the Dome, as the angels call it Veelo and the minions called it Geelo, would grow and grow and the dome miraculously became larger and larger with ladders made by the Evergrowing Evergreens and they made domettes and domers to live with their kin and continue attaining water from the falls oh so many to feed the minions that had created the land. The minions would guide them and everything was created by the living angels from what every single hard working fallen angel had allowed to be created. There were no hammers or saws, a splash of water and it was created. When a waterfall would seize up and freeze on a coldish night, which they would every two months, the angels would pray to the minions who created.

Oh though those,

who we once threw away

please speak with us now

and forget all the pain

You have given us it all

and we have taken it humbly

for when you freeze we pray

and please let us feed you again

We feed you your creation

We feed you with love

We feed you with our prayers

And remember, who thou were and thus.

And the waterfalls began to rush and more water came than before, and the minions remembered just who they were. An angel, not demon nor fat cat nor beasts, they were people just like you and me. People in peace.

The dome was infinite and many made more from different lands but there would never be a Geelo quite like it again. For these minions were those who began something new. To perish their sins and make themselves true. No industry, no fights, no people making wrongs nor mis-rights. No sympathy for the outsiders drinking rum and scotch and cognac, no death, no forgots or dismay. A utopia thus was made.

And every angel ate what the minions provided. Apples, litche, spirals and flambe. No one grew fat, no one unhealthy, no one left hungry or unpampered or even unfed for a day. The angels looked back at the time when they would not see centre and held hands all together one daily time to the minions of misplay, which was not the minion who got in the way.

Now don't get over anxious, since this story is being told, you create your own dome and you share it with those. A tea or coffee, or remmy or lisp, drink it all slowly and be in the company of the minions, forever to hold. Forever in the midst.

*thank you*

The Geelo Dome, part 1 of 4

This wonderful dream I had last night, I knew exactly what happened and it made sense to me, I could see, I could feel it, I could live my dream last night. And you know what it was...I will tell you in just a minute but at this point I am spinning on the top of the world and do not know whence I speak. But here it goes. The dream, I was floating over a grass field, an empty field, a field that bare no grass nor gravel. Just dirt in the day and mud when it rained. And I felt it, the next hall of fame for this city of Hamburgerville and its minions, well, at least only the minions that came out at night. Angels lived in the morning and the minions would play at night trying to sacrifice themselves to the destruction of Hamburgerville. No, no there weren't any hamburgers in this city, at least that I know of, but there is more to read than just the mischief gossips and the barren wastelands. But how to accomplish this without sounding repetitive. What do we need, What do we need, what do we need? And I dream. And I spin. And it was real. But do not smite those words, this dream came through.

And we're on...

This glass dome we created as a centre stage for the downtown core of Hamburgerville across the ocean of Tadah. The new hall of fame, the field began to become barren and it survived. How did we do this? Well. Those minions that draped and droned every night started creating the dome while during the day, having to sneak past the angels with immense precise accuracy that the view of the angel was no longer in the way of seeing minions but only imagining that they only came out at night. The angels were blind to the centred work of the minions, but just in case, they would wear a cloak that could protect them and each minion could use it three times and then return to life in the darkness. The minions were plentiful and every day more and more glass began to arise and the angels just looked left and right and not centre and this is where the dome was created. Away from them, away from their gaze, in the centre in front of them. And there were no hammers, or crammers, or loofers or doofers but in this dome there would be. But what was this dome. What did it hold? For whom? And everyday more glass and colour and pink and beauty that no angel would ever see until it was completed. These minions were the fallen angels, the ones who put the light to the fight and lost terribly no matter what they did, they would never again be an angel and it terrorized the minions.

PART 2 of 4  at 6:30pm, 01-15-15