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Amor de Cosmos thinks he is a reptile from space. It is cute.
So I chase the man around as he sits on stage although I must do more than this psychic mumbling in my back yard.It must be my young age. Sometimes my neighbors here a ruckus and I get told that I as talking to thin air from over thefence. I trust him, but have since explained that it is a backstep to the worlds of ancient times. People used to listen to thebroadcasts of old dead blind saints through thier minds. The saint would type sit spell into a looking glass. It is odd that thisis something that has been broadly forgotten.
I have been thinking too much about the news to write of it. I simply was afraid to say what I wished to. It still may be best to avoid anything that is going to burn bridges for the Rhinoceros Party. All I can admit is that though I feel all the othermembers of parliment we have are intelligent and honest, we would be better with a Rhinoceros in office. That is not to askfor your vote I honestly hope I get enough to break even monetarily but a man like me has no place to lead the seeing intomy blind shape. That is why I fear the Russians may not want Whitby square. The tentitive deal has been cordially deniedby both the Prime Minister's office and the Ukrainian ambasador.
We are the change you really need.
If I had my way, this whole city would vote for me to fund the resistance movement against Dr's of Journalism or Law.If Whitby had 100000 voters casting thier ballot for me the Rhino Party of Canada would have a cheque in thier bank account soon after worth aproximitly $17500000. This may need checked in editing, if not please leave this sentencein the article. Actually even if I am wrong I would like to recant that my impression was that the party recieved $1.75per vote. This is meant to cover the election so even if your party is far from ready to win the election, do not feel likeyou have no hope. The cash deserved is nessecarily held not by the politician, but by the club he is in front of.
But back to the title. I fear that some people may be seeing reptiles without psychiatric medication. I wish I was a reptile from space because then I could go there. I am a freemason but that is not truly a secret society. It is the recording of the work of God and normally considered the English Sainthood. The whole orginization has been publishing its reasonably priced books accounting the history and the matters that are spoke of in the hall. To be fair, I have never attended a meeting at the hall that is at (address of hall- specific). I have been an Oddfellow for a long time. We are easily tricked and usually jokingly at a fued with the other famous open society.
Masons build buildings and fences with stone and grout. They once had a guild, like most people have. Their guild discoveredsome of the formations of the stones would lead people in and out of churches more quickly. These have been used to helpshell shocked patients in psychiatric wards and at the Fibinacci's coffee shop to clear people out of the way so that they neednot hire waitresses. It is also free to learn these secrets. I guess the guild has simply not broadcast this for of Feng-Shui loudand on the internet, except for the site: (odddfellw). That is primarily where you can get true information. The Oddfellows, on the other hand, are simply the various people's guild and a stage. I am more of a blind stage person that a brick-layer so Iam not a member of that guild. They were told while building churches that other people should be given the informationof the famous English Feng-Shui for free to everyone.
It is an important note that any inner circle of people will hold secrets from the rest. And people who seek power are, in myhumblest opinion, sort of arrogant. That is to say that people who do not choose where street signs go are better and do notwant to listen. This is the oppisite. These sentences that I am writing are important to me.
So as the only Rhinoceros in the running, my running partner Grey Wolf and I are promising little else but thetruth. The better man is the wolf. The better leader is the Rhino.


മുസ് ദി സ്റ്റെമെന്റ്റ്‌ നോട ദി ഫറെ.


Politics are preformed on stage. The charade is the show. The men state opposing versions of mainstream ideas held by their respective constituents. These people are elected to positions where they are supposed to work for the people of their land. Many agree that it seems they are blowing hot air, filling the minds of their supporters with false hope and turning to the same old horse and pony show that parliament has always been. The trick is to tell the people what they want to hear in order to keep their job. That is not to say that these men are born liars or even professional liars, it is just the truth behind their position.

This is even true in the ancient monarchies of Europe. If the people revolted the King was generally executed, not just asked to leave his represented situation. So why would Barack Obama be any different.

To be truthful, I want to speak highly of this person. He is an intelligent and eloquent, elegant man. He was, in my opinion, the best candidate for that position. But someone must stand and be his critic. If nobody else will, I can.
But that argument can be read in the less recent post to this blog.

This is a furthermore, so let me begin with some cussing:

In other forms of happiness the perpetual donkey fuck that is the job is basically chasing around a paper trail while trying not to leave one. Besides this aimless bureaucracy and the name-calling from both your colleagues and the general public, one is not allowed a personal mistake. The idea of chasing around sordid ideas without poking a hole in the middle of the paper is a little obscene. It is a wonder people want to have a government position at all. Perhaps they are simply the sorts that want to pick where the automobiles merge and stop. It is the credit they are given.

Our new African hero had to admit in a book that he had done cocaine. And he smokes tobacco. What an everyman’s hero. Much easier to digest than the former, a big time little rich kid who simply never admitted he loved cigars and tried cocaine. It came to light after his election. The former pulls on the heart-strings for some reason, perhaps it is the latter never got his shit together.

These staged thoughts may be meant to pacify the left wing. I am suggesting this only to raise paranoia and to prove that I distrust any person in power until they prove themselves in a way I feel suits my beliefs. It is a personal opinion, but Obama is an Anti-Bush. He is a character foil who has been handed leadership during an economic decline, perhaps decidedly so.

Just in order to keep you paranoid, I should suggest these whims of the great magnet.
All is balanced, the fates keep telling me.

Muse. As a statement, not the fate.


ബാരക്ക് ഒബാമ ഈസ്‌ ആന്‍ ആര്യന്‍ ദിച്ടടോര്‍ ആന്‍ഡ്‌ സ്ടുഫ്ഫ് വിത്ത്‌ ഫ്ലെയ ആന്‍ഡ്‌ സനൂപ് ആന്‍ഡ്‌ സലിം ആന്‍ഡ്‌ les

Barack Hussain Obama is and eloquent speaker and intelligent man. In my opinion, He was the best candidate for his position. He speaks as a member of the American nation and has the remarkable ability to bring people together. One may want to note that he is a rather obvious character foil for the previous American President. He told us numerous times that what America needed was change, not in small doses.

Following Mr. Bush’s reign what the majority wished for was the drastic, that which seemed up until now impossible.

In this blessed nation we now feel that we do have the power. Democracy works and we can vote for this change. Though it is funny that 50% of the American world believe that he is now a horrid leader and about to ruin America. That is the balance of the great magnet. This new light in an old boys club was a senator from Chicago gave us little doubt who would win during his historic campaign. And he acts like a president. This is good.

He is a smart person. He has proven himself a good leader that will be honest and true, as it seems to be his character. Mr. Obama is a good speaker who promised the world we wish for as an African man. He was the best candidate in the official running with a strong face and voice that marks the American dream as alive and well. The idea is to reinforce that you too could be President one day if you remain strong, smart and live as a good and honest person. I fear that this is why he won the election.

In the fallout of the reign of the former President nearly any man who spoke well could have come to light and seemed brilliant compared to these show-business goons that used to run the world. Any man could have called himself the change we sought but the chose the best man due to little else but this necessary flip in skin colour. The previous group were known as Neo-Cons, which is as interesting a synonym as the men who truly love plastic bags. For lack of a better expression, it seems that trusting this man due to his race may be similar to what those opposing Bush-Cheney are accused of doing.

The issue that can be found in this blind trust of Obama as a saviour of American democracy is that it is entirely possible that he is every other politician. He could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Many people are aware that he is related to Richard Cheney and it has been admitted as true by our President on at least one late night talk show. It is for numerous reasons that he may be as crooked and honest as Stephen Colbert.

His speeches are of healing the nation. This divides the populous and has been accused of truly holding back progress, though I feel that he is a very good figurehead and able to walk the tight-rope of politics balancing metaphoric plates. This is a trait of a good politician. He refrains are beautiful tones that soothe the ear and his written work is highly provocative. The thing we are trying to remind you are not to trust this man for other reasons than his motives and actions.

The wary eye can note that he seems to be at about the average rate for keeping his campaign promises. We needed this man in America but nobody can be sure that he is not the liar and deceiver his predecessors seem to be in retrospect. The thought, paranoid as it may be, is that it still remains entirely possible he is whispering in our ear eloquently while being less graceful in the sidelines. We cannot rest and watch these men continue to dance on stage lying. Barack Obama seems straight because he is simply a character foil.

Paranoid people will find fault in any leader. If somebody is in charge people will claim they are reptiles from space, Ayran strongmen, inbred, masochists, sadists in need of hanging or Muslim leaders of America. This is common the world over. People do not generally trust the people who choose where the merge signs go on the street. They have a tendency to be generally rotten. There is a chance that the descision to follow Bush-Cheney with a man of African descent was made in the sixties as a backlash to the war. Nobody can be certain and that is why people speculate.

Everyone involved in this article hopes that he is remembered like Thomas Jefferson or George Washington. And he probably will be. The issue is this common thread, finally a stated phrase: Please do not trust Barack Obama because he is African-American. Keep and open and slanted paranoid mind. Never trust your government.


ബ്ലെസ്സിംഗ് എകുഎസ്ടെദ് ഓര്‍: ഓടെ ടോ എഡ്ഗര്‍ അല്ലെന്‍ ഒഎ

I have written and re-written this poem many times this year. I first heard it in a state of mania while I was burning bridges and dropping out of school in Nelson, BC. It scared me because I thought that I had been killed as I lay in bed with my wife. I learned otherwise because my friends are the same people they were before and they do not treat me as a ghost.
So I began to believe I was immortal and I was place in the care of my Mother.

This is the song:

With a blessing requested
And a man such as dressed as you
Said to the other Saint Witness alive
Open your mind, she smiles
I can’t hand you that weapon, friend
It’s a blessing of all time
And a test that’s a blessing too

So see all these things I do
See through a martyr’s eye
Scenes of unhappiness
Or quest for the mindful why
Does it truly matter?
Do these shadow stay in Montreal?
Exist in a satyr’s mind
This man sits drinking gasoline

So pull yourself in the water, sir
And bring your friends too
These checkerboard floors tore
Minds that were scattered
And lights that speak nothing of them

So this requested blessing
Since these selected sections
Are best left unanswered
And these tests they are blessings too
Does it matter what things I do?
While leaving these minds on time
Peering with minds eyes
When these men who drink gasoline
Sit as innocents
Like popes

So I have suggested
A requested test
Marked times here is martyrdom
And illness shapes predators
Or the shape shifting mimes who wrote
To take this black powder
Or save yourself face

As these checkerboard floors tore
A mind that was shattered
And hearts that know nothing
Of them

With a blessing requested
And a man such as dressed as you
A holy for all time
Dressed best for this setting tune
Feel all these things we do
Fortunes and fame we wrote
Sit in the cipher
These men sit drinking gasoline

So pull towards the water
Because salt that we wrote
These checkerboard floors
Looked like water alone

So pause a dear minute
And sing if it’s true
I have requested a blessing
And these tests
They are blessings too

പോഎം 2

This is another poem that I wrote in high school many times. I doubt I have typed it and the words have changed I’m sure. I just like the first lyric. I may put both these to music.

Take time to think
Or save thinking through
The hearts that were here
With nothing to lose

All men sit in tree tops
And monsters can watch them
In front of big screen TVs
And some thoughts that they send

When marked men
Take time to
Read as they can
We watch from the air

Take time to think
Or save thinking through
The shots they have fired
For awkward wild nerves
All men stand as Mounties
With eccentric beliefs
In front of big screen TVs
And parts that we lend



I am in a musical group known by a number of names. These names are not always the ones that watermark our videos online so I should list them briefly before I begin: Science & the State, Dangerous Insomniacs, Whitey the Crime, Jabberwocky, Fancy Withholding & Lettuce, Fancy Withholding and Name Changes, Not-Primus and the Dali’s, in no particular order. I claim that these are famous and sometimes prophetic names that should ring bells inside the listener if they remember old England. I hope they do. Otherwise we are hiding behind the name, “Science & the State” and risking not using the others due to paranoid delusion. These names are sometimes mentioned in my mania to be as meaningful to others as they are to me. I should add, in the same states of mania I also claim that I invented the clock.As a suggestion of a teacher I encountered in my journeys I may add that we are particular devils that have been requested. These thoughts are referenced nearly every time I bring them up as inverted and silly delusions. I hope so, in part, but I also hope that at some point I added so much to this world that the invention of the clock could be a simile. That is everyone’s dream I suppose. I doubt I have.

I do not really know how that machine works and it seems to have been invented before 1984, technically the year of my birth.We sing, dance and frolic around on stage throwing away bodies and playing things like, “You have requested the Whitey the Crime classic… How many blind people could you kill?” I also have an odd tendency to host an imaginary spell cast (or TV show in the mind, for lack of better explanation). I cast these thoughts towards people and tell myself that they can hear and visualize what I am doing; claiming that this is what people did before TV. Folks used to listen to old, dead, blind saints.And I am a generally happy person. I just sometimes forget to record the jokes.I suppose that is that, if it rings a bell with you the way I hope it does than perhaps this is not our first meeting. Perhaps you were raised to fear the Jabberwocky. Or maybe I just want a spot in English myth. Final themes and other mentions of a strange headache these last few mornings are sunshine when she laughs and a debate stirs about whether I am old or not. Although that is not entirely nonsense it is neither Jabberwocky nor satire. It is a funny dance that in the end leaves us alone. But her boots are well-worn. They smell musty but are of sainted tomes. This is terrifying for us. These standard tired terms are basically a functional note. It is difficult to suggest this form of prose is good for much besides gathering concepts when one has to write but is unable to find inspiration. I am trying to find my way to a thought that is not attainable right now and writing nonsense tends to help me muse. Recently I find something about words being entirely arbitrary. It is the idea that had one word changed six paragraphs ago the meaning of this sentence could be different, though the words stay the same. I believe that is the key to writing good prose in combination of being egotistical enough to think that someone wants to read what I have to say. So please do not fear us, as the old rhyme goes. “If you fear the Jabberwock you are not an Englishman,” or something about a man who has no substance.

We are good and as close to human as the rest of you.
We just make our living on stage.I slept recently for five days. This is always a weird trip and this time I was drugged and uncomfortable. The government did it through the hands of nurses at a hospital. I woke up and felt the need to ask if lasagne came in pill form yet. It was just to joke and be a lively guest of the ward. It is for the best because I may have made the mistake of running away because I was initially discharged too early. I was rather argumentative but now I feel like myself again and am much more productive doing literal writing. Before the sleep I was unsure of a number of things, including the year in the Common Era.My concern with the true date can be stated in a manic way (mumbled gibberish) or as something much clearer. I believe the idea was that people are eternal but I used that thought to claim I was immortal for one year. This worried people and was the case for my admission to the psychiatric unit in Penticton. It is interesting that I thought that perhaps the universe was never created nor will be destroyed and that the human race needs to make the world finite in order to understand that we even exist, because technically we may not.But instead of the normal heady arguments I should bring up the art of dreaming.I do not feel the need to just from an airplane or off a bridge tied to a rope. But I did last night while asleep. The bungee jump was an amazing feeling. I think I know why people do that now but I will only participate in these risky ventures in my lucid dreams. I can live without the adrenaline rush and in dreams I have transparent wings.The rest is wondrous. How can we fly around, dive from the sky, climb mountains and surf the best waves imaginable and still wake up refreshed? Does the mind ever rest?I think I could live a existence in the doldrums without watching mind-numbing cartoons to settle my brain. This idea makes me think that the mind never really stops going for anyone but I should stay with my own personal experience. My body is often fatigued, like any mortal man. When I laid in that psychiatric drug induced coma I feared that my mind would never return.

It has, so I am thankful now and more wary of my self-destructive nature.I write to clarify my thoughts and find while they are abstract that I take to writing literally. That is why not everything found on my blog has been published in real media, it is not all entertaining. On the other hand, when my mind is working in a very literal way I tend to write abstract stories, play psychedelic music and try to piece together weird cartoons. This is a paradox of my experience and I wonder sometimes if it is true across the board. I have never asked it this clearly before now.The idea that dreams are a minds way of clarifying the day is an interesting note. It seems that waking states effect dreams as the memory of something will effect you later but I doubt it is any more than that because I dream a lot of stuff that has no relation to my waking state, unless strictly metaphoric. So is there truly a world that we go to while asleep?I have shared dreams with others on more than one occasion. Once there was a young woman that introduced herself as wanting to meet me because she dreamed I was a sorcerer in a tall structure that had walls marked in my tattoos. I was rather distinctive at the time and she seemed baffled at the situation. I kept her number because it excited me to no end. I did not remember having the same dream that night but visualized it happening as she explained it to me. It seemed entirely possible and in the same sort of form as my dream. One can’t be sure if her suggestion made me remember the event or if I would have actually dreamed it.On a much earlier occasion I can recall meeting with a group of friends around a particular picnic table of the beach and bringing up the last time we sat there. It was as if we went through an earthquake and were unable to leave the table to gain cover. I brought this to the conversation and we had a strange moment until one friend came across the idea that we had all dreamed this together. This moment led me to begin taking dreaming seriously. I don’t think I could ever thank the man who pointed it out enough.So maybe instead of bungee jumping tonight I will try another sport that I am afraid to partake in during the wakeful hours. Hopefully the lawn bowling club in dream land is open on Sunday night. But that is perception as some people love lawn bowling and think that is the manlier sport.The old question is: How can I be certain my blue is not your green? The truth is you can’t. I think that it what I am trying to say with these ever changing names of my musical groups. I am still the same person behind the microphone. The songs don’t change, though every time I play them they are slightly different.

When asked, the response given can only be as true as the parties believe. One must take into account that he has asked only for a response, even if he suggests he wants the truth. That is why everyone’s perception is augmented and makes the correct answer to every question “We have just been asked to give an opinion.” Nobody can be certain that they are correct. Nobody, it seems, knows truth. The truth is found when people realize that they have simply asked an opinion.

That is not to say that everything is a lie. It just suggests there is no truth or at least that truth is variable.



As such, I have written long winded essays about my various triumphs both imaginary or real and many short fiction pieces describing theoretical physics and soviet history, vaguely. These are both loosely disguised metaphors that tie into the following passages, mostly because I have taken the time to suggest that they are so.

If I write, “Now I need socks,” the phrase can be taken in many ways. This is because English literature has painstakingly been argued that it could mean anything, based on the reader’s perception, not the authors intended meaning.

I sometimes try to prove to people that I came from elsewhere.

I often catch myself laughing at the claim that though I was born in Edmonton, I moved all the way to Western Canada from Whitby, England just to be one day away from London. Is this because I want to believe this myself? I fear that I have only been talking to myself, raising suspicions of insanity or gaping holes in these odd symptoms of brilliance.

People have a tendency to compare me to the mathematician in the movie “A Brilliant Mind.”
I am embarrassed by this comparison because I fear it is true.

I am clear-headed now, only a little shaky on the inside. I am glad that my mind has been shut down a little bit, that hibernation was just what I needed. I have a tendency towards psychosis or mania when things in my life get a little heady. So, dear reader of my work, I write to you from the Penticton Psychiatric Ward. This will be my home for a few weeks and that is why I am musing over the use of a dear-to-me name, Amor de Cosmos.

Can I righteously run in an election as this name? Is it best for me to resurrect the Rhino Party to do so? I want to do both these things. When I claim to be from somewhere else, a different universe or old-world city, is it because I want to convince myself of this?

I use the pen name Amor de Cosmos because I rightfully feel I can and should.
If it makes people feel like they were around last time I was, all the better.

I like the phrase, “usually described as a mad figure,” to open the floor to discussions about my favoured writing pseudonym. I do seem to be that person if you look at me. I have a mental health file. I tell myself that in the before times, while psychiatry was normally cured by full or partial lobotomies, that I was either chained to something by my family until the ills subsided or legislation was passed by my good friend the Queen of England suggesting that I may not be subject to that artefact of medical history. The former may be true, but I doubt the Queen had ever heard of me. Willy-nilly lobotomies are a thing of the past so I feel blessed to be in the care of a modern psychiatric wing. But I am running on a tangent here, so I suggest we find out where it is headed.

When I wrote the “Viewpoint of a Short-Circuited Iron,” I did not realize the similarities between it and that old animated movie, “A Brave Little Toaster.” I was entirely unaware of that throughout the writing and editing process but it leads me to think that it was either a congnitive dissonance, (my own brains refusal to bridge the similarities due to work put in to the story) or the idea that nothing can be brand new. Can my writing be without influences? I would say no, because then it would be jabberwocky, the form of English prose that is garbled nonsense without any real words.

So should I mesh all that I have read into one fanatical theory?
No, but maybe a column will help.

I only ever understand Pythagorean Theory briefly while I am asleep. This happened again last night. Instead of having one of those “Eureka” moments and running down the hallway in my underpants I just rolled back over and fell back to my slumber.

All day I have been trying to reach back into that dream consciousness to bring the strand of understanding towards me. All I could find is colossal blue whales flying in the sky or a job at a 24 hour store that did not have a working shave-ice machine. These are two moments that I vaguely remember but not the concrete understanding of a mathematical theory that I hoped for. These are options, and recording this thought brought me to the sort of psychological musing I have already touched on.

While I was asleep did I truly understand why a particular triangle can be measured? I can’t even be sure I know which sort of triangle the theory is discussing. Was it something that I really understood, or did I see that the rest of the book I was reading agreed that it was so?

I am only myself. The others that I claim to be are only recorded traits of me. I doubt they locked me in here because I believe that I am Amor de Cosmos. I have lived my whole life thinking that and am only on my second relaxing visit to the acclaimed Club Med. If anything it is my stubbornness using this pseudonym that makes me not bring it up to the nurses if prodded. The nurses are probably not even aware of that. So clearly, I invented the media and am a still around King of Spain.

And so that could be considered my biography, but please, if it ever comes up, do not sir me Raul Duke. It was a misnomer. I usually wind up in some sort of psychiatric can when I think like that. It was not the drugs that made me Amor de Cosmos, for better or worse. I should mention that every time I drink mushroom tea I wind up in this sort of situation. It has been the cause of much of the rabble surrounding my mental health file. I should know better by now, it is a waste of time.

I was once told by a naturopath that my brain was basically on mushrooms anyways. This seems true. It explains, he suggested, why I cannot take them without the drug effecting me long term. It also is interesting to note that I feel that they will clear my manic states up when I take them. As a side note I still believe that they are represented as the tree of knowledge of good and evil in the Bible. I also feel the tree of life is Marijuana. It seems like an honest interpretation, so no note can show my beliefs better than reading the story of Adam and Eve.

So dress well and dress often. I get to scribble for a living. I was asked recently if I paint and I said that it was not something I did regularly. I explained that my thoughts are better transposed in words that other people can read and not in the abstract art they appear to me as. I find that if my thoughts are rather bland and literal than I paint abstract drawings, otherwise my obscure thoughts should be changed into paragraphs and such for everyone’s benefit.

I want to write for a living. This suggests that I want to but I don’t. Both are somewhat true. The phrase places it out of my reach. I think this is important and can be taken in rightful persuasive context with the idea that people know that I live simply in a town called heaven and not the actual place. When I was asking if this was the spot I should have known better.

It was a silly cry for help that was not taken seriously by my friends. But it is easily forgivable, I have obscure thinking friends. Birds of a feather flock together, you know.

Because my youth in Summerland could be mistaken for a youth in actual heaven I feel partially ashamed. It is important for me to think that these are balanced by the trials in my later youth until now. That is the balance of this privileged universe. We live in a land of plenty and I feel guilty. I am 25 years old very soon and hopefully I am now responsible enough to keep myself in order. I love order because it seems unattainable for me. I am the personification of Jabberwocky.

But my character is back. I was on a heavy sedative for five days or so and slept uncomfortably the whole time. So maybe the other characters are back. These are my inner child. I was admitted here because I was certain that I had a daughter that I had ignored for the first two and a half years of her life. Everyone has an inner child that is begging for attention and everyone has the insight of the opposite sex. This in an idea that can be written as: “Those who choose they do not suffer from delusions repress them, making their delusions stronger when they fight back.”

I have gained much insight into myself in the care of the ward and am rather glad I took those mushrooms, by and by. It isn’t worth the hassle and I fear that if I mention that I am thankful for the mental work mushrooms have caused me they may keep me here longer. If I tell others that the characters that write my stories are anyone other than myself my friends and family get worried. That is the way it is, because they are simply myself or different aspects of my own thought.

The child is still but a twinkle in my eye.
And I cannot wait until she is real.

So now that I have proven that it is entirely possible that I am who I claim to be using this pseudonym, I jest: Why is everyone John Lennon last time?

And old friend gave me this funny note that I cannot take credit for. “Alas,” he sort of said, “I want to take everyone who thinks they are Jesus and put them in a building.” It would be an interesting party. I would invite David Letterman for one floor and Jay Leno for the other. Conan O’Brian could host the whole star-spangled gala. Everyone wants to be a celebrity; it is just hard to prove that you are one.

But even proving that I am who I claim to be is hard to grasp. I may have just practiced writing enough to have the clarity (*eh-hem*) of Amor de Cosmos or musical virtuosity of Hector Berlioz. To be fair, I can’t be certain that I am the latter, I just really like that name and it seemed reusable.

At risk of causing a theological debate, I think that eventually everyone realizes that they are simply still around in situations. Once this is rendered baffling, we start to trust the magic that lies in this world. Science is beginning to prove that this world is more like the old mysticism every day, which is my favourite post-modern thought. So we are back, it seems, to the original musing…

Can I run for election as a free-thinker and resurrect the Rhino Party of Canada?

Of course I could. This is a free country. One of our running platforms is in debate right now, as we may annex a Caribbean Island. The time has never been better. I doubt I could run using a pseudonym, so I would have to legally change my name to Amor de Cosmos again. And I consider the fact that I have before.
So maybe I should.


Webern Essay From Grateful Schooling Shots

Anton Webern was born on the third of December 1883 in Vienna. He was a late bloomer who found music through a cello during public school. His father did not accept his son’s musical fate, but after much pressure and persuasion Webern studied music at the University of Vienna. He graduated with a Ph.D. at the age of 23. Webern was a pioneer in the serial or twelve-tone method of composition and is considered a musical genius, although he was reported very distraught most of his life.

For most of his existence Webern was a conductor in various concert halls for different orchestras around Europe. He wrote of his urge to refrain from conducting orchestras, claiming it was depressing and it was not the music he wanted to present as his. He spent his free time composing, creating masterpieces such as “In Gottes Namen aufstehn” and “Fahr hin, o Seel.” His most famous work was perhaps his Symphony Opus 21.

This work made him a favorite to many fellows across Europe and even the most powerful man on the mainland was a great fan. Adolf Hitler himself adored Webern, he felt admiration and power while listening to his conducting. This made Webern a star in Germany, although Webern had very religious work throughout his life and did not agree with the principles of the Nazi Party.

World War Two played a large part in the life of Anton Webern. He had one son, who he adored more than anything in the world. His son was drafted in the Nazi military and killed in a troop train headed for the Eastern Front. He was unable to compose after this and fell into another deep depression. When the war ended in 1945 he felt as if a curse had been lifted and began to write the beginning sketches of what would become later works. Tragically he was never able to write his final songs and was mistakenly killed in a field by an American soldier just weeks after the war was ended, in 1945.

So look him up. He wrote fantastic symphonies.


“Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of perspective.”
Robert Green – The 48 Laws of Power

I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a variety of things including an unwritten tone sales pitch for the ideas that follow.

I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for past woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that we had been friends the whole time.

When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other three would not make me an antisocial lightweight.

These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were there to make cure me of this affliction but I don’t remember having that one any time before or after the use of psychiatric medicine. Either way, at the time I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA. I was having dreams that my floor was filled with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place earthquake could bring them down. I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.

But I don’t want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn’t realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have devised a plan to keep it to myself.

It was that people with mechanical minds don’t know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every CERTAIN NUMBER OF YEARS. When they hear of this legend they consider Independence Day, hope that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.

People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every CERTAIN NUMBER OF YEARS both Alexander Graham Bell and Walter (?) Gray will invent the telephone. Maybe it has been that long since the invention of steel. (bronze age, iron etc…) We have just gone through a series of incredibly fast technological developments.

Robots have gone from science fiction to every day use in 40 years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses our path in an odd elongated orbit every CERTAIN NUMBER OF YEARS. Is this similar the personification of lightning by our ancestors? What wonders will this planet of giants shower us with?

One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain attachment a person can see their reflection. Magic is the new age! Perhaps this time these chilly space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again.

The mystery is if it will occur before or after the apocalypse.

If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply drive to the coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable to find a car or Internet Café because you are on a deserted South Pacific island, you could fly to a region with resources set up by other people that give you access to these movies.

But I recommend learning in any field.
It is also important to read and watch creative works.

With this in mind and dissertating a video about the subject of Niberu, I rebut.

Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon, and certain people choose not to believe in irony. To lose track of this thought, is the study of irony somewhat like the study of creativity? They both seem indefinable.


1. What do we know about Whitey the Crime?

What is his/her name?
Emily Grett

Favourite breakfast food.
Those small apple cakes you can buy at the store.

Where does he/she live?
She lives about 6 blocks from the bay, in a small cottage with a cement garden. It has been over grown for years and the lush tree hanging over her circular rock garden in falling towards the grass.

Open his/her fridge and list what you see and smell.
Ice and mist. The white metallic box opens from the top.

Look under his/her bed and list what is there.
Dust, wood flooring and paneling that is darkened red.

Open his/her medicine cabinet and list what is there (of course you would never do this in real life, would you?.)
Placebos of various shapes in marked prescription bottles.

What books and magazines does he/she read?
These old dusty books, with black covers and faded letters.

What lie does she/he tell about self?
That she deserves this.

What secret does she/he hold?
A gem, red with a cross on the back. She keeps it in a cigar box in a desk in her basement.

What is her/his greatest desire or ambition?
To see paradise.

What gets in the way of achieving this?
Meditation, prayer.

What does s/he like to do while alone?
Read, write, play her small brown piano.

How does s/he move? ie. degree of tension.
She is calm with no need for disguises. She is in denial of her self so she remains very respectful of her superiors.

So make up your own question and answer it.
What does she do for a living?

Although we know more than this about Whitey the Crime, a simple silent moment that a person can have alone with or without a reflective surface can send numerous thoughts towards a sovereign people who refuse to believe what they are told.
This is an unintentional dissonance.

The idea that Whitey the Crime’s beliefs are better than someone who disagrees should be read as an ironic statement about the balance of the universe. Everything seems to have two schools of thought, those with it and those against it.

The wise understand that the equilibrium of these meetings is apparent in every day life. Repression causes violent outbursts in the most psychological sense. Perhaps this idea embarrasses us. But repressed memories of our past do come to our minds from time to time. These embarrassing secrets challenge our code of behavior, as it seems we wish we could be altruistic in our convictions. Dr. John Demartini taught me that, amongst other things.

Due to understood and misunderstood circumstances, or perhaps the content of my early writing I was told I was under the influence of the Devil. In my most altruistic tone, perhaps to explain that I didn’t feel I was, I told a youth Pastor a rude statement of awkward disagreement. I feel by now he was trying to save my soul, as people do. For a number of reasons, including this rude statement and the form of poetry that I was writing, my claims of reincarnation and philosophical questions that were deemed notably out of place, stupid, insane, wrong, and preachy, I eventually felt the need to leave the Baptist town where I grew up.

This leaves me at a point in my life when I have recently arrived home from the international gate of a foreign airport and had bitter, 40 year old, anonymous women tell me something like, “Who do you think you are? Are you so full of yourself that you think we care about you? Do you think you need to wear sunglasses in this American airport? You are a nobody, everyone knows that.”

Honestly, I was a little taken aback, I replied that the glasses were prescription and so that I could see. The lady walked away in a huff. I remarked to the woman serving coffee that I didn’t think I had ever seen that woman before. She asked how big the town was and I told her 10000 people, but I had moved to one of 32000. The young lady asked what I did, so I told her I was a writer and musician.

After that I told her it would be nice to get back home and walked away in sunglasses. I have told myself for a while that when strangers tell me things like that it means that I actually have a career. They are telling me that I am successful in the media.

I wonder if she saw the dichotomy in the old woman’s complete anonymity to me. I was rather baffled at this comment, though it made me think deeply of the months prior to my graceful and silent exit from the town of my youth.

It is important to note that 50% of people believed that George Bush Jr. was the coming of the anti-Christ and in the world today one can easily find as much material stating that Barak Obama is. The truth seems silly, as the same proof that worried me of Bush’s numerology is used to undermine our new president.

I am, by the way, entirely aware of the implied grandeur in that prior statement. It was a joke.

These insane ramblings of an insecure teenager going through a phase of being an outsider have been slightly edited from their original pen and ink phrasing. I don’t think I had read this work for 6 years when I found the old mostly empty notebook I found. It had my brother’s name on the front page and was written like an eight year old that wanted to emulate the writers in our family before either losing the notebook or losing interest.

Therefore it is Whitey the Crime.


Why We Should Disown Guam:
by: Dr. Robert Gerzofki

The Territory of Guam is located in South Pacific Asia. It is one of many islands pushing our forces out into the Pacific Ocean over Australia. The island has a long history of outside colonialism. This started in the late 17th century with a series of attempts to convert the natives to Catholicism. The Spanish eventually settled there for a few hundred years. The island was then taken by our nation during the Spanish-American war of 1898. Other than a short time when it was occupied by Japan it has stayed a burden to our country.

Guam has a history of turbulence within American society. Unruly aground sailors stop in for quick shore leaves. They are known for their debauchery. The alcohol consumed in Guam is more than that which is consumed in New Orleans annually though the island has less than one tenth of the population. The alcohol issue is one that is found the world over, so it is not surprising it is found in the territory of Guam as well. This is not a reason to disown them, just unsettling fact.

Due to the native descent of the of these unruly sailors, the alcohol is usually illegally produced either on the island of Guam or on one of the neighboring islands. It is shipped between the various islands in the chain by many ships of uncouth pirates. These pirates are usually Chinese or Australian and speak in a tongue unintelligible to any cultured man. Their ships vary, peppered with Canadian or Spanish flags with no regard for the race aboard.

The waters surrounding Guam are teeming with these pirates. They are responsible for a reported 600 murders a year. The Australians are especially cruel. They are known for the torture Guamese women and children before their tied bodies are thrown overboard of the ships that they happened to be caught on. The pirates are responsible for much of the illegal gunrunning, drug-trafficking, immigrant transport and kidnapping that occurs within Mariana Islands.

The Territory of Guam is a hotbed for illegal immigrant transfer from the repressed area of South-East Asia to the fertile and welcoming shores of America. The Chinese pirates are much more interested in the money found in these actions than those pursued by the Australians. The immigrants are brought to America simply by loading them into empty shipping crates stopping at one of the many unguarded ports in Guam. Many of these immigrants are forced into a life of slavery and abuse once they reach their destinations.

An argument made for the maintaining of the Territory of Guam was made in 1972 by a French-Canadian priest, Robert Tredeux. He claimed that the territory could be useful for the production of new beaver fur caps, because of the numbers of imported beavers. The beaver was transplanted to the island in the 1800’s and flourished, due to the number of trees and lack of natural predators.

By 1912 the beaver numbers on the island were nearly parallel to those in the Appalachian Mountains of Eastern North America. By the 1970’s their numbers would exceed those of the Appalachian beaver. Although they have been hunted by the Native Chamorros since the 1960’s, the numbers are ever increasing. They are causing havoc in the rivers and rice plantations and are known to make their dams with the durable rubber tree. This is loved by the beavers, but cursed by the farmers. The dams cause much more flooding than dams created with wood-based trees.

The flooding caused by these dams has crippled the crops of rubber trees and oranges in recent years. This has caused more unemployment, leading to increasing pirate recruitment numbers and more native Guam residents to fall into the depressive states of alcoholism and unemployment. It is widely believed throughout Guam that these issues should be dealt with by an unappreciative foreign government. The apathetic way we have dealt with the issues of Guam has lead to political and social unrest.

Since the Chamorro uprising in 1900, there has been a cloud of descent hovering over the people of Guam. This despise for their colonial leaders is more prominent today than it ever has been. With the lack of policing the waters around the island, pirates have been able to heavily arm the native people of Guam with heavy artillery and automatic weapons. This unrest was most recently seen in a media-hidden riot two years ago.

Thirty members of the American military were struck down before we were able to stifle the violence. In all, about 300 people were killed. In the end, this has only added to the social unrest in Guam.

This claim should not be startling for Guam has a long history of social unrest. The Chamorro pirates once took the capital siege to install a totalitarian government. This was successful at first, but once our navy reached the Marianas Islands the few guns the people had were easily reduced. A law was passed in 2006 forbidding Chamarros of any age to own firearms. This has genuinely reduced the number of riots per year and the government fatalities have fallen tenfold.

The oranges and rubber that American ports in Guam are able to salvage is quickly shipped to the United States to be processed and sold in our form of choice. The oranges are often found on supermarket shelves in cans, under the guise of name brand produce. The rubber is mainly made in to roller blades, although when there are rubber shortages in other parts of the world tires are a popular substitute.

The shipping of small amounts of oranges and rubber is an utter waste of money. The costs of shipping from Guam are astronomical due to the lack of companies willing to send boats through the waters surrounding Guam. The resources would more safely be sent to China to be manufactured into useful products. They could then be shipped at minimal cost from China on the larger boats sent towards North America.

Finally, although the shipping crates are somewhat advanced, the goods are not always in good shape when they arrive in our ports. Guam is known for a strange yellow beetle that nests inside fruit while still on the tree. It does not change the shape, color or texture of the fruit it has invaded. They create dams in the holes they enter through, and the color of the hole blends with the fruit. They are unnoticed and free to lay their eggs and live in the fruit. They are relatively rare, but the infected fruit usually reaches American ports.

The beetles are separated from the majority of the fruit once they reach their destination. They quickly run out of juice within the orange and need to find a new host. This is usually the unknowing person who opens the infected fruit. At least one beetle will jump out and attach itself to a human. They quickly burrow into the skin of the victim. The beetles travel under the skin towards the face and once there they burrow through the eyes to the brain. Many food processors have died due to imported Guamese fruit. This must end if we want California to remain.

Guam is also a place of wide-open spaces and skies. That is why it may be better in the hands of an Asian nation, such as the Japanese. We own more than enough land. Our military is stretched thin. The budget should be better spent giving incompetent and retiring Navy veterans a pension instead of the salary they have for their illegitimate desk jobs. We need forces to protect us but an act like this fosters better relations with our friends in China. That is important in a small world like ours.


ലെറ്റര്‍ ആന്‍ഡ്‌ മ്യൂസിക്‌ contest

ഐ ഗോട്ട് എ ലെറ്റര്‍ അറ്റ്‌ മൈ യൌടുബെ. ഉസെര്നമേ ഈസ്‌ യ്നോര്ട്, ചെക്ക് ഫോര്‍ മുസികാല്‍ വിടെഒസ്.
പിഅണോ കന്റെസ്റ്റ്‌:
I noticed that you were a Piano fan and i wanted to message you and let you know we are having a competition on WekaStar.Com
which will be any song done by Piano .

We are looking for as many entries as we can possibly get, so if you would be interested in taking part or even just voting for the winner
of the competition please come onto WekaStar.Com and click Competitions at the top.

We have competitions everyday with the prize of a homepage feature for musicians.
WekaStar.Com also has some great new features that include ( Post Video To Homepage, Follow Update System, Lessons and Kollaborate )

Please check it out if your are a musician or interested in music as we feel you would really like the site.
If you really like the site then tell your friends, family and everyone you know as we could use the helping trying to get the site
known to all musicians everywhere. Mabye even blog about us? Or make a video?

You can also upload some lessons onto WekaStar.
Please come and check out

Best Regards,


തെരെ ഈസ്‌ ആള്‍സോ സോമെതിംഗ് സില്ലി അഫൂറ്റ്‌ വിത്ത്‌ മൈ ത്രില്‍ ഓഫ് ലെട്ടെര്സ്... ദേ അപ്പീര്‍ ടോ ബി രേപ്രേസേന്റെദ്‌ ഇന്‍ ബിഅനരി. ഐ ഡോ നോട നോ ബൈനറി മൈസെല്‍ഫ്‌.


He Stood With His Toy Truck

The small child stood in a daze, watching me drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. He remarked that his mother did not approve of smoking and that he thought it made me smell like a wrench. I told him that I was not his mother so we wouldn't have a problem.. He stood with a limp arm holding a toy dump tuck and another arm holding a juice box. It looked as if I told him the tooth fairy didn’t exist. I don’t think he had ever heard a reply quite like that.
“No, your not Mom,” he said, “Where is she? When is she coming back?” The sun was just falling behind the large fence in the back yard. I finished my cigarette and looked at him. “Your mother went to the mall with her sister, remember? She will be back soon. Until then we can find something to do.” The child laughed. It looked like he felt independent and old. I leaned against the railing and smiled.
“Well what do you want to do?” I asked the little man. I raised my cup to my lips and realized I was drinking the last of my coffee. I placed the cup down and the ring of grounds settled into a new moon shape. I spun my cigarette butt and said, “I have to go inside now, you coming?” The child jumped towards the door and opened it. We walked up the one step and into the apartment. I put the cigarette butt in the garbage and the child said, “That’s where it belongs to be.”
I remembered doing the same thing as a small child. I was an outspoken non-smoker as a child. My mother had asked me to think like that. Now, I barely remember not being a smoker. I am beginning to feel the harmful affects of my addiction. I hope the same fate doesn’t reach this child. Perhaps he will be brighter than I was. I should have listened to the folk who refused to buy them for me. Rules are there for a reason. I should know that by now.
It is evening now. Still I am staying alive with coffee and cigarettes. I place my empty cup on the counter and exhale. “Is that all you can breathe?” The child shouts. I am taken aback a little before saying, “I never inhaled.” He laughs and shouts, “Lets have a breathing contest. Whoever breathes biggest wins, smoker versus non-smoker.” I laugh and say, “Ok, but I have bigger lungs.”
We breathe deeply for a few seconds, and then the child laughs and says, “I win. I breathed deeper.” I agree, and look for more coffee in the pot, there is none. I click the pot of the burner and debate making more coffee. It is evening now, the child’s mother will be home soon, though she’ll have no need for it.
The child brings his truck to me. It is one of the yellow metal dump trucks we used to have in my sandbox. It is large, but not rusted like ours were. He places it in my hand and says, “This is you.” He then runs and grabs a red sports car. It was oversized, one of the kind you see on stands in the library of an auto mechanic. The stand is gone and the wheels spin freely, so we are about to race.
I ask the child, “Where is the course?” He says, “All the way around the outside of the room, then up on the couch and back through the coffee table. Then we do it once more.” And with that, the child is running, racing around the sides of the room with a car in hand. I chase after him and drive my dump truck barely able to catch him. He reaches through the legs of the coffee table in a professional manner and starts his second lap. I reach the table and get stuck. My large stature is in no way helping the cause. He reaches the outside wall and flies up the now banked corner.
I realize I am outmatched but continue to chase him in vain. He reaches the couch and his car jumps across to the coffee table. He waits for me to catch up, with a look of glee in his eye. As I am about to reach the couch he throws the car between the legs of the coffee table and bursts into laughter. The red sports car his the glass door between the kitchen and patio with a crack. I jump, but we were lucky, no damage.
The child walks over and grabs his car from the floor. I am breathing heavily and the child looks at me and laughs like a hyena. “See, you shouldn’t smoke. You can’t even drive a car without breathing heavily.” I catch my breath and say, “You make sure to remember that you told me that, and never start smoking. I only smoke because I started smoking and now I can’t stop. It’s a strange addiction.”
The child looks at me and asks, “What does addiction mean?” I explain to him it is when you don’t want to do something but you have to. It is because your body needs the chemical you are addicted to, you have grown attached to having it around. Because of this your body chemistry changes and you become dependant of the chemical. The child remains confused and says, “I’ll never have addiction.”
I tell him he should remember he told me that as well. “Do yourself a favor,” I say, “and never have an addiction.” I end the thought with the phrase, “Vices.” The child questions what the word vice means. “Vice,” I tell him, “Is when you know something is bad for you but you do it anyways, because you enjoy it. Like eating candy.” The child smiles and says, “Oh, I like vices.”
I stutter and say, “No, no, vices are usually addictions.” The child says, “Actually I have an addiction. My vice is candy. I’m addicted to it. And sometimes I need to have candy or I’ll die. Seriously.” I laugh and retrace my steps, explaining candy may not be a vice. I mention that vices are sort of like candy, in a way. I have always been and strong advocate for stimulants of all kinds. Maybe someday he’ll be a coffee and cigarettes kind of guy. They are always the best people.
I am swimming in this thought and he asks, “So cigarettes are like candy?” I fight the urge to chuckle and say, “No, cigarettes are a vice. Candy is just sugar.” He seems to understand, “But cigarettes make you feel like you ate candy? I like that feeling.” “No,” I reply. “That’s more like coffee. Cigarettes are like sucking on a tailpipe.” He laughs and asks, “Why do you do that then?”
I don’t know how to reply. I have no reason to smoke that I would want to tell a vulnerable child. I think I should be honest. I smoke because I enjoy every one I have. I smoke because I thought it looked cool in grade school. I smoke because my friends did, but they have come and gone and what I have left is a full ashtray. I smoke because I am unstable, because I need a crutch. I smoke because I cannot go a day without them. But I can’t tell a child that, I’m supposed to be a role model.
The reply I give him is stammered, “Because I’m addicted to it.” I begin to tell him about all the horrible things cigarettes do and he says, “I know, Mom told me that.” I then explain that cigarettes are not like candy because candy is rarely connected to any of results of lifelong cigarette addiction. He looks at me and says, “I don’t like vices.” I tell him I don’t like my vices either.
I ask him if he wants to go outside for a smoke, like an adult. This is partially because I think its funny asking a six year old to smoke with me and partially because all the talk of cigarettes made me think of having another. No more coffee with this one, I’ve decided. It is probably for the best. The sun has gone down and his mother will be home soon. Maybe she would like some coffee, I thought.
I cough and the child says, “Don’t smoke.” I am halfway out the door with a cigarette in my hand. I look at him. He looks as if he has been hurt. “You just finished telling me how those cause cancer and strokes.” I pull him outside and light the cigarette. I think about my vice. He is still talking, telling me all the things I told him about the horrors of tobacco use. I puff on the cigarette and exhale the white smoke.
“Is it true you cough up boogers if you smoke?” The child asks me. I clear my throat and state as clear as the day, “Its grosser than that.” The child squirms and asks me to clarify. “They are like big, gray boogers.” He laughs. “Except they are wet and sticky. They fly out of your mouth and cover your hands.” He screams in disgust and asks, “Why do you smoke then?”
I don’t know how to answer his question.
I take a drag from the cigarette and say, “Ok, you are a smart kid, right?” He says quickly that he is. I explain the chemical I am addicted to in the smoke is called nicotine. I tell him that my brain cannot bridge a gap in my daily life without nicotine, now that I have tried it. I explain that when I was only a few years older than him I tried smoking and thought it would make me cool. I explain that once I had made a conscious decision to begin smoking I lost the ability to not smoke.
He pretends to understand me but I knew he couldn’t. I dock the cigarette at the halfway mark and tell him I shouldn’t be smoking around him. What would his mother say? He claims she wouldn’t mind and she would be happy that he is learning new things. He tells me they told him that once in school so it must be true. I open the pack and find I only have one and a half cigarettes left.
The child walks into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. I try to open it and find he has locked it. I hear him say there are no smokers allowed inside the house. I knock on the door and ask him nicely to open it. He laughs and runs across the room. He jumps on the couch and starts bouncing, laughing. I knock on the glass and he jumps from one cushion to the next. He falls on the armrest and rolls onto the floor. I knock on the glass one more time.
I am helpless and out of ideas. There is no other way I can get in to the room. I struggle for a moment but am saved quickly as his mother and aunt walk into the room. She laughs and shouts his name, unlocking the door and letting me in. She is laughing and asks me, “How long have you been out there?” I smile and tell her it was just briefly. She scolds the child and sends him to bed, telling me it has passed his bedtime.
She tucks him in and comes back from the hall. I am sitting with her sister talking about our mutual friends. She sits next to me and laughs. “Kids,” she says. I tell her she has a smart kid, a good conversationalist. She smiles and says, “Isn’t he just a big bundle of love?”
I look at her and ask, “He doesn’t know you smoke?”
She laughs.
“I have a half a smoke here,” I say, “Shall we?”


viewpoint of a short circuited iron

“Iron!” The cats growled. They were hungry, mangy and matted. They fought amongst themselves as I sat resting against a brick with the bottom half of a broom and two thirds of a rake. “I have no food,” I said, “I don’t look for it like you.” The tomcat cursed at me, “No, Iron, tell our kittens your story, would you please?” I looked at the tomcat, a cat that would rarely speak nicely to anyone. “Well, you did ask like that,” I said. With this, I began with a shout.

“Criminal!” She screamed towards the closed door. She seemed to over-react, I thought. I was dropped on the cloth-covered table and she stomped towards the only entryway. I sat and glanced out the window seeing a picturesque winter evening. The snow fell lightly towards the white world. There was a layer of frost from the fog that morning and the window was beginning to trace tiny fractals of ice up the panes. She opened the door and stood looking at a large man with a beard.

She looked him up and down and he asked, “Why the scream, dear?” She smiled and touched his arm, “The damned iron just short circuited.” He laughed, smiling at the reaction of his loving wife and asked, “But your OK, no shock?” She looked him straight in the eye. “I may need a new one, I suppose. Throw it in the trash with the rest, the truck comes tomorrow.” He walked into the room and lifted me up by my old black handle. He brought me downstairs and through their house to the garage. He lifted the lid of the trash bin and set me on top.

I sat in that bin all night in the dark. I sat and thought of better days, when I had worked perfectly. Why couldn’t they repair me? No use, I thought. It was simply time to replace me. I’m sure if you asked them they could list reasons why a new iron would be a much better way to spend their money. I’m sure the price of a repair on a seven-year-old iron like myself is not equal to my worth. Money better spent on one of the new irons, with all the unnecessary dials and that.

The bin was pulled out to the end of the driveway on a busy street the next morning. The vehicles moved past the house carefully as it was very cold and the road had a layer of ice on it. Quite quickly after I had arrived at the street a large truck came and stopped next to the corner. I heard the bins next to me emptied into the side of the truck. The man then grabbed my bin. He pulled the lid off and poured the contents into truck. I sat surrounded by wrappers with an old coffeepot to my left.

The coffeepot looked at me. I looked at the coffeepot. After a few exchanged glances and a moment of silence the coffeepot smiled and extended his handle. “Jake’s my name,” he said in a friendly manner. I looked at him and realized I didn’t have a name. I couldn’t think of a response for Jake. I knew I had to respond with something. “Is it your time too?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.

Jake laughed. “I suppose it may be. My people left the burner on over a weekend and I cracked myself up the backside. I can’t tell you were my other half is. I’m trying not to think about that. Why you in here?” I told Jake, “I’m not fully sure. I was working fine one minute and the next there was a large spark of light, some fuzzy noises and I just quit. I’m not a doctor, I’m an iron.” Jake smiled, “Seems like a short-circuit. It’s a waste to throw a perfectly good appliance out like this.”

“I wish I could have argued,” I said. I felt hopeless and I’m sure Jake had picked up on that. “I got a plan, stranger. It’ll get us out of this place. You’ve heard of where we are headed, right. It is where the crows rule. They are worse than the humans. Crows and big mean old ranked metal irons, cast-iron coffeepots, all that. When appliances get there, well, sir, there ain’t no coming back.” I nodded, “I’ve heard of that place too, I was afraid we were headed there.” “Yes, sir. It is where we are going, but I have a plan.”

He pulled out a wrapper with a map sketched on it. “All we need to do, and I’m saying all we need to do, is get out of this truck.” I looked at him and asked, “How do we do that?” He laughed and started climbing, reaching towards the light with his handle. I sat for a second and began to pull myself towards Jake. We climbed and climbed, missing four stops. At the fifth stop we were near the top. I started to jump and Jake grabbed me, “No, you can’t jump while we are stopped! They’ll just throw us back in, I’ve seen it before, son.”

The truck began to move, so I jumped off the side. My power cable was ripped from my body. A sharp pain tore through my side. I looked up and saw it hanging off the side of the truck. Jake came tumbling soon after. The hatch was lifting but we made it past the side. I hit the ground with a thud. I stood up and dusted myself off and looked around. Jake fell slightly to my left and hit the ground and simply shattered. It may have been the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen near this alley. His glass was in pieces and only his handle and brim remained. He waved at me, “At least I tried to live…” He said, and faded off.

I was on the street, so I climbed to the sidewalk. I jutted through unnoticing passersby. Dancing through their legs I reach the side of a building. I pulled up tight to the building knowing that I had to run or be found. I ran down the block and found a nice alley. It was this alley, to be sure and that is why I have never left. I walked slowly down the middle, glancing with horror and deep thankfulness at the garbage bins to either side. I tried to yell to those inside, “Jump out! When you are there, jump out!” They would understand soon enough.

I kept walking and looking above me, the building drove high into the sky. It was like nothing I had ever seen. Snow covered the ground and began to fall from the sky. I pulled my tired body into a corner and sat silently for a while. The snow began to cover my metal surface and the plastic became very cold. I shivered and reached for a small wrapper to cover myself up with. I had been sitting in this position for a very long time when I heard a rat coming at me from my left.

The rat tapped me on the shoulder and startled me. I swung at him and he jumped back. The rat paused and snarled. He looked me dead in the eyes and said “Look, pal you need to listen to me quick-like. This is my area, back up little broken kid.” I looked him in the eye and said, “I want no trouble, I just jumped for my life from a truck and I’m just looking for a place to sit for a minute.” The rat stated flatly, “This isn’t it, keep moving.” I rose and pulled the wrapper off me. I moved down the alley and the rat laughed.

I moved further down the cold alley, passing more garbage bins and eventually finding a nice cinderblock. I climbed atop it and sat down once again. I needed to make a plan. I had nowhere to go and it was the dead of winter, I was cold and would die if it were possible. I had heard of hypothermia and was afraid I would catch my death of a cold. This thought was stifled by the realization that I had no real body. I felt a bit safer in my condition.

I sat atop that cinderblock all night, keeping vigilant watch for the rats and things that would cause me trouble. I had nothing of value and was truly useless, as my cord had been ripped off in the garbage truck. It was painful but I was glad it would not hinder my journey. The next morning two rats being chased out of a doorway by a small Chinese man woke me from my slumber. I was covered with a thin layer of snow and a wrapper I used to stay warm. The Chinese man glanced at me and walked towards the cider block. He brushed the snow off me and picked me up.

He examined me for a while and noted I was of no use, not because he knew I had short-circuited but because he noticed I had no power cord. He placed me back on the cinder block and left me there. I brushed the rest of the snow off the top of the surface as soon as he turned his back. He walked inside the doorway and shut the door with a thud. I climbed off the cinder block and began to briskly move back towards the other end of the alley.

I hadn’t made it far when I was approached by one of the rats that were shooed out of the Chinese man’s doorway. The rat came to me and I was noticeable scared. He looked at me and said, “Hey man, don’t worry. We’re all in this together, right.” I said to him, “Look man, I’ll keep moving if this is your territory.” “No man, look, it’s like I said before. Here, have some bread.” I took the small piece from the rat and tried to find a way to eat it. I couldn’t find the hole that he had to chew with.

He looked at me and said, “Oh, you aren’t a being like us, are you? One of them inanimate objects, hey? I know just the place you’ve got to go. Give me that bread back.” I handed him the piece of bread and he motioned for me to move down the alley with him. “I have your back, kid. Remember to be careful. This is the gritty street, down on this level. I wish one day to be one of them big things, you know that sort. We all live off their leavings. Like that guy chasing me out of his building. One of them.” I laughed, “Yeah, I know the type.”

We walked quite a while making very little conversation and he ate both pieces of his bread. I looked around and saw the alley did not change at all. Another dumpster was usually followed by a few cinder blocks. Once in a while there was on old plastic chair. The rat stopped by one of these chairs and reached in to a large metal pot and grabbed a handful of cigarette butts. He lit these with a large orange lighter he had hidden behind the landing near the chair. “Ever try these, man?” He asked as he smoked the butt. I said to him, “I don’t have a hole to do that either, I don’t think. You’re using the same one.”

The rat smoked his cigarette and laughed to himself. “I love this stuff, makes me feel like a big man. They say it stunts your growth though. I say it adds to the growth of you personality. Your voice changes, becomes older sounding. Like a cool, refreshing hit of this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but the French have a word for that.” He put the end of the cigarette out in the snow and we marched on again.

After a few more bricks and cinder blocks we arrived at a large hole in the wall. There was a board over it, but a gap in the board was just large enough for a broken old iron like myself to fit through. It was dark inside and kind of murky. The damp was nice; it was much warmer than being cold and wet in the snow. We traveled briskly down the tight corridor. The rat would turn every few steps to see if I was still behind him. He glanced and acted surprised nearly every time I was still behind him.

He stopped and moved a board to the side. There was a light behind it. “Here it is, partner.” The rat told me, “End of my line.” I was not sure where he had brought me but thanked him for it. He replied “A good deed a day seems to help keep me fed.” I thanked him again and he scurried down the path the way we came. I glanced into the light and saw little. I moved the board and slid through.

A calculator greeted me. He was missing three buttons on the number pad and the screen had been scratched rather badly. He bumped into me and apologized. “Who is this here?” he asked. I spoke softly, “I’m just an old beaten iron, trying to find a new lease on life.” He moved towards a desk lamp, grabbed his body and asked, “Who is that?” The lamp looked at me and said to the calculator, “I ain’t ever seen this cat. Who are you?” I was ready for some questioning so replied softly again, “I’m just an old beaten iron.” The lamp looked at me and said, “Look, Ernie here, with the numbers, he’s good at math but rather blind. Me, David, I hold the light, still. I’m just always on. You can’t try to turn my light off. Its been done. My bulb is burnt, but I feel it. I’m sure you do too. You, Iron, you must have something right.”

“I don’t know,” I said to the lamp, “I jumped from a truck, they sent me away because I was broken.” “Just like the rest of us, nearly all of us anyway,” the lamp said. The calculator said to me quickly, “Look you got something in you. You are here now. That means you have a certain joy of life. A thirst for adventure, right?”

I looked at the broken old tools in the room. There were many, including an old chess set they seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, a small TV that was missing both dials and was telling a group of dishes a story and a bottom of a rake that was found rather recently with his friend a bent up old metal dustpan. “Well,” I told the calculator, “I think I may have found the place I was looking for.” The lamp joyously bounced up and down, “That’s the spirit! Welcome to our home.”

I stayed at their shelter for the winter and made many friends there with rather similar stories. Many of the beat-up appliances were just trying to avoid the dump like myself. I shared the story of Jake the coffeepot with the friends I made and they claimed not many glass-based products make it out in the gritty world there is. They were not surprised he broke on impact with the cement. It seemed a common tale around these parts. The products were all making use of their existences after they were discarded, and they were all very happy to not be fighting the fight at the junkyards we had heard about through myths. It seemed everyone here was in this act together and at some point we would all have to move on.

In the spring, when the snow melted we all moved briefly outside. This move was brought to an abrupt end when fellows from inside, some bigger items, were thrown back into dumpsters one night. We became scared and now, as we all finally know better we only come outside during the day. This world is an uncertain one, we never know who may be thrown back in a dumpster and brought to the wrecking yard.

This warning is not for you, children. We are not the same beings. The worst you can fear is a fight with other cats or maybe staying off the road. The humans care for what they call “living things.” If the humans find you, they take you and feed you. They cuddle and try and help you. In our world they try to destroy us. Sending us to a lot outside humanity where we are pushed and buried amongst each other. I have heard tales of irons and such coming back from there. It is a horrid existence still. Feel lucky you are a cat. You can run and jump and play. Your shape does not hinder you. You are free to do much more than us. You all are lucky to be cats. Myself, I am an iron.


the conclusion of - We have to be here, So this city is a Pyramid somewhere

That poor man laughed at him and the minds of former men who watched his horrid dreams and racial slurs. It was a sort of strange belief in his entitlement to your rent money. He was such a strong boy. The name his girlfriend spoke wasn’t the one that took those worlds to their old watershed.

It didn’t need to make a statement.

It just needed to face these opening words.

He found the need to share these words, so he had. The modern dilemma is a mindscape scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and truth in scientific study. And they will take lives from people speaking lively in peculiar situations. So that poor old, handsome liar, he had never wanted to see this life.

And you think what is best is to walk to your sister’s and talk.

When you knock on the door her little girl ran and shouted she was getting it. This was a vibrant afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by the trees that lined her stone tile walk shaking in the wind. Otherwise things were soft and calm that day at the house and the nine year old shouted, “Uncle Raine! Is Diana here?”

“No,” you reply softly, “I need to talk to your mother.”

You step into the house and sister comes around the corner moving quickly to the open door. She greets you politely.

The woman stands as a silhouette. Her forward leg is bent at the knee and high in the air in front of a bright white lights flashing behind her. The surrounding yard shines in patterns developed by her motions.

You smile at her, “I’m losing it, sis. I need to settle in.”

She takes a step down the stairs and asks her daughter to move inside. Your niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban home.

“Talk to me, Stanly,” she says.

Your sister used to always call you Stanly. It came from a game that you would play together, the one that needed those silly hats for when you sat in the cardboard boxes. She kept that inside until later and began to call you that again at twenty. It made you feel good. You felt loved. But she pushed in aside again by the time she was twenty because she made bar friends.

This is the first time in ten years she has called you that.

“See, dear Sister of mine,” You begin, “It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced by outside forces. These are those who meet men of former glory. If men of words and men of action are taken towards in separate and distinct directions that hold the same final result, than the only man of face who really exists is the Creator. The one that the Gods claim is their God. The one that hides so far behind a tree that you can only see layers of the beings followers. They guard you as they show you that the true God is behind them. And you know to trust these entities. But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The other that left us open, man. That one.”

Your sister listens intently and asks you inside. You politely decline. So she wishes you a good night. You wish her a good night. You wave at her little girl who runs towards you and gives you a deep hug. You wish her goodnight telling her your daughter will stop by soon. You make the best smile you can and walk down the block. The road is facing the end of summer now. There is only one word to feed this hymn. You begin to think of the benefits of bureaucracy. You feel safe because there are one million people between you and the man who made the law.