... what i have been trying to write. now i can move on.

It began as a pivot point. It was a dichotomy that I could not get away from.
I want to be writer and that thought places it out of my reach.

These words are not motives but I cannot grasp why I have trouble with them. I wanted nobodies help, but I needed an agent. Yet I only wrote a couple of pages a week. I told myself that I was famous and loud. I convinced myself that I was making a difference.
And then the Doctors told me I was. It was like finding out that a joke is a lie.

Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days go faster and one has to grab tight just to catch up. This was the issue with my role in show business. I hadn’t toured nor played shows.
It was a simple metaphor and I motioned towards some grassy plain that led me home.
The trick was to find what was necessary.

So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working life up until this point.
I am happy. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an acclaimed writer and musician and sometimes I take that to me I am a crime-solving Norse Devil requested who invented the clock. You know, some gonzo journalist of manic non-fiction.

But this is schizophrenia. Thus I took part in creating a man of limitless creative fodder.
I needed to be sent forward in a Martian landscape. I needed to try something new. That was my state of mania.

Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City, although I would have floated around asking some questions and I may have been eaten alive. This small town has continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young and still relevant.

At 25, I get lost and depressed because I have not impacted the world in a positive way.
When payday comes around I wonder why it is I stay at this God forsaken coffee shop with manic friends exclaiming the invisible is to be trusted and those teachers at the psych ward are not.

In my mind, I am not successful. These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols that I leave on stages. These symbols are not seen, though when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So the forces tell me I am successful at written words and music. I feel it is hard to write for nobody.

So it begs the question: Why do I act the way I do?

This is hard to answer because I cannot always be sure of how I am acting. I have a tendency to attribute traits to people and this reflects my affliction. I become embarrassed when I need to rescind these ideas. They are reflections of what I am doing at the time. This is sometimes a good thing because I create epic landscapes under the guise of someone I am not. The truth is I remain who I want to be.

But to be fair, I am not anyone special. I did not have puppets working for cameras as I took three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing around raising money for legal defense and charity with every intention in the world to save humanity.

I don’t know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job with him again.

So I played music instead. I fought impulses to drink because I knew that I was the only fool that could see that in me. But I told myself that I wanted to be a hero. I was not lazy. I wrote and played music all day. It became the woe of man. I had nothing that did not seem unreliable or partially faked. And I wanted to write, but I didn’t.

It began like this, but in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually crassly shouted at the innocent. Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight back? Why do I allow these thieves into my space in the first place?

I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence cannot be found by paraphrasing greater writers than me.
A wise man says, “He who does not imitate does not create.”

So I light another cigarette and wonder why I am happy with my accomplishments.

The silver lining on these clouds is apparent when I realize that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now. My goals have been met and I have reasons for stubbornly hoping that I am credited in my own time for my artistic work. They say that even Pablo Picasso needed to burn his own paintings to keep warm. I have no right to complain because I have everything I need.

But I jest because this topic warrants strange impulses towards a backlit porch I imagine. Unclear anarchy is not what I want to be remembered for.

The misplaced memories were self-induced thoughts that made this change of wind in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as important as inventing the clock. Is this my lack of hard work or do I not think highly enough of myself? Am I making a difference?

Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is life after death and you are on the latter’s side. You still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are still sitting in the old world.

These works are not at issue now and I am glad that I have practiced my trade so much. I know that people do not need to read the ramblings of a loon unless he is claiming to be someone special. When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have, the inner trials of my long running and untreated schizophrenia, or the workings of my subconscious I soon repent and claim that I am not interesting and nobody cares.

But someone is reading it. And they will recall me as a hero of lighted strange paths who can help them through troubles by being insightful and leaving a trail of paper in the past. Have I done lots of writing about strange hands that lead with a loaded discussion? Or am I the turbulent man who said something that needed to be recorded with strange valor?

I am nothing but a Signal Hill reject and a member of Fancy or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The answer is that eternal questions should be thought about on Sunday and the rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone. I cannot be sure where I would be without my manias and it is best not to look.

I wish that I knew that I was some certain relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke. It is a classic example: I am writing over these words in my mind because I think I’d be better off. And I have no right to complain because I am able to do this somehow.

But I was painting a church, not on television.
And what did I do to be murdered on stage?

These are delusions that I have gained critical acclaim and lost jobs for.
These words are lines that leave a simple platform. They mark my working life. I am a diligent worker. I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these edited lines that are marked and taken out.

If these poetic little pieces of nonsense are motions of old hearts somewhere then perhaps I am better for it. I am unsure if schizophrenia is a curse or a blessing. There are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many reasons to write and play music.

Sometimes I think that I should just pick one of my hobbies and make it my vocation. And other times I think that I have.

a nice long hot bath

I do not do this. The not don’t take them. The mindful ninja always learns from battle. I said to the servant. The name of the servant was Rico. He had silverware in his pocket. The guest was a boring and alternative person. The needle was just a palace location and mortar was fired in stable old low draft rooms with white curtains. The normal is breached and they find themselves standing knee deep in water.

So I summon a Saint. I believe this is okay because the leaders of the home world were easy to please. All one had to do was sit and talk. Everyone else was famous. The others were replaced as Motorhead on CBC. I am not Lemmy from Motorhead. I never have claimed to be. The partial token was resourceful and I strode tall into the room. The needles have taken their tole.

The residence was submitted as a partial consequential pass or play towards their ulcers. It was good to sit and think about the move I am to make. I decided to say null. This does as much as it could until they pressured me. I hadn’t learned more than the water said or the jesters took toil and woe for their mortar. The clay that marked the sidewalk. That is all she said.

So did the master serve his fireball? No not in that world. Stay away from liars and thieves because the master said nothing. "Former detergent salesman,” I said, passing the chips. Tomorrow we have the different disaster. The soldiers marching will be a nice sound. The drummer is meant to play his song.

They called massive tank towards the mighty syndrome of social norms. The never and fitting drafted doorman was a social code of haunted and symbiotic desires. The leader held the whole world up for the rafts and drafts are haunting my psyche. I am afraid of these people. They step in and walk all over me.

The way the seconds tick I’m fucking up the preamp. It is the way the mountains crash into the sea. I phone in much hostile waistcoat freedom and his mental way.
He chose to smoke weed every day so his mind was littered with lies. He told himself that they could be sovereign and knew the little marks on paper.

They suggested he was king. He did not read the paper. He settled in like an average monk and pulled his hair out. It was long and when it came down he roped braids and told of men satyrs and illusions. These divorced his social normalcy. The credited are Mormon missionaries who invested a lot in fear of an outsider. He lived in a grand world that settled on his pin that God wanted him to be a Good Man.

He recited a statement that served his own papers or settled a servitude and faith with the lord. He chose to take a trembling hand that was scared and not used to what the leader was doing. This caused revolt amongst his people.

And all I writer can do is settle in to a very nice long hot bath.

new post 1

The lighter was a morning man who wandered. He lit it with a blow of fame and white jacket. He felt funny and good. There was something about God in the air. The license was written in peaceable pen. He took the license. They played in jam band so it was ok.

So he walked out of the store, lit a cigarette and wandered out the morning light. The space between them knew as if hind manic thoughts obliged him. This was a fantasy and he knew that it was calm. This is the shape of his room because the study of linden labs was an octagon. The zebra destroys.

Killer magnet of wonder said, “Decide what you’ve got to do.”

The move was a fast one, so a writer transposed, Heuy Lewis and the News were formed in 1979. Huey Lewis, Chris Hayes, Mario Cipollina, Bill Gibson, Sean Hopper, and Johnny Colla were on stage. Lewis remained as an actor in movies. The next reading of The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll is of Jerry Lee Lewis. After that comes Linda Lewis. Then there is Ramsey Lewis. After that we have Smiley Lewis.

Then without warning we have Gordon Lightfoot.
Gordon Lightfoot was born November 17, 1938 in Orillia, Ontario, Canada.
The next act is Lindisfrarne. This is an odd trace. And I wonder why I cannot make it in a world. I should be a person able to glance at the living but I wonder why I cannot make it in and stubborn world. It is because I don’t tour regularly. I don’t want to. So I choose to be remembered as an entertainer.

Perhaps my music will be nice. I hear voices. I have to rely on the teachers of mental health in Penticton. My mistake is thinking that people won’t even know me because I am on stage. I sometimes begin to believe I am acting in television shows and dancing around saving souls or perhaps damning my own. It was a strange thing that began as a curse. I had a curse because the leader of homeland security were appearing invisible to me. They jabbed me with needles and I cried as I acting as if I was Frank Zappa.

This was my last stay at the psych ward. I have needed to be heavily medicated three times and all three were marked with invisible people who told me I was famous. I had invented some device when I was five that led to me as Sir Jester of Buckingham fame. I ride on helicopters and dance with glee. Then I do peyote and drugs, but I don’t. These odd delusions haunt me for three months every year.

I feel like tobacco is pot and that I am allowed to smoke legally. All my mistakes and misfortunes are blessings and I attribute that the people were in some high section of show business and I tear at the eye because something happens with my pain and I begin to believe that the television show is real. There are puppets and cameras.

And it happens every year around the same time.
But God saves me with blessings as I turn towards these friends at Mental Health. If something is wrong it is because I should not tour. I should write. I can’t complain. The CBC is discussing Schizophrenia so I should be writing and typing and not standing over the sink washing dishes and thinking there are people that are standing their with cameras or that people can hear the voices in my head. People with schizophrenia should hang out with other people. I think that schizophrenia is about believing that the ailments technical name has a T when it is spelled.

I have little monsters lacking their own sort of fame. I have nothing but a promise that these little grey men are coming into my space and telling me it is the CIA. The story of possible genetic romance was the detail of phonetic space. This recent episode I was invited to visit the queen without the pope. It was a party that I was playing in my band, some wedding of distinguished princes. I was unsure which one it was.

I was dancing around a church being video taped. I was asked not to paint another church because the insight was a lie. And only the cool would have survived. It would be a strange test. Our hero thought for a lark. Do you believe in Dick Cheney? Did someone really go into show business doing that and dressed with such a name? It was a strange thing. Those who did not find our hero cool would be punished. This was a simple goal that this man possessed with the marched and held men who based riots and refined the old Sigmund Freud research that changed my life and I did not hold on to.

This man was marching all over me. He was paradise and savior to very large groups of people holding guns and in fear over alkaline simplicity. The monsters of Christian Rock spoke out against their wars. They were banned from lots of shows and they were told to be because every man is fabled to be able to be President. And if a man works hard enough to impress the right people to become the President then he motioned that the shelter broke borders and some people have it better in life. It is a disaster of life that I don’t know or really understand. But the fable is that anyone can become a world leader in democracy. I suppose that is true. You just have to start with municipal elections. It is the conquest of your acceptance by people socially in mentality.

new post 2

The key to being cool, Dick Cheney Figured, was to be a little badass. And a philosopher said, “I think therefore I am.” That thought was first studied under Descartes.
I believe, as liars and saints
That we the people
Only have eyes for you
I am a product of my television and that is why Coca-Cola is a product for me.
I also believe that the only reason I took street drugs was because people I figured worked for the Government prescribed my medication for a fright I had one year. I considered that I was much older and I needed to take the American Presidents soul. It was odd because it was as if God was telling me that was what I needed to do for the world. I remember believing in these odd and epic dreams that included rushing over in a dream to help with people at 9/11. One was in a post-apocalyptic New York City and it felt like I had a mission to find my wife. When I found her she was old and happy with her life. The memory suggests that I also found my brother and I remember the ending like an odd statement. I was flying a rocket ship and there was a woman with a gun. She was singing an old French song when she committed suicide.

Then I denied for a number of years that I had mental illness. There was an odd event in the past was a lie. This is more for myself than anyone. The childhood marked with odd minds of haunting and direct flight. The water marked social circles stated their name.

The results were on fire. There was nobody standing there and the whole world of light.
I had no sandals. This was because I did not work. I was scared and the whole world took his statement as a mark but I was of the belief of the chemicals that made a man write and the many old writers and painters who partook in Absinthe and the tree of life. These men were my heroes and I took the prescription. I slept until I noticed I hadn’t a friend in the world. This was a shame because I still had only three people I really encountered. Street drugs were available and I took them because I thought the people that were on them were on them for the same reasons as me. Genuinely they were not. Not at that point in my life. I was an unsung hero, writing work of the curse of the Christ complex. That witch had cursed me. Why do they fight in my head?

The story on CBC is of a jazz musician. He is schizophrenic and is speaking of the demons in his head. I fear that I have become like that rather cautiously, though I write of it often. So I should transpose some advice I was given, “They say wisdom comes with age, but fortunately Beavis and Butt-head don’t grow any older.” Hume says that “Errors in religion are dangerous, those in philosophy only ridiculous.”

Immanuel Kant, from Germany, says, “ Two things fill my mind with ever increasing wonder and awe, the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” This says he was a man who lived his life in a precise routine. Also from Germany came Hegel. He believed that “All knowledge is human knowledge.”

Communications is the study of how meaning is made in a range of contexts.
So I should go back to school. The best way to get by as a writer is to get a full time position in a community of writers. These courses will teach me how to do this. The women that want to help me will because that is what they want to do with their time.

I have done so much wrong that I have luck in my life. This is no serious command of time, just as most of these phrases can be dissertated. The balance of the universe is apparent it many forms. This is just one of those balances. If one tries to explain that every force has an equal and opposite reaction then I assume that most of what is sent will pause and laugh for a moment. That is not to say that the dissertation is depressing but to consider that the typing in this room is creating waves on the other side of the ocean, or at least my movement is like all movement and is a part of the commune that this magnet that we live on should be. We all influence the world in everything we do. The question I am faced with is karmic in nature. Do I draw people towards my space with my actions? This opens this debate to the metaphysical.

new post 3

It is better than “Why am I here?” Plato asked, “Is there a perfect world?” because this one is not it. This may be a divine world in many ways because there is this balance in the universe. But in schizophrenic states I have began to fear my actions. I do not want my success to be someone’s misfortune. Is that why the Christian church call all people sinners? I know that the best way for good fortune is to truly deserve it.
But that is a belief.
But so is science. That reflection suggests that there is not a grand unified theory of everything. That explains that human consciousness is a reflection of the world around the subject and vice versa. This could suggest that people should have assumed karmic principles over the eons. It would be scientifically valid for these ideas to have been considered even if the rigid scientific brain may not agree.

The mark is see is on my own skin. These thoughts can be confusing. It is best not to try to explain this is just a reflection of my own world.

The return of Ed. The man from the toaster video said to some nice children that grew to become well-adjusted adults. I imagine that all these signs are shows of people that have men and women in shackles or between their soft heavenly existence like myself. I will wonder one day why a good man like me is in a world that is tormented and bullet filled. I am sure, but that is because I believe in the eternal soul and the balance of my own personality. I am trying to love this peaceful world I inhabit while it is here because one day I will assume the balance and create something like I have in the past. The pain of such a world creates great art. Sometimes the dichotomy is necessary because the eternal wise older spirits learn the balance in them, so that we could become a mortal man they haunt us with threats. I do not believe that good actions lead to peaceful worlds. The balance does not let a human remain altruistic. I hurt my own psyche angry because I was not able to be so. The toast was better than the noodles that I ate. I was happy to eat the food and made sure to be thankful for the blessings I have. Life is a struggle and when it is too good the balance makes it difficult to understand why nobody can relate. This is like my teenage years. I needed to learn and build character, I assume. That is why I believe in the balance and intelligence of the universe.

Man is the problem because we are not divine. We strive for it but fall short and tell ourselves that other men are there to be happy. These other people who can explain the divine to us. There are artists that we raise high above us as people that are better at the things we want to do. That is the thing they do. The Gods did not do that, man did. And that is humanity at our finest. The better air is that only some people share mission or faith of that Lord that made decrepit people doing horrible things.

It is a wonder we can speak at all. What is different about man and animal? And what of the agreement that is the sound of the word animal?

It is better to leave this page here with the smarter mortal who led a lie.
He is often smarter.

Life is fleeting as you count sixteen gold skulls is another mans book and claim that you wrote it. It is the connection between cigarettes and mania. Covering up that it’s harming your body may create delusions. So I wonder whether all those who smoke are crazy or if all those that are crazy choose to smoke.

And these are my bold paragraphs.
So I wonder aloud who I am as a writer.

It is possible that I died and chose not to accept it. I lived a wonderful life in a town called Summerland and I can think of nothing but hard times before it. But what is it that I am trying to say. A pseudonym like Hector from Jabberwocky doesn’t really ring bells with people in Whitby, sir. That is what the postman said. These are all just delusion of the highest order. Pay attention to your shipments. Keep yours bases covered.

But covering your tracks hoping that someone loved me in a past life is sheltered and blue of me. I can’t take time for myself anymore; I can’t find the words to pass me through these bland old bus shelters. I have tried for years to be someone that people like to pass through for humor or strange insights. I need more characteristics. It seems any of the readers are laughing for these are the rambling trails of a schizophrenic. I find that sharing my thoughts with people seems to sooth them.

I need to find shelter from my internal storms as they are all self inflicted. A much cooler man would have shared a harrowing journey, cats that jump and bounce and play for some, that would have been better. But I am the kind of guy that writes an entire book and waits too long to rewrite it. A true writer needs to be watched. He also needs something besides his own internal wars to talk about.

The key is to leave this train of thought. I am not that interesting. It has been 10 years since the day I decided that I would be a smoker. In that time I have told myself many things but capped the moment off with the lie that smoking cigarettes really isn’t that bad for me. Since I started this action my days have been rife with far more ups and downs than most. Is this my own chemical imbalance? I wonder if it truly had cropped up since my infatuation with tobacco began.

I don’t remember these nervous rickets before then.

My smoking has made me outside the general community as I nervously try to decide where my next pack is coming from. But these are my own social rules and I admit I create the world I live in. This world is rather good, but one might add that the expense of buying these smokes far outweighs any benefit to smoking. So I tell myself that I should quit. But I don’t.

This procrastination stinks with the other ideas that I cannot change my habits. These ideas stay with me from day to day, creating a foul air about me. It may be the very chemicals in the cigarettes. I think it is the denial. It is best to say that if I truly wanted to quit smoking I would. So do I like the habit? No, I want to quit.
And this mania that I stay in seems to have began with that phrase.

I am a stubborn old kook, level headed at most occasions and for ten years found with a coffee and cigarette. I am twenty-five years old and only began smoking at age fifteen. It was a thing to do to make me cooler. This didn’t work. I feel that it is a habit that reminds me of both good and bad things, mostly of wasted youth and primal triumph.

I have been diagnosed schizophrenic since the age 15 as well when I started to find that I was having delusions of grandeur and mashed nonsense. I thought things were coming to an end for a bit, but it seemed to balance out finally one time with a cigarette.
Once I remember thinking that we were finally one, the cigarette and I. Making time to practice every day for a year I could finally claim to puff like the rest of them.

This was bad planning on my part, but I think the best thing to do is allow extra words in drafts now. Because the best things in life are free but the rest of the world needs to earn their own money. The delusion that sings now is the one that you are simply an old man compared to your crafty youth. A twelve year old me would have never thought that I would be here.

For some reason I am trapped in a thought and can’t get out of it. This is because of non-compliance with reason and a dream that you were wouldn’t you. The grandeur in the statement is off. It seems true. The question remains, does smoking make one simply delusional or do the delusional simply smoke more frequently?

And there is a societal gap, too. “So what have you done?” She asks, “What is your occupation?” I have little to reply except, “I am a smoker.”

saving grace

The saving grace and all the other instances that led to this peculiar definition.

I am unsure of the others. The dilemma is to just write fast enough to edit using the spell check that let me in the first time. Otherwise it is just pants less drama.

I have been a person without medication and acting like a loon for about five years now. I refused to accept that there was anything wrong. When I finally decided to ask, for the most part they told me the answers that I wanted to hear. It was a strange vacation that led me to their care. I am very glad those people were there to pull me out of the haunted building that caused my quick and immediate demise. That was worst-case scenario.

The best case was that I had worked vigilantly to create a body of work that I could be proud of and I was speaking to people who were not there. This happened again last night. I remember ranting and raving for the last few years mindlessly, bridging the psyche’s gap for myself and then acting in silly and stupid funny ways. Sometimes my art was tremendous, but to the real of my friends I was acting like a fifteen year old who began to live at twenty-five and began to beg for my saving grace.

A saving grace is one of those complex ideas that mark the path that anyone takes in light and happy sovereignty. My saving grace has always been music. And this mania has led to a very good place where I realize that I should listen to the doctors. When I had been up for a week talking about those strange things like AIDS has been made in a lab and our shadowy rulers being anyone but the trees or the whims of the great magnet it was me in a manic state.

Our shadowy rulers are the mountains and the trees because we have the free will to listen or not to any manic man who had been radio before his fuzzy state. I hope those that read and listened to my manic and rude musings about such cruel things as the home that Richard Channing destroyed while being scared to be gay will realize that I am just telling lies on stage. It is what I do.

I have imagined our leader to be some cruel nemesis mostly because he has decided that he should wield power over me. This is common. So just as he had told us that we are not committing war crimes I should add that I look at the world differently than most. The doctors have proclaimed that I look at the work I have done wrong. I honestly didn’t think anyone was listening.

The doctors that know me say the cure is to work on my music and media. And that is important, because I can’t be sure what I said while thinking I was a still around King of Spain. I met interesting people and made a long progress out of these thoughts. The background is an actual schizophrenic. I have to admit that now. I was just on the train I planned with my friends. We played music every night. Before my father told me that was all a lie. He said the doctors were not to be listened to and that I must respect him. If there was one thing that I can do is that.

 My saving grace is this article.
Still Alive,
Jon Pelletier

The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.

So perhaps this is a career. It is surely a body of work.

There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see.

That world is just a distraction. The world I see is a momentary lapse of reason and thought. That world is mandatory and the other worlds are not real was my belief.
I had regressed about six years ago and I could not be the man I wanted. It was a constant struggle of good and evil, I thought I had passed. I suppose I thought that before but I thought that now.

This should be taken as an open summary on life and everything because this book is about the new beginnings and the world revolving around the low watt light bulb.

This is the sort of diagram that a siren named Lost Tiger devised. She would discuss life and everything with interesting people all day and get paid for it by the government. The idea relied on an eternal soul though she was she had very small answers when asked by her husband. They both found it better that way as they rarely came to the slightest bitterness in their voices during their discussions, which included the world as it lay in a box and some little caves that surrounded the very real mountain.

They say there is gold in the caves, hidden during the last passing band of Juggernauts that by now are far into the backcountry and singing their merry songs. But all the common country folk avoided the land of the Juggernauts. This particular troll was strange and an avid learner so all the back trade letters that and the other temped you empty. Formal words and that little rose that made him more like a devil and tired in the heart. The poetic justice that needed to help the people was 60 years in the past and they now lived in peace.

Each side had great heroes and in the end of the recent one hundred years war they simply could not recall who had struck first. The mothers of children regaled stories of the heroes in the hat room or barrooms to sustain brawls between two men of the same race in order to keep the metaphysical balance.

Two other men are charged with an offence where needles and monikers reined.

They needed to be battle weary and play tunes to a different tone. The best men knew where and why they needed to crawl. But the phenomenal to mention is about these two children, but the book should not be like them at all. The man wanted to leave stage for a while and write. He is allowed to do that. And maybe he will be with grace. Perhaps he can carry the old world draft roads and quarries that lined the route to where the great battles had their end.

For sixty years ago two men like Sampson were born on either side of the long valley and each became king among the valley dwelling men.

The nomadic trolls are awkward and subtle and little else. All parties are at peace though they know they are stronger. Or there is a wizard and he is saying nothing to the men. I see him real and modern like the pest that would go away. His manners are Soviet and he carries a light goatee, and light to the touch he is briskly walking my way.

I have little else to be less than a socialite and blessed in the touched of everything worn. They tell me my name and I am left to the house and they march in and take care of the champagne. This had to be work, it had to be real and if it was not funny than it could not be for children. It could be for children and the children that came next, they are whom this tale is about.

The latter part spent for the mention of sentences slept and an ounce over the snide bouncing is out. The martyrs are conscious and light their old ounce with it and he past the dockside in a drab little stride and looked as the bouncers led another drunk man out the bar. It was too early in the morning for a character like that. He must have been up all night. They were elders and humble about their beginnings. He had little red cigarettes bounced before his eyes. I had nothing of the sort. All that he gave to me was his regret. He said he sounded rather like a musician in there, I’ve surmised.

And letters where there should have been men and letters that they had about a drafted colleague that lived in Festin too. The place that nary a man left in Festin was made for a message or moniker still. The parameters left in a world such as this could be foggy cold days and much time spent inside. The drip on the rain from the large tumbling pines lets him settle and be right tonight. He felt better than he ever had. He never knew the war, and had met many Juggernauts in his travels. He felt like an outsider over there but no one truly tried to harm him. There wasn’t the hate they told him their used to be. He had told him they used to be because of the men that she’d rather fancy.

The hairpiece he had was a metaphor for the symbolic relations of fierce accusations that led the people to believe that only a few men had accomplished that much. If otherwise occupied men settle in they have Montreal mindsets and are much better for it. They symbolize the nomenclature that haunted this desk and the typist of these words. The Trident stood strong and exterior agents felt wrong those words held his wrists as if it laid some sort of prayer. The chief and his men approached a dropping point and needed to bury all that they had. These metal machines are behind me and they leave their old rocking horse pastures that push you from the edge. This world was lit by on single light bulb, and the unruly men had their hands on the power.

So fear him, no I would never fear him. I have all my faith in the church. They will and always have been right. Do the right thing. Hold your heart strong and you will flutter but the nonsense is quivering and lit by this light bulb. It was all he had. Without the bulb he had nothing. Yet it scared him, he would have rather had nothing. These were the ones who walked away. These however drastically needed to make this man over. All those that settled his wary soul. Breathless she replied, “I will.”

Only the pattern in my mind holds me back. The spinning of the looking glass and her awkward medicine that needed to lay down the open in doors and freeways and the like a bit of the answers that sheltered his mindset they wanted to be fair and were monitored by the license that held their vase open and needed the overrun to be lit by the fire. But this meant they would go too slow. Or would they run to fast? It was something in the middle. They knew not, but this trip would be somewhere around average in every aspect.

Nothing to vicious went array. Jack Platt would have it the other way. They all sat in line waiting for Jack. He was late often and wore a suit with a black fedora. “Everything looked better through a black fedora,” Jack would say.

In agents of ceiling fans buzzed and the doors spun him through to the bank in front of him. He marched across the floor and waited in line near the teller. They knew every step was in the wrong direction; the men faced their doom. It was three in the morning. Blissfully the sheep were told that minds and hearts matter. I fear that the poetic justice perused by my character should be harmless.

The poet justice of this character must be harmless. And with that Decree I proclaim that the one true road north is the table salt and pilgrimage to Bethlehem.

This is a religious man. I fell no need for the near and sideways glances that giving this sheet to an editor would do. The best way to write is to catch yourself writing and then find your old journals and counter their actions. The only way to start writing is to move past the first barrier and then face the barriers that come later on. And with this I should smoke, as my eyes are beginning to hurt and I feel like a poet in need of opening drafts. The writer is the character in all recently read journals but the self-righteous struggle is epochs in scale at times. This is another muse I have about mental illness. These states lead to a perpetually wiser and safer conclusion.  These conclusions are difficult to grasp and I suppose the normal person who let such ideas just be. The mad mind is the one to reach inside. So even as weaker minds do not prevail I wonder in writing what I’m doing to my world I have found the brief manuscript and by chance I read that one. It told me what I’m doing I am doing right.

Though I try a simpler note. A smoke, yes a smoke. That is what I need. At any rate a smoke makes me want to discuss literal things. Why? Or study the word why. I should do a brief synopsis on the word ‘Why.’ Lets look up the definition: “Interrogative adverb asking for what reason or purpose.” Why do we do the things we do? That is a question she asks me. Why do you put that there and not someplace else? Well I suppose that is just the best-shaped drawer for that. Yes, It would fit somewhere else.

Why do I live in Penticton? Is Penticton a real place? Is it my indoctrination in some world that lasts more so in thought than in image. I think it is that idea the doctors are telling me is that simple idea that I am a musician and writer with my time. I am leaving a trail of designs and templates for people to enjoy. The doctors convinced me I was there, truly doing it. They told me I am successful.

This breakthrough can be found initially in a repressed memory that flooded into my subconscious about seven years ago. Since then I had only heard one strange image of a horrid man who kept me locked in the relationship, both these men acted the same. They took pictures of my subconscious and abused me with nattering names. The whole time I thought these two people were real and the invisible world should not be trusted. The time before that I thought I was in Primus.

So is Penticton a real place? I don’t know. It seems to have an economy and society of people doing likeminded things. It seems to have a coffee shop for those who dream. The lights and glitter that is show business show that some men play stadiums and some men can see them. To be fair, quite a large number of people in show business can see the audience. I haven’t really yet. I remember I used to draw a crowd to a small place called Voodoo’s near purgatory bus stop. The spooky numbers were drawn out of that dive.

I never played a stadium but it was because I never saw it. So I had a revelation.

Because I know there is an audience, I don’t know if I could do it if I could see the thousands. I am now discussing not touring and sitting at home writing a book. And thank you for all the memories. It was a wonderful time with friends for me. Hopefully it was for you too. For now, pals, I am going to sit and write something that sounds like the above chapter. It will lead to me writing something of some sense. I just want to be like Frank Zappa.

But do I really? That is the question.

I built the Statue of Liberty in 1967 and it is meant to inspire women everywhere to hold the flame high above their heads. The remarkable resemblance to the Lady of Shalot is intentional. I build the statue with one other person and the city of New York has never paid us. They claim the statue was a gift from France. We maintain that we were commissioned. Here by I continue to lie.
The joke is a lie. This could end anyone's career.
A lie is not a joke. I see.
The paradox of a joke being a lie has decommissioned me. It was the very reason that I sought psychiatric help.
This has been a funny joke.
Which ruined the joke.
And then again, it seems to have gotten worse.
And two men need their payment from New York. That is the option we are given. The press pass I hold says that I can effect people who read my material. The opinion is in the hands of the recipient of such a message. I record nearly everything I do. Maybe two men will get paid from New York.
On the plus side, the City did give us sandwiches on the first Thursday.
They were also helpful with some of the grout near the end of our endevor.

So, perhaps I invented something. This was mentioned by a little girl I could finally see. She was far away at first. It is not a cure for anything, I would not recommend driving an automobile while using it.
I feel my life has been leading up to it and I have said too much. The patent began pending today.
I am thinking that this questioning of myself by the media may ensure that someone else had gotten to the patent office first. It is a possibility as many things have been invented twice.
I have invented before. That is why I have the time to write and play music.
I think if anything the computer helped the symptoms of blind as a generic malaise. I learned recently that images from the computer are important to those who read braille. This video explained that much of what was taught through books is available to the blind with computers.
This image is shown clearly to blind people machine... It exists already.
This is just an advancement in that science, which makes my nerves feel better.

Type Like You Had A Letter
Speed off of distant shores. Take the men who marched you over and people always have their home. I live in a world that I feel like I can actually do this. The trick is to not play my friends. No dice on the inside, like a formulaic message of hope for all mankind. That is a difficult thread to approach correctly. Let the players be played might work.
Deep inside every one of us lies a hopeful person that needs to feel good.
This is difficult without the right people.

I was trying to make it again.

More pens than pain and the utmost remedy, like a still pass and the daily grind coffee shop painted the picture. He bustled into the city every day in a white Cadillac car. It was a couple of days before the white man became a liar and unleashed his half loose nightmare on to Baker Street. He shot a man in Reno at noon on Sunday, claiming it was a strike against the diner being open on a Sunday.

He fled to Las Vegas to find the hopes and dreams that could be repeated by a winning ticket. When he arrived he simply stepped down to the end of an alley hearing the dull wail of dry desert blues. He thought blandly that the music ricocheted through a dead man. It calmed him, as if it was okay to do what he had.

This is when he came across a man from a periodical magazine. This second man saved his change and more or less drafted himself into any sort of indoctrination towards belief. The drifter made a point of trying to scare the writer until the man bowed before him. Quickly, and at risk of a knife the second man knelt and watched as the first turned into the ninth embodied, a knight, speaking those words while he changed his stance and looked skyward.

“That’s some more dead humans, and a mean man charged with nine drinks.” The drifter stated calmly, “They call me Mr. Draft. I usually sit near the back.”

The writer stammered and begged the man softly, “Come on man, most people are good people. You can’t keep me here. Send me back to the street man. I don’t have any money.”

But this fell upon deaf ears. The drifter was soon moving slowly through that alley holding his newly prized suitcase. It was black and shiny and saved from the mess that was made earlier with the knife in the alley. The question is do I continue with this dark story, or should I move towards the psychology of this situation that I am hoping to discuss? Of course, it will be the psychology.

I was talking about my stage act.

The basic premise of our act is that this may have happened to anyone.

But I was a special case. There were other murders that weekend in Death Valley. I just woke up at an orphanage. We all survived, as far as I know. And the family that I have is a loving one. I refused to accept that my father was different from me. He taught me the blues and how to play the fiddle. Very few people know that. It is sort of a stage kind of family and I often tell people that my father is like me. We are very similar in tonal style as well. I suppose that proves that life is learned and not genetic.

But there is an argument to everything. So seeing as life is proven to be genetic our DNA should be tested. It is very similar, and I relate a story about finally learning was racism is. But that is a different story. This is about the psychology of being someone who I know the whole time while not understanding why the people I could see did not make sense. These people were in my head. That is proof of schizophrenia. So the man gives me medicine, and I take it without the spoon of sugar.

i'm not believing that last letter because it does not support my delusion.

I wonder who that lady is... I had a dream again. I started at the epic dream hotel with all the options and they told me I won a contest. I got to fly to my own personal room that has been named for me, though the name would change after my use. And so we did the dream fly thing (me and anonymous lady) and wound up at this beach covered in smooth dark gray rounded stones. It was kind of cold, and the hotel room was just a wrought iron table and two chairs on this spit jutting into the ocean. So we landed at the table and a sun tent popped up, followed by a crowd of women. The lady told them all she knew to ruin the chance they would take me with them and then she told me that every time she did that it was because she was scared, and she was sorry that she ran away. Then she explained that we had signed up for a mini triathlon and it started (gunshot) now. So we dove into the water a swam for 13.7 kms. This was no problem for a guy of my physique, though I may have cheated by pretending to be inspector gadget. When we reached shore we had to run 8 kms to be half way, and there, we were told, would be rest. So about half way there on my map me and this lady were in a field and she gave me all these suggestions or something and then jumped towards me and I caught her. But we were so tired from the run that I fell over and couldn't carry her the rest of the way. At that point I fell asleep in the grassy field and was back at the rocky beach and table that was my personal hotel room. There were fewer women, but we were going to walk across the rocks and they were filled with broken glass. So I was picking up the broken glass and I was shipped back to the race. I ran down the path and got to the midway point and it was the same old two-room hotel in the woods. This time it was empty though I was so tired from the swim and the run that I didn't even nail this brunette who told me she wanted to during the swim... and while I fell asleep on the rickety porch of the forest shack I was back to picking up the broken glass. This is the point when you entered, (or my pretend thought version that I invented), and explained that there was no point to cleaning up all the broken glass because all women wore bras that were made of glass and as I break their hearts for other people's unrequited reasons, nonsense possessiveness and insecure ramblings than the glass is strewn on that particular beach. So, the brunette told me, I should care very little about anything I’d thought up to now. Even if I had left those notions behind since the last time I entered this triathlon.

I seriously keep seeing a little girl that thinks she's my daughter. I’ve told her a few times that she's not born, she leaves, comes back and tells me she is. When I explain that is something that I would definitely know for sure, she mentions that her mom is just somewhere thinking about me. So I figure I’m going to live as if I’m supporting her and her mother. It will be good practice if nothing else.

Missing his chance our hero sat by his typewriter reflecting. His proudest works is this, a song he came up with after hurting an old blues mans career and eyes. Other than the sight since his death Richard Channing had not heard this tune again. He believes that most people heard this song through Cats – the Musical. It is the same tone the others can believe is a psalm for death. It starts out in a droning wail that is drowned in a run of pure adrenaline and fear. The causing of pain to others that need pain to feel good themselves. Our hero was certain it was a death march.

A Blessing Requested should be written here, I would guide you bloggers to an epic poem that is a few pages back. I would rather not repost it here. I have many other lyrics to this song… I’m not sure where it actually came from. I think it may be from a poltergeist I lived with briefly in Nelson. I could have sworn that man killed me dressed as my best friend. So a source lit in darkness and pain and the light a man claiming he knew Mensa sorts took me from that foggy house near the lake. The checkerboard floor in the parlor and the bushes blocking his tree seemed to be the thoughts that he found in me which upset him. So the saints stood in line on checkerboard floor. Or it may be one of the tones of which one can read Poe’s “The Raven.”

I’m not sure about this poem but I asked a number of people if I was dead and they only worried. My doctor, by the way, gave me a clean bill of health. Maybe there are many blessings in the church of schizophrenia. I have a tendency to reach into my brain or the air around it to grab music and books that I wrote on a typewriter that nobody seems to know about but me. That is an interesting wonder that I have encountered.

Sure, I fought an ornery spirit of two that night, but I spell cast and banished him later that week. And only I saw these characters. This experience wrote four albums that by and by have been enjoyed by lots of people. This makes me think that the book should be about how psychiatric medicine is a blessing and curse quite in the way the symptoms of mental illness can be.

Everything seems to have an equal and opposite reaction in physics. Maybe bacteria are our overlords. These creatures could wipe us out and in the end it is more productive to their civilization to keep us alive. Is this a conscious choice?

I’m just trying to keep people paranoid.

Lovingly,

Jon Pelletier

everyone hates papparazi

The terms were set in gold standard. The harmful effects of smoke were blatantly overused in the common media. It is not, for all extensive purposes, illegal for the former to smoke. The morning regiment of these ailments include various prescriptions that are bought at the pharmacy yet not listed as anything other than the drugs they are. It is silly, he states, that blind men can smoke but most are not allowed. The funny drugs that he takes no longer get him high. They never have, nor will they ever affect our hero like they do most. This is a perk of being an adrenochrome victim.

The common militant feminist comments that he obscenely makes in songs that describe his undying love for a vice are the best and most dubious of all these marks. This is hard to make sense of yet the best thing that happened to him is the love of a woman who filled his attachment syndrome. A moment of schizophrenia, caused by the strange childhood he made an invisible argument that his wife understood. It appeared he felt that she would leave him and this stained his repute but most of all made legal matters worse for his newly born twins.

The issue laid not in his parenting, but his fame. This abuse that was suffered by our hero shook my core when he told me. His youth was marked by his only seeing memories. These include his feet cut open while his eyes were filled with glue and other horrible incidents that came to the climatic ending with his blinding by small knife, simply so that this anonymous figure could scoop out parts of his brain that create street drugs internally. These memories haunt our hero. This is the essence of his illness and dark artwork. He is quoted saying that “This is basically the premise of our show.”

The arguments that he has with these memories are based around the images scarred into his consciousness by said incidents. “He does not ever yell at me specifically,” his wife stated, “But I am used to him yelling at his brain. He did say that he did not want to have this argument because the figure he saw was only his memory of a man who claimed to be his father.”

“This is terrifying, but she has not left me yet. Hopefully I can deal with these things that haunt me.” Our hero states, “I used to refuse to speak with the people that I could not see and only discuss matters with those I could. This is that scarring of such a childhood. These are the crosses I have to bear. I know now what love is, my daughter taught me that.”

                His wife adds blatently, “He is not, never has been and I doubt ever will be an abusive or violent man. He just yells at himself sometimes. I’m honestly used to this delusion and it is getting much better. I used to hand him his guitar to play it. He lives in a world that includes only 14 tattoos on his covered arms. These are the recent ones, not all he has.”

                “I used to resent the word Dad, although I have a couple.” This issue is not due to the drugs that have been issued by prescription; our hero would like to say, “Most people make all the plants on earth in their head to begin with. The man who may have stolen me as a baby and carved up my brain to eat and such may have had some issues. Nobody is sure who this guy was. Although my brother goes by the name Brain because he was able to save me from this man.  He is only blind in one eye.”

Our hero is trying to live a life on stage and that goes with various issues. “One of these is dealing with the paparazzi that basically make things like this up so that they are cordially denied in actual papers. I think I actually was rude to that person personally. I had him arrested at one of Jello Biafria’s funerals. “I said that I would go to all the funerals in his family and take pictures of him.” This is the man who sent the video of our hero yelling in a corner of the studio and only took that quote from his actual message. He would like to rescind by saying,

“’...’ in that sort of tabloid means that he is basically lying. If there is one thing that I have been trying to do for the last 25 years it is ban these momentary lacks of insight and memories from my subconscious. I think now that blind people only see the inside of their head. It makes me think it’s a gift. I usually record the album a year before I actually do. I am trying to prove that it is all a blessing in disguise. I can pull creative things out of the air. Nobody else sees the shelves that I pull the notes from. Long ago I  just put a cease and desist order on these people. Me and my wife have been married over ten years.”

“We were rather open about it.” She adds.

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.

Furthermore:

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
Brother
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

ബ്ലെസ്സിംഗ്

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.

SEDATION ILLS OR AWKWARD NERVES

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.