God's Own Electric Circus

Labels: Carl Jung, lyrics, poetry, psychology

Yesterday I was paid to write poetry. Indirectly. I was taking part in an Insights Discovery profile seminar after having previously completed an online questionnaire - Insights Preference Evaluator. This whole Insights system was built for professional use based on the personality theories of Carl Jung as begun in his treatise Psychological Types. The system is meant to provide a framework for an understanding of ones self, both strengths and weaknesses, enabling effective strategies for interaction and proactive personal development. As a psych student with overly honed critical skills I was more than a bit skeptical that this tool was going to be incredibly accurate, but to my infinite surprise I was surprised. Here's a snippet from the overview I received of my personal style:

"Charles is interested in seeing possibilities beyond what is currently known, accepted or obvious. Although quiet and reserved, he can articulate well on a subject to which he is devoted. He can be a veritable storehouse of information on the things he knows well and understands. Charles is the conceptual problem solver, intensely intellectual and logical, exhibiting flashes of creative brilliance..."

*cough* I'd continue but then where's the fun of getting to know me better if it's all spelled out, right? It's almost a bit disconcerting that this type of accuracy can be achieved by an evaluation like this. In this evaluation you are also fitted with colors, from sunshine yellow, to earth green, to fiery red, to cool blue - I'm a bluish purplish type of fellow, a "reforming observer".

In some ways I think I may have completed this questionnaire in the same manner that I'd tailor a resume to a position. And I would with all confidence be willing to place this profile on my managers desk and let them congratulate themselves on picking someone who has the perfect profile for my position. I say this because I think that these results are strongly tied to situational circumstances - I'd say I'm much more of a fiery red when I'm playing sports and an orange (yellow/red) when I'm out with friends. That said, my propensity for bluishness (and coolness in particular) is strong, though my red and green aren't far behind. It takes more energy for me to slip into a yellowish type of persona - the extraverted feeling, outgoing, enthusiastic, verbally effusive person, who likes recognition, and is irritated by boredom.

For more information on this personality system check out http://www.insightsworld.com/.

BUT, I digress. During the seminar at which we were presented with our completed profiles, we were first made to write about a "sandcastle" to demonstrate our different communication styles. We were given two minutes. Here's what I came up with:

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Since University my only creative writing has been committed to screen between taking client calls at Invesco. Now that my time there has passed, I thought it worthwhile, for posterity, to share a select piece of my 'business writing' that had been sent out around the office for the edutainment of my colleagues. 

I don't feel the need to annotate this, or explain away any of the jargon, it would seem most have already had a brush with the call centre, its an east coast thing...

Based on Actual Events

1st Call of the Day

 I just received one of those auto dialer calls that says, “press star to accept the incoming call” then proceeds in a robot voice to spew out a bunch of numbers. I was afterwards connected to a distant voice on a crackling distorted line. 

 The voice was distinctly Arabic and was likely speaking Farsi. On the other end someone was prattling on in a spew of guttural plosives and fricative consonants, seemingly ignorant of my opening. The only English words that I was able to perceive, however indistinctly, were formed into the following sentence, “the American… two million… he dies…”

 At that point I became increasingly anxious but still attempted, albeit somewhat half-heartedly, to build rapport: “So how is the weather in Iran?” Perhaps it was the obvious nervousness in my voice, or the imperious nature of my caller, but I received no response to my friendly overture. Then with curiosity quickly replacing my anxiety, I became emboldened and asked a clarifying security question: “Are you the rep on file?” Again I was met with no response, only the crackly popping from the line and what sounded like feverish breathing on the distant receiver. 

 “Sir?” I continued, “Are you looking to set up a wire transfer? Because if that is the case we have a wire transfer queue I can put you in contact with.” The distant breathing halted, filled in by a sudden eruption of static on the line, then a thin sinewy voice impinged on my right ear drum. “Do that… or he dies,” was distinctly enunciated in a forced English accent. My heart jumped at that moment, not so much at the malicious statement as at the tone and intensity with which it had been uttered. “Okay,” I stammered, “And if you get the voicemail would you like to leave a message.” There was no reply, so I continued, “was there anything else I could help you with today?” There was the sound of a throat being cleared and I waited in anticipation, but again the line was filled only with the hallow popping of static. “Thank you for calling Invesco Trimark,” I managed as I punched in the proper extension number and cold transferred the call with a shudder. 

 Now, a full 45 minutes later, I still sit in after-call filled with anxiety and worry. My hands are trembling as I raise my coffee cup to my mouth, taking little notice of the burning sensation on my tongue as I clumsily fill my mouth. My head is swirling with the potential repercussions that this call might have. I can’t even remember if I properly addressed the terrorists once, let alone said his name three times… Should I have value added, no, it was a directory assistance call. Should I have at least gotten the account number? Was I wrong to have cold transferred? I really hope my call audits don’t suffer.

 Man I think its just going to be one of those days… I need a break.

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Thought Stream

Ah, the formidable blank page, as I snap my letters down its spotless white face offers only contrast. Word after word I commit, composing sentences in mentalese then deftly translating them into English. Here’s a sentence for you, a couple more and we’ll have a thought stream. This stream is not committed to time, no passage of days will dull the original intention, no language barrier can erase its true message. Time will pass, languages will morph, yet my original intent, the qualia of sensory sensation and emotion will remain. In some future millennium, a civilization much like ours, will stumble upon this sentence and be able to revisit, with perfect subjectivity, the thought stream of my mind. The stream, this tributary of mind sitting pooled on this page. Formed carefully into tokens of language, this currency of letters with which we purchase our thoughts. Now, let your eyes relax and stop tearing apart this block of black threads, allow the words to blur and release your focus on them. In the resulting haze the thought of my original intention once more becomes clear. Somewhere in this greyscale haze of black on white, there exists a bird in a cage. These letters are the bars and though the bird has room to spread its wings, it will never be truly free to fly. 0 comments

Night Stalks with Cats and Cops

I was busy studying tonight. It was getting late and I thought I could use the cool fresh air to liven me up. I threw on my coat, topped myself with my fine chapeau and out I went with my smelly load of compost in tow. I had barely reached the top of the stairs when Simon arrived beside me.

Rising his head up at me, Simon gave a probing meow asking, “time for some night time adventure?”

“When I get back,” I told him.

The blustering wind had died, and the night air was calm, cold and moist. The sky was partially lit by the stars which shone through breaks in the clouds. These night time clouds, hanging silent and dark while the Earth slept below them. Look how they pattern and organize the stars so far above them. The filter they form, day or night, structuring the sky with their billowing masses.

*Snap* Back to my chore at hand. I swung open the empty compost receptacle, its lid arcing on its hinge, before falling with a sonorific clamour. The slam echoed throughout the quiet neighbourhood, and somewhere a dog barked into the broken air. I disposed of my compostibles, and headed back.

I paused outside my door, peering through the screen to see if Simon was still waiting. He wasn’t in the entrance way; so I opened the screen door and poked my head in to softly call his name. I could see his nose and a few whiskers at first, and soon enough he came swiftly to the door, with another polite meowl. Just as Simon was about to cover the exit-way, Elle swooped in from her hiding spot. She darted between the door and Simon’s face, sliding onto the frozen porch. She quickly managed her way to the stairs, then down to investigate the lower deck. Now Simon and Elle were both outside, and I had never intended to let Elle out.

Elle is Simon’s junior by over a year and a half, this was her first summer, her first set of adventures outside. Normally these adventures were supervised, and for the most part guided by a 20 foot blue ribbon leash. Seldom did I ever take Elle out at night, and never loose. She’s as slippery as a fish, and she corners like a Lotus.

This was a problem, another problem was the fact that cats are extra wary at night. The slightest stir is enough to send them running. Elle would have a panic attack if she heard the thunderous gallop of a full grown Charles in pursuit of her. For this reason I had to proceed with great stealth, and make certain to not alarm her in any way.

By the time I made it to the lower deck, Elle had already started up the driveway, winding her way around our upstairs neighbour’s cars. Still at a trot she approached the end of the driveway and without hesitation crossed the road and onto our facing neighbour’s driveway. She continued merrily towards their garage, tripping its motion sensored light. The light was strikingly bright, and I paused for a moment to consider how my neighbours might view my stalking figure, as I quietly moved in a deliberate fashion. Slinking around in the shadows of their homes. This pause was significantly long enough that Elle could blend into our unlit surroundings, anxiously I followed after her.

Eventually we crossed the street back within our property. Foolishly I thought the battle won and slacked off from my close pursuit. I chuckled as it occurred to me that Elle was probably having the time of her life during this new and exciting midnight hunt. In her mind I could see myself as her companion, and as long as she was consciously aware of me I posed no threat. Elle and I were silently striding throughout the wild and scary new world of dark

This romance was short lived however, Elle had disappeared between the boards of our next door neighbour's fence; the chase was on again. I spotted her making her way along the latticework sides of my neighbour’s deck, quickly I ran around to the opposite side in order to head her off. I debated jumping the back fence, this however was not an option due to the terrible fright it would cause Elle. So instead, I carefully swung both legs over, trying not to harpoon myself on the pointed tops. By the time I had successfully managed this, Elle was passing beside the garage and towards the driveway. Another flash of light as my neighbours driveway lit up. I cornered Elle underneath their large black pickup truck, and unfortunately she ran instead onto my next, next door neighbour’s sided concrete porch. This was truly unfortunate, not for me however, but for Elle. She had misjudged the height of the gap in between the concrete and wooden planks. This was the last stop for Elle, I had her cornered and she new it.

“Come on Elle, there’s no where to go but through me…” I coaxed with my utmost cat charm.

“Yes, Yes, I am coming,” she mewled thoughtfully.

She turned and headed back towards me, angling for the space between my left leg and the entrance way. I crouched and prepared to pounce, she picked up her pace, and swiftly dodged my first body motion and leaped for my five hole. My feign was successful, I had forced her to make the first move, and I deftly scooped her up. My right hand on her chest, my arm cradling her body, with my left hand firmly on her upper back, I calmly walked her back up the driveway.

As I was walking back up the driveway, I white cruiser with no markings or hubcaps slowly moved up the street, coming to a stop in my drive, then slowly backing up and heading back towards me. A ghost car to be sure, driven by the type of man who thrills in silently rolling up on burglars and tazering them in their bollox. A damn good man when one is necessary. In this case however I simply raised Elle as I was passing, and gave him a large smile. This appeared to satiate the nightwatchman’s curiosity. He continued to slowly coast past me, and I did not look back. I need only imagine that my next door neighbour was watching me from his large front windows with his curtains fully drawn, and his silhouette plain in contrast. He’s a good man, more than familiar with Elle’s escapades, I am sure he’d understand .

I returned with Elle still wriggling in my hands, to find Simon waiting patiently below the deck. We all headed back in to the warmth and safety of our underground dwelling. Once in the entrance way, Elle discovered a moth and promptly went about batting it around. The moth made a valiant effort to escape, but with Simon chattering in the background Elle swiftly and mercifully struck it down. Our moth friend sputtered about on the ground, and before I could intercede, Elle had already begun to ingest it. It would appear she’s acquired a taste for insects and night air this summer.

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Okay, I know that killing a moth doesn’t exactly live up to one’s expectations of a “murder most foul” but eating one certainly upsets the stomach. If you want foul murders watch CSI, Americans love killing each other on TV. Otherwise I have plenty of amusing cat stories. :P

Cheers,

Chufre 0 comments

To create a New Post: Paint the pan with nouns and descriptors. Add some dry witty remarks, couple with a sprinkling of sufficient punctuation, add some hyperbole and a dash of alliteration. Bake, then season with a character of ill repute and a murder so very foul. Finish with a double plot twist and the denouement of bitter sweet recalcitrance.

One New Post coming up... 0 comments

Friday we left High Street at 10:00 with the Neon fully loaded and raring to go. After several stops we finally left for Borden at 11 and arrived in NB around 12:30. The Neon never left the passing lane on the way to Moncton averaging 150 kms/hr, the time we saved however was stolen by MS Mappoint's crappy directions to Magnetic Hill Zoo.

We arrived at the zoo around 2, just in time to see the big cats get fed. The lions and tigers and jaguars and lynxes were all gorgeous, however their enclosures were small and unsuited to animals with such explosive power. As for the rest of the animals I'll let the pictures speak for them. After about 2 hours of touring the exhibits Jane had to drag me away so we could begin our 3 hour journey to Antigonish.

We stopped in Truro for liquor and groceries figuring they would have a better selection than available in Antigonish. I picked up a quart of vodka and a Colt 45, Jane got herself 4 revs and 4 other fruity coolers.

Before we were able to arrive at the festival we had to pass through a RCMP checkpoint. As soon as I seen the flashing lights the fear crept back into my stomach. Unfortunately, being of the particularly lazy sort my license had remained unrenewed since 2003... The less than friendly officer didn't take kindly to this, and had us pull in while he ran our information. While we were waiting, some poor hippy had part of his stash confiscated, and several others were also receiving tickets.

After this incidence we continued down the dusty gravel road to where we stopped to receive our braceletts and then parked on the grassy hill. For anyone unfamiliar with the landscape and terrain in Antigonish it's very hilly, the entire festival was located on the 30 degree embankment of one such hill. The ground was still covered in small twigs and other debris from where they had hastily cleared the grounds. Also, the previous week of rain had rendered the ground as soft as playdough, and in some places mucky enough to suck the knee highs of a hooker. The organizers had attempted to sop up some sogginess with straw, but for the most part it was still hazardous terrain. We unpacked, and in relative dark (it being 8:30 by this time) we strapped ourselves with gear and started the trek a few hundred feet up this hill. I chose an easily accessible and identifiable camp spot halfway up the hill, and about 100 feet from the main stage. We were bathed in the glow of two thousand watt floodlights run on generators, and the ground shook and trembled with every heavy bass beat.

To take the edge off of our trip, I cracked open the 45 and rolled a blueberry spliff for good measure. This brought Jane and I back into a more festive mood, and we went about exploring. We found Matt hocking stoner wares from a large white tent, he presented Jane with one of Gill's walkie talkies, and Jane frantically attempted to contact her bosom buddy. Later that night, Matt and I pimped ourselves out with glow bracelets and magical pixie dust and waded into the center of the raving crowd. The sound system was awesome, the DJs were excellent and the laser show was super cool radical.

I crawled into bed at 3 and attempted to sleep through the rest of the DJs as they played around the clock. The music never stopped all weekend, and for most of the time there were two stages simultaneously playing two different styles of music, plus a drum tent where all sorts of crazies were going tribal. Jane woke me around 8, and we collected Gill from her morning repose and headed into town for some food. We went to some restaurant, with a name I was never really able to read due to ambiguous lettering. It was a beautiful morning so I suggested we eat on the screened patio. This turned out to be a mistake as the waitress seemed to forget about us for the majority of our meal. Without going into too great of detail the service sucked, and the food was mediocre, though my eggs benedict with hollandaise sauce still definitely hit the spot.

Sadly I had forgotten to bring my concert shoes, and had instead brought my best dress sneakers (same ones I wore to Dwaine’s wedding :) They are still recovering, and will never regain their original luster. We attempted at that time to buy me some sandals, but at this time of year it's impossible to find a size 13 sandal, so the search was for naught.

Arriving back at the festival grounds we seen a constant stream of bathing suit clad hippies travelling to and from the fresh water stream and falls that were located a 10 minute walk from the hill. Later that afternoon, Jane and I drove down and visited these falls. I had a great time slipping about on slippery smooth stones as I frolicked throughout the three tier falls. The water was icy cold and very refreshing as the degrees rose to 28. The whole area was teaming with bathers, as this was the only source of hygiene. The camp grounds had been thrown together with no regard for showering or personal cleanliness, the port-a-potties were certainly not inviting.

In comparison to Shoreline: Tenting was first come first served, with camping spots ranging from the parking lot to the very fringes of the grounds and everywhere in between. As with Shoreline there were no fires allowed. Unlike Shoreline there were fewer trash receptacles per capita, and the grounds were hardly as groomed. The two stages were a great combination, ensuring a constant flow of music. There were many different vendor tents offering a full gamut of wares and eats. The prices at all these establishments were fair. Unfortunately the slope of the hill and random placement of tents didn’t' allow for full out games of Frisbee or football.

One game that was played was Hippy Fishing. This was done by tying a lure (glow stick) to the line and attaching this to a rod and reel. In the dark, drunken hippies would attempt to grab this attractive bait only to have it pulled away at the last second. This led to many chases, mostly through the worst of the muck pits. In one case a particularly inebriated fellow followed the lure all the way back to the fisher and up until it was held directly in his face, before exclaiming, "ahh man... you really got me!"

Saturday night was filled with alcohol, cannibinols, hallucinogens and the perfect mix of Surprise Me Mr Davis, The Wassabi Collective and some elfkin with dreds throwing down fat rave beats. I was up most of the night just soaking in the atmosphere as the DJs did incredibly distorting things with the sound system.

In the morning the girls had decided they had enough of smelling stinky, and camping. They made the decision to pack up camp around 9, and shortly after we left Evolve. I always hate leaving a festival, especially when you have just acclimatized yourself to the drunken merry culture of dance and free loving party people. These festivals always reaffirm within me the love and knowledge that whoever you are before you come to the festival, once you're here you live in a tent, you're dirty and drunk most of the time and somehow people can just get along. All it takes is a constant beat, a lighthearted attitude
and enough drugs to decimate a large herd of elephants.

Once the car had been fully packed, we made one last stop at the stream where I frolicked for another hour and soothed my soul in the frigid water basins carved from the constant tumbling of water. Refreshed, we headed home having officially capped off the summer with one last triumphant salute to the human spirit.
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Seventy-five dollars in cash for a ticket, a whole box of food stuffs [thanks Janie!], a quart of orange flavored vodka, and an unbridled urge to party.

I left with Gill for Rollo Bay at three on Friday afternoon. After a long haul up route two we made landfall around four. There were three rows of cars, and two rows of tents… we set up camp in the middle of the second row. There wasn’t much to do after we had arranged ourselves since the music hadn’t started yet. Half the field was being quickly overtaken with frisbees, footballs and footbags. The sun was bright and radiant so I strategically placed my blanket down to relax and save a spot for Robert’s eventual arrival. Matt and Coranna were first upon the scene, and I flagged them down. It would be another hour before Rob finally arrived, and the party could really start.

Rob’s tent got real smokey, right quick. Tenting is some sort of crazy fun, especially when you’re in the middle of a tent city and everyone is chillen. The festival had a great atmosphere, everyone was upbeat and friendly. Perfect party environment. We emerged from our tent to the sounds of GTB and Metric. To my recollection this was my first time hearing these acts, and I was enthralled.

Gill’s tent was a two seater… as in two people may be able to sit upright in it. There was no chance that I’d have been able to squeeze my gangly self in that night. It was much the same deal with Rob’s tent, and despite offers from other campers I attempted to recharge myself in the backseat of Gill’s sedan. This was a challenge that my knees didn’t appreciate.

Waking in the morning I made good use of the more than adequate washing facilities. Somehow, I managed to haul Matt, Rob and Corrana away from their wake and bake, towards some hot breakfast courtesy of the Blue Fin’s culinary experts. I held off drinking liquor for the rest of the morning, and well into the afternoon. However, most of my fellow campers decided to combat their hangovers with more good liquor loving. Saturday afternoon was filled with lounging on the hill, exploring the backwoods and long range group frisbee action in the surf.

Later that evening, drinking resumed with several half-and-half vodka mixes in my Resolve mug. Somehow I don’t think that mug will ever taste the same… Just when I thought I was drunk, I came upon Janelle attempting to twirl a baton between two sticks. Her finishing move was a spectacular attempt to drop into a push up supporting herself between these sticks. That wasn’t the first time poor Janelle would introduce herself to the grass… After several attempts to run backwards, and chase small wily dogs, Matt carefully returned Janelle to her tent, where we made sure she was securely wrapped in her sleeping bag.

Freed from her babysitting duties, Nancy joined Matt, Rob and I for an awesome rock-out to Buck 65. After that show we headed to the woods to enjoy the serene quality of nature. There was some talk about spending the night under the stars, but those thoughts were dashed by the onset of scattered showers. As it was well passed her bedtime, Nancy left us as we traveled towards Skratch Bastid’s indoor jam. Later Rob would also fall from the ranks, leaving only the brave (and wasted) Matt and me to hip hop until the break of dawn. I had downed the rest of my quart throughout the night, cut liberally with whiskey and some random offerings of mix. And yet somehow I never felt even slightly queasy throughout that night.

Around four AM I humbly accepted Janelle and Nancy’s offer to stay in their luxurious (and spacious) tent. In the morning I awoke well before the girls, feeling damp and dirty. The sky was still cast-over and everything was wet. Gill was awake when I got to her tent. She recounted her brutal awakening to the “drunk song.” It seems wherever Gill goes strange folk follow, whether they be drunken Aussie street performers in full pirate gear, or drunken fishermen wrapped in cannabis flags…

Sunday morning, after dragging Rob from his repose we once more headed to the Blue Fin for another hearty breakfast. Apparently Rob sat in one of the local patron’s favorite seats, the old lady stirred up some trouble, but Rob remained stalwart [stoned].

Tents were coming down all around us when we returned. The piles of liquor bottles were overflowing from every garbage receptacle. It was kind of sad to see our tent city being dismantled, all good things must come to and end I guess… Especially considering most people would not have survived another night. We did take special care however in marking our camping spot with a concentrated scatter of pistachio shells. Next year we'll be able to find our same spot by simply looking for all the pistachio trees...

While I have been to several multi-day music festivals in my past, this year’s Shoreline was by far my favourite adventure. The venue was beautiful and well maintained, the event was well organized and security kept out most unregistered babies. Friends and fellow partiers were awesome. I have found a new love for maritime music and the people who come together to share it.

Shoreline, I’ll be back and better prepared next year!

[This post will be edited throughout Monday including some great pictures from Nancy and Dan Cantin] 0 comments

There's a television in the lunchroom here at Resolve. When you are granted a break, or lunch, you needn't fear the horror of free mental activity. Freed from our headsets, and the scripted conversations of our programs, removed from our 17 inch monitors for a brief relief and once more vacuumed into the vortex of technology. Instead of freely conversing with colleagues, or simply enjoying the panoramic view afforded by the windowed walls, you are deluged by a constant torrent of noise and flittering images. This is information, self-important in its delivery. These programs designed to retain your attention, these commercials with compressed sound blasting, and ridiculous scenerios captivating, drawing you into a false sense of knowing, trusting, passively inducing you to consume. A ravenging consumption of time and attention.

I turned the employee TV off today when I went for my first break. This would have been a much bolder move had the lunchroom been filled with casual gawkers. Imagine the consternation, the brutal awakening... Melodramatic? We have soap operas for that. In our own lives we often have very little self importance. These characters on TV with their entangled lives of power, fantasy and vice, this irrelevant reality, is a brilliant distraction from our own self-induced boredom.

Holy stream-of-consciousness rant batman.

Let me be clear on my statement: communication whether with another being, or within your own mind is absolutely imperative. Continuously plugging yourself into any technological medium is a passive and developmentally thwarting behaviour.

When you get together with friends, turn off the TV, turn down the music. Use this time to converse, talk, interact, communicate, learn and develop friendships.

When you are alone, instead of escaping begin contemplating, planning, visualizing, dreaming; mull over concepts, develop ideas, do not worry about approaching a conclusion, understand all understanding as merely an abstraction from the wave and waft of universal energy. For most people, doing nothing, with no focus, is the best start to breaking free from this crazy information domain. And while we may never be truly free, approaching lucidity from whichever direction possible is the best method to living on your own terms and understanding your true purpose.

I went back to the lunchroom for my thirty minute break. The place was empty, the TV had been turned back on... blaring insignificant sports factoids to the deserted tables. I turned it off again, this time taking the care to trace the power cable back to where it met with an extension cord. After finding the source outlet, I vanquished the cold cathodes.

This time when some desperate person attempts to turn on their boob tube, they'll have to troubleshoot why it isn't working. The act of solving this problem may: 1) annoy them to tears 2) reward them with a grand sense of accomplishment 3) lead them to forgo this passive brain drain.

Check out White Dot: The international campaign against television for more information on this crisis of consciousness. 0 comments

Alright, it's been a while since I served up a fantastical post. So coming atcha over the phone lines, across the digital divide and through the inconvenience of billions of electrons... once more ladies and gentlemen... I present your humble author, Chufre.

Last night Robert returned from his conquest of Moncton with alcoholic spoils a plenty. The original plan had called for more twisted thrashing at Sarah's, however when we arrived on site the whole scene had been turned into a geriatric ward. It appeared that our previous weekends synchronized thrashing had opened a rift in the space-time continuum which had then morphed all our female friends into conservative seniors. Horrified we retreated to Rbots mansion of misogynistic misdeeds.

At Rbots we proceeded to empty 11 cans of beer, 1 quart of raspberry liquor, 4 cans of caffeinated sports drinks, 1 can of chunky New England clam chowder, and 3 ice cubes into a garbage bag. Using an available broom we stirred our slurry, and tied the bag off securely. I cut a corner out of the bottom out of the bag, and quickly affixed a vacuum cleaner hose to the hole. The hose was tied on with duct tape and the whole contraption was strung from the kitchen's ceiling fan. Using this device we broke the alcoholic speed record, formerly held by some dead guy up the street.

The rest of the night was a blur. Great subbages were ingested, cannibinols were inhaled, and malted liquors were requited. Good times all round.

I’ve been investigating some different flash options for beefing up this site. Hopefully I’ll finish my new template by the end of the summer.

Pearl Jam has released their Canadian Tour dates and venues: Thu-Sep-22 Halifax @ the Metro Center. Apparently Audioslave will be their tour mates. This however is yet to be confirmed.

Shout out to my main smeezer Simon DeCat! He’s graduated to walking sans lead. He’ll explore to his hearts content, and then follow me back without any auditory prompts.

Note to Elle “the mewler” DeCat: Enough with the mewling.

Props to lil Janie for staying cute in the face of danger.

Props to Rbot for kicking the JF habit.

Props to big business tobacco companies for enslaving the following people: Matt L. Coranna H. Geoff M. Ian D. Gabrielle M. Sharlene K. 0 comments

Don’t believe the world you live in is a simple place.

Don’t trust technology to improve your comfort.

Don’t rely on science to explain your world.

Big money = Big Power

Big Power owns the world.

- Owns the military.

- Owns the media.

- Owns the vote tabulators.

- Owns the drug companies who keep you sick.

= Healthy people don’t buy drugs.

- Owns the food distribution channels.

= Healthy people don’t shape themselves into static blobs.

Money = Power = Reality

Your reality.

Don’t believe that political personalities just “die by accident”.

Kennedy, Luther, Lennon, Diana… how come the bad guys never die in this movie?

Nick Berg was dead when they sawed his head off. No arterial gushing, no autonomic spasmic thrashing… Either he was dead or he was a robot. Either way his death had purpose in desensitizing the American populace to the coming stories of real torture.

Do you think terrorism is an unfortunate occurrence?

Who has profited the most from the fear of 9/11? ...The War in Iraq?

Why did Nero burn down Rome?

The Bush Regime doesn't play the fiddle, they plays the media. They play with your heart strings. They play with your comfort level.

Do you actually think democracy is alive in the USA?

Do you actually think that Bush won a fair election/re-election?

What do you actually know about Pearl Harbour? US Foreign Policy? US foreign interests? The collusion between the Bin Laden family and the Bush’s?

What have you heard of the Skull and Bones? Bohemian Grove? The Bilderbergers? The Illuminati? The New World Order?

Somehow, somewhere do you think the dark powers of the world have disappeared? Do you think good is winning?

Are you comfortable selling out for a world of objects? For a reality of soft media? When was the last time you took any serious consideration of how fucked up this world has become?

There is nowhere to run, there is nowhere to hide. This is your world, this is your community.

Sit up and turn off the television.

Our problem as a borderless culture is not that we don’t have information; mass media is a constant in our everyday lives. The internet and television are replete with information: local events, national or international news, weather, humour, history, sports, music, culture, religion... The problem with all this information is that it is packaged commercially. Demographics and statistics of varying viewer bases force material to consist mainly of easily consumed soft news and just the bare facts. The entertainment industry caters to this shallow mindset, preaching consumerism and marketable morality.

We as a culture are abusing ourselves. We are neglecting the intuitive and creative energies that have so long fuelled the human race. Instead we stagnate like ostridges with our heads buried in a bubble gum world of insignificant distraction. Time is money, money is stress, and stress is overwhelming. Most people will never break out of the habituation of working class life. Others will never see beyond thin social structures. Our culture has taken ethnocentricity to the next level: pure unabashed egocentricity.

Community and group action need to be fostered, true national spirit has to be created. The concept of a national identity has to represent the higher values of human existence…

We the people are submitting our minds and awareness to the manipulation by dark powers.

One of the worlds greatest war criminals and mass murderers is being allowed to continue his dark administration against the peoples of this world. The evidence is conclusive, in the year 2000 George Bush with the help of his brother and fraudulent vote tabulation stole the election. This information was made readily available to the electorate through Michael Moore’s documentary “Fahrenheit 9/11.” Yet Bush still managed to become re-elected by tampering and disguising voter records. Bush’s ties to the Bin Laden’s, to the Skull and Bones secret society, his prior knowledge of 9/11, the obvious motives for unnecessary war, glossed over with paper thin lies… and that’s just the tip of this vicious iceberg.

Why? Why despite all these crimes of public record do the people of the United States still appear so complacent in allowing this administration to destroy their civil rights and liberties, eviscerate the protective constitution, and send their children to war?

Fear.

Fear is the most primal of emotions, the most powerful form of self preservation. Governments have used fear to control their populace since the reign of Nero and his burning of Rome (which he blamed on the Christians).

Bush allowed the WTC attacks, Clinton allowed the WTC attacks (though they failed due to incompetence), Clinton also allowed the Oklahoma Bombing, and even the history channel reports that the government had weeks of prior knowledge before Pearl Harbour. I would urge you to do your own investigation into these acts.

You have a choice; either watch CNN and try and draw your own conclusions from their fluffy facts or be your own reporter and dig through the thousands of articles and documentaries compiled in the sites I will list below.

[b]The information war starts with you.[/b]


Kerry didn’t lose the election. http://www.tompaine.com/articles/kerry_won.php

Youth did vote in record numbers. http://www.guerrillanews.com/headlines/headline.php?id=130

Enter, Mr. Blackwell: Was He Bush's Trump Card In Ohio? http://www.prisonplanet.com/articles/november2004/031104trumpcard.htm

Skull and Bones archive: http://www.prisonplanet.com/archive_skull_and_bones.html

The Patriot Act II http://www.infowars.com/print/patriot_act/alexs_analysis.htm

Police State http://www.infowars.com/police_state.html#ps

Project for a New American Century: http://www.newamericancentury.org/ / http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/ThePlan.htm

http://www.infowars.com/
http://www.prisonplanet.com/
http://www.guerrillanews.com/
http://gregpalast.com/
http://www.corpwatch.org/
http://www.blackboxvoting.com/
http://www.disinfo.com/archive/index.html 0 comments

With my English research essay deadline looming nine hours ahead of me, I was desperately searching for some inspiration. I had selected the infamous Island Poet Milton Acorn as my subject for my autobiographical project. My research had been negligible, and I was desperately trying to compose an angle of attack. Jane, my ever ready research sidekick, had become exasperated and suggested strongly that I find something I was more comfortable with. I had just picked up the Hunter S Thompson memorial edition of Rolling Stone that same day, and it was packed with biographical goodness. Without further ado, I cleaned my bookshelves of all my HST, rolled two for the night and got smokin. The finished version was passed in at 9 am, after a sleepless night and many hours of reading, reflection and writing. This marathon session brought me much closer to understanding who Hunter S Thompson really was as a revolutionary writer, and a fully faceted human being.

---

On February 21st of this year, the renegade journalist Hunter S. Thompson ended his life, fulfilled. The universe, however, has always afforded extra life to those individuals who burned the brightest. Through Thompson’s insightful perspective on politics and the insidious side of human behaviour, his writings have an impact that few other authors can achieve. Thompson’s intelligence, charm and renegade style of journalism have influenced the way I view my world.

While covering the anti-war demonstrations in 1967, Thompson was clubbed and thrown through a window, where he lay and watched as the police brutally repelled the crowd (Gilmore 46). The intense political fervour and social experimentation that changed America during the late 1960’s and well into the 1970’s, provided much inspiration for Thompson’s writing. It was during this period that Thompson wrote an in-depth documentary on the Hells Angels - his research ending with a brutal stomping as he was discharged from the gang’s ranks. He soon thereafter moved to Denver, Colorado with his wife Sondi and young son Juan (Gilmore 46).

One of his most widely acknowledged works was "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas", a self proclaimed, “savage journey to the heart of the American Dream,” published in 1971 by Rolling Stone magazine and later adapted into a major movie production. In this book the journey takes many shapes, and often the lines between reality and drug addled hallucinations are blurred indefinitely. No consensus regarding the American Dream was found, among these characters there is only disillusionment, and at times complete depravity. Thompson fills the reader with the energy that was the created from this social upheaval; he writes about the seemingly inevitable victory by the masses over the “forces of Old and Evil.” In a stirring metaphor he evokes the image of a beautiful wave of energy, rising upward in 1965 and sweeping over the American landscape. Then just as quickly receding, invisible by 1971 unless you looked and “…with the right kind of eyes you [could] almost see the high-water mark-- that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back” (68).

It was during the 1972 Presidential race between McGovern and Nixon, that Thompson’s uncanny political insight was discovered. His experiences during this heated race while working in the McGovern camp were documented in his book "Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72" (Gilmore 47).

During this period Thompson was continually adapting his writing and reporting styles. Thompson had begun reporting from within the story itself and documenting his own revelations. It was a style he had developed while working with the now famous British illustrator Ralph Steadman. In 1970, Thompson had asked to cover the Kentucky Derby, and had received an offer from Scanlan’s magazine. Ralph Steadman, was eager to accept Thompson’s invitation to illustrate for this article. All Thompson managed to return from this adventure, however, was a mess of thoughts scribbled loosely on paper. The editors at Scanlan’s put the article "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" together from these manuscripts. Thompson’s unique brand of first person journalism was highly touted and nicknamed “Gonzo journalism” by one editor. It was with his evolving “Gonzo” style that Thompson found a unique and revealing voice (Gilmore 46). From reading Thompson’s work, I have gained the abilities to better live within the first person, to be aware of my environment, to always question and allowing my thoughts to digress and carry me to new springs of revelation.

Hunter S. Thompson was more than the mythic figure projected from movies and comic strips. It is important to read Thompson’s work to fully understand the type of human he was. Johnny Depp described him as “a Southern Gentleman, all chivalry and charm, hilarious and rascally little boy. A truth seeker. He was a hypersensitive medium who channelled the underlying currents of truth, concealed in veils of silken lies that we have become accustomed to swallowing” (49). Thompson’s greatest gift was said to be his ability to match-make, and network within his diverse group of friends. He felt no restraint in phoning Bill Murray at 3:33 am to discuss how best to launch the sport of shotgun golf (Thompson 1). He was deeply conflicted, and tormented on one end of his personality, and loving and tender on the other side of the spectrum. His first wife, Sondi Wright, described him as being, at times “extremely cruel.” She wrote that Thompson was tormented by this alter personality, and according to his family he had always had this monster. Indeed Thompson’s relationships were hardly one sided, he depended on the people around him, and he was lucky to have family and friends who truly supported and understood his needs (Wright 52).

The dark side of his personality showed up frequently in his writings, often in the form of self destruction and other violence. Thompson wrote this personal opinion in The Great Shark Hunt: “I have already lived and finished the life I planned to live – 13 years longer, in fact – and everything from now on will be A New Life, a different thing, a gig that ends tonight and starts tomorrow morning. So if I decide to leap for the Fountain when I finish this memo, I want to make one thing perfectly clear – I would love to make that leap, and if I don’t I will always consider it a mistake and a failed opportunity, one of the very few serious mistakes of my First Life that .. is now ending” (17). While reporting on Hemmingway’s suicide and the events leading up to it, Thompson spoke of an artist as someone who tries to bring order from the chaos. The problem, he pointed out, with trying to make static a world of chaos, is that eventually the vibrations will shake you completely off. He described Hemmingway in his final days as an old, sick and very troubled man. Who no longer cared for the illusion of peace and contentment and chose to end his life with a shotgun (Thompson 372-373).

Physically incapacitated by a multitude of ailments, and mentally depressed by his declining condition, Thompson also turned to the reality of suicide. Thompson had descended even deeper into his personal abyss with the re-election of George W Bush, a politician whom Thompson had publicly denounced. His sense of humour had always been a mainstay in his life, yet in his final days humour was replaced with incessant talk about his life goals and unfinished projects. Thompson was thorough in settling his affairs, ensuring that those he cared for would receive his prized possessions. Shortly thereafter, Hunter S. Thompson took his life with a polished .45 calibre revolver (Brinkley 42).

In a world of homogenization, Thompson was a revolutionary. He told the truth, and exposed the meaning beneath the political whitewash so that we could all understand more clearly the world we inhabit. I respect the courage that he displayed in his fight against the forces of Old and Evil. Hunter lived life by his own rules, and he died by his own will. Hunter S. Thompson’s influence continues to extend as his stories are made into new movies, and his ideas proliferated through new publications. I believe it was Thompson’s wish that one day he might help, in some way, the wave of human intention to once again hit that high water mark, and continue without receding… In time we see how ideas and individuals have shaped our society and I am certain that Hunter S. Thompson will continue to guide our awareness for many years to come.

---

References

Brinkley, Douglas. “Contentment Was Not Enough: The final Days At Owl Farm.”
Rolling Stone Mar. 2005:36-42.

Depp, Johnny. “A Pair of Deviant Bookends.” Rolling Stone Mar. 2005: 48-49.

Gilmore, Mikal. “ The Last Outlaw.” Rolling Stone Mar. 2005: 44-47.

Thompson, Hunter S. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Toronto: Random House, 1971.

---. “Shotgun Golf with Bill Murray.” ESPN Sports. Feb 15, 2005. Mar 28, 2005.
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?id=1992213&num=2

---. The Great Shark Hunt. New York: Ballantine Books, 1992.

Wright, Sondi. “He was Full Spectrum.” Rolling Stone Mar. 2005: 52. 0 comments

Another archetype, never intended for mass consumption, meets his self-imposed fate

DENVER - Journalist Hunter S. Thompson did not take his life ''in a moment of haste or anger or despondency'' and probably planned his suicide well in advance because of his declining health, the family's spokesman said Wednesday.

Douglas Brinkley, a historian and author who has edited some of Thompson's work, said the founder of ''gonzo'' journalism shot himself Sunday night after weeks of pain from a host of physical problems that included a broken leg and a hip replacement.

''I think he made a conscious decision that he had an incredible run of 67 years, lived the way he wanted to, and wasn't going to suffer the indignities of old age,'' Brinkley said in a telephone interview from Aspen. ''He was not going to let anybody dictate how he was going to die.''

In a statement, Hunter's widow, Anita, and adult son, Juan, said ''it is entirely fitting that Hunter, as a master of politics and control, chose to take his life on his own schedule by his own hand, rather than submitting to fate, genetics or chance.

''Though we will miss him bitterly, we understand his decision. Let the world know that Hunter S. Thompson died with his glass full, a fearless man, a warrior.''

Thompson, famous for New Journalism masterpieces like ''Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,'' spent an intimate weekend with his son, Juan, daughter-in-law Jennifer and young grandson William, the spokesman said.

''He was trying to really bond and be close to the family'' before his suicide, Brinkley said. ''This was not just an act of irrationality. It was a very pre-planned act.''

Family members had no hint that Thompson planned to take his own life, Brinkley said, and he did not leave a note. ''There was no farewell salutation,'' he said.

The family is looking into whether Thompson's cremated remains can be blasted out of a cannon, a wish the gun-loving writer often expressed, Brinkley said.

''Right now, there's a period of great sadness and deep mourning but also a sense of great joy of what his life stood for, and if that's what he wanted, we'll see if we can pull it off,'' he said. ''The optimal, best-case scenario is the ashes will be shot out of a cannon.''

''There's no question, I'm sure that's what he would want,'' said Mike Cleverly, a longtime friend and neighbor. ''Hunter truly loved that kind of thing.''

Colorado fireworks impresario Marc Williams said it's doable.

''Oh, sweet. I'd love to. I would so love to,'' said Williams, 44, owner of Night Musick Inc. in suburban Denver and a fan of Thompson's writing.

Williams said it's not uncommon for families to have their loved one's ashes scattered across the sky in a fireworks shell, though his company has never done it.

If the Thompson job was his, Williams said, he'd probably blast the ashes from a 12-inch-diameter mortar 800 feet into the sky. Then a second, window-rattling blast would scatter them amid a massive blossom of color about 600 feet across.

''If you were going to light up a flash-bomb worthy of Hunter S. Thompson, you'd want to make it an earth-shaker,'' Williams said.

Thompson's wife, and son, are looking into the cannon scenario, said Brinkley.

READ MORE: http://www.gonzo.org/ 0 comments

For anyone who missed Rob’s Christmas concert I scanned one of the posters. Experiencing Rob’s performance was the highlight of my 2004. Although he may not have packed the house for his debut concert, everyone in attendance was thoroughly enthralled.

Hope everyone had a magnificent and spiritually moving Christmas. Here’s wishing everyone a happy and fulfilled new year.

2005 … I like that number
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Time/Space

Places without time never die.
People without fear never shy.
Where does it all end where does it all go.
How many more loops around this precious coil?
How many thoughts before I’m freed?

Jesus was a last timer,
He came down to try and
Point us in the right direction.
For this we will forever be indebt’d.

The religion that came about,
Shaped and crushed the world.
This knowledge now lost in languages,
Indiscernible to masses.
As dictionarieots guide expression
Towards infinitarium.

Our Life Time,
Our wring through the washer -
Our stead upon the coggles.
Whether we let, and vet, Or,
Perhaps make bet and
Revive the infernal insymmet.

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I picture the world as it is today, knowing that I am a part of this planet's evolutionary design. I choose to live to my fullest capacity in a spirit of openness, intellectual integrity, and freedom. I am conscious that I have a role in the unfolding story of humanity. I am connected to the whole. I am prepared to imagine that my intentions can find a deep resonance in the hearts and minds of others. Together, we will stir the depths of human ingenuity, creativity, and collective healing. Together, we are part of an evolutionary pulse bringing into focus our collective responsibility for planet Earth and its diverse peoples. My intention is that I may come to a place of wisdom, compassion, and an abiding exuberance for serving our common work and the greater good.

The Institute of Noetic Sciences
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