FREE SPEECH: June 2023
|
ONE WORD AT A TIME!
The Big Days
1st
Writing Tips
11
Tripod Killer Alexa murders nature photographers because they are trying to capture perfection, something that has been haunting her entire life. Truth has to always turn to fiction because nobody believes the truth. The problem with perfection found in beauty is that it becomes a debilitating lifelong quest to remain beautiful. More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Smile + Natural Beauty
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| ||||||||||||||||
2nd
Writing Tips
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Ray Parker Junior
Why? I struggle with sleeping. It's Gummy Friday, and the usual characters are here with one sub, Karl. I don't want to be Karl's friend. What's the word for someone who is white who has had a charmed life → Who bought a home decades ago → Somehow at the right time → Flipped it into a comfortable retirement → But when he joins the group on Friday → Can't help but expound his vitriolic hatred of others → Poor people, indigenous people → And the blacks → And thinks it's funny telling jokes about people suffering in Biafra? Can I field this one? You are just uptight → Everyone is too sensitive these days → Karl is joking; lighten up. He's a fucking entitled douchebag racist piece of shit. I don't want to be his friend. |Sarcasm Alert| Us whites have had it rough. Grant, whose father was a pilot, thinks my mind rests near genius. He believes challenging me brings out brilliance. I disagree. His father was a pilot in the air force. His mother is still alive at 96ish. When she passes, he’ll be bequeathed the family home. He worked as a postal worker for a long time, retiring a few years back. He's white. He's had a charmed life. But for some fucking reason, when Karl is around, he spews, “They should kill all the poor people in the homeless tent city. I'm sick of them.” “Don't get me started on the indigenous; I'm sick of them being given things. I've worked hard for everything. Look at this video about taking away my Pabst. It's hilarious.” |Sarcasm Alert| It’s tough being white. What Grant spews is garbage; if there was the absolute bottom of low brow, this would be it. I love Weird Al Yankovic; he was brilliant and hilarious, and his song parodies are-- Were boring, predictable, I don't say this; I don't want to rile up Grant anymore than he already is. Gummy Friday is supposed to be fun; it's not supposed to be aging white assholes bitching about stuff they don't understand. I don't like Grant. I do. But not at this moment. I'm worried liking him and not punting him to the curb shines a light on exactly who I'm trying not to be or become. Change the subject. Grant tells the table about a movie he went to with Karl. Karl hated it; his review when they left the theatre was, “What the fuck was that shit?” This came from a man who has watched Baby Driver 49 times. Reg, another white piece of trash; his white hatred of anything else; makes it easier for his bigoted thoughts to scratch the surface of his being, slipping out from time to time, not nuanced, evident if you listen. Most people don't listen—like their skin tone, they think everyone should just fucking lighten up for a minute. Anyway, Reg insults me regularly. He think calling me ‘fucked’ when I'm making original, not racist, cerebral observations, I had spelled cereberal (sic) wrong, that's funny in itself, anyway, Reg spews, “Do you talk in your sleep? It must drive everyone around you crazy.” Fuck off. I tell Reg I've been in a loving relationship for 13 years. He thinks it's a hilarious saying, “Who could stand you that long?” He adds to a conversation about a news story where people were dying, “Were they black?” — and laughs. Racism lives in Canada. I tell him he knows my partner. He flashes an ignorant card, “I do know him, he’s the one who looks over and waves at me awkwardly every once in a while.” Your face is awkward, Reg. Others aren’t to blame for your health problems. While we're talking about blame, Karl, and Grant, you've had a blessed life. It is sickening that you feel the need to flex your unbelievable lack of empathy, compassion, understanding, and blatant ignorance. I don't want to be like you. I'm happy to say I'm not. I don't want to be toxic like you. As we age, cutting and chopping people out of our life is essential. It's not because they don't serve any purpose in your life anymore. It is. How? Because I don't want to be friends with the enemies of my thought. You can't discuss complex issues; such as poverty, homelessness; and anything else, with people who are angry about what they fucking have. It's too taxing; soul eradicating. And it is impossible to be friends with people who think racist jokes are jokes. I want to like Grant. But I can't stoop far enough to enjoy a song about taking away my Pabst Blue Ribbon; or get over him hating people suffering (for a plethora of reasons) when he, himself, talks about sniffing glue. What's wrong with people? Scott is an ass. Tell me how you really feel. Scott barked at someone he didn't know how much he hated curling. That was the precise moment I concluded; he needed to be chopped. More on him later when I meet up with Dean, a dying man I met recently. It's been easier being in his presence when I don't have to pretend to engage with him. You are being an asshole. No, prudent. Do you know what the problem with the world is? Humans are parasites. The world will be better off when we're gone. Scott often shouts out. Jesus, Scott, shut the fuck up. You are in your 70s, you have COPD, and you brag, “Nobody knows how much I donate yearly to the YMCA. Nobody does.” “Let me tell you about Dan, my partner, Dan, and I… Dan and I… Dan and I… Dan's an alcoholic…” Scott, that's what you've chosen to share about your partner…? “Dan and I…” Nobody has ever seen Dan. It doesn't matter; I have a sneaking suspicion if Dan exists, it's in a box like Helena. Why didn’t you go with a situation comedy character we never see? If you get the references, 100 Bonus Points are for you, for each. A man sits next to Scott. He’s judged inadequate by Scott. I don’t think he knows how much Scott donates. Scott sneers. The man feels uncomfortable and leaves. Someone Scott approves of takes the stool. Next, Scott pretends to be fucking woke and not a bigot. He tells the man about all the fantastic restaurants he's never eaten at. Restaurants he’s researched online while drinking one, two, three, four, or five… …beers before he goes home to his boxed alcoholic husband that we have no business attaching alcoholic to someone we'll never meet. What kind of dick shares something so personal with others. Scott. The question was rhetorical. The man's face looks anguished. He wants to escape. He's from Florida and has lived there his entire life; Scott has read about Florida during beer 4 and 5 while the stool beside him sat victimless. I've lived in Florida my entire 64 years on the planet, the man says Scott tells him he's been doing it all wrong. I don't engage with Scott anymore. The Gummy is kicking in. Karl is telling jokes about Biafra. Grant is wincing about his hatred for poor people, except the one in front of the Independent grocery store he judged as worthy of a $1 donation. He tells us about him or her, letting us know he appreciated her politeness. “I don't mind giving him or her a dollar.” “The rest are fucking garbage, they should all die or be locked up.” He says. I need to change the discussion. The Mayor. 2G. Karl. Grant. Me. Remember Arnie? I ask the table Yes. Yes. Nothing. Yes. Arnie had an Axe Body Spray mister installed on his apartment's front door. He was blasted with toxic fragrances every time he walked in and out. I know, he stunk, the table says in unison. What I love most about Arnie is that it didn't matter what anyone was talking with him about; he would regularly slip in, “I'm not gay.” It is hot out today, Arnie. You know, I'm not gay. What a football game yesterday. Not gay. Do you like toast, Arnie? Not gay. I woke up this morning. Not gay. Every day Arnie would drink in a gay bar announcing he was not gay. Every day. I guess he just likes gays. Arnie successfully changed our discussion. Could you imagine being in an STR8 bar and announcing every few minutes, I'm not STR8? And at Christmas having your mother + father take you aside and say, this hurts us more than you, but honey, you’re STR8—we always wanted a gay son. So, we hate to tell you, if you don't suck a whack of dicks in the next month, you must go; you can't live here anymore. You need to bring home at least nine different guys in the next month and get to some sucking… or else. But mum, dad, Tiffany, and I just got engaged. Son, Tiffany, must go, and besides, doesn't everyone named Tiffany need to change their names in their twenties if they want to live a long life? What? Up your Grindr game, son; suck some dicks, please, we love you, but we need a gay son. I'm not on Grindr. Son, the clocks ticking. The Mayor. 2G. Karl. Grant. Me. Let's vote. Which one of us would be the most likely to be gay, if only one of us were at this table? Grant votes for 2G. I vote for Gregg. Wait. No Karl. Karl tries to sneak in a joke about black people. 2G says something about absorbing his twin. It's up to The Mayor. The Mayor, who do you think would be most likely to be gay? He says, a shotgun would answer the question. I don't know why that's funny. It just is. OMG. The Mayor is killing us off one by one. I'm last. Bye The Mayor. The Mayor's all alone. We're all dead. Fuck, what's a gay to do when they're the only one left? Porn? Great. We've lightened up. Grant calls himself an idiot, and then adds, we all are. I've become deft at avoiding Grant's vitriol. Most of the time. I don't want to hear him disparage me for not being angry and white like he is. He is. Unless he's lying for effect. He judges everything I do based on entertainment value. Grant, I think I had a heart attack. You know your problem, Lindsay; you used to be funnier; I challenge you to bring out… The song about Pabst is the antonym of funny? I don’t say. Your problem, Lindsay, is you dwell. Is this dwelling? I don't think so; it's freeing. Anyway, be funnier, Lindsay, take a risk. Grant, you shouldn't call yourself or anyone else an idiot. We all are. That's not the point. A famous, well-respected person once said we need to talk nicer to ourselves if we want mentally healthy lives. Who? Ray Parker Junior, I just said, Ray Parker Junior. Go gummy. Of all the things stored inside my brain-computer, WTF is Ray Parker Junior on the ready? Seriously. Why? I'm worried. I don't even know who the fuck Ray Parker Junior is? I think he's a singer. He may have done the Ghostbuster theme song. I don't know. I could look it up, but I'm not going to. Why? Because if I did, I would add to my Ray Parker Junior knowledge, and I'm certain nobody has ever gotten laid because they uttered his name. Because, if they did, they would have a go-to reason to use the word surreal. I just finished reading a book about rehab (fiction) where the author skewered the Keg Restaurant. I was fired almost 1,000 days ago, ending my career life. I wrote a story about a fictitious Food Distribution Company with a ten-letter acronym, and with the story's protagonist having a unisex name. I received a court-injunction saying I can never use the abbreviation again in my writing (CYUCWUSCYI) or the unisex name (NARAT) because it cost the assholes I used to work for, business. Liars. The assholes (or maybe it was their lawyer doing his job by using what the system allows) claim six-fucking months into the pandemic → → and the never-ending Trump shitshow → → and the fight for democracy in full swing → → they claim their client's thought of me → → the fired fifteen-year employee (who they fired because of my age to avoid severance pay—which threw my life into flux) → → that their client's thought of me → → remembered how to spell my last name → → Googled it → → went to my website → → scoured the hundreds of pages → → found a story about CYUCWUSCYI and NARAT→ → decided it was about the company I used to work for (A Staffing Company) → → phoned the company I used to work for → → and told them because of my story → → they would never use the services of the company I worked for again. |Sarcasm Alert| Sounds believable. I'm sixty-two now. My career life is over. My court case still needs to be resolved. Almost 1,000 days have passed since my firing. The fucking system protects those with money. A year ago, in the second year of my firing, six months after my deposition, I let my lawyers know I'm in financial turmoil. (Eighteen months before today) Instead of receiving a shred of empathy, the primary lawyer on my team basically told me to shut up and that I should feel lucky they took my case. I wish I was lying. I was told the wheels of justice are fair for everyone. I got fired at fifty-nine. I've lost nearly $300,000 in income. My life savings are gone. Is it time to die? I mask my suffering with wit, often teetering toward darkness. I hide behind it. I'm fucking funny. Maybe only some things you are reading here. I. AM. FUCKING. TERRIFIED. I. AM. BATTLING. DEPRESSION. AND. DEPRESSION-FUELLED. INSOMNIA. Bruce and Henry are sitting at the bar. I've been penning an episodic series about THIS TABLE. Bruce and Henry give the show a huge thumbs up by turning around to catch this episode live! The Golden Girls meets Archie Bunker meets Breaking Bad meets Baby Driver. It's time to go, and for the tenth fucking time, as I'm paying my bill, Grant says, “Oh no, this should be good,” to me and the server. Grant, WTF? Are you cheering for my card to be declined? Your problem is you dwell. Are you, cheering for it to be declined? It would be funny. More fucking pain would be good for me? I hope Grant judges me worthy of a Loonie when he sees me on the street. The following day, I sat down with The Mayor. I tell The Mayor I don't want to be Karl's friend. As for Grant…? It's getting harder. The Mayor understands; however, he avoids the vitriol and confrontation. I understand. I've come to a place where when I listen to what people say, I accept their words reveal who they are—it saddens me when people I like choose deafness as a haven—because it isolates those who do listen. I don’t want to be the only one who cares. Dean sits beside me. I introduce him to The Mayor. Dean has blessed me with the challenge of growth. I met Dean for the first time in September (it's now November). Dean's dying soon. Talking with someone whose dying is a learning opportunity. I like him. He says there is nothing I could say that would offend him. But still…moments like this reveal who we are inside; it helps us hone humour in the most trying of situations… Dean appreciates whatever my sense of… is? We talk about potatoes because Dean orders a sandwich with fries. I say as I get older, my love of ketchup is waning. Is it okay to eat the fries without ketchup? I ask. Eoin, the bartender, is from Ireland. Is that where French fries came from? I ask. Eoin says they discovered potatoes first in Peru. Quinoa is a superfood, I say. I wonder why I've said this, or even, typed it here. Dean says he loves Quinoa. Dean, you're dying; it won't help you now, I didn't say. I think Quinoa is a weed that grows on the side of hills in Chile, I say. I don't know if that is true.. I'll ask Ray. This get's me thinking. Humans are fucking weird. Have we scoured the earth with Mikey(s) looking at things and thinking, I wonder what that would taste like? I know; get Mikey to try it… If you got that reference, you will, receive 250 Bonus Points. How many Mikey(s) have been sacrificed? Son, suck some dicks, if you don’t want to be judged by Karl and Grant. I moved to Ecuador for a few minutes. I'm back. Dean's food arrives. He asks for a second plate. He shuffles the fries onto the plate and gives them to me. I graciously accept. Actually, I hate the word; actually, I literally hate it—actually, I'm not sure I said thank you. I skip the ketchup and dribble vinegar on the fries. The Mayor says vinegar is good for us. I add, and for wiping counters. I eat all the fries. When I finish, I ponder: You haven't lived until a dying man has given you, his fries. I had used pontificate instead of ponder; above, I had never used pontificate before. Ray told me I needed to be using it correctly. Ray is right. Is Ray still alive? If he's not alive, change Ray is right, to ghost Ray is right. Dean says he just got off work. He adds he's quitting in six weeks. He only has a few years to live. I remain silent. I’m growing. Dean is working until he almost dies. I want to cry. I don't. Dean has a cane. I've been unstable walking lately because of my dwelling, often wondering when people pass me with canes, walkers, and scooters; if it's foreshadowing. Dean says he's been having a lot of sex lately. He can't believe there is a market for dying men with canes. Adding, “Even with being a little pudgy.” I ate his fries. Are we going to have sex? He asks me. No, I say. I ask him if he thinks people with walkers are getting any? He says I'll let you know in a few weeks. Scooters? I won't make it that long, he says We're not going to…? I'm afraid not, Dean. Why? He asks. Because I don't want the closure. And what would happen if you don’t die? I add. A couple sits down next to me after Dean leaves. They are from Maryland. I want to have sex with one of them. We chat. The one I'm googly-eyed-dwelling-on googly-eyes me. Our chat is amicable. Did I use amicable correctly? Ray…? I don't care; it will give you something to look up. Go. Look it up. Before Dean left, he said he was not looking for an LTR. That reminded me of Scott, seventy-ish-something Scott; I was shown his personal ad once on a sex site. Scott’s Sex Ad I'm a power top. Looking for casual. I'm not looking for LTR. Do you know how much I contribute to the YMCA every year? I do yoga. Only if it is really in an expensive studio with a group of other whites wearing expensive yoga gear. Yoga used to be free to everyone in South East Asia – until us whites saw a way to take it away from them and turn it into something most of us can’t afford, sort of like Whole Foods. I think humans are parasites. Everything in your life you’ve done, I can tell you about, better than you. I like to place name brand bags on the bar when I drink to brag about how wealthy, I am. Does this shirt make me look fat. Namaste I ponder: Does Dan get to watch? I'm left at the bar with the one I want to have sex with? Maybe I can take them both home with me to my partner. While alone, I say, you have a beautiful smile. I say this without even the slightest twinge of creepiness. I’m returned a smile, and “I hope we see you again. We're here till Tuesday.” Am I cheating? On Friday and Saturday Night (11-12 November 2022), I made vomit when I got home. Sort of a hobby. I should let Grant know. I’m a lot funnier when I’m not upchucking. Why do I have upchucking stored in my brain computer? Ray…? More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Pussy on a Pedestal
Home Cooking + Life Savings + Green Day
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| ||||||||||||||||
3rd
Writing Tips
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 1. Floor 10
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. Scratching. Clawing. Haunting us. Trying to destroy everything about us. I can’t fucking sleep. I try. I chant to myself repeatedly, don’t think, don’t think → STOP. FUCKING. THINKING. Fight it. I’m losing. Depression is relentless. I want to fucking write, write, write. Tell a story essential to me, immortalize my core. Make people who don’t know me feel something; cheer for me. I need this. To survive. STOP I can’t. When I need to drift off, the stories I’ve shared before spring into my mind, rattling, prattling, scattering, running from side to side in my brain. Taunting me. Begging me to tell them. Begging me to listen. I need to clean the wax in my ears. If I don’t find out who I am, I will die. I don’t want to die. I want to live until I’m 135. I need to hit my stride. I need you to come along with me. Close my eyes. Pull the eye shades down. Go blank. Why are you here now, Dean? Why did we come together? What are you trying to teach me? Why am I listening? In the truest sense of the word, a friendship has formed and is ephemeral; you will die before others read this. As I age, I understand I love humanity, but people, not so much. I drift off for a second, only a fucking second. I wake up, and I’m drenched. My head is floating above me. Is my heart failing? It’s pounding against my chest. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. It is trying to blast out. I grab my chest and push as hard as possible to hold my life inside me. I’m shivering. The hairs all over my body are standing at attention. Fear. Flight or fight. What am I fighting? My body shudders. Where’s Hana? She’s hiding under the couch. She’s mewing. She has seen evil. Typically, during my nightly battles with slumber, she comes to me, crawls on my chest, and starts purring loudly, giving her health to me, risking her own. But not tonight. Hana’s hiding; like me, she’s recoiled into a ball of fear. I need her to be safe. I crack my eyes open ever so slightly. My monster has arrived. I see a shadowy figure sitting on the sofa just outside my bedroom. The creature is panting in a guttural manner. Hissing. Its skin is scaled. Talons are razor-sharp, and shredding the sofa, trying to get to Hana. The creature hisses again. I shudder. Why is this fucking beast here? The creature hears my fear, cocks its head in my direction, and casts its fierce blood-red eyes towards me. They are the eyes of a devil. I am going to die. I need to escape. But to where? If I move, its steely claws will shred me. My mind screams at me to run. There is nowhere to run. I will perish if I don’t deal with what life has gifted me. I can’t hide behind the comedy delivered to me in pain anymore. I’m going to die tonight. I can’t catch my breath. The creature hears me gasping. It rises with a thrust from the sofa and scratches the floor gratingly as it ambles toward me. I desperately pull on a pair of pants and throw on a shirt and shoes. I reach beside my bed; a backpack is lying there. A go bag. Where did it come from? I didn’t pack it; I don’t know what’s inside. Survival? The monster shreds my bed and slashes my right calve. I bleed. I frantically grab the backpack, thrust it over my shoulders, and jump to my feet. Sweat drips down my body. A never-ending river. I jump to my feet. The monster slams me against the wall. My neighbours must have heard it. I will be rescued. The creature growls at me; its fetid breath almost decapitates me. I’m going to die. I jump over the bed and run into my living room. I must make it to the door. I reach for Hana. She scratches my hand. I tell her I’ll return for her. With my eyes trying to adjust to the darkness, I stride toward the door. I halt because I see, four fierce eyes darting back and forth, pacing, blocking the path to escape. I’m doomed. The first creature blasts toward me. The two creatures at the door grind their way toward me. There is no escape. I collapse to the floor, accepting my time is up. An opening magically appears, where I’m lying crumpled in defeat. A light flashes. The portal is a stairwell snaking upward from the middle of my living room. It’s reaching for the heavens above. Hana, I’ll return for you, I whisper delicately, in order to not arouse the monsters. I dash into the opening, racing toward the stairs, with the monsters nipping at my heels. I pause. To get to the stairs, I must wade through a slough filled with rodent-like creatures with blood-curdling eyes and snapping fangs. I must make my way through to survive. I’m slashed by one of the monsters. Blood spills from my wound. I find the motivation to move. I dive into the water. Wading through. With every step, I am bitten. The flesh is being torn from my body. I whinge in agony. I am going to die. Twelve steps and one-hundred bites later, I reach the other side. The three monsters chasing me are now in the water, slashing the rodent creatures into pieces, devouring them, a seemingly endless buffet of terror. I can’t reach the start of the stairs; they’re broken, hanging in the air. I need to climb to them. I snap my eyes shut and flash them back open. On the stairs cheering for me is what I barely make out to be a collection of my past; a likeness of me is there at least twenty me(s), different iterations. Standing behind the many me(s)—so many me(s)—is a collection of history, haunting me but strangely needing me to arrive at a place of understanding. I feel my pulse slow as the blood drains from my body. I will not make it, but the strength of the hundreds of hands from before is waving me toward the glowing light they are swaddled in. I look back, and the monsters are still ravaging the rodents. I breathe in deeply, and with every ounce of strength I can muster, I jump just high enough to grasp the ledge of the stairway. I hold on with all my might, and just as my grip is about to give out and I am going to fall to my demise; I understand, just like all who’ve fallen before, a moment appears when you know falling will be the outcome—and you are forced to accept agony is all that will remain. Miraculously, with my grip failing and the inevitable here, I feel a hand latch onto me and then another. And another. And another... So, I close my eyes, and I beg the heavens above for salvation. I lay on the stairwell floor, gasping again; my blood had stopped flowing. I open my eyes. The hundreds of people are now a haze drifting into the ether, up, up, up, the snaking stairs. I blink. I blink. I blink. I pry my tired eyes open and whisper, “Danell.” More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
A Lot of Feelings
Original Lindsay Art: When I Was a Cardboard Box
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
4th
Writing Tips
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 2. Danell
Welcome, I have been expecting you. What is this place? Am I dreaming? Lindsay, you can stop shaking for a moment. The beasts are busy. We have time. Not much. We must hurry. Come with me. Danell… Wipe the tears from your eyes. I’m dead. They have tasked me with starting this journey to send you toward the correct path. You are a good man, Lindsay. I’m sorry about what happened to you. I read it on Social Media, and my heart sank. I know we haven’t talked for quite some time. But still… It’s okay, Lindsay. Why are you here, Danell? I’m here to give you a sense of calm. Danell, my heart breaks, I can’t get over it; you are young; I just can’t get over the cruelty of… The dying thing? How are…? What’s wrong with me? Lindsay, it’s okay. It took me by shock as well. Not the dying part. I understood that. I’ve seen death before. The shock stemmed from the diagnosis. I… I… I didn’t want to go. Not yet. I had much more living ahead of me. Life is… Fucking, vicious. Thanks for relieving me of profanity. We must keep walking. Time is running down. This way, up. ↑↑↑ How far? A ways. You’ll understand where I’m taking you when we arrive. Danell, I’m sorry. Stop saying that. I’m shaking. I’m swallowed in an acrid mist. What is this feeling? A sudden wave of exhaustion is rolling over me. I want to cry. If I do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer why? I’m overwhelmed. I’m sinking deeper with every step upward. Danell, hold me. You can’t; you are not real. I am. How can my life be here, this moment, this place, this pain? Was I defective from day one? Worthy of lies? Follow me, Lindsay, only a little further. A rat scurries by. At least, I think it was a rat. Beady eyes. Frothing mouth. I feel wretched, and my blood flows again. I must get out of this darkness. Why won’t you fucking go already? GOOOOOOOOOO Get the fuck out of here? I will never leave you? Why? You need me. I need more and deserve more. Danell, help me. Fuck, I’m pleading with a ghost for liberation. Fight through it, Lindsay. You must. I deserve more. You can’t destroy me. Stop whining. I am in control. NO. Fuck off, are you, my father? Do you know where he is? He’s dead. Asshole. I took him away to punish you. Do not speak to me like that. He wasn’t my father. I feel the warmth caressing my hand. Danell. I’m here, Lindsay; look. What, are we in Regina in 1989? Yes, the Keg, we are meeting for the first time. Danell, I don’t remember. I’m sorry. Were we a couple? We were together for a blip. It was a wonderful blip. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m struggling with memory. Stop saying sorry. Danell, what I do recall is we were active. I don’t remember dating, but I remember our time together was blissful. So, why didn’t we become more? Lindsay, we were both broken. We both needed warmth, a place of comfort without the fear of judgment. I remember that. And besides, you made me laugh. Danell, I faintly remember a drive we took. I can’t remember where, but we had to stop three or four times for… do you remember? Stop. I’m blushing. Danell, we never fought. Most of our time together was filled with laughter and light. It was. Danell, why weren’t we more? We were what we needed at the time, Lindsay. Did we love each other? Yes. Profoundly. Deeply. Completely. I need to cry. Stay with me, Lindsay. Why am I reliving this now? Because you need to start your journey with possibility. My god, Lindsay, you cracked me up; I don’t know where you found the strength; you were incredibly damaged. A few years back, you lost your father and then your mother, your relationship ended, and you took part in the wedding of your first love—and just after your mother died, your beloved cat Guy, died—and then you came to me, a new city, new friends. Danell, you may have saved me. You were well on the way to saving yourself. Keep walking. The devil below us will be finished soon; close your eyes and flash them open. Vancouver? Yes, you moved to Vancouver. I followed a few years later. I found you. I wasn’t searching for you. How did we reconnect? I can’t remember. You hired me to work at the bar you were running. You took away my fear of being alone in a new city. So, I thank you for that. Danell, I remember you were in love with someone else and going to get married. I remember we went out one night, and because several units in your building had been broken into, you asked me to stay over. Did I, stay over? I did. What an asshole thing to do? Lindsay, I had to know? Know? I was getting married. Was I doing the right thing? And…? I can’t answer that question. What are the vibrations? The thundering sounds? Why are the stairs shaking? Lindsay, the beasts, they’ve finished below. They’re coming, soon. We must move faster, and I need to let you go soon. Danell. I need to cry. Don’t; we never did. Run Lindsay. Where are we now? The fireworks, about 10 years ago, a chance meeting. You are with your husband. Are you sick? That’s right, I’m with my husband. And no, I’m well. You were both excited to see me. Did he know? He knows we had something. Why was he happy to see me? Because he knows you took care of me, he knows kindness and empathy live in your soul. I can be an ass… Stop. You glow when you care for others. You need to care for yourself. The two of you invited me to your home for dinner. The memory is making me want to cry. I’m sorry, I declined. That’s okay. Lindsay, you’ve been through far too much. But you know what? You are stronger than you could ever imagine. The beasts are nothing more than demons you need to eradicate… they are not all evil. How many are there? Lots. Run Lindsay. Follow me. Why are their raptors circling in the air? Because they can’t see your resilience. When I found out you died…? Stop. Danell. Were you loved? Yes. More than I ever imagined, I have wonderful children. And then the demons, arrived? I fought them. And fought them. And fought them. I was losing. Evil was eating away at who I was, and then one day, it was time to let go. I wasn’t ready. But my next adventure was calling me. I’m not religious, but I understand there is more…. We only have a minute left before we must say, see you later. Later? Danell. You’ll understand soon, Lindsay. Should I be terrified? No. I can see everything from up here—it’s a bonus of being dead, ethereal. I need you to stay strong. I’ve seen what bottom feeders like Lyler, Soddy, and Jaxon have done to you. They are not the future; you are. I have a future? Lindsay, you have a beautiful one, one where you thrive, one where you continue to give the gift of you to others only if you accept the gifts others give to you. Were you a gift? Don’t make me blush. Sorry. Stop. Lindsay, understand Lyler is the worst of them all because he is a liar… about things vital to happiness and friendship. He’s lied constantly, eyes always shifting. What a… Anyway, don’t hate him too much because he struggles with hearing love from his father. As for you, Lindsay, I know traumas constantly attack you, far too many—that is because you are a lovingly precious human. You deserve whatever you need. Never question the abundance of love people have for you—you might not see it—but it is everywhere; you must accept it… eventually. I’ll try, Danell. I can see the beasts; they are catching up to us. You must go, Lindsay. It’s not goodbye. This is your start. You have lost much. So, your journey upward is going to take some time. There are many moments ahead you must cosset; some you need to let go, and some you need to embrace and hold deep in your heart. Why are you crying, Lindsay? Because I never knew. I couldn’t see it. We never fought. Lindsay, I made my choice. I’m not sure if it was the right one. Danell, it was. Look at the love that was there when your time to go arrived. Your children. Your loving partner. Your calm. Lindsay, go, but before you do, please, try to drink just a tipple less, and eat some vegetables. What? And thank you for keeping me alive in your heart. Our time together meant the world to me; I must say thank you, thank you, thank you. No, Danell, thank you for saving me… again. Run, Lindsay, run. The stairs keep snaking upward, and with each step, the rungs crumble under foot; I’m hoping this slows the beasts hiding inside me. The snake seems never-ending. I’ve run for hours and hours. I’m panting. I need to stop. ↓↓↓ I fall to the ground. My fall takes only a second, but it feels like an eternity. Halfway down, I knew this fall would bring suffering, unavoidable pain. Don’t smash your face into the fractured concrete stairs, slips through my mind. I throw my hands in front of my face. Smash. The pain rushes through me. I’m in shock. I’m holding a cell phone in my hand. Its screen shatters, fragmenting shards into my hand. There are purple pebble marks tattooed into my flesh. My blood pressure spikes. The misery is relentless. I jump to my feet and scream, I’M OKAY. People I don’t know rush past me on the stairwell, going upward. ↑↑↑ I hear a voice; only one person has stopped. Are you okay? I’m in the entranceway of Carlos & Bud’s. Are you okay? "Jason?" More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
A Billion Dollars Scene
Natural Beauty + Wild Berries
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
5th
Writing Tips
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 3. Jason
Why you? Why now? Why did you choose to die on the same date as my first mother? And my second sister? Why are you laughing, Jason? I didn’t choose to die, Lindsay; death wanted me to come to entertain. And you did. Want a margarita? I prefer Rainier; Lindsay? I heard they have dubbed you Dickie. Yep. Gnarly, right? Sure. Why did we become friends? Because Is it that simple? Sure, it is, dude. Another pop? Would I ever say no? No. Damn it, you are just a kid. You think you’re not. You make an excellent point. Jason, slow down, big boy, you’re already on your third Rainier, and I don’t even know you yet. You will. Why? Because I can tell, we are kindred. Where are you from, Jason? Nelson, the land of the hippie and the land of kids, named Apple. Oh. I’m here because I know one of the owner’s girlfriends, Jana; she’s from Nelson. There is a gaggle of brothers and sisters in Jana’s family, four, five, maybe six, all starting with the letter Jay. J. J. J. J. J. J. One of them died young. The rest, carry the loss with them every day. Jason…? I’m dead, Lindsay. It is fucking sucks. But, like I said above, I think the reaper needs entertaining. Sorry… Don’t be; I kill nightly. My sister, an aunt, whatever she was, died just last year on the same date as you for bleeps sake; you’ve been gone for two; why do I get to see you before her? She wasn’t ready for you? She wanted to get her story, the lies, straight. How do you know? We chatted. Where? Where do you think? I discovered you died because clickbait had the small towns in Canada you must visit before you….? Fucking sorry. Die. It’s okay. I’ve had some time. I’m still sorry, here come the tears. Don’t. I still hadn’t recovered from your waterworks when Gail dumped you. Fuck off. Well, she did. You were a mess. Oh, right, you were there for the aftermath; I remember we were flatmates. How did we become flatmates, Jason? I don’t remember. Linds, you and Wes were living together on Cornwall; I think. Wes had just hooked up with someone and was moving out. I had started at C & B’s — I was your protégé behind the bar. C & B’s rocked every night. And after Wes left, we found a place together on 13th Avenue. So, we became close friends. Jason, I remember something lined up in our dysfunction that brought us together. Sort of like people from Saskatchewan finding people from Saskatchewan or people from North Dakota finding others from North Dakota. Why North Dakota, Lindsay? I’m trying to tap into the more prominent American audience. Wouldn’t you choose California or New York? Shit. What’s Wes doing? Lindsay, he’s drunk; we were always drunk when Wes managed the joint. What’s he doing? Before you got here, he emptied a cleaning bottle, and filled it with Cuervo, he’s now spritzing the guests. Wait, is that Wes lying on the boulevard with a customer? Are either of those, even legal? Is Wes human, Lindsay? Probably not; Wes is my brother, though. Mine too. Follow me, Linds; we have little time left. Wow, we are in Gail’s Volkswagen Cabriolet. Jason, Jason, Jason, wake up. I did. You were sloshed in the back seat. Why did you wake up? Because Gail was playing Dee-Lite’s - Groove is in the Heart. That’s right, and you freestyled it. I can’t remember your lyrics, but you etched a place in both of our hearts at that moment. It was endearing. Even in your drunkenness. The reaper made… shit; what am I saying? Don’t sweat it, I slay nightly. Jason I must ask again, why are you here? Because Danell and I brainstormed-- You know Danell? —up here, and we care about you fucking deeply; we need to push you toward the light. You need to keep shining. That’s why I’m here. Lindsay, as mentioned before, we found each other in our backstories. I loved you, Lindsay. I drank in, your ease. I remember little about our time together. That doesn’t matter, Lindsay. All that matters was when you clicked on the bait about Nelson, you thought of me. I cried. No need. Jason, I wanted to take care of you, but I failed. One of your friends was at the gym. I can’t remember his name; he told me about your accident, being paralyzed. I am a hypocrite; I found out and never reached out to you. Lindsay… stop. I failed our friendship. Lindsay… stop… our friendship was when it was; you didn’t need to run to my pain; you had your own. Jason, why so wise? Because, like you, life has been a catastrophic ride. Nice verbiage, J. You like? Yes. Lindsay, you deserve happiness. If the hairs on my arms could still stand up, they’d be floating off my arms now. Crap, Lindsay, the beasts, I can see the beasts, duck in here. Is this a farewell? Duck in here, now; we will have a moment or two more, thanks for clicking. I can feel the heat of the monster’s breath on the nape of my neck. I duck, just in the nick of time. The beast sprints past me, ardently searching for my demise. I learned ardent today. I’m tucked in this room. I can see the beast’s blood-soaked eyes peering through the slits they’ve gouged in the door with their claws. Don’t breathe. I don’t. Don’t open my eyes. I don’t. Don’t show my teeth. I don’t. Another growl. A slash. Splinters slam into my face. A roar. Defeat. They move on. Where am I? WTF? I’m sitting at Marquis Downs, a horse racetrack in Saskatoon. Hello, Lindsay. Doug Kopko; Doug? Yes. How did I get here? Doug, are you…? Dead, Lindsay? No, I’m not dead? How old are you? We’re 11; it’s 1971. That’s right, I sort of remember, Doug, we were an odd couple of best friends. You’re fat. Me broken. Together one. How did we become friends, Doug? More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Fore + Natural Beauty + Pride + Ephemeral + Big Bite
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
6th
Writing Tips
1. Getting Started
Before you begin to write your story or novel, write a detailed outline and character backgrounds first. So many unpublished first (or second or third or 44th) novels begin halfway through the book because the writer has spent the first 150 pages giving us the background story instead of starting with THE STORY. Know your characters inside and out, where they came from, where they want to go, so that when you begin writing the book, you already know how they will act/react to events in the story. I love outlines. I read somewhere that Stephen King said writers who like to write outlines wish they were writing masters theses instead of novels. For the longest time, I thought this was true. Now I think he was just exaggerating. You need an outline. Even just the barest outline so that you know the story’s beginning, middle and end. Sometimes, I don’t stick to my outline. The story begins to take off in a different direction, so I chuck the outline. But when this happens, I write a new outline. Outlines are the blueprints of stories. It will also keep you working, since you will see how far along you need to go. In general I write 10-20 page outlines, with a paragraph for each chapter in the book, describing the action that will occur in that chapter. 2. Begin Writing and Don’t Stop Now that I am a mother, I write on Monday to Wednesday from 10am – 3pm everyday at a writer’s office. On Thursdays I do revisions at home and on Fridays I spend time with my baby. When I’m on deadline, which means the book was DUE YESTERDAY, the schedule goes whacky, and I just work ALL THE TIME and try to see my family in between. The three-day writing week usually results in a solid ten to twenty pages. The manic work that happens during deadline crunch can result in anywhere from twenty to fifty pages a day. This is when the novel really happens. Before I had my baby, when I was not on deadline, sometimes I didn’t work at all. I went to the movies, I went shopping, I hung out with my friends, I tanned by the pool, I read a ton of magazines. But that only lasted for a week or two. Most of the time I’m banging it out. Which means I force myself to sit at my desk and write. Now that I am a mother, the time that I am not writing is spent with my child. I try to read magazines and watch TV when she is asleep. When I did not make a living as a writer, I wrote AT EVERY CHANCE I COULD GET. I was a computer consultant at a major bank, but I would say I spent six hours writing to the two hours I spent working on my computer programs. I also spent weekends writing. 3. Cliffhangers are Key How do you write a page-turner? By making each chapter end with a cliffhanger. What’s a cliffhanger? A cliffhanger is when the action reaches a feverish pitch and then the chapter ends with the protagonist hanging on a limb or about to kiss the boy or about to open the secret safe—but not revealing what is inside. It has to keep people reading to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. I got schooled in crafting page-turning cliffhangers because I used to write a serial novel in GOTHAM magazine called “The Fortune Hunters”. My story appeared every month, and every month I would end it on a cliffhanger to keep readers interested in reading the next story, which they would have to wait a whole month for. Apparently, it worked. The serial novel was very successful, and I even sold it as an adult novel. But I have not had time to whip it into shape for publication, so we will all have to wait for that for now. (I even had to return the money!) But writing THE FORTUNE HUNTERS taught me how to write cliffhangers. Also reading Michael Crichton novels. Those taught me about cliffhangers too. And of course, the best advice to any writer is to READ. You can’t be a writer without being a reader. 4. Always Say Yes To Everything Making a living as a writer or an artist means that some years, you can make a lot of money, and some years are very lean. One of my producer friends in Hollywood said that whenever he feels like blowing a lot of cash, he looks up at the Hollywood Hills at all those half-built mansions and reminds himself that sometimes, one hit is all you can get, so don’t get too cocky. The people who started building those houses didn’t have enough money to finish building them. Yikes! All through my writing career, I have taken EVERY assignment offered to me. In addition to big-name magazines, I have written for obscure websites, shopping catalogs, health and fitness magazines, free newsweeklies, blogs, anything and everything. I have written about my family, my sex life, my staggering credit card debt. I have endured humiliation and good-natured ribbing. I have survived to write about it. Did I want to dress up as a man and crash my husband’s bachelor party? YES! Did I want to try out every position in the karma sutra and write about it? YES! Did I want to go around New York and ask men to tell me the length of their bananas and see if they could get women to date them if they wore their inches on a t-shirt on their chest? Um…er…do I really have to..oh well..YES! These days, I have the luxury of being able to say no to things. I would say yes to everything still, but I found saying yes was taking away from my main job of writing the books. Writing books is the only thing I have time for right now. BTW, I only worked with Alloy on the Au Pairs series. Everything else (Blue Bloods, Angels, Ashleys, Social Life, etc.) is mine and mine alone. I just add this because people ask, and that is the answer. But I loved working with Alloy and wholly recommend working with them. If they come calling, say YES! 5. But Don’t Sell Yourself Short Either Never take a first offer. Always try to push the deal to the farthest you can push it. Glossy magazines have paid me $1 a word, $1.50 a word, $2 a word, and at my highest, $3 a word. I’ve heard other writers can command $4 or $5 a word. So it’s possible. And it never hurts to ask. Book advances are NOTORIOUSLY low for first-time novelists. Mine paid for three months’ rent and living expenses in New York, and that was it. (And I lived in a rent-stabilized apartment! Still, it wasn’t as small as some others I’ve heard. I’ve heard unagented writers are offered $1500 for a book. I mean, my god. That’s not even enough for a Chloe Paddington these days!) So you need to push. Ask for more. Or don’t sell them all the rights. Definitely not your movie/film rights. Hold on to stuff. MAKE YOUR AGENT WORK FOR YOU. In the end, you have to be the judge of your work. You know how much it’s worth. Publishers can always say no, but most of the time, they will try to say yes. A CAVEAT: If you’ve pushed and pushed and pushed and they still won’t budge, take the money and do the job. 6. Write what you know, write what you love, but research is fun too Sometimes I have really happy days when I realize I am getting paid to write the kind of stories I used to write in my notebooks when I was a teenager. I used to write soap-operatic dramas modeled on Dynasty, but starring the members of Duran Duran. I know. Very sad. Thankfully, my writing has developed since then. But I still sometimes feel like I’m fourteen and I’m just writing things that I think are really, really fun to write about. I’ve written about fashion shows, sample sales, private school, the Hamptons, all subjects that I am very familiar with. But I’ve also written about surfing, skateboarding, college radio stations, and other subjects I’m not so familiar with. I’ve always been interested in surfing, skateboarding, and college radio, but I didn’t know so much about them so I did research. I love doing research. I love figuring out subcultures and learning new slang. It widens my horizons as a writer. So don’t be afraid to tackle new subjects, writing about what you don’t know can be fun too. 7 .Finally, live a little So many people want to WRITE but they have not yet even begun to LIVE. I think that the reason so many of us YA writers are in our 30s is because at this age, we finally can see clearly, what being a teenager really meant. When you are too close to the experience, you don’t have the objective distance with which to write about it. I can’t wait to be 50 and write about a young mother in her 30s. 😀 Also, a lot of the fun in my books is inspired by the REAL fun I had going to clubs, covering fashion shows, trying to get into all those crazy parties, dancing on tables with my friends, indulging in a lot of boyfriend/girlfriend drama. I went out there and experienced life. I recently read about a young writer who had published her first novel (a teen romance) and she said she had never even been kissed! How can you write about boys if you don’t know what they are like? If you have never even had a boyfriend? I was quite appalled. I don’t want to read a romance from someone who has never experienced love. Puh-leeze. So, get out there. Kiss tons of boys. Fight with your girlfriends. Go to a lot of parties. Spend too much money. Have FUN. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Make mistakes. Wear platform shoes and trip on them. Then, a few years later, write about it. You have all the time in the world to be a writer, but you are only young and can fit into that size 2 Betsey Johnson silver micro-mini skirt once. (Ah, I remember that skirt very fondly. It came up to my upper thigh, barely covering my butt, and it got me in a lot of trouble with many cute boys.) 8.All the Usual Stuff How to get an agent? How to get published? I found my first agent through the WRITER’S MARKETPLACE. Are they still around? Everything is on the web now. Follow their instructions. Be patient. Try again. Don’t give up. Try to have a day job while you’re doing this, so you can still afford to shop at Barneys and get $150 dollar haircuts at Frederic Fekkai while you’re only making $100 an article (like I did). 😀
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 3. Jason... continued...
How did we become friends, Doug? Me fat. You broken. Together one. It’s as simple as that. Our parents let us ride the bus across town to bet on horses when we were 11. I know; how awesome is that? Lindsay—they even occasionally gave us a ride. Wow, I remember. Doug, is it Friday night? Are we sitting at Violet Avenue + 112th Avenue intersection in your home, playing poker? Yes. We did that every Friday night, like a regular date night. Is your mom feeding us? Sure is. I like this memory. Me too, Lindsay. Who won poker? It didn’t matter. Doug, I have to go home. It’s freezing out. Minus 40. Run, Lindsay, run. I did. I ran backward into the wind; I phoned you the moment I got home, every time. You sure did. Were we tight? Come with me over here? How old are we now? Still 11. Are our parents letting us ride the bus downtown on a Saturday night? Yes. Do you remember, we used to go downtown once in a while to Hanover’s Restaurant in the basement of the Sheraton? Fine dining. Two eleven-year-old boys, fine dining. How rich was that? Oh my. I remember. We’d end our meals with cherry jubilees or some flaming banana thing. What a blast. And on Sunday, we retook the bus downtown, back in the day when stores weren’t open on Sundays, to bowl. I remember, we were in a bowling league. Doug, we were best friends. I didn’t know. I still don’t understand. You felt… My turn to say shut it… we were tight friends. Can eleven-year-olds be in love? I think we were, on whatever level is possible at that age. We also used to go to the badminton club one night of the week at Sutherland School. Do you remember you and I used to bring two two-litre bottles of coke each with us to the gym? I must laugh. All the sugar. I still have my teeth. Why are we still alive? Are we still alive? Yes, we were in that realm, and yes, we are now. Whew. Why are you here? Because you are typing this. I’m sorry, Doug; what happened to us? We got older; you became cooler, you… I’m an asshole, the furthest thing from cool. No. It’s not so much you were cool. It’s just you had so much to share. You’re not mad. I was. I cherished our time; it was some of the best times of my life. Some of the best-- Get over yourself, asshole. Thank you, Doug. For what? At the risk of sounding condescending and special; what I’m trying to say is that I’m grateful for you being one of the best friends of my life. I’m glad, I’ve remembered. Lindsay, outsiders make the world spin. Me, You, Shawn Moore. Oh yeah, Shawn, do you remember his house? Never mind. Craig Smale. Jack Adams. Neil Purdy. Jim Rutherford. Carver Farrell. We were all the coolest of the cool because we weren’t any more than who we were. Maybe subtract Rutherford; he was fucking cool. And, of course, subtract me because… Never, Lindsay, you were…. Get out of here, Lindsay. There is a fucking spider climbing the wall, and I have to go; I’m playing poker tonight at home. And Lindsay, you were cool; you just had trouble accepting it. You made people laugh. See you, friend. Thanks for the time. Jason, why are you strangling me? I’m trying to shake Gail out of you. You need to get over her. I should…? Kill me, Lindsay. Is that what you should do? Fuck, I’m an idiot. Wait, Jason, it’s me who’s strangling you. Was it? You ended my job at C & B’s. I had hurt my knee and couldn’t work. So, they gave you, my shifts. Rumour has it you got caught with sticky… and when asked about it, you said I taught you. I was furious when you got home. No, I was strangling you. No, I was strangling you. That doesn’t sound like you, Lindsay. That doesn’t sound like you, Jason. Do you want to keep typing the same thing? No. I’m over it, you? It doesn’t matter. I love you, Lindsay. I love you too, Jason. My heart breaks. Hold it together, Lindsay; you need it. Ouch. Fuck. A claw is wrapped around my leg. Lindsay, quick, toss me the backpack. What? The backpack, I packed it. When? While you were sleeping? I don’t sleep. Here, Jason, catch. I’m going to perish. The claw is slicing through me. Just as time was expiring, Jason pulled a machete out of the backpack, smacked the beast on its back, the foaming beast turned toward Jason; a perplexed look crossed the beast’s face because it smelled Jason was dead. Jason slashed the beast’s throat. Its grip loosened. My wounds instantly healed. Poof. The beast vanished. Five more beasts morphed out of the floor, slowly gaining footing. Run. Lindsay. Run. I run. Jason turns into mist, mouthing I love you, Lindsay; I will see you soon, sooner than you can imagine. I dart up the stairs. The beasts are dogging me. I slide between two parallel doors. Where am I? I’m sitting in a courtroom beside my lawyer and someone who looks eerily like me, only a tad plumper. At the other desk are sit three monsters and their monster lawyer. More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Spinal Tap - "These go to eleven...."
Bluebird + Attack Squirrel + Natural Beauty
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
7th
Writing Tips
First, a word of warning:
NOT EVERYONE CAN BE A WRITER. Seriously, you guys are scaring me. Some of you are going to HAVE to become doctors. Otherwise, the world will be filled with great stories, but who is going to prescribe me antibiotics when I get bronchitis? I am willing to compromise, though. Here is a fact—and I am not trying to scare you: Only two percent of published writers today make their living solely through their writing. That means only two percent of my peers pay their bills just by WRITING. The other ninety-eight percent are also teachers, firemen, insurance salesmen, flight attendants, secretaries, married to someone rich, have a trust fund, etc. The income they earn from writing probably helps, but they are not able to support themselves and their families on it. Sad, but true. I am not saying that you are not going to be in that two percent of writers who do earn enough money from their books to live on. However, it doesn't hurt to be prepared. That is why I am telling you: GO TO MEDICAL SCHOOL. Seriously. Go to medical school and become a doctor so that if the writing thing doesn't work out, you will have something to fall back on. I did this. Well, not medical school, but my mom made me take typing so I could support myself as a receptionist/secretary. And I'm glad she did this because it took TEN YEARS, post-college, before I started making enough money from my writing to pay my bills. This is very important: You MUST acquire a skill you can fall back on if writing doesn't work out, because it is a VERY competitive business and HARDLY ANYONE MAKES A LIVING DOING IT. And, if you DO go to medical school, you can use what you learn there in your books, like Tess Gerritsen, the medical thriller writer who can ALSO prescribe drugs. Okay, now that you have totally failed to heed my warning: Part One: I have written reams and reams of novels and short stories. How do I get them published? Go to your local library or bookstore and get a book on the writer's market. The one that I used was called Jeff Herman's Guide to Agents, Editors, and Publishers. You want to find the most updated version of whatever book you get, because you are going to be writing to the people whose addresses are listed inside, and you want to make sure they are still working at these places. The book you get will tell you that to get a publisher to look at your book, you must first write them what's called a query letter. This is a one page letter describing you, your book, and why a publisher would want to buy this book from you. Just to let you know, I sent out several hundred of these letters before a single person ever asked to see the book I was trying to sell. Some people say if you get anyone to look at your book at all, you are lucky. I believe that luck is 95% preparation and 5% opportunity. Just to let you know. So basically…you have to make your own luck. So good luck with that. Subsection: Agents You can get a publisher's attention a lot more quickly—and some people believe you can get a much better deal–if you have a literary agent. A literary agent is someone whose job it is to take people's manuscripts and try to place them with the appropriate publisher. A good agent will never charge a fee for her work on your behalf. However, if an agent agrees to take on your work, when she places it, she will earn a 10-15% cut of whatever money you make from the sale. So if a publisher offers you $10,000 for your book, your agent will get $1,500 of that money. You will get the rest. You can get an agent the same way you get a publisher: by finding a book on how to get them (such as the one by Jeff Herman) and sending them query letters. Part Two: I have started lots of stories, but I can't seem to finish them. What's wrong with me? There are several reasons for this. You can choose the one that fits you best: a) It is always more fun to start a new story than it is to work on the one you've been working on for months. This is why publishers don't pay writers their whole advance until they turn in the completed manuscript. Every writer feels this way. Just power through it. b) You haven't found the right story yet—the one you can't let go. When you do, you will WANT to finish it. So cut yourself some slack, and keep trying. c) You did not plan your story out well enough before you sat down to write it or d) You planned it too well, and now you feel like the story is already told. In general, when this happens to me, it is c) or d). I know it sounds crazy, but planning your story in too much detail—like writing a 100 page outline, or keeping index cards on every little thing that's going to happen—can sometimes make it feel like your story is already done. Told. Over. Why would you want to go back and RETELL something that's already been told? However, you have to plan a LITTLE, or your story will lack direction, and you'll get lost in it, then frustrated, then have trouble finishing it. So the trick is that you need to find the right balance FOR YOU between not planning your story enough, and over-planning it. Practice will help. If you write a page a day—just ONE page—in three months you'll have a hundred page story. And in six months you'll have a two hundred page story. That's almost a whole book. So don't think about it like: “Oh my gosh, I have to write two hundred pages.” Think of it like, “Today, I have to write a page.” Trust me. It works. Part Three: I don't know how to get started on a story. Please help. The solution to this problem is very simple: Sit down. Start a story. Finish it. Put it aside. Start another story. There. Now you're a writer. What's that you say? You can't think of anything to write about? Good! Go to medical school! Ha, just kidding. Okay, how about this: Who do you hate and why? Who do you love and why? What's happened to you that you wish hadn't happened? What hasn't happened to you that you wish WOULD happen? Write these things down. There's your story. Oh, obviously you've got to create a plot and change your characters names so they won't sue you. But that's the fun part. What's that you say? The sun is shining outside, and the birds are tweeting, and you can hear your brothers downstairs having a fun time watching MTV, and you would really like to join them? Don't you think I would rather be watching MTV than working on my book? Do you think there is anyone in the world who wouldn't rather be watching Rich Girls or Made than working at their job? No. Probably not. Except doctors. Doctors LOVE their job. Because they are helping people. But when writing is your job, you TiVo Rich Girls and Made and ignore the tweeting birds, because a) you don't get paid if you don't turn your book in b) you have a story to tell and it NEEDS to get told c) on the rare occasions the writing is going well, you love it more than anything else in the world. Except maybe Rich Girls. But there is nothing better than Rich Girls (except The OC of course) so this makes sense. The most important thing of all for you to remember this holiday weekend is this: When you do go medical school and realize I was right all along and you discover a love for medicine and science you never knew you had and you're out there helping people and making a real difference in their lives, and then you win the Nobel Prize, be sure to mention me in your acceptance speech. Love, Meg
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
Jesus, you look spent. I am. Why is sweat pouring off you? Who are you? Do I know you? I’m you. Only younger. And fatter, you are fatter than I am? You are a being fucking asshole. Speak nicely to yourself. Okay, just asshole. How old are you? I’m 62 and a bit. You? I’m you at 59? Why are you here then? This hasn’t happened yet… yet… yet… finally. What? It’s been almost 1,000 days since you, we, I, whatever—were put on the proverbial retirement shelf. What? You got us fired. I did an outstanding job. Those monsters, over there, with the other robed man, they did this to us. What did they do? Canned us. Ended our career life. What? You know why we are here; you sued the fuckers. Hey, why did you call me fat? Because I was. I’m looking good now. Talking with myself is confusing. Are you taller? That’s not how life works, the taller thing. I am looking slimmer now. How did you do it? Stress has had a hand in it. This nightmare has helped, even though; I might die soon. Somebody called ‘THEY’ suggests stress is a killer. And fast food. Fuck off. You love fast food. Don’t love it; it is an addiction, like living. Sit down; you look exasperated. Who’s the guy next to us? He’s our counsellor, lawyer, he’s a good guy. He’s a lawyer. Be kind. I’m looking trimmer. How did I do it? You already asked that question. No. I. Did. Not. Just answer the question. Fourteen million steps did this. But you still eat junk. Only for lunch, asshole. What has happened since I got fired? I don’t want to keep reliving it—it’s been haunting me for 1,000 days. Fuck. Yes. Fuck. I guess I need to let you know what’s in store for you. Are we inside a Toshikazu Kawaguchi book? I wish. Order us some coffee. 400 Bonus Points! I look exhausted. Sit down and spill. Okay, but no more than a couple of pages, around 600 words. It all started… Lyler, the monster in the middle, kept asking what I wanted my future with the company to be…? I know this part; he said our career was safe and then said Jaxon, the first monster over there, would call me. Yes, that's correct. Fifteen times later, the same ‘future’ call, the same Jaxon is going to call. Snap, I mean, damn. Then, he asked me if I'd ever run the struggling Other Office? I know; you said 'no' 35 times. So, move it along; you only have about 500 words before the trial brings me up to speed. I can’t fucking sleep. Okay. Okay. Okay. They didn’t care about my stroke, the sarcoidosis, or the deaths of my family members and friends; hell, they didn’t even care when my mother died or when I had pink eye. Damn, it sounds like they didn’t care about me. 400 words left. And then, Jaxon and the third monster, Sodd, asked again if I’d run the Other Office. I said no because it would likely kill me; I reminded them of the stroke. And then, bam, six months later, we were running the Other Office. One day, Lyler came to the Other Office and made a big scene about finding new business. Picking up the phone. Making a call. Slamming it down. At least five times. I wanted to kill him that day. You will get your chance. You don’t seem happy about the transfer? He snapped. Why the fuck would I be? I replied. Opportunity. He said. I’m 59. I replied. The stress and waking up at three is going to be the end of me. I used to drive fast to get to the office. The faster I drove the more sleep I got. He said. Fuck off. I know all this, I was there. And then, Soddy said, sleep in your work clothes, ready to go in the mornings. That’s what he used to do. That way, he said, you can get extra sleep. About 200 more words. And then, the pandemic hit, you told them it was disconcerting, and BAM, Roger replaced us, a man Lyler had recently asked if he had drug problems. Watch Roger like a hawk, everybody hates him, and I think he’s using. He said. Sounds like they wanted us dead and gone. That’s dark. But it sounds true. After…? A couple of weeks later, Lyler and Soddy called to say they were sorry, but they needed to lay me off. They were lying; of course, they fired me. First, Lyler pulled a page from a George Clooney movie, said they’re sorry, and added he is scared he might have to sell his house because of the uncertainty of the pandemic. And then, Soddy called and said they had to let me go, and they would do me a favour of paying me the one week of holiday pay they owed me; on my, here comes the ALL CAPS: FINAL CHEQUE. And that was that. Fifteen years, generating $78 million in revenue for the fuckers, and good-fucking-bye. Snap. And then? Oh yeah, both of them said Jaxon would call to thank me for being an exceptional employee. Let me guess, Jaxon never called. Correct. I may or may not have written something eight months later, where I called employers who turf employees without the decency of a conversation: cowards. Jaxon didn’t like what I may or may not have written. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me get the heartache out of the way before I’m called to the stand. Since I got fired, I have aged. I look good. Thanks, me…? The only correspondence I heard from the company after, was Lyler asking me how fast I could run a mile in my prime. He also gave me stock tips. And Soddy, asked me how my summer without an income was going, adding that the weather finally turned nice. Go on, tell us more about what happened to me. I had life-saving throat surgery. They tried to weaponize the surgery against me. One of my closest friends died. I was legally deposed, and their fucking lawyer… The guy over there? No, he’s new; the guy who deposed me almost two years ago suggested I get a job at Footlocker. Since I know you as well as I do, you probably suggested he was nuts, and working at Footlocker at 60 would require moving into your dead parent’s basement to afford it. You know me! And then my sister died, on the same date my first mother had died, and the exact date an ex-flatmate died, Jason. And we had a heart scare: CT Scan. MRI. +++ And then, an ex-girlfriend died. Am I okay? Of course not, but you don’t have a choice. When I told our legal team one year ago the emotional and financial stress was going to kill me, they said, “The courts are doing the best they can. You should feel lucky you are being represented.” Seriously. Seriously, the partner scolded me for being fucking stressed. Damn. And then, on at least seven occasions, my lawyers told me they were laser-focused, and the case was going to be settled toot-sweet. They need to get their lasers checked. I know. I like the guy next to you, but lawyers are fucking lawyers, and ours is chasing ambulances. Our case is simple. They fired me without cause. They are trying to avoid paying severance. They are financially destroying me by delaying the case as long as they can—likely, hoping I die. And here we are. How many words? I’m over by a couple hundred. You know I write, right? I know, I write. So, in the spirit of getting out of this fucking nightmare, I’ve written some stuff that expresses what it’s like to be us, I mean, we, I mean, I. Is that okay? Share away. I want to know what’s coming down the pipe for me. Do it before the coffee cools. Here goes → More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
King Kong ain't got shit on me
Hair Goal + When I Was a Watch Face
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
8th
Writing Tips
“My main rule is to say no to things like this, which tempt me away from my proper work.”
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
I Feel Guilty Buying Mac & Cheese I need to eat. I’m turning 62 soon (turned) and horrifically, I’m counting pennies in my head. I’m turning 62 soon and I’m thinking I want to have either Macaroni + Cheese or toss some beans on toast. I’m turning 62 soon. I go to the market and check the price of Mac + Cheese ($2.10) and then the milk it needs ($3.00); fortunately, I have butter at home, a luxury. Why do I have fucking butter? I can’t justify the expense. I pick up the box. I put it down. I pick it up. I put it down. I pick it up. I cry. I put it down. I’m turning 62 soon and I’m feeling exasperated and guilty, conflicted → I can’t afford Macaroni + Cheese. Is it even food? I change my mind; I search for beans. Tears pour from my eyes. Beans are too expensive. I might as well fucking die. I am turning 62, and I can’t afford to eat. What does that mean? It means you’re going to die. I settle on a can of soup. I used to make a fair living building a company for a merchant fuelled by greed. And then, a fucking pandemic hits; I mentioned it was worrisome. A light flashed in the offices of greed, and my career ground to a halt. A Company Owners Smug + Delusional Greed + Paranoia Hey, this man built our company and worked hard for us for a 15-years. He did everything asked of him. But you know what, he’s long in the tooth, and if we wanted to kick him to the curb, it would cost us a pretty penny. What’s that? He said the pandemic is worrisome. Did a light just come on? I know, I’ll use the pandemic as shade and can him. No questions asked; he’s a good man, he might not even notice what we’re doing, and by the time he does, it will be too late for him to do anything about it → No separation pay for him—I will crush him. I’ll use my milquetoast sycophants to pull the trigger. What does it matter if it destroys his life, sends him into homelessness, has him questioning if he can afford Macaroni + Cheese and eventually kills him? I have all the money and power; I’m in control. I’m not an asshole — I am an asshole — I am an asshole? I’ll leave it for you to decide. He deserves to be fucked over. He made me wealthy. I even tricked him into a stock scam. $70K out of his pockets and into mine. Have you decided yet if I’m an asshole or not? Never mind. I know what I am. I have surrounded myself with boring people who are motivated by whatever I tell them. They are spinless. The roids, cocaine, and opiates aren’t kicking like they used to. I’ll take more. My staff used to spend their Christmas bonuses on me by buying me a giant bottle of booze every year. They love me. They’re stupid and expendable. I will destroy everyone who challenges me. I am the money man. I’ve decided. What? You are much more than an asshole. I may be, but you, you are an old man now, and I’ve made you scared of Macaroni. I’m powerful. Pressing On You know what you are. You’re not a good man. You hate your wife + kids → you need cocaine → you need opiates → you need to feign control. You are weak. You are nothing. You may have the money. But you’re dead inside. I must keep pressing on. I’m sent hundreds of books per year. I’m paying my dues. Publishers and authors like the way my mind works. I will keep trying. I need to shift gears. Fuck those who think destroying lives are okay. What did they think would happen to someone they robbed of their last career years? They don’t fucking care. Especially the one who pretended to be a friend. A liar with every word spoken. Shifty eyes. He knows who he is. Hurt in life by entitlement. Good riddance. Nice watch. I get home, heat the soup, sink into depression, and vow never to quit trying. To stop listening to the noise To pay no mind to the greed + despicable nature of those who benefited most from my efforts. In 2009, you said if I wanted a raise, why don’t I go on Welfare? In 2012, you called me ‘the face of your company.’ Then, starting in 2020, you’re trying to destroy me because I stood up for myself. Sorry to tell you, I'm unbreakable. I'm better than you. The soup isn't filling; it's a sodium-filled nightmare; I can't afford. But I must eat. I wish I hated you; I don't have to; because I think you hate yourself. Do you have anything else? Sure do → Bubble Bath + Broken Glasses Time of Death: July 2022 Right around the date of my sixty-second birthday. Am I sick? I don’t think so. However, two years ago, I was issued a death sentence from people who can only be called scumbags. My life was put on hold, my career taken from me, given to a friend of a friend, someone I thought was a friend. How could I have been mistaken? I didn’t want to see the greed, entitlement, and nepotism. Will they care when I die? No. Why am I dying? The money is about to run dry, and I can't bear the thought of being homeless. Or having to put my eleven-year-old cat, Hana, down → because I can no longer take care of her. The Simple Math I can no longer afford life. A harsh reality. I receive $460 Canada Pension (monthly) → life is no longer sustainable → I'm on Pension. Think about that. Yet, I'm supposed to be mitigating the losses of the people who deposited me in this reality. I Turn On The News I can only stand watching for less than a minute. A wave of desperate realization washes over me. The news is not for older people. It is far too fucking full of regrets. Every story about the housing market, stock market, travel, and managing finances is no longer for us → we're on Canada Pension. A story flashes about the rising gas prices. A wave of depression washes over me, as I think, will I ever be in, or drive a car again? Yet, while on Canada Pension, I'm supposed to be lessening the suffering of the people who deposited me here. Yes, deposited, because my life has been reduced to withdrawals; until there are no more withdrawals to be made. On The Treadmills at the Fitness Asylum The two people next to me, who happen to be in my demographic, are talking about the trips they are planning. I want to cry. I murder them because my next trip is limited to how far I can walk in a day. A harsh truth. I keep trying. Back On The News Once you're old, the only thing the news is for is to scare the life out of you. The news screams someone is coming for you, trying to scam you; a random stranger is about to attack you, or a food delivery driver is going to run over you on the sidewalk. I don't want to go outside anymore. I can't escape it; the great outdoors will soon be my home. Sounds fucking grand! |Sarcasm Alert|→ I can't give up; I have losses for the people who deposited me here to mitigate. I keep trying. I have a heart episode. The MRI shows I probably will live long enough to move outdoors, another harsh reality. But still, I now have a cardiologist. I don’t think stress is a good thing. I don't enjoy writing this story. Why? Because it's dark. And because I don’t want to burden others with my harsh realities. I prefer to make people smile. At the pandemic's start, I uttered the words ‘freaked out’ and was immediately thrown out with the bathwater. Fifty-nine years old and a lengthy career; gone, with the clock on my demise ticking. To Date Approximately $300,000 in lost income (including a $70,000 stock scam perpetrated by the owner of the company I worked for). And approximately, $1,000 per month in CC interest → because I can’t afford life. I earn $460 per month Canada Pension. Losing $300,000 at sixty-two → there are no words. If you know me, I try to bring joy to people, not pain. I'm respectful, kind, empathetic, and I never fucking quit trying. I never will quit trying. But my reality is, the clock has been ticking, and the hourglass is running out of fucking sand. I will still try to bring smiles to others, but I must admit, I'm being crushed by the weight of greed. Tick. Tick. Fucking tick. I can't breathe. I need to breathe. Stress is swallowing me alongside depression as they walk in lockstep. I get up every day, a lie (I do). I fight sleep. The sandman hides as soon as my head hits the pillow. I wouldn't say I'm worrying; instead, I'm creating, trying to fight my way out of the quicksand. When I rise, I build my website, pitch my writing, and write. And write. And write. And create images to prompt writing. And I write. And I pitch my writing. A rejection comes. It says I'm talented. Another one arrives, telling me I have an important story that must be told. Both messages finish with buts… For every rejection I receive, I pitch more. Am I delusional? Absolutely not. Tick. Tick. Fucking tick. I can't breathe. I'm dying. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Anchorman: Head on a swivel
Home Cooking + Heart Doctor
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
9th
Writing Tips
1.
Neglect everything else. It starts with a simple fact: If you’re not making the time to write, no other advice can help you. Which is probably why so many of the writers I talk to seem preoccupied with time-management. “You probably have time to be a halfway decent parent and one other thing,” David Mitchell, the author of Cloud Atlas, told me. That can mean mustering the grit to let other responsibilities languish. As he put it in short: “Neglect everything else.” Many authors need to put blinders on, finding ways to simplify their experience and reduce the number of potential distractions. That might mean consistently keeping a single two-hour window sacred, as Victor Lavalle does, morning time he safeguards against the demands of parenting and full-time teaching. For others, it means finding ways to ward off digital derailment. Mitchell does this by setting his homepage as the most boring thing he can think of: the Apple website. Ultimately, the literary exercise is about finding ways to defend something fragile—the quiet mood in which the imagination flourishes. As Jonathan Franzen put it: “I need to make sure I still have a private self. Because the private self is where my writing comes from.” 2. Beginnings matter. Everyone knows that the opening line is a crucial invitation, something that can make or break a reader’s interest in a book. But far less attention has been paid to the role first lines play for writers, leading them through the work’s dark, uncertain stages like a beacon. “The first line must convince me that it somehow embodies the entire unwritten text,” William Gibson told me, a radical, koan-like conviction that nonetheless seems to be commonplace. Stephen King described spending “weeks and months and even years” working on first sentences, each one an incantation with the power to unlock the finished book. And Michael Chabon said that, once he stumbled on the first sentence of Wonder Boys, the rest of the novel was almost like taking dictation. “The seed of the novel—who would tell the story and what it would be about—was in that first sentence, and it just arrived,” he said. 3. Follow the headlights. It doesn’t matter if you’re the kind of writer who plans meticulously: Give yourself some leeway in the early drafts. Throw out all your plans and assumptions, and make room to surprise yourself. Andre Dubus calls this following the headlights: it’s like driving a car down a dark, unfamiliar road, simply describing as things become visible under the beam. “What’s on the side of the road?” he asked. “What’s the weather? What are the sounds? If I capture the experience all along the way, the structure starts to reveal itself. My guiding force and principle for shaping the story is just to follow the headlights—that’s how the architecture is revealed.” Dozens of writers have told me some version of the same story. “The writing I tend to think of as ‘good’ is good because it’s mysterious,” Aimee Bender said. “It tends to happen when I get out of the way—when I let go a little bit, I surprise myself.” 4. Sound it out. Of course, all this is easier said than done. In the absence of a concrete plan, how to know when you’re headed in the right direction? For many writers I’ve spoken with, the answer seems to lie in the sound of the words. “Plot can be overrated. What I strive for more is rhythm,” the late Jim Harrison said. “It’s like taking dictation, when you’re really attuned to the rhythm of that voice.” George Saunders described a similar process, explaining that sound shows him where the energy is, revealing which aspects of the story are important, which lines to follow. It can help with revision, too. Many drafts in, when he can no longer see the work with fresh eyes, Jesse Ball told me that he turns to his ears. “Sound gives us clues about what is necessary and real,” he said. “When you read [your work] aloud, there are parts you might skip over—you find yourself not wanting to speak them. Those are the weak parts. It’s hard to find them otherwise, just reading along.” 5. It’s supposed to be difficult. One of the things that’s surprised me most is how much the process—even for best-selling and critically acclaimed writers—never seems to get any easier. Khaled Hosseini’s piece in Light the Dark is one especially poignant testament to this: material success doesn’t blunt the pain an author feels when the words just come up short. But writers seem to be masters of deflecting existential despair, the malaise that takes hold in the middle of a taxing enterprise. I’ve covered this in more detail in an essay for The Atlantic, so one example in particular will suffice here: Elizabeth Gilbert’s concept of “stubborn gladness,” a term she borrows from the poet Jack Gilbert. It’s a promise to take things in stride, to remain cheerfully engaged no matter how difficult things get. “My path as a writer became much more smooth,” she said, “when I learned, when things aren’t going well, to regard my struggles as curious, not tragic.” 6. Keep a totem. Charles Dickens famously wrote with a series of porcelain figurines arranged across his desk, characters that kept him company as he toiled under punishing deadlines. It’s not as strange as it sounds: Many of the writers I talk to keep a totem—an object of special significance, whether it’s a small trinket or printed slogan—nearby as they work, something that serves as a source of inspiration or a barrier against despair. Jane Smiley described pasting the phrase “Nobody asked you to write that novel” above her desk, an empowering reminder that creative hardships are voluntarily chosen. Mohsin Hamid keeps a Murakami passage taped to his printer—lines that link creativity and physical exercise, ones that encouraged him to build six-mile walks into his daily writing regimen. And Russell Banks keeps part of an old gravestone in his office, inscribed with the epitaph “Remember Death.” There’s nothing more inspiring than the awareness that time is short, and that the ultimate deadline is soon approaching. 7. Find the joy. Ultimately, the writers I speak to seem committed to finding the joy within their work, even if that means looking in the most unexpected places. “One of the things that aids me, and which he helped teach me, is this: fundamentally, I do not believe in despair as a real aspect of the human condition,” says Ayana Mathis. “There is great confusion, there is great pain, there is suffering, all of those things, yes. But despair? I don’t believe in despair, and I don’t write from despair. I write from difficulty, absolutely. I write about people who are in great pain, who are desperate and sometimes even miserable. But despair, to me, means an absolute absence of hope. It is a nothing. There is always hope for betterment.” But it’s not just leaving room for hope and levity on the page. It’s about retaining one’s own capacity to find joy within the process, making sure the work’s difficulty never fully squeezes out delight. “The joy of being an author is the joy of feeling I can do anything,” says Neil Gaiman in Light the Dark. “There are no rules. Only: can you do this with confidence? Can you do it with aplomb? Can you do it with style? Can you do it with joy?”. Find the joy, and when you do, there are no rules.
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
I'm back. I sent out three proposals. A book arrives in the mail. One book. Two books. Three books. Ten books. Umpteen books. Major publishers send me books because they have deemed me an Influencer + they love my thoughts on books, as do the authors of the books I share my thoughts on. I can't eat the books. I'm dying. When I speak, I sound successful. But still, two years after being canned, all the money is gone. I'm fucking turning destitute. I go for a walk. My mind races. I snap photos. A friend of mine is approaching. I look the other way because I feel embarrassed, unwanted, and like a failure. I'm not a failure. Steve sees me; he's happy to see me. We hug. Our conversation is pleasant. I tell him it's been twenty-seven months since I was canned. He asks if I'm working. I tell him every day, harder than ever, writing, creating, and sending out proposals. He tells me London Drugs is hiring. I suggest, if I don't go for it now, by pursuing my creative future, one hundred percent → well, if not now, fucking when? If I don’t pursue my passions (at sixty-two); what’s the point of living? Steve nods in agreement. He realizes his words hurt me. My heart sinks. I'm dying. I'm fucking broke. I keep trying. I spread butter on the pages of a book sent to me. Broken Glasses My original mother died on December 12, 1987. (long story) An ex-flatmate of mine died on December 12, 2019. My last remaining sister, who wasn't really a sister, unless she really was my sister, died on December 12, 2021. I'm dying now. On the day my sister, who wasn't… died, I met with friends for a few hours. Somewhere on my way home, I lost my prescription glasses. Devastating. That's okay; I had a backup pair, only suitable for reading. If I wore them every day, stuff like walking → the world turned into a drinking and driving advertisement → so, I chose to live life while not reading, in low definition. It fucking sucked. Buy some glasses. The money is running dry. So, I can't justify it. One. Two. Three. Umpteen Books Arrive. It's now April 2022. I've been walking around in a foggy depression for five months. On this day, I escape my home after sending out proposals, to go read. I forgot my glasses. That's okay. I bite the bullet; I buy a pair of reading glasses ($17). The great thing is, I wear them daily. I could see again! The world became brighter. I'm dying. June 1, 2022. I am meeting with a friend. While chatting, I pull off my glasses. I hear a snap. The arm cracked. Shit. I wanted to fucking cry. I have glue at home. Maybe I can fix them? I pick up the glasses, and the left arm breaks off. Tears start scratching my eyes. I feel sick. I can't afford to see. I'm scared. Eat? See? Breathe? My stomach turns. I must-see. I now understand why people are holding glasses together with tape. When they do, they're judged poorly. And they’re fucking poor. My friend says can't you get new prescription glasses? I consider sniffing the glue. Not to worry, I will never give up. I'm smart. I'm turning fucking sixty-two in July. I'm dying. I can't catch my breath. I bought the cheap reading glasses; I couldn't fucking afford. If I give up writing, I'm already dead. That's what London Drugs is, death. I'm not qualified to work there. Steve’s words lacked context. A fifteen-year career gone; severance never paid. Paraphrased from a book I’m reading (sent from a publisher) I'm an Influencer. It’s like being a sixty-two-year-old intern. In the book, a lawyer decides to chase her dreams instead of working as a lawyer for a large firm. She wants to make a difference. She says she doesn't care if her client is being sued by a former employee for wrongful termination because… because “our” client is a scumbag. She continued to say that they were going to court because her client refused to settle (strategizing to destroy the employee financially), even though the client could easily pay the amount the ex-employee is justified in asking for. Does the book mirror my life? I've been called by a ‘legal hitman’ → a failed writer who has no business chasing my dreams. I'm fucking turning sixty-two. The ‘hitman’ said I should have been pursuing a career in the industry; I was just tossed out from, with the bathwater (fired from): to mitigate the losses of those who tossed me out. During a pandemic. As I am about to hit sixty-two. After a heart MRI. As I'm receiving $460 per month on Canada Pension. Yes, PENSION. Imagine Interviewer: Why did you leave your last job? Me: I can't talk about it. Interviewer: Why didn't they find you valuable enough to keep? How are your great grandkids? Me: Thanks for allowing me to waste your time. I’m going to go repeatedly smash my head into a wall. I will let myself out. I never felt old before, but now I do. A fact solidified when I called my cable provider, and first, the technician on the line wouldn't believe I was a man because my name is Lindsay. And then, she asked if there was someone younger in my home, she could talk to about my connection issues. Seriously. I can't breathe. I'm dying. I believed if you always did your best, were loyal, and worked hard, it would count for something. It didn't. The place where I was employed did not care when five people in my life died (including my mother). (long story). Not a single day off. They didn't care when I had a fucking catastrophic stroke. Not a single day off. Nor was it suggested. They, without question, didn’t care about me when they got rid of me, without paying me out, using the pandemic as shade. I turned sixty. I turned sixty-one. I’m turning sixty-two soon. Depression is assaulting me. I keep trying. And writing. And pitching. And reading. And desperately trying to breathe. I can't eat tomorrow because I chose to see. Every asshole out there who believes homeless people aren't trying → fuck off. Food? Die? London Drugs? I live in a world where COVID is far more compassionate than the people I used to work for. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Legally Blonde - endorphins
Ephemeral Art + The Stairs (Original LW Art)
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
10th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
Bubble Bath I must believe everything will fall into place. I suffer from debilitating insomnia and depression. I don't anguish over my efforts. They are undeniable. I work at my craft at least twelve hours a day. Failed writer. No business chasing your dreams. Trying to thread a needle at sixty-two…the thread is thick; the eye is shrinking. I will keep trying. Throw in broken glasses. I will keep trying. I keep trying. I Draw a Bath When I was a little boy, maybe six, a year after escaping (?) the clutches of a home where unfit mothers were sent to birth illegitimate children. By this time, I've known the people I am being cared for by for about one year. My first memory is of my three brothers (?) chanting, “Lindsay, you're not one of us,” → when I was five. A story for another time. Anyway, I loved bath time. We were a struggling family, so we didn't have the luxury of a bubble bath. My baths were usually just tepid, hard water, without soap. I still loved it. One day, mum bought three bars of Zest. Bath Time. I hopped in before the tub filled. I grabbed a bar of Zest, and, with my right hand, started rubbing it frantically on the bottom of the tub. A soapy skin floated to the surface. When I got the Zest worn down, I held it under the tap. If I was lucky, a few bubbles formed. I was blissful. I loved my baths. Except for the time, one of my brothers (?) threw our cat into the tub with me. At least that wasn't as bad as when the same brother encouraged me to stick my dinner knife into the wall outlet. I hop into my bath. The water is steamy. I pour a heaping helping of bubble bath into the water. The tub fills with glorious bubbles. I'm in heaven. New glasses. Trying. Trying. Trying. For a moment, I feel at ease. Everything will work out. I was a model employee. Karma will take care of me. My calm ends. Tears roll down my cheeks. Despite being birthed illegitimate, I've survived. I worked hard. I never gave up. I've earned having luxurious bubble baths. I think that's the reason for the heaping helpings. I continue to cry. I'm turning sixty-two, soaking in a bubble bath, with the tears pouring from my eyes. And yet, the SCUM floated to the top, SCUM that threw me out with the bathwater. Why am I crying? Because I never quit trying. I can't afford the cheap glasses I bought. Two years and my life savings have run dry. Life on the street will be a death sentence for me and for my eleven-year-old cat, and my relationship. The tears won't stop. I did nothing wrong. The SCUM rises to the top. If I lose everything, they think they will have won. What does it say about a company when their most senior employee ends up homeless? I'm not the only person who’s been deposited in a soap-less tub. I will never give up. I have written over 240 ‘THOUGHTS ON BOOKS’ because I’m a respected Influencer. I butter another book. Who am I kidding? I can’t afford butter. Time of Death Jesus, that’s harsh. Thank you for fighting for me. Are you okay? No. Can I give you a hug? Thank you. I call to the stand, Lindsay. Which one of us? The older, slimmer one. Fuck off. Do you swear to tell the truth, blah, blah, blah? Yes. Take your time. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, I just want to be treated respectfully and be given what I’m deserved. No further questions. Cross-Examination Can you tell the court what your duties at the company were? One. Two. Three. Four. Jaxon called me to go to a client’s site because there had been an alleged sexual assault by one of our employees. He wanted me to handle it because he felt I had life experience and his other managers, who did far less than me, were too immature to handle it. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Jaxon and Soddy tasked me with writing our safety manual and attending safety meetings. Eleven. Twelve. Jaxon and Soddy had me travel with clients to sporting events in other cities, and to Edmonton to help with that branch’s day-to-day operations. Fourteen. Fifteen... and they even had me plan the company Christmas parties. Were you any good at your job? I was outstanding. Fifteen years, I never missed a day, was never late, and did everything I ever asked of myself. In fifteen years, I never even had a performance review. I was a champion. The face of the company. They claim you only made sales. You claim to be a lawyer. Order Sorry, your honour, Geez, my business card even says Supervisor. You seem to have trust issues; can you expand on that? Did you just crack that window open? Trust issues. Fifteen years, doing more than the other managers, Jaxon wouldn’t put me on the payroll for the first six. I pressed him. He said to pay me what I’m worth, he’d have to give me a substantial raise. I told him to do it. He replied, “If you want a raise, why don’t you go on welfare?” That same year at the company Christmas party, he asked me about a guy who used to work for the company. The guy he asked about is gay. I’m not friends with the guy. When I told Jaxon, he said, “I thought you guys were on the same team.” As for Lyler, in 10 years of eating together every Monday, he never once looked me in the eye. And besides, he asked me repeatedly what I thought my future with the company should be. As for Soddy… he’s nothing more than a sycophant. Why didn’t you get a job at Footlocker? Why didn’t you find a job in the same industry they fired you from? Let’s see, the pandemic, I’m getting older, and they blocked me from working in the industry. That sounds like an excuse. Your firm, ordered by my ex-employer to block me; you fucking know that. You need to mitigate their losses by searching for employment. I’m 62 now, and there are no careers for me; remember you blocked me, and besides, I’m a writer; I’m pitching 18 manuscripts right now, and I have sent out 100s of proposals. Yay. Go me go. Order. I demand order in the court I need to cheer for myself, future me, your Honour. He’s battling Depression. I think him—me—pitching 18 manuscripts while aging and struggling with the monsters over there, and the beast that is Depression is a testament to who I am—going to be—and always have been. I’ve, he has sent out over 400 proposals. Wow. Fucking failed. They’re faces are failed. Wow! Thanks, judge. Which one? Me, 62-year-old me. And him because he, too, is me. The wheels of the bus go round and round. They sure do, but justice moves at a fucking snail’s pace. Aren’t you nothing more than a failed writer who has no business chasing his dreams? Did you just tell a 62-year-old to give up? Sure did. Are you even a lawyer? I ask the questions here. No further questions. I’m sorry for what we are putting you through. Did their lawyer just apologize to 62-year-old me? Sure did. Fucking monsters. 62-year-old me, I watched the monsters. They were shifting in their seats the whole time you were on the stand, and they stared at me, trying to intimidate me. They can’t scare me. And then, the more you talked, the more their scaley skin peeled away, revealing who they really are, greedy cowards. I know it must suck to seek the approval of your father, who you will never become. Daddy issues. Daddy issues. 62-year-old me, in the last 1,000 days, did we find out who our father is? No, but we found out we are 48% Norwegian, and we found a first cousin. So, we might find out who our father is for the third time. The first one? Arghh… My Lawyer I call you three monsters to the stand. Do you swear to tell… Why are the three of you laughing? What happened? Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Huh, no further questions. Don’t you mean: Thanks? I don’t want to lie. Defence, would you like to cross? No. Quit growling; you’re not scary when you are out of your costumes. Order I have my verdict. I find the three monsters to be guilty of being greedy fuckers. I order them to pay three years’ salary plus damages for what you’ve done to these two men, man. The older one may be slimmer, but I can feel the pain emanating from his soul. But… Shut it, Monsters. My verdict is my verdict; you must pay. The courtroom is quaking. Thousands of monsters are clawing at the outer walls. They can’t enter; it’s a court rule; however, nobody has made it home after leaving. Once outside, the monsters ripped to shred every plaintiff while they basked in their moment of victory. Not today. As the gavel came down, A vapor filled the room and POOF, Jason was before us. Jason? 59-year-old me, you know Jason? I’ve been up here for a while. 62-year-old you, toss me the backpack. Jason slipped his ghoulish hands inside the pack, pulled out a baseball bat, and began violently bludgeoning the three monsters. Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash. Four thousand smashes. Four thousand-one, an extra one for the coward… Four thousand-three. But the bludgeoning wasn’t to kill. Instead, it covered the monsters in a beacon—that would lead everyone they ever exploited and killed through greed, and their families, to them, for them to get revenge. This beacon soared into the universe, calling the exploited and their loved ones to the monster’s home, waiting for the monsters to return so that they could inflict suffering and pain far worse than death itself. Did you do that, Jason? Yeah, I’ve had some time to practice curses. Lindsay, you need to run. What about the monsters through the door? 59-year-old me, what are you doing? I’m entering you; my time here is done. A chill rushes through 62-year-old me. Follow me, Lindsay, there’s a back door; we must go now; now that the case is resolved, it won’t be long until the monsters break in. Run. Lindsay. Run. Jason opened a back portal A dense fog filled the realm. A plank stretched downward for about 100 yards. Go. Lindsay. Go. Thank you, Jason. I owe you, farewell for now, my friend. With every step I took, the plank narrowed. A few steps ahead of me, two massive sanders were whisking back and forth along the sides of the plank, shaving it away. In the first twenty yards, the plank had narrowed from five feet wide to four; At forty yards: three; At 60 yards: two; At 80 yards: one… My foot slipped off, and a fiery abyss with an infinite number of arms reached upward, trying to grab hold of me and pull me into the unknown. I miraculously regained my balance. 90 yards, and the plank disappeared before I sprang into the air, clutching the wall on the other side. The arms of five monsters latched onto my ankles. I kicked and kicked and kicked frantically, crushing the faces of the monsters, and causing them to fall away, shrieking to their deaths. I pulled myself upward. I cried. I lay on his stomach, exasperated, backpack in hand. I rolled over and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them and the phosphenes floating before me finally dissipated, I looked up and, to my dismay, uttered → Tim K, John G, Bern P, Scott F… fuck. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Borat's dead wife.
The Stairs + A Murder of Crows (Original LW Art)
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
11th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 5. Tim K + John G + Bern P + Scott F
Seriously. You guys. Oh fuck. I don’t have time for this. Jason. I have a favour to ask. No problem, Lindsay, I will bring the swatter. After each word, the four on the previous page dribbled toxicity from the corners of their toxicity-filled mouths—Jason swatted them with the mystical swatter. Immediately, their comments and each of them dissipated, never to be heard from again. Dare to dream. Tim walks past me and spews the first words he’s said to me in twelve years, “Go fuck yourself”—under his breath. SWAT. Tim. Gone. During a conversation about my legal issues, Bern disgustingly spews, “Do any of you have difficulty pissing into someone’s mouth when you have an erection?” SWAT. John, it’s cool, even courageous, that you go on trips by yourself, I say to him. Lindsay, I wish you were dead. SWAT. Goodbye. John Scott; SHUT UP. SWAT. Gone. We all have Tim’s, John’s, Bern’s, and Scott’s in our lives. Would any of you like to borrow the swatter? Am I safe now? Yes. Then why is a grizzly bear standing in the shadows, over there → in the clearing by the boxer? 500 Bonus Points Run. Damn it, I don’t think the court case was real. Why? Because I’m still awake. Run. No. You cannot outrun a grizzly. Oh fuck, the boxer has bloody stumps for legs. I close my eyes tightly and sing a song by Loggins & Messina. Winnie wasn’t a grizzly. You know that, right? This is my waking nightmare. 250 Bonus Points This is getting weird. You are making this up. Do you want to do the typing? No. Then shut your pie hole. Who gets to decide what comes next? Ray Parker Junior, a jury, a politician, or a strata council president? What are you talking about? When was the last time you slept? I can’t remember, Ginormous talking Whipple Tree. But, hey, you got any ketamine on you? What’s a Whipple tree? Lindsay, you must run. I run. And run. And run. Cool. Another 50,000 steps. A whirling wind spins above me; it speaks in the silkiest of voices. Lindsay, you will come to the tunnel of mirrors; when you do, don’t be afraid. Inside the mirrors are an infinite number of veiny-eyed, flesh-eating moths with venomous fangs. You have nothing to worry about. They are inside the mirrors. Just do not look at them. Infinite? Why? Actually, 238. And because it makes them sad. They’re starving. And shy. Lindsay? Yes, silky Voice. The oldest man in the world just died. No, he did not. The oldest man in the world just died. No, he did not. The oldest man in the world just died. No, he did not. The oldest man in the world just died. No, he did not. Stop. This is getting redundant. Lindsay? Yes. Voice. During your journey, you will cross the Sea of Redemption, a sea filled with an infinite number of eels, sharks, jellyfish, piranhas, and tuna. But Voice, I can’t swim. That’s okay, when you arrive, you must dive in, remember in Waikiki by the breakwater at the end of the beach? Yes. The part you call the kiddy pool.? Yes. Do you remember how you swam? Yes. Some sort of breaststroke, frantically moving my arms from side to side. When you get to the Sea of Redemption, do that, and the sea will become covered in ice, and you will safely be able to cross into whatever comes next? You will float above the ice, stroking away merrily. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Baby! You're gonna miss that plane
This Tree! + Natural Beauty + J Taking a Photo
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
12th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 5. Tim K + John G + Bern P + Scott F
When you get to the Sea of Redemption, do that, and the sea will become covered in ice, and you will safely be able to cross into whatever comes next? You will float above the ice, stroking away merrily. Hey, whirling silky-voiced wind, will you guide me for a bit? Yes. But when Jeopardy comes on, I eat my dinner. Whirling wind? Yes. If I make it to 100, I want to be at a rave on molly. Your babysitter? I’m 100, perv. I don’t have a babysitter. That’s what you think. I wonder if they’ll still be called raves? I also wonder what type of music will be played? Probably, disco. I was a mixed-tape DJ. I got to run. Stop Who are you? I am your thoughts. I’m thinking? You are somethinging. I don’t think that’s a word. It is whatever you need it to be. Whoever you are, I thought those things? Yes. Have you seen Ray Parker Junior? Run. Hey Whirly, you’re back; who won Jeopardy? Mattea Roach. 1333 Bonus Points! Run. Whirly → I see you picked the right door. Nice board shorts. Thanks. Lindsay, when you come to the Lightning Maze. Boom. Thunder. Thunder. Boom. Spirals of memory will return to you. You will be nearing the end if you make it through the labyrinth. Like my final cheque? No. The end. Sounds ominous. It could be. It doesn’t have to be. You’ll see. I’m blind in one eye. You don’t think I know that? I don’t know what you know. Run. I’m tired. Don’t close your eyes. Saunter, if you must. Did a giant jackrabbit just run past me? No, just a cute little bunny. Why don’t you ask it a question? 17 Bonus Points! Voice? Yes. Is this some sort of archaic video game? Do you have any quarters? Saunter. Damn. I’ve arrived at the Sea of Redemption. I must dive in. Dive. I was terrified; the silky, whirling wind told me there was an infinite number of eels, piranha, jellyfish, sharks, and tuna. I asked, infinite? No, the wind bellowed, 42 of each. 210 Bonus Points! Breaststroke. Breaststroke. Breaststroke. Cool, I’m sort of flying. Fuck, the creatures look evil. Don’t worry, Lindsay, they can’t harm you if you keep swimming. My balls are cold. What are these pills floating in the air in front of me? Eat them, Linds; they will give you superpowers. Which ones? I don’t know, you’re writing this story. I’m trying to fuck go to sleep. As I merrily type away… life is but a dream. Don’t you mean to write? No. My fingers have their own minds. That reminds me of when I pondered something, and my thumbs came together for the first time. They fell in love and started doing it. The next fingers (index) started watching. They were grossed out, ordered a U-Haul, and moved in together. My middle fingers looked at each other and said, what the fuck? The next fingers (ring) were bored. And my pinkies kept looking for their parents. And they turned communist. Is this a true story? Probably. As my fingers were created, one of my thumbs got pregnant, and the rest of the fingers came across a person trying to be a lawmaker. Strata…? No, USA. Anyway, the person who is trying to become a lawmaker—no longer wants to be a cool vampire. He wants to be a werewolf. Do you think this will stand the test of time? Yes. Do you think Ray Parker Junior and Sparkly Pingle Ball hang out together? 3,200 Bonus Points! When I got my first digital camera, the second picture I took was of my dick. Do I qualify to be the Supreme Commander of the Universe? Can we see the pic? Occasionally, my farts aren’t made of air? Where is this going? Hey, you guy on the scooter, what’s your name? In The Way. It suits you! I made five new friends recently. So, I need to cut five. Any volunteers? One of my new friends is dying soon, so if you write me a 500-word essay on why I should select you to fill his spot, you might have a shot. Yay. Yay. Yay. Not you, Tim, John, or Bern. Yay. Scott. Shut up. Lindsay? Hey Jason, you’re back. I have something to tell you. Jason, I think I might be perfectly insane. Yeah, sounds right. I love my cat too much. Meow. Lindsay, I must tell you, I, couldn’t actually kill Tim, John, Bern, and Scott. I know. But I cursed them. I turned them into chickens. They’re roommates. Actually, cage mates who are stacked on top of each other. They turn six months old tomorrow; unfortunately, they’ve been sold to a fried chicken joint that never changes oil, and they are being picked up next Tuesday. Yelp. Precisely. Would you like to dance? I can’t; I have a date with the whirling wind. Seeeee yahhhhh laaaater…. I lost my choo-choo of thoughts. Is that offensive? Don’t you mean a train? Can’t take the train to the job, there’s a strike at the station… 2,700 Bonus Points! || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
The Blackening (2023) Official Trailer
Floral Perfection
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
13th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 5. Tim K + John G + Bern P + Scott F
Oh, there you are! What do you want, Whirly? Go towards the neon lights? The neon lights? The neon lights? The neon → Geez, go to the fucking theatre lights over there, and I got your tickets to the play. Welcome to Ritz Theatre, a one-seat theatre. Take your seat, sir; the show curated just for you are about to begin. Lights. Peculiar Ghost Fishmongers in Love … … A Screenplay by Charlie Tuna … … EXT. TOWER BRIDGE, LONDON – AFTERNOON Conniving fishmonger manager RUSSELL WAN TROTTER is arguing with Swarthy fishmonger TODDY FECALE BROWNING. WAN tries to hug FECALE, but he shakes him off. WAN Please Fecale, don't leave me. You are the only monger who means something to me. The rest of them are a dime a dozen—less—a nickel a dozen. FECALE I'm sorry Wan, but I'm looking for somebody a bit braver. Somebody who faces his fears head on, instead of running away. WAN I am such a person. Love me Fecale. Love me. I love you Fecale. I always will. FECALE frowns. FECALE I'm sorry, Wan. I just don't feel excited by this relationship anymore. FECALE leaves. WAN sits down, looking defeated. Moments later, Sucky scout LANCE CROZIER barges in looking flustered. WAN Goodness, Crozier! Is everything okay? CROZIER I’m afraid not. Have you seen my spy camera? A wise man once told me all I need is the desire and a pair of soft-soled shoes. I’ve ordered the shoes. WAN Jeepers Crozier, you’re a what—a frayed knot? What’s this about a spy camera? What do you need the shoes for? Crozier, my little cupcake, you are desirable. WAN Oh, you’re afraid. What is it, Crozier? Don’t leave me in suspense… CROZIER Suspense, we’re in London. What is it…it’s…a ghost—I saw evil ghost munch down on a bunch of elderly ladies, munch, munch, munch! WAN Ghosts eat? Wouldn’t old women be stringy, gamey? WAN Defenceless elderly ladies? CROZIER Yes, defenceless elderly ladies. Some of which were sporting fresh updos. WAN Bloomin' heck, Crozier! We've got to do something. CROZIER Bloomin’ heck? What decade are you from? I agree Wan, we must do something. I have no idea where to start. WAN Right here, Crozier. We start here. Tell me, where is the ghost munching the old… CROZIER Arms. Legs. Buttocks. Let me fill you in. I was… CROZIER fans himself and begins to wheeze. WAN Focus Crozier. Focus. Where did it happen? CROZIER A greasy diner! That’s right – A greasy diner! WAN springs up and begins to run. … … EXT. A ROAD - CONTINUOUS WAN skips along the street, followed by CROZIER, prancing. They take a short cut through some back gardens, jumping fences along the way. They come across a hungry coyote, snarling. WAN Eke, Crozier. Wiley looks menacing, hungry. CROZIER Sure does, Wan. It’s too bad we don’t have a couple of old ladies with us. WAN Don’t worry, Crozier. I saw on the Nature Channel what were supposed to do. Just follow my lead. 1) Make yourself bigger. CROZIER Sounds stupid. I’m only as big as I am. But Arghh… WAN Now wave your arms in the air—like you just don’t care. Babies got back. Now sing as loud as you can a Michael Bolton song. CROZIER Who? WAN Repeat after me. Who’s a good boy. Who’s a good boy. Who’s a good boy. CROZIER Who’s a good boy. Who’s a good boy. Who’s a good boy. WAN Whatever we do. Do not run. Damn it. He’s still looking at us. I have one last way to save us? CROZIER What is it, I’m going to wet myself-- WAN Take off your clothes…no…that’s not it. We must shout out ‘GO AWAY COYOTE.’ CROZIER ‘GO AWAY COYOTE.’ I can’t believe it Wan; it’s working, you saved our lives. Wiley is gone. … … INT. A CALL CENTER - AN OPERATOR ANSWERS WILEY Hello. Operator How may I direct your call? WILEY My name is Wiley. I’d like to report some bizarre human behaviour in the park. Operator Can you tell me what happened? WILEY Well, I was walking in the park. Minding my own business. Looking for small critters to feast on. I came across two men, holding their breath. Waving their arms in the air. I was at least 50-yards away from them. It was quite comical. They started singing, I think: Tell me how am I supposed to live without you? Now that I’ve been loving you so long. How am I supposed to live without you? And how am I supposed to carry on? When all that I’ve been livin’ is gone. At least that’s what I think they were singing. Of course, I can’t be sure, I’m a friggen coyote and I don’t understand English. What I do know is, at the end of the song, I puked. Operator I’m sorry for your encounter, Wiley. We’ve been getting an abundance of calls from humans about aggressive coyotes—I know the coyotes are just going about their days, minding their own business—but you know, us humans, we be fucked. Anyway, ever since one of your coyote brethren chowed down on the small child in the park, if a human sees a branch move, they report it as an aggressive coyote. At last count, the number of calls we’ve had added up to plethora. WILEY Operator, the chow down on child story. It’s a myth. Some dingbats saw my buddy, Rufus. They startled him. Their little brat started whining. Passers-by saw this. Each person they passed in the park, they warned about Rufus. The story grew with each person they saw. When they told the last person, they told them Rufus was eating a small child. The person asked the dingbats out of fear; what did you do? To which Dingbat #1 replied, ‘Wasn’t our child.’ That’s how rumours get started. Operator Us humans…I’m sorry for the tumult, Wiley. I’ll add this call to the number: plethora + one. Jeez. Coyotes minding their business and now we have a whack of paranoid vigilantes running through parks with sticks, trying to look big + scary, singing Michael Bolton and shouting out ‘GO AWAY COYOTE.’ I find it hysterical. Wiley, youse be winning. Never mind the humans, they are… … … EXT. A GREASY DINER - SHORTLY AFTER EVERYMAN a peculiar ghost terrorises two elderly ladies. WAN, closely followed by CROZIER, rushes towards EVERYMAN, but suddenly poops his pants. CROZIER Ewe. Did you crap yourself? What is it Wan? What’s the matter? WAN I think the ghost farted. Yeah. That’s it. What’s the matter? What’s the matter? I’ll tell you what’s the matter. What’s the matter, that’s not any old ragged-tattered ghost, that’s Everyman. CROZIER I’m feeling nauseated over here. Who’s Everyman? WAN Who’s Everyman? Who’s Everyman? Only the most peculiar ghost in the whole world. I think I might have too much fiber in my diet. CROZIER Blinkin' knickers, Wan! We're going to need some help if we're going to stop the most peculiar ghost in the universe! WAN You can say that again. CROZIER Blinkin' knickers, Wan! We're going to need some help if we're going to stop the most peculiar ghost in the universe! WAN I'm going to need rainbows , lots of rainbows. EVERYMAN turns and sees WAN and CROZIER. She grins an evil grin. EVERYMAN Wan Trotter, we meet again. WAN Do I know you? Didn’t we meet at the Rainbow Tubs? CROZIER You two know each other? WAN Yes. It was a long, long time ago… … … EXT. A PARK - BACK IN TIME (A long, long time ago…) CROZIER Cripes Wan, that park sure looks like it is from a long, long time ago… WAN Yes. It was a long, long time ago… A young WAN is sitting in a park listening to some trance music, when suddenly a dark shadow casts over him. He looks up and sees EVERYMAN. He takes off his headphones. EVERYMAN Would you like some white mice? WAN’s eyes light up, but then he studies EVERYMAN more closely, and looks uneasy. WAN I don’t know, you look kind of peculiar. And what kind of mo-fkng ghost carries around white mice with her? EVERYMAN Me? No. I’m not peculiar. I’m the least peculiar ghost in the world. You call me peculiar; I saw you in the future trying to scare off a coyote. WAN You can see into the future? Wait…did you say you are a ghost? WAN scurries away, screaming. A white mouse is in hot pursuit until it accidently enters a maze. … … EXT. A GREASY DINER - PRESENT DAY EVERYMAN You were a coward then, and you are a coward now. WAN That friggen mouse was huge. And probably entitled. CROZIER (to WAN) You ran away. WAN (to CROZIER) BMM. CROZIER (to WAN) AMM. WAN (to CROZIER) You’re an idiot Crozier. Don’t worry, I still love you. CROZIER (to WAN) You ran away. WAN (to CROZIER) I was a young child. What was I supposed to do? WAN turns to EVERYMAN. WAN I may have run away from you then, but I won’t run away from you this time. EVERYMAN No offence, can you even run. I think the good life, has rendered you, fat, tubby, girthy—do you have a description you prefer, Blobby? WAN You’re hurting my feelings. You know I’m a runner. WAN runs away. He turns back and shouts. I mean, I am running away, but I'll be back - with rainbows. EVERYMAN I'm not scared of you. WAN You should be. Don’t you think Everyman is a ridiculous name for a female ghost? EVERYMAN Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. WAN Have you seen my Coyote stick? Its name is Stick. Do you think they make ghost sticks? Would you like me to sing a Snow song for you – Informer, ya’ no say daddy me Snow me I go blame. A licky boom, boom, down. I almost ran into a startled-nervous racoon today, we both jumped, the racoon scampered into the woods. I gave the racoon a name. Do you know what I named it? —I’ll just tell you. Stick 2. … … EXT. TRAFALGAR SQUARE, LONDON - LATER THAT DAY WAN and CROZIER walk around searching for something. WAN I feel sure I left my rainbows somewhere around here. CROZIER ‘Tective man say, say daddy me Snow me stab someone down the lane. A licky boom, boom, down. I can’t get that jam out of my head. Thanks, Wan. What are we looking for? Oh yeah, your deadly rainbows. Are you sure you left them around here? It seems like an odd place to leave deadly rainbows. WAN You know nothing Crozier. Where do bears crap? I bet you don’t even know that. What if a tree falls…? Huh. Don’t worry, I still love you. I always wanted it to be just the two of us. Screw all the other mongers. CROZIER You have. WAN Sure, but not in the literal sense. Try repeating this several times? CROZIER What? WAN You know, the Cherry Blossoms. They’ve bloomed and now they’ve literally become litterers. CROZIER What are you even talking about? WAN My undying? CROZIER You need help. WAN Help me. CROZIER I love your shoes. Where did you get them? WAN Mall. CROZIER We’ve been searching for your deadly rainbows forever. I really don’t think they’re here. WAN Is it raining out? No. I think they’re just washing the roof. Suddenly, EVERYMAN appears, holding a pair of rainbows. EVERYMAN Looking for something. WAN Cool rainbows. Do they come in any other colours? See, Crozier, it must have been raining…rainbows. Hey, Crozier, can you now say a word, I don’t know, a word that has never been uttered aloud before, ever. CROZIER Crickey, Wan, she’s got your rainbows. WAN Tell me something I don’t know! CROZIER Eye I, eye I, yicky I owni, yappa pony, ala cala whiskey, Chinese chump. Beep, beep. WAN I already know that. SNOW Police-a them-a they come and-a they blow down me door. One ee come crawl troo-troo my window. So, they put me in de back de car at de station. From that point on me reach my destination. CROZIER Can you dance to that? WAN Seriously, Crozier, try again. CROZIER I pickle my earwax and keep it in a jar under my bed. EVERYMAN |Appalled| Dude! While EVERYMAN is looking at CROZIER with disgust, WAN lunges forward and grabs his deadly rainbows. He wields them, triumphantly. SNOW starts munching on a white mouse. WAN Prepare to die…you, idiosyncratic turnip. EVERYMAN No please. All I’m guilty of is munching a murder of elderly ladies. FECALE enters, unseen by any of the others. WAN I cannot tolerate that kind of behaviour! Those elderly ladies were defenceless! Well now they have a defender - and that's me! Wan Trotter defender of innocent elderly ladies. EVERYMAN Don't hurt me! Please! WAN Crickey me timbers. I mean Crickey me timbers. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't use these rainbows on you right away! EVERYMAN Because Wan, I am your mother. WAN looks stunneder for a few moments, but then collects himself. WAN Do you think my eyebrows are too bushy? I think I’m growing boobs. Can you take a look? Do these look-like boobs? What, you can spot a dyke in a lineup? I’m confused. No, you’re not–you are not my mother. EVERYMAN It was worth a shot. EVERYMAN tries to grab the rainbows but WAN dodges out of the way. WAN Who’s the mummy now? Who? Who? You got a fast car. I want a ticket to anywhere. Maybe we make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere. EVERYMAN Tracy? Never mind. Unexpectedly, EVERYMAN slumps to the ground. SNOW Hey, Tracy, would you like some of my mouse? CROZIER Did she just faint? WAN I think so. Well, that's disappointing. I was rather hoping for a more dramatic conclusion, involving my deadly rainbows. WAN crouches over EVERYMAN’s body. CROZIER Be careful, Wan. It could be a trick. WAN (to EVERYMAN) Can you tell me when it hurts? EVERYMAN Only when I masturbate. So long, friend. EVERYMAN takes her last gasp and dies. WAN No, it's not a trick. It appears that... It would seem... Everyman is dead! CROZIER What? WAN Yes, it appears that I scared her to death. CROZIER claps his hands. CROZIER What? So, your rainbows did save the day, after all. WAN And Snow + Tracy. FECALE steps forward. FECALE Is it true? Did you kill the peculiar ghost? WAN Fecale how long have you been...? FECALE puts his arm around WAN. FECALE Long enough. WAN Then you saw it for yourself. I killed Everyman! FECALE Then the elderly ladies are safe. WAN It does seem that way! A crowd of vulnerable elderly ladies enter, looking relived. FECALE You are their hero. The elderly ladies bow to WAN. WAN There is no need to bow to me. I seek no worship. The knowledge that Everyman will never munch elderly ladies ever again, is enough for me. FECALE You are humble as well as brave! I will love you forever, Girthy! One of the elderly ladies passes WAN a gold talisman. FECALE I think they want you to have it, as a symbol of their gratitude. WAN I couldn’t possibly. FECALE Wan, why are you undoing your pants? Pause. WAN If you insist. WAN takes the talisman. WAN |Zip| Thank You! The elderly ladies bow their heads once more, and leave. WAN turns to FECALE. WAN Does this mean you want me back? FECALE Oh, Wan, of course I want you back! WAN smiles for a few seconds, but then looks defiant. WAN Well, you can’t have me. FECALE WHAT??? WAN You had no faith in me. You had to see me scare a ghost to death before you would believe in me. I don't want a lover like that. FECALE But... WAN Please leave. I want to spend time with the one person who stayed with me through thick and thin - my best friend, Crozier. CROZIER grins. FECALE But... CROZIER You heard the bulbous gentleman. Now be off with you. Skidaddle! Shoo! FECALE Wan? WAN I'm sorry Fecale, but I think you should skidaddle. FECALE leaves. CROZIER turns to WAN. CROZIER Did you mean that? You know... that I'm your best friend? WAN Of course, you are! All I’ve ever wanted was for it to be the two of us, screw all the other mongers. CROZIER You have…and you do. The two walk off arm in arm. Suddenly CROZIER stops. CROZIER When I said I pickle my earwax and keep it in a jar under my bed, you know I was just trying to distract the ghost don't you? And CROZIER bursts out in song. CROZIER I remember everything form hate to love. From love to lust. From lust to truth. I guess that’s how I know you. So, I hold you, close, to help you give it up. … … THE END || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Historical + Popina Cantina + Floral Perfection
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
14th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 5. Tim K + John G + Bern P + Scott F
Sir, what did you think of the play? Could you describe it in one word? Sure. Sure, what a lovely review. I’m not sure, but you will face a horrific death in a minute as those 1,000 monsters who are currently devouring the play’s cast—when they are done with the cast, they will use you as floss. That’s 39 words. Sorry, I’ve got to run. Where am I, Whirly? Look at the street signs. I recognize this place; I'm almost home, Howe and Georgia. Yes. Am I sleeping? No. Look around; what do you see? The new Apple Store has opened. It's beautiful; their glass windows stretch to the heavens above. Whirly, it's glorious! Look harder; what do you really see? Oh my, it's like a number, far more significant than a zillion, worth of technical power is peering out the windows, looming over the passersby, stripping away the connection with others with every step they take. Stealing a little of our soul every time we look. And somehow, with all the knowledge in the world only a click away, somehow, we are becoming stupider. Willfully ignorant. Go on… The store is rewiring us. Damn, there is an army of guards who cannot afford what they are protecting, protecting the Apples. I walk a block. I can feel the pings of the monsters floating above me. The cloud cover is ominous. I dodge into a grocery to lose the technical monsters. Damn. I look at my phone. I can't escape. In the store, there is a homeless man. He's being tackled by a security guard tasked with protecting the apples. The security guard can only afford three apples. I scream into the void below. WHAT'S GOING WRONG? The void tosses the question back at me in an echo. My phone contract pops before my eyes: 1. Phone owners must look at their phones every fifteen minutes, or giant Kermit the Frog, type frogs—will drop from the sky and shove plastic straws → Did you notice recycling bins are plastic? And money. Do you think money is scared about its future? → How long has it been? Twelve minutes. Whew. Here comes my friend Ian's Ghost Thumb And another homeless guy. Is any of this true, Lindsay? Absolutely. Anyway, Ian's Ghost Thumb—thumbs up to me. Hey Linds. Crap, I'm not anti-homeless, but here comes the homeless guy who begs for coffee money. I've seen him no less than 1,000 times. When you say no, he circles you like a cartoon character. Begging. Which cartoon character? I don't know, but if you do? 1,000 Bonus Points! The Ghost Thumb and the homeless man are about to engage, let's fly on the wall, Whirly. Homeless Man Are you, my father? Thumb Sorry, you startled me; I thought you wanted coffee. And I’m not your dad. Homeless Man I'm having a tough time processing things right now. Thumb Because you're homeless? Homeless Man No, because some fucking Ghost Thumb loaded on Ketamine → Thumb Are you talking about me? Homeless Man → Yes, you, do you see any other fucking ghost thumbs here? Anyway, you, the fucking thumb, loaded on Ketamine. I overheard you talking to an index finger. You were pissed off. You were telling, Indexy, about poor people living in tents. You said the tents cost $500. You think I, and the rest of us fractured people, don't deserve to live in $500 tents? But yet, you spent over $100 in Vegas to eat beef wellington at some famous chef’s restaurant. You said it was worth it. Do you understand how disgusting that is for me to hear? I got busted yesterday because I couldn't afford an apple. You told Indexy you think all poor people need to try harder. You said squeegee people make over $100 a day. This, too, seemed to upset you, the squeegee people. Indexy, asked you where you get your information? You told him you didn't know. You just found the numbers resting in your fucking severed thumb brains. You didn't even Google. That's why I'm fucking having trouble comprehending things. So, yes, I want a fucking coffee. But a little empathy and compassion would be nice as well. Is that too much to ask? Oh yeah, and an apple. Thumb Wow. That was intense. So, you are not my father? Whirly, I got to run. Run, Lindsay. Am I back in Saskatoon? Who's the hot young guy riding on that riding mower, all oiled up, clothing rolled up to the point of invisibility? Lindsay, it's you. Me. Yes. You're in your early twenties. Snap. I was something. Oh no, look out, Lindsay. Behind you is an indigenous man with long greasy, stringy hair; with wounded dark eyes; he's wielding a scythe, chopping down weeds, he’s coming right for you, Lindsay; you need to run. Don't sweat it, Whirly, that's Lawrence. He's the curb cleaner. I, the white guy, get the cushy job of riding on the mower. Lawrence has to clean up everything I leave in my wake. Seems fair. Probably not, but as a hot guy in my early twenties, what did I care? It seemed fair to me. I worked with Lawrence for three years. During those years, I took five-hour coffee breaks to go golfing. I took three-day lunch breaks and go on holiday. Then, on rainy days, I became proficient at Pacman at an arcade close to where we worked. Every time, I literally took (stole) time, Lawrence covered for me. Lawrence never complained. He didn't drink (I think the previous sentence is a micro-aggression). Except for rum and coke, he said. I asked him what he does on payday? He told me his money was gone in a few minutes because his extended family was always waiting for him at the Barry Hotel when he got off work. Lawrence offered me honesty and vulnerability, and I judged all indigenous people, because of what he told me. Lawrence covered for me regularly, expecting nothing in return. Lawrence even wanted to be my stripper agent and get me to strip at a local club that had a lady's night. What happened to Lawrence? They transferred him to another asshole. And then…? They gave me Dave. Dave was part of one of the wealthiest families in the city. He didn't need the job. He was only doing it because his father would give him $10,000 if he worked one month straight. I might have made the last sentence up. I asked Dave what he did on payday? He told me his cheques went up his nose. Why is this in this story, Whirly? Because you need to slay a monster. And you need to find understanding. Did I → → → run? Thanks, Lawrence; forty-some years later, I'm getting it. I liked Lawrence. Did you like Dave? Where am I now? Ian's Ghost Thumb; what are you doing here? Hey, Linds, did you hear about the homeless people sleeping in $500 tents? Don't say that aloud. Why? Damn political correctness. Because GT, it stifles dialogue. And when other ignorant people hear you say things like that, sometimes a few of them jump onto the hard-done-by-hate-train of poor people. I… Just, don't do it, would you like another example, why? Sit down, Grant. Do you know what pisses me off, Linds? Roseanne got the raw end of the deal. What are you talking about? One of the three others at the table asks Grant, what did she do? She was the one who started of all the political correctness bullshit. I don’t like this part of Gummy Friday. I say aloud. Poor baby, Lindsay doesn't like the racist stuff. You said it. Roseanne never should have gotten fired. All she did say was that a black woman looked like a → I refuse to type the word after a… Grant continues, she looked like a… she was telling the truth, he barks. GT, do you now understand the bit about tents? Spewing shit puts others in a fucking awkward situation where they have to choose if they will rail against poor people or whine about how hard done by (white) they are because they can't keep spewing toxic racist shit. Fuck, you had a $100 slice of beef, and you have an Apple. But now, because one of my racist friends was racist out loud, the rest of us argue. And I usually get told to lighten up. And I can’t take a joke. GT, Grant, gotta run. I need to make it to the next chapter. And Grant, can you fucking evolve? Your views are tedious. One day, you will understand, Linds. No. I. WILL. NOT. And if you don't evolve, I don't want to be around you anymore. Lindsay, run up these three flights of rickety stairs. One flight. Two flights. Jason. I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I'm ecstatic. I brought you something, and I hope you like it. What is it? What is it? What is it? Here. Open it. Chocolate-covered almonds. Sort of… … I ripped Jaxon, Lyler, and Soddy''s eyes out of their skulls and dropped into a boiling vat of chocolate and, wella! Oh my. I wanted to ensure they never see their futures. Gnarly, Dude. One more thing, Lindsay, I got you a chicken sandwich. Jason, I'm glad we reconnected. Ah, fuck. Who are you? I'm Abe. Vigoda? Sure. Hello, Abe. What is this place? 93.5 Bonus Points! I am the Gatekeeper of the three doors behind me. Wouldn't it be, Doorkeeper? One door leads to death. One door leads to death You’re repeating yourself. And one door opens to an upward waterslide where when you slide upward, instead of your speedo being eaten by your ass, it grows into board shorts. It's a good thing I'm wearing a speedo. Nice package, by the way. Thanks, Abe. What door do you select? Be careful. This could be the end of this waking nightmare. Sounds nice. The end. I select door numbers 2, No, and 3. No one. Final answer? One. Wee… I’m sliding upwards. Splash. Where am I? A snap, more rickety stairs. Climb. Climb. Crawl. I’m exhausted. Must keep going. Three more rungs to go and then a landing. Pull. Just a little more. What are you looking at, giant rat? Pull. I made it. Sadie? || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Get Out - The Sunken Place Scene
Wildberries + J + Two Trees + Floral Beauty
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
15th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 6. Sadie
I’m not born yet. I’m in a room full of telephone receptionists answering phones. Everything is old. Quaint. Dusty. Two attractive receptionists are sitting beside each other, chain-smoking. I think they are my sisters. Bernice and Sadie. They get off work. They catch a ride from Brooks, Alberta, to Picture Butte. My father’s there. I’m standing out back of the town hall. A dance is raging inside. Sadie is crying. Bernice is being forced to make out by a much older man. Bernice is also crying. The man slaps Bernice. And then, pulls up his trousers and goes back into the hall. Sadie takes Bernice into her arms and gently strokes her hair. A crow caws. A cow moos in the distance. A stray dog barks across the street. I shout as loud as I can. Is he, my father? They can’t hear me because I’m not really here. Just as I’m about to run, I hear a voice drifting in the wind; it’s a tear-stained female voice; it’s breaking; I barely make out the words, “We have the same father.” Tears drip from my eyes. Hello, Aimee? Sadie is dying? Aimee tells me. We are back in 2021, November. I fall off a depressive ledge, falling and falling; if I hit bottom, I will expire. Sadie is sick. She’s almost out of time. All her money is gone. All the stock money Bernice left her, is gone. She got scammed. After, being sick and dying, I was having trouble comprehending why Aimee is telling me the rest. I slam into a brick wall. My life feels as if it is walking lockstep with Saidie. Here’s a number for the home she’s staying at. You should call her. Aimee says. Sadie and I, had only spoken three times in the last 25 years. The first time, was when Bernice was dying. The second, was the day Bernice died. And the third, was the day after Bernice died. Sadie called to tell me I might have to fly to Calgary to sign the death certificate. Since I am Bernice's only kin, I was the only one who could. She said. Now, Sadie was dying. Fuck, there are far too many monsters in this room. I phone. The nurse on the line asks me who I am? I tell her Sadie is my sister. The nurse tells me I’m not on the call list. She then tells me; Sadie hasn’t eaten in five days. She says, she’s down to seventy pounds. The entire world turned into the whitest sheet of paper imaginable. Everything became white, redacted, gone. The people. The buildings. The trees. The animals. Everything. Except for me ↓ || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Meet Me in Montauk
Bluebird + Cardiologist Art by LW
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
16th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 6. Sadie
I’m standing alone in a field spinning like a metronome never stops. I have never felt so alone. Sir, you are not on the call list. On the next day, I call back. I’ve found something, not courage, something else that gives me, not the strength—I just made the call. I don’t want to talk to my dying sister. What does that fucking say about me? The nurse puts Sadie on the phone. I desperately try not to ask how she’s doing? I don’t. I tell her the news fucking sucks. She is not interested in talking with me. She hangs up. … This is an excellent place to take a respite. I’m going to go back in time for a bit and do a revision of the last couple of chapters. Wait here. Where? Sit down on the Chaise. I made you a Kale + Bourbon smoothie. I’ll be back later today. I’m soaring through the air. I’m flying high above the mountains. I come crashing down into a Palliative Care facility in Calgary, Alberta. I’m sitting in a chair, and Sadie is lying on her deathbed, barely alive, a few feet away. It’s time to slay monsters. I || I don’t want whatever falls out of my mind to sound angry, jaded, cynical, or woe is me. Can I suggest a different path? Sure, Whirly. Hide your pain with comedy. For how long? Forever. Closure is make-believe. I don’t want readers to think my vitriol has turned me into a monster. I need to talk with Sadie. I don’t want to hurt her. I can’t. Sadie is already dead. For me to move forward, I must be honest. If you think I become a monster at the end, so be it. This is my story. I need to say goodbye. Sadie, when I arrived here and saw you, I wanted to let my vitriol fly. I tried to blast every pain I have ever felt into your face. I wanted to hurt you. But… I can’t. And I won’t. Maybe it is just because I’m tired. Broken. Defeated. No. That’s not it. But I need to let some things go to move forward. Sadie, the next thing I say to you is the most important and if you only listen to one thing I say, let it be this. I’m sorry. I’m incredibly sorry for whatever it was you had to endure. Sure, I wish things were different. But, really, I don’t; I’m a good man, Sadie. I’m kind and empathetic, and the crap I’ve endured thrust me away from cynical, bitter, and jaded toward compassion and understanding. I guess what I’m trying to say is that without the fucking times and the secrecy, and the lies, I wouldn’t be who I am today. Sure, I struggle mightily with many things, but at the end of each day, I’ve usually made a stranger smile. Every. Single. Day. My family gifted me that. Pain gave me that. It could have gone the other way, but something inside me painted a tapestry where I know life isn’t easy and maybe all somebody needs are someone to acknowledge they exist. But… That doesn’t let the family off the hook. So, when Aimee phoned me to tell me you were sick and dying, I fell off a depressive ledge, and for six months, I cried daily because of… I don’t even know why? Aimee went to lengths—not great, but more so odd. To tell me the inheritance Bernice left, you were all gone because you got scammed. I don’t know why-the-fuck she told me this. Anyway, she also gave me your number of the palliative care home you were staying at. I phoned. I wasn’t ready to talk to you, but I just wanted to know how to do it. The caregiver who answered asked who I was? I told her I was your youngest brother. And Sadie, do you know what she said? She said I wasn’t on the list. I died a little with her words. I phoned the next day, and the caregiver said you couldn’t be bothered coming to the phone. She eventually put you on, but it seemed you rather be doing anything other than speaking to me. So, it took weeks to come to terms with that. So, I kept apologizing for what I put you through, which was being born. And then… You died. Aimee called me to tell me, and when she did, she told me the night before you died, she and a couple of friends, snuck a bottle in, and partied with you. I wanted to be so angry with you. But… I love you. I can’t. It would be fucking selfish of me to toss out my compassion. I’m not proudof being mad at you for dying. My god, Sadie, you died on the same date Mum died. I don’t know if that is poetic or torture? And with you dying, all the women in our family have left this earth. Who’s next? I’m scared. I must run. Bye Sadie. Much love. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Center For Kids Who Can't Read Good
Justice + Society on the Precipice (LW Art)
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
17th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 7. Spiral of Memories
Where am I?
I thought you’d like a moment in your living before you stroll on into a fever of excitement, spiralling through many who’ve etched a place in your psyche. Okay. Go → Tik Tok … … The following rant ↓↓↓ is unedited. Like, unedited. Like. Fuck. Like these guys give me so much material. I told you about Ian and the $500 tents, that he was upset about. I see the homeless people, some of them have $500 tents. Where do you live, Ian? What the fuck. You hate homeless people that much that they shouldn’t be allowed to live in a tent. And so, this is what Grant says yesterday… there’s segments at Gummy Friday and there’s one segment I hate so fucking much, it’s the racist segment and it always happens… it always happens right at the first. So, somehow, Grant mentions an actor, a female actor who was on Roseanne. Lori Metcalf or something… says something about her. And that turns into Grant going, yeah, Roseanne got fired. And like that was all bullshit. She should have never got fired. I got fired for saying the pandemic was scary. I’ll continue. Roseanne said some horrible, horrible fucking horrific racist shit. Not in her past. But in the present. When her new show was on. Just horrible stuff. And Grant says, yeah, that’s when all the political correctness bullshit started. She just said what she thought. She said the truth. She called a black, she said a black woman looked like a monkey. The cameraman says, That’s horrible. So, Grant says that… yeah, and I go… and so I’m just sitting, and I go, I’ve got to tune out because I really hate this part of the night. And like Grant goes, yeah, Lindsay’s really racist sensitive. The cameraman laughs. This is what Grant is saying to me. I go, yeah, it’s a good way to be Grant. And he goes, he goes, one day you’ll get it. And I’m going what about? What am I supposed to do, lighten up, Grant? And then I just sit there and go, you know what the fucks ridiculous about this: Grant there’s four of us around this table, five us around the table right now; and the rest of us because of what you just said have to decide if we are going to be racist too? We have to decide if we are going to ignore you or are we going to join in? And then the conversation is just shit for a while because we’re mad at… because Roseanne can’t call a black woman a monkey. We’re now mad. Shake my fists. Like listen to how your fucking minds working. Like why, do, you… why did it…? The cameraman, Why did it even come up? Yeah, why, now that’s part of the night. That conversation. Why does it even come up? You just took us here, and then you get mad when somebody doesn’t like it. And so, I go like, like, why did like… sure people can say whatever they want and be assholes. I agree. I think it’s stupid to say what you want, and you’ll sound like a piece of shit. But it’s not like a bad thing, political correctness. You shouldn’t be able to hurt people just because you want to. The cameraman, Oh my god, yeah. So, I got, oh you’ll understand. What am I going to understand Grant? The cameraman, It’s exhausting. Yeah, I got. It’s tiresome. And he goes. And I go, like am I supposed to lighten up? Because that’s what they usually say when you challenge people that are stupid like that, they go, oh you take things too seriously. It’s just, or they’ll say it’s just a joke. The cameraman, It’s not a joke. So that’s why, like with Ian. What I said, Ian… I like Ian and I know he’s kind of goofy stupid, he’s talking about homeless people, at the same time he bought a thousand, $100 piece of beef at Gordon Ramsay’s Restaurant in Vegas; and he’s saying homeless people can’t live in a tent. And then, go Grant… I mean, I go, Ian, the reason you don’t say this shit out loud is because it puts everyone else in the position where now if there’s a couple of other idiots at that table, even if you don’t mean it, now they pile on; and then it becomes a horrible-horrible fucking conversation. Because all it takes is one other idiot at the table and then you guys are going to talk about how much you hate, about how much you hate poor people and they’re lazy and they’re not trying hard enough and I worked so hard for everything I have, so, fuck them all. That’s pretty good. All right, that’s what they do. And I told Ian… and that’s what happens whey you do this. I go, that’s why you don’t do it. Because it destroys conversation. And what purpose does it serve, you telling people you want to be a bigot? And your mad because you can’t be a bigot? And your mad because you can’t call people fat? You’re mad because you can’t call people lazy because they’re homeless? You’re mad at these things. Those are the things you are choosing to be mad at. I’m tired, but it gets into my stories, and I call them out, like, fuck, fuck. I don’t like, like I don’t like when Grant does that. I hate him. I’m going, I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t care how many gummies you give me; I don’t want to be your fucking friend. The cameraman chuckles. Like, seriously, the above ↑↑↑ volcano is unedited. Like, seriously. And unrehearsed. … … || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Jesse's Girl
Floral Beauty + LW Art
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||
18th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 7. Spiral of Memories
Pinch me.
Damn. I’m still awake. How are you feeling, Lindsay? Thanks for asking, Whirly. You’ve been helping me avoid monsters for some time now; I could never thank you enough. I have a long way to go. But Whirly, as my soul hurts, I have a seemingly never-ending road ahead of me until I reach the end. With the night sky rioting above me—Whirly, do you know what saddens me the most? What? When people I know, people I like, or at least am trying to… Whirly, when the fucking monsters are those people close to me. I understand. When friends speak in specific ways (racist), it rips apart who I want to be, and I feel alone. Their words sting. And I’m white. Let them go. Isn’t that what this book is about? Letting go. I don’t know; we are only a little over a third of the way in. Now, run, I’ve got your 7:45. Run. It’s getting dark out. How? It’s noon. Lindsay, take this 20-pound block of ice and place it behind the building in the shade. When you do, you’ll be monster free for the next 1,000 flights → Whirly, it’s freezing out. Don’t be a baby. It’s +2.5 Celsius. But it’s a damp cold. THERE. IS. NO. SUCH. THING. ARGHH. Lindsay, you won’t have to worry about monsters until the coffee gets… I mean, the block of ice melts. 2,300 Bonus Points! Run. I’m running down the street. A dishevelled man approaches. He’s having a conversation with himself. I can’t hear him until we become parallel to each other. “Me n_g_e_is a thorn up my ass, the man is trying to hold me down.” I hope I don’t hold on to this memory. I wonder if he’s heading to Grant’s place. I need to save my sanity. Do you want to come to the Fitness Asylum with me? You are supposed to be spiralling through your memories. I’ve got time. It’s freezing out. I duck into the gym. Great. Red Coat, is here. Fantastic, so is the Annoying Talker, The Erector, Hot Legs, and My Daughter. Whirly, I’m going to stream now, okay? Sure, it’s your ice block. I don’t think Red Coat has a membership. Red Coat, is a man in his late sixties? He never signs in; he just walks past the front desk. He always wears the same red coat. He always wears his COVID mask below his nose. 1.2.3….10… no pain, no gain. Shut up. Crap, here comes the Annoying Talker. I like your shoes. Thanks. I like the Swiss flag on the back. Oh. There’s a flag on my shoes. Do we need to keep talking? Annoying Talker, is 40ish, sporting bright orange shoes. He’s about six-foot-four. I escape. I’m doing triceps pushdowns, in another part of the gym. Annoying Talker, finds me. Wow, your arms are bigger than mine. What? Over here, I’m talking. You just said I’m talking to yourself. Yes. Your arms are bigger than mine. Okay. Wow! Am I supposed to keep talking? He gives up on me. Three yards away, he accosts another member. Hey. What? Hey? The other member looks confused. I saw you yesterday? What? Yeah, I saw you at the corner of… and…. What? A female walks by. Hey Bra, what’s new? He leaves me to talk to a gym employee. Are you stalking him? No. He points at a girl walking by, telling a gym employee, she’s hot. I’d fuck her, he adds. A new day comes. How’s the melt going, Whirly? You’ve got time. I’m in the middle of a set of…? Annoying Talker, approaches a guy working out close by. Hey. Excuse me. Hey. Yes? I wouldn’t talk to you if you were female because you always wear sweatpants. What? Ten Minutes Pass Hey. What? Do you want to see my killer triceps? Annoying Guy, flexes the back of his arms. I have killer calves as well, he says. What? I laughed. I need to keep moving. My friend (acquaintance) says, “my daughter” at least 300 times every time he’s at the gym. He likes his daughter. I want the machine Red Coat is working on. He’s been there for 45 minutes. I used to be angered by people who were not lifting heavy weights. I thought all weights were for strong people. I evolved. Except for → Red Coat, has been on the machine for 45 minutes. It’s a pull-down machine. I watch him. He reaches up, grabs the bar, and rests for 35 seconds, not pulling the pull-down bar, down. No weight on the stack. After 35 seconds, he removes his hands and paces back and forth for 5 minutes. You did nothing, fucker; I think. He does another set. And another. I approach. Hey, are you going to be done with the machine soon? He grunts. I don’t like Red Coat, anymore. I’m on the treadmill. A man in his sixties, to my right, is walking backward. A sixty-year-old-man two treadmills to my left is pacing sideways, tossing in the occasional pirouette. I laugh. I want to ask the Pirouetting Man and the Backwards Walker, if their doctors prescribed what they are doing? I don’t. A frail lady in, I’d guess, in her fifties is pacing behind the treadmills. She’s got a cane. She is damaged, maybe weighing 70 pounds. She can barely walk. Probably a stroke survivor. My blood pressure spikes. Don’t pick the treadmill next to me; I repeat umpteen times in my head. She picks the treadmill next to me. She takes 5 minutes to climb up on it. She gingerly hangs her cane on the treadmill’s arm. She fidgets with the controls. Her treadmill moves. I become anxious. Three steps into her walk → SPLAT → she falls on her face. I have 5 minutes left in my workout. I reach over to stop her treadmill. I accidentally speed it up. She’s now part of the belt. The Pirouetting Man hits the off button on her treadmill. He tries to help her up. She says she’s more embarrassed than anything. I feel awful for her. I punch the Pirouetting Man and the Backwards Walker in the face. I finish my workout. I have only seen the frail lady three more times. I assume she’s dead; or in Etobicoke. The Backward Walker and the Pirouetting Man still walk backward and pirouette. I laugh. I want them to go to Etobicoke. How’s the ice? You can finish our workout. I’m go to the Asylum to sweat, unwind, and stay alive. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Simon & Garfunkel - The Boxer
My Second Favourite Tree + J + Berry Picking Day
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
19th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 7. Spiral of Memories
Another day arrives.
I hope up onto the treadmill. For the forty-five minutes I was exercising, the person next to me talked loudly on her phone; she was sweating when she got on, and she was dry by the time I finished. She wasn’t even panting. So, she hopped off, and I (didn’t) trip her. I want only to hear the clanking of weights, while at the Asylum. There are seven treadmills Only three are occupied. The Annoying Man, approaches. He paces back and forth behind the machines. When he reaches one end, he raises his right index finger to his chin, looks up, turns, and walks to the other end of the machines. Once there, he raises his right finger to his chin, turns and walks to the other end of the machines. He does this for the entire 45 minutes I’m on the treadmill, taking three breaks to accost the trapped worker, not wearing sweatpants behind the front desk. Why do I know this? Am I going to be, okay? I put on my sweatpants. I’m doing Bench Presses A guy on the next machine is chanting, Go. Go. Go. You got this. Go. Go. One more. Fuck. He’s alone. The Pirouetting Man, sings. Bellowing. Arghh… A man sits on the peck deck machine facing the back of the seat, legs extended straight, arcing his body at a linear 45-degree angle. He looks stupid. Why are you doing this? I want to ask. Is it because Scott told you if you press your ass cheek against the seat and angle your back to form a triangle between the seat and back and then press, fighting through the agonizing back pain, this is an excellent exercise for getting laid. Doesn’t this look cool? I’m a fucking monster. Are you done with the bench press? Watch this; I’m going to raise my feet above my head, turn my hands inside out… and press… Hey, over there, that guy wants to talk to you about where he has seen you on the street. I’ll go to him in a minute. Could I grab a spot? Wow! You cranked out 10, easily, at 225 pounds. I’m weak now, 62-year-old man. My name is, Lindsay. I weak now; I used to lift 315 pounds. Thank you, guy I don’t know. I can die now because there is nothing left to learn in life. Overheard: Out on the Street Hey Tony, it’s great to see you. Likewise, Karl. What’s new? I can bench 325 pounds; what do you think of me now? Overheard: That Night at a Cocktail Party Hey Melissa, I saw Karl today. How’s he doing? If you tell me he’s benching over 300 pounds, I’ll fuck you. It’s my lucky day. He can bench 315. And when I saw him, he was carrying a twenty-gallon drum of protein powder. Let’s get right to it, skip the foreplay. Hello, who are you? I’ve been watching you work out. Okay. Your form is wrong. Put your foot here. Place your hands this way. If you do, you can hit the streptocraulius muscle, giving it a sheen and pump. Next-level stuff. What? Why are you talking to me? Please, go. And why the fuck are you watching me work out? The ice? You can keep going. Is this even interesting? No. But you seem to need it; now get back to the burn. Quit doing sets of looking at your phone. Seriously, it’s fucking annoying. People are waiting for the bench or machine you are using. But I got a ping on Grindr. Excuse me, how many sets do you have left? I’m super-setting. What? Yeah, I’m hitting it hard. I’m feeling the burn. Seriously, it’s a simple question. If you were a girl. What? Sweatpants. What? I’m pumping. Check out my vascularity. You sound creepy. I am a mo-fo-ing monster, I’m super setting chest and phone. Never mind, I’ll come back. Ice? You are good. Are you enjoying this? Not really. That’s a little passive aggressive. No. Doesn’t honesty feel better? I need the 2.5-pound plate. Where, oh where, is it? There, logically underneath → Two 5 lb plates; Three 10 lb plates; One 25 lb plate; Two more: 5 lb plates; Two 45 lb plates; Two bar collars; Another 10 lb plate; Three 35 lb plates; Another 45: lb plate. I had to lift 290 lbs to get to the 2.5-pound plate. Sounds logical. I’m working out, and I don’t have the time to put weights away in their proper places. I’m working out. Put the weights away correctly. No. Are you mentally stunted? I’m weight lifting. Feeling the burn. I’m going to get laid later today. You are not doing this for health? For what? Health? Is this going to be in a book? Probably not. I’m doing it to get laid. I lied; it’s going to be in the book. Cra[/ Did you just type? Cra[/? I meant Crap. Crap, I’m going to be a laughingstock. Nobody is going to know who you are. They might. Why? I’m carrying a thirty-pound drum of protein in each arm like matching suitcases. How much protein powder is in each drum? Six ounces. I bet it pissed straws off. What? Straws. I’m carrying these drums to send a message? To who? It’s whom? Are you correcting me? Do you want to hear how much I used to bench? Will it get me laid? Probably not. Then, no. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
"Honey? Where's my super suit?"
Floral Perfection
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
20th
Ghost Writer is a story about raconteur Lindsay Wincherauk.
Lindsay had a successful fifteen-year career at a Labour Agency, but unfortunately, it was cut short when he was replaced by someone younger and cheaper without receiving severance. The agency used the pandemic as a justification for its decision. This sent Lindsay spiralling into Depression. Despite the obstacles, Lindsay wrote fourteen manuscripts in the last three years. Now in his sixties, his dream of being discovered as an author remains unfulfilled. His life now is like trying to thread a needle with rope. Have you ever felt discouraged from your writing dreams because of repeated rejections? Ghost Writer delves into the journey of a writer who tirelessly sends out query after query, only to be disappointed. Usually crushed by form rejections. Still, Lindsay never stops trying, knowing the world needs to examine his mind. Plus, being fired at sixty had backed him into a corner, with homelessness becoming a distinct possibility. Another rejection arrives. Lindsay dies (at sixty-three). Being fired at age sixty became a terminal diagnosis. 27 publishers and agents find his writing on his website, leading to offers to publish and represent his estate. But his estate, ‘Ghosts’ the publishers and agents; and still, somehow, Lindsay’s book becomes the bestselling book ever! This is a story about the importance of never giving up!
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 7. Spiral of Memories
Ice?
You are okay; that last set was a tad more entertaining. Thanks. You look hot. Snap out of it; I’m the wind, Lindsay. A 68-year-old man approaches. I’ve been watching you. Okay. It drives me crazy, too. I can’t help it. I must organize the weights. I don’t expect anyone else to do the same. I used to be angry. It’s now part of my workout. That’s great. Just don’t tell your doctor about this. It gets me laid. Okay, sure, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Lindsay? I’ve been watching you. Lindsay, why do you go to the gym? Because kitty litter is heavy. And because, Bra, a lot of the women working out don sweatpants. Makes sense. I got to run; I need to tell that guy over there → he’s not part of the mirror. Excuse me. Yes. Can I squeeze by you? You are blocking the path. I’m hitting it hard. You’re part of the mirror; you are in the way. I’m not on a scooter. Are you trying to date yourself? I would. Back up a bit and play hard to get. What? I didn’t think you’d get it. I got to get back to the stairs. But before I go, I would like to clear my mind. Most gym goers are 99.372% lovely people who are there for health reasons. The rest, yuck, they’re easy to spot, just listen for the grunts and the “fucks.” That’s all for today, Whirly. Workout done. How do I look? Will you be my mirror? You look like you, Lindsay. Is that good? I’d do you. Whirly, I’m blushing. Is this getting weird? Getting? Whirly, can we dream our way to the present for a moment? Won’t we lose the readers? No. They are intelligent; most of them have had dreams before? Most? Yeah, I heard Lloyd gave up dreaming a long time ago. Poor Lloyd. Whirly? Yes. I want to tell you about the excellent day I had. Okay. Go on. November 21, 2022 I’m in the ring with Depression. Depression slams me against the ropes. I cover my head with my hands. Palms over my face. Elbows in. I’m succumbing. Depression is rabbit-punching me to the solar plexus like a jackhammer misfiring. I’m about to collapse. I want to cry. Fight back. It’s been 984 days since they took my career from me. I’m fucked. My money well has run dry. I might not eat much longer. 984 fucking days without a resolution. I create a graphic of a homeless person with his hand out and 984 chalk marks on a wall. I sent this to the CBC (Canadian Broadcast Corporation) hoping to shed light on what happens to older people who’ve been prematurely fired by companies using the Pandemic as an opportunity to cut salaries. Greed. The CBC bites. I tell them I can’t move forward with the story unless my lawyers, who, despite one of them being likeable, are ambulance chasers, tell me I can. I send the graphic to my lawyer. It’s the first email of the last five that renders a response. For a moment, I feel better. I keep telling this story. How’s the ice, Whirly? Only a few ounces down. My lawyer wants to talk. I keep writing. Fingers on the correct keys. Sixty words per minute. Grade 10 typing wasn’t a waste of time. I’m pitching 18 manuscripts right now with 126 story ideas spinning in my insomnia-laced dreams. Are you high? Always. But depression just kicked me in the nuts. Tell me about one idea. Okay? Life Without Mirrors A story about an abusive husband who destroys his wife’s esteem; and then tries to regain control by taking her to a town without mirrors. A story filled with deception, drugs, and a twist where love is found in the throes of despair. Interesting. Lindsay? Yes, Whirly? Please share more story ideas as we meander through your mind. Will do. My landlords dropped by Sue + Tony. Tony was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Zimbabwe under Robert Mugabe. They’d like to keep Jay and me as tenants for another year with no rent increase. A blessing. I can’t afford rent, period. Let alone an increasing rent. I ask Tony about Zimbabwe. He tells me when his time as Chief Justice was up, revolutionaries literally stormed the castle, searching for him and five colleagues who they were going execute. Didn’t something like this recently happen in first-world America? Yes, but in the first world, the instigator of an attempted coup, has just been allowed back on Twitter. What’s the point of anything? Did you see that? I was going to type fucking, but I paused. You still typed it. Yes, but in a different context. Are we inside a Charlie Kaufman book? Name the book for 8,741 Bonus Points. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
"Dear 8-pound, 6-ounce newborn infant Jesus..."
Floral Perfection + Nutrition
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
21st
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 7. Spiral of Memories
Is this passage what depression is like?
More like insanity, Whirly. My landlord hid in a secret room with his colleagues, or he wouldn’t talk to me on this day. I like him. Tony is in his 90s. He has a little drool on his chin. Sue wipes it off. I feel love. I sign some documents, and they shake my hand and tell me they love having Jay and me as tenants. I don’t tell them I love living indoors. I do tell them about my legal frustrations. I write more. Two hours later I receive an email from Sue. Lawyers and the value of cash A man spoke to each of his three sons when he sent them to college. “I feel it’s my duty to provide you with the best possible education, and you do not owe me anything for that. However, I want you to appreciate it. As a gesture of appreciation, please each put $1,000 into my coffin when I die.” And so, it happened. His sons had become a doctor, a financial planner, and a lawyer, each successful financially. When their father died and they saw him in the coffin, they remembered his wish. First, the doctor stacked 10 crisp $100 bills onto the chest of the deceased. Next, the financial planner placed $1,000 there in 20 crips $50 bills. Finally, it was the heartbroken lawyers turn. He slowly reached into his pocket, removed his check book, wrote a check for $3,000, put it into his father’s coffin, and took the $2,000 cash. That lawyer is now in Parliament, possibly in your riding…. I go for a depression-eviscerating stroll. I stop for a $10 lunch I can no longer afford. A wave of sadness washes over me. I can’t afford $10. Better buy a lottery ticket. That makes sense. My mind races. I often text myself with ideas for this manuscript. Hundreds of times. After texting myself, I screen capture the texts; email the captures to myself, download the captures; insert them in this document, type out all the captures, and then, delete them after I have completed typing them out. There must be an easier way. Jay puts Word on my phone. I’m now in the future. I keep writing and finish eating and reading and go for a walk. I’m walking Lees Trail in Stanley Park. A part of Lees Trail that is notorious for men going into the woods and doing things with their wood that only men can do with other men with their wood in the woods. One more wood, please. Wood. That’s two. A man in his 70s? —wielding a cane comes walking out of the woods. I don’t know what emotion I’m feeling. I keep walking. I arrive at my favourite watering hole for a moment of relaxation I can’t afford. I write more on the new Word feature on my phone. I love the future. For the last (time frame), my phone’s camera has refused to focus. I’ve tried to fix it before, but for some of us—me, technology can be stumping. Like the woods? Precisely not. I Google the problem. Google tells me one easy-to-understand suggestion. I try it, and my camera is fixed. CBC. Lawyer. Landlords. Word. The camera is fixed; take that depression. Depression stops punching. A man sits five stools to my left. My dying friend Dean arrives; he sits to my right. A girl plops almost in the middle, two stools to my left, three stools from the man five seats away. Dean and I chat. I’m building a friendship with a man who won’t be around long. I say something about straws and cocaine (I don’t do cocaine) and how straws must be upsetting because they make recycling bins and money out of plastic. I suggest money is happy because it is like cocaine. Dean laughs. The man five stools to my left laughs. He then apologizes for listening. I tell him we’re sitting at a bar; it’s okay. He’s Joseph. He’s from Pennsylvania. I flex my US knowledge by asking if he’s from Harrisburg. No, he says, he’s from Scranton/Wilkes Barre. He’s a Flyers, Phillies, Penguins, and Eagles fan. Joseph looks at us and asks Dean and me if we know who Joe Biden is? When you’re finished chuckling, proceed. Joe Biden was Joe’s neighbour. Neato. Did you just type neato? You are an excellent reader. I interview Dean, and I ask if it is okay. I tell him it is rare you get to ask questions of a dying man about what dying is like. Dean says, ask away. What’s dying like? I’m mostly tired. Do you hate the word, hope? Yes. What keeps you going? Tomorrow. But when the end is near, I will have them pull the plug. I cringe. How long are we going to be friends? Two years, max. Joseph did not overhear our conversation. Joseph knows Dean and my name. Dean is working until December 24. Yes, he’s working—and then he gets a year off to die. I want to cry. I am going to try not to avoid ask him questions. I going to try to learn how to be his friend. I turn my attention to The Girl Almost in the middle. We all know each other’s names. What is yours? Shannon, with an accent. Joseph asks where from? Ireland. I ask Shannon if everyone in Cork is screwed. She politely laughs. Everyone around the bar is coming together. Joseph’s friend arrives. His name is Marc Andre. Fleury, I ask? He laughs. 29,000 Bonus Points if you tell me who Marc Andre Fleury is? No Googling. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Shura - Touch
Veggies or Pizza + Nature's Perfection
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
22nd
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 7. Spiral of Memories
I’ve change Marc’s name to Mardi Gras.
I like that. He may not. I'll likely never know. I take a break to test out a Word feature that translates your voice and types it into a word document. On the tube plays an upsetting subject regarding the gay nightclub shooting in Colorado. I look up at the TV; there are 100 police cars with lights flashing on the screen at the scene of the shooting. I speak into the microphone. The translator types this, unedited. Alright now, my cat likes to eat cat food. What do you like to eat - I guess the question, mark. I run. Run. Run. Run. I’m wearing a hat. I’m not. What's going on? Shooting at a gay club in Colorado. So many police vehicles. At first, I’m just, like reacting, also, how many police vehicles will save the dead? ******* Why don’t you let me swear? Is death more offensive than, fuck? What's wrong, Helen Hunt is a swear word. I just said this in the future. I’m in the future now, so listen to what I have to say, over. Dean left first. I’m about to leave, and Joseph calls me over. I tell him about Dean dying. He cries + then we hug. Six people from different realities come together at a bar. Six people came with different backgrounds came together. CBC + Lawyer + Landlords + Joseph + Mardi Gras + Kiera + Shannon + Dean It’s been a good day! Faithfully. Intensely. Steadily. Pluralistically. Gracefully. Strongly. Friskily. Convincingly. Tirelessly. Carefully. Excitedly. Earnestly. Vivacious. Honorably. Unyielding. Astutely. Boldly. Obstinately. Furiously. Faithfully. Playfully. Multifariously. Undaunted. Resolutely. Compassionately. Vigilantly. Proudly. Effectively. Forcefully. Assiduously. Hopefully. Sedulously. At the Asylum, I bumped Red Coat off the Lat Pull Down Machine. I do a set of pull-downs. I stand and look at myself in the mirror behind the machine. I make a quick turn to do another set. The Pull-Down Machine’s bar is twisting in the air. Swack. It smacks it into my head. Stars dance in my eyes like a troop of fly girls wearing sweatpants grooving to a sick beat. Blood cascades down my face. I momentarily black out. 3,500 Bonus Points! Where am I? I’m standing at the start of a down escalator stretching into infinite decades below. I hop on, landing hard. The escalator falls precipitously. Its rungs are fraying shards of steel, much like a steel-belted tire about to expire. The speed is unwavering, cracking the rider’s side-to-side. I fear for my stability. I wobble like a Weeble. I need to fall down. I make out the face of the frail treadmill lady on the rungs as they frantically whisk by. I shudder. A man beside me is facing backward. Another is doing pirouettes. I laugh. With the escalator about to fly past July 1960, I jump off like I’m jumping off a freight train heading nowhere. Where am I? I’m sitting with Whirly in an Amphitheater. We are looking into a room with a single glass pane—a room filled with nothing more than a crib and a ratty teddy bear. What is this place? A man in a white coat is standing in the room, smoking, and drinking scotch. He’s alone. He takes a long drag on his smoke, embers floating to the ground below. What am I seeing? I close my eyes and then explode them open. The man is gone, and a baby is lying in the crib, the umbilical cord still attached. Nobody else is there. The baby lies in silence, much like a tree in the forest. Who is the child? Whirly gently whispers into my ear, You. What happens to children born in place like this? Before the child takes its first breath, the world sets upon it, stripping it of the only thing it has; innocence. Immediately, stuffing things into it: fear, insecurity, entitlement, greed, anger, and desperation, polluting its malleable mind with nonsense. Filling the child with diseased pains from decades and centuries long gone by. Where is the love? A child is born with no state of mind, blind to the fact that America is nothing more than a never-ending Netflix series, with the rest of the world being pawns to be exploited. written into the plot is the fallacy: they are less, and America deserves more. The GREATEST FUCKING NATION ON EARTH — dare to disagree. As the plot thickens, a gang of delusional White Saviours shamefully plot and scheme ways to drain Gaia of everything glorious it has to offer. And then, with much of the world buying into the grift, the scriptwriters add an unattainable consumption-filled dream. The sad part, the rest of the world wants in; because everyone loves to dream. What does love mean? The deeper the pain is stuffed into a newborn, the less likely the child will have a good life, because most parents pretend, they want what’s best for their children when most of them only really care about being right. Another elusive quest. Who is ever right? The shame commences; when a child starts at a place (like this) where evil is allowed to fester; without healing salves—those poor innocent beings often spend the rest of their lives searching for things that never existed, chasing ghosts. A lost child commits suicide, and another child raped. Becoming nothing more than fodder, a snack for the monsters lurking in the shadows, waiting to feast on the vulnerable. Damn, dark, Lindsay. Lindsay, occasionally, children born into wealth suffer as well. Yes, but their parents can afford to send their spawns to rehab. And Whirly, the drugs of the wealthy are not the same drugs found on the street. Reality is often dark. What do you think happens to children born into shame and the marginality of those who’ve walked before? The more pain and suffering a child’s parents endure, the more likely the child will spend an infinite number of hours addicted to Social Media, desperately trying to find validation, and desperately trying to rewire their pain. Linds, how are you okay? Whirly, did you see anyone else in the room? No. That may be my salvation. The people responsible for bringing me into the world may have been too-fucking-damaged, to care. I’m sorry. Don’t be, I’m funny. Do you call this funny? I’ll have to find a way—and yes—funny, always comes with a helping of pain. The child’s eyes break open, scanning the empty room, and as much as a child doesn’t have the capacity to question, this child wonders where everyone has gone. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Luke Combs - Fast Car (Lyrics)
Nature's Perfection + LW Art
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
23rd
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 7. Spiral of Memories
The newborn is restless, flipping side to side. The newborn is dreaming.
Whirly, and I, can see the child’s dream. The Dream A bicycle, an old-fashioned bicycle, stood alone on a country road, no rider in sight. The bicycle’s pedals begin moving, slowly at first. I look down from above. Not as high as the clouds, yet; still above the horizon. I can almost touch the grass in the fields, each blade dancing leisurely in the warm flowing summer air. The bicycle rolls over gentle hills, casually meandering past farmhouses, meadows, and small towns. Townsfolk line dirt roads, waving at the bike as it passes by. Their expressions, emotionless. The sun beats down relentlessly. You can see the heat rise off the bike’s shiny silver frame. The Bicycle Slows It comes upon a building—not a house—not a storefront—not a church—a combination of all three. The building sits forebodingly at the end of a street. It is a bright summer day. Alone on its porch, a baby lay in a basket. Several faces, ten faces, are pressed against its dark windows. They stare vacuously out at the world passing by. The bicycle continues to slow, and the faces quickly turn and look away. Once passed, a man in a white coat walks onto the porch, holding the baby to the heavens above. A Cloud Forms Pedalling faster, the bicycle comes to a schoolyard. Children are skipping, running, and playing ball. Not one is smiling. The pace hastens. Hills come. Hills go. The bicycle comes to a valley. The sun is replaced by dark clouds. They burst. Rain-washes over the bicycle, and the bike’s silver turns into blue. The bicycle presses on, finding a celebration; a young man is smiling, people are dancing. Across the street glance faces, the same ten as before. Brusquely, they turn and walk away, standing behind them, a man in a white coat. Time starts moving faster and faster. Day turns to night, then back into day. Storms come. Storms go. The city turns into the country, then back into the city. The intensity of living begins to explode. The bicycle comes to a cemetery. People are standing above a single grave. The bike slows again. Just as it is about to stop, the people turn; their faces are blank. Two graves appear from whence there was one. The bicycle begins to move frantically. Snow whips through its spokes as steel turns to ice. A hill sprouts up from nowhere. The sun flashes through the clouds; the asphalt begins to warm. The heat intensifies. The hill becomes steeper and steeper and steeper until it becomes so steep that it touches the sky. The tires spin with their revolutions raging uncontrollably until they can no longer be seen, only to move faster once more. Spokes snap from the rims, flying recklessly into the sky. The sky bursts into flames. The bicycle keeps desperately trying to climb. It begins to sweat, dripping beads of moisture onto the melting pavement below. The bike slows again; exhaustion consumes it as its effort becomes untenable. Suddenly, without finishing the climb, the hill levels, and just as steep as the climb once was, the descent is catastrophic. At the bottom of the hill lay clouds. They’re darker than the darkest black imaginable; flares of energy spark from the earth. The once faceless crowd waits at the bottom of the hill. Laughing, so loudly that tears begin to rise from the sky down below. The bicycle tries to stop its downward fall, and the speed once again accelerates. It can’t be sustained. At the bottom of the hill, it comes to rest. The laughter ceases as the faceless crowd blends into the earth. A car rises from below and begins speeding out of control. The bicycle sits still. The car continues. A faceless man is sitting behind the wheel. The Bicycle is Doomed I cover my eyes and scream. My screams are consumed by solitude. The car enters the bicycle and then passes through its enfeebled body. The bicycle lies broken on the smouldering ground. Its paint is chipped. Its spokes are gone. It begins to fold into itself. Before it vanishes, a man appears from nowhere; he replaces the spokes and paints the bicycle a bright cherry red, the same colour as his shirt. The frame cools. The sky begins to clear. The man winks, smiles, removes his redshirt; he’s now wearing white. A gentle hill appears. A bird chirps. Grass waves gently in the warm summer breeze. The bicycle, no longer old-fashioned, begins to move once again. Slowly at first, as I watch from below. The bicycle gradually disappears over the crown of a hill. A single cloud forms in the sky. This Day Has Just Begun! || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Face On The Bottle | Tingly Ted's
Nature's Perfection + LW Art Angry People + Bilking People + Fave Tree
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
24th
My Days – June 2023
30 Days A Fresh Story Daily One Hour Per Day An Entire Book
|
