Inane Ramblings of an Absent Loon:
By Jon Pelletier
God, where are you?
You answered the lady who made this poem
You followed you heart and learned from those
I fulfilled a request and prose drop thru the art form
I learn of hearts, minds and other art forms
I learn of arts, pride and other clique norms
I heard of parts, right, from those who perform
What I lost is my own, my heart or mine thrown
From lost earth to prose
Or a heart not my own
As such, I have written long-winded essays about my various
triumphs both imaginary or real and many short fiction pieces
describing theoretical physics and soviet history, vaguely. These
are both loosely disguised metaphors that tie into the following
passages, mostly because I have taken the time to suggest that
they are so.
If I write, "Now I need socks," the phrase can be taken in many
ways. This is because English literature has painstakingly been
argued that it could mean anything, based on the reader's
perception, not the authors intended meaning.
I sometimes try to prove to people that I came from elsewhere.
I often catch myself laughing at the claim that though I was born
in Edmonton, I moved all the way to Western Canada from Whitby,
England just to be one day away from London. Is this because I
want to believe this myself? I fear that I have only been talking
to myself, raising suspicions of insanity or gaping holes in
these odd symptoms of brilliance.
I am a man who is awake sometimes, not awake other times and it's
a team vacation for us, I think. We have worked hard to create a
greater good for all to see. A memo has been passed and it is not
a joke. Love is behind what is meant for me. Either sentence
could be true, yet only one is. Perhaps you can pick the truth:
I was alienated by a funeral involving mutual friends.
I once spent three weeks wondering if I had received a note from
a woman or if I had dreamed it.
So should I mesh all that I have read into one fanatical theory?
I only ever understand Pythagorean Theory briefly while I am
asleep. This happened again last night. Instead of having one of
those "Eureka" moments and running down the hallway in my
underpants I just rolled back over and fell back to my slumber.
All day I have been trying to reach back into that dream
consciousness to bring the strand of understanding towards me.
All I could find is colossal blue whales flying in the sky or a
job at a 24-hour store that did not have a working shave-ice
machine. These are two moments that I vaguely remember but not
the concrete understanding of a mathematical theory that I hoped
for. These are options, and recording this thought brought me to
the sort of psychological musing I have already touched on.
While I was asleep did I truly understand why a particular
triangle could be measured? I can't even be sure I know which
sort of triangle the theory is discussing. Was it something that
I really understood, or did I see that the rest of the book I was
reading agreed that it was so?
I am only myself. The others that I claim to be are only recorded
traits of me. I doubt they locked me in here because I believe
that I am Amor de Cosmos. I have lived my whole life thinking
that and am only on my second relaxing visit to the acclaimed
And I make a decision to smoke.
If anything it is my stubbornness using this pseudonym that makes
me not bring it up to the nurses if prodded. The nurses are
probably not even aware of that. So clearly, I invented the media
and am a still around King of Spain.
And so this could be considered my biography, but please, if it
ever comes up, do not sir me Raul Duke. It was a misnomer. I
usually wind up in some sort of psychiatric can when I think like
that. It was not the drugs that made me Amor de Cosmos, for
better or worse. I should mention that every time I drink
mushroom tea I wind up in this sort of situation. It has been the
cause of much of the rabble surrounding my mental health file. I
should know better by now, it is a waste of time.
When one is writing they should find their inspiration in the
surroundings. To write satire one often finds themselves
re-reading and changing their template many times. When finding
such inspiration from your surroundings I am able to make a
figurative mirror to read into my psyche. This results in people
reading many different things into the writings of a satirist.
Writing about the act of writing will be an exercise this writer
uses to leave a state of despair in the reader. This seems to
come from the human mind being distracted. It is usually a bunch
of muddled thoughts covering up the ones that can produce art
When one is writing satire the meaning of the written text is
normally found under the surface words. One should not write like
a robot, but find the inspiration using the five senses. The
words will come from the air around you. When one plays music in
a free jam the plan for a song is a simple few chords and words
and it is open to improvisation. This is a tool for when one is
fighting writer's block. If the writer finds a few simple words
to start they can soon turn these words into a nice succinct
article, or at the very least the beginnings of one. This can
turn into a very different piece of writing very quickly.
The trouble with the eager, these days, is how they seem to
simple folk. Folk since have written many tales involving those
two rumors. The terror of the unknown coupled with the luxury and
comfort of today's western world have been turned into a strange
apathy. It is a denial of all that is magical with the claim that
it does not exist.
"Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at
the world, a shifting of perspective."
Robert Green - The 48 Laws of Power
I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It
quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is
smart and broad, implying a variety of things including an
unwritten tone or sales pitch for the ideas that follow.
I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value
in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric
medicine I lost the world that surrounded me. There was very
little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went
days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not
intend to blame the medication for past woes. These mistakes were
mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a
different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what
they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that we had been
friends the whole time.
When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took
a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I
took a pill as so the other three would not make me an antisocial
These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow
moving and paranoid. They were there to cure me of an affliction
I do not remember having before the use of psychiatric medicine.
Either way, I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a
conflict involving the USA. I was dreamed that my floor was
filled to the walls with hornets and if I were to step over the
edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly.
I tried to avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an
out of place earthquake could bring them down.
I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.
I don't want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed
me this medicine. They didn't realize that I had been aware of my
own situation and should have devised a plan to keep it to
It was that people with mechanical minds don't know much about
Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every 30000 years. When
they hear of this legend they consider Independence Day, hope
that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to
People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend
has it that every 30000 years both Alexander Graham Bell and
Walter (?) Gray will invent the telephone across an ocean from
each other, on the same day. Maybe it has been that long since
the invention of steel. We have just gone through a series of
incredibly fast technological developments.
Robots have gone from science fiction to every day use in 40
years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet
that crosses our path in an odd elongated orbit every 30000
years. Is this similar the personification of lightning by our
ancestors? What wonders will this planet of giants shower us
One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror
that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can
read that by using a certain attachment a person can see their
reflection. Magic is the new age! Perhaps this time these chilly
space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again.
The mystery is if it will occur before or after the apocalypse.
If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or
credit card, you can simply drive to a local coffee shop and
borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable to find a car or
Internet Café because you are on a deserted South Pacific island,
you could fly to a region with resources set up by other people
that give you access to the movies that explain this theory.
But I recommend learning in any field.
It is also important to read and watch creative works.
With this in mind, I should tell you that I was dissertating a
video about the subject of Niberu, and I must rebut.
Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon; every 30000 years we gain
something that stays with us through the next hundred years, like
the creation of the electric car and no more strapping in school.
The study of irony is somewhat like the study of creativity.
And both are difficult to define.
I only remember this existence. This state of consciousness is
one that we are kept in for a long time. This does not mean there
are no past lives. It just means you are yet to die. Those who do
not stay in the world are sent elsewhere. I'm sure this is sorted
on a piece-by-piece basis. Each death causing a new life
somewhere, with that consciousness sent to that other reality.
Like finding oddities near highways, these are the days of their
Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days
seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days
go faster and the leader of the free world is no longer a saint.
This was the issue with my role in show business. The matters
that held me open were simple and I motioned towards the grassy
plain that leads me home.
The trick was to find what is
This is the image of relations to a level in which I do not want
to behave or believe, those that a woman such as her would exist.
We have convinced ourselves that we do not exist.
Triggers on the back of works of technological art, that help a
child learn touchy hand-eye coordination are drastically changing
the working world. The newspaper told this to me one time,
explaining how the use a video game are creating a breed of
incredibly talented and efficient surgeons. This was good press
for the video game industry who very soon after came out with a
version of the board game "Operation." It comes in a red package
with a clown white man with a messy Afro lying on a panel of cold
steel. The video game was actually that of a Zombie killing
dentist who needed to make his way across Gotham City to save the
life of his child.
Temporary employment in the ethereal world, for a half step up or
down and the Tao of Willie Nelson is my succubus. In a bleak lit
hotel room a man steps next to a falling girl. The people of
weeping parents strung over the black light of a dominatrix
peephole. In habit the nun weeps in heaven and understood the
only hotel room the vice had wrote that of a smoking gun and
failure. Nary a left.
The young, hurt, crazy, blind and lame believe in peace. Casually
he stumbles with the filter as he puts his hold on one more
cigarette. It is a Cuban cigar when 40 million people banned
them, and the unholy dreadlock bandage that has bonded us. Words
are a brilliant reciprocal that we, humanity, were asked to use
quite some time ago.
Hitler, Bush and more Bush were standing in platform heels on the
silhouette of the stockades on first day of Ramadan. The number 6
was higher than four stiletto heels of their individual primeval
delusion. The irony was that they cussed a succubus, the partial
platform of Red, White and Blue. Although, the Blacks know the
blues and the White never had it.
The new formula:
1. Two peaces a day
2. Grey matter
3. Love, love, love
4. Save yourselves
5. Read books
6. Think for yourselves
Jerry Garcia this told me one time, in a dream that I had.
I tried writing words that leave over the rest they left me out.
I know nothing of satanic worship, or even what it means. Perhaps
it is a quest for fire or the apathy of slavery as a cigarette
but yes, it is vice we convince ourselves is necessary for our
survival in a horrible brutal and twisted world. But my friend,
you must learn that we all carry our personal demons and
delusions with us. Everyone has every day issues and life in not
easy. So if we sit tight, perhaps maybe everything will turn out
for the best.
Rampant phone calls
Where do we go?
You are someone right?
Am I imagining this, I had that mint julep at Smithy's?
Who are you?
"Stranger," she smiles, "Dire need of self realization." "I
forgot," I space, "It must be somewhere out in the ether. I'm
pretty sure you have everything you could possibly exist about
and more in your pocket too, before this." Devon smiled from the
corner as the past persuasions slipped between the lines.
And you know what, I believed her.
So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working
life up until this point. By now I am usually happy. I have been
able to provide for myself everything that I need thus far, for
better or worse. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an
acclaimed writer and musician locally and some crime-solving
Norse Devil requested, some gonzo journalist of manic fiction.
Thus I took part in creating a man of faith and limitless fodder.
He was a keeper that needed to be sent forward in a Martian
Or is it that I am too simple a person to be known as a lighter
of eccentric files?
Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it
is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City,
although I would have floated around asking some questions and I
may have been eaten alive by the city as this small town has
continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young
and still relevant.
These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols
that I leave at the table. These symbols are not seen, though
when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So they
tell me I am successful at written words and music.
This is a hard one to answer because I cannot always be sure of
how I am acting. I have a tendency to issue statements towards
people that I know that are reflections of what I am doing at the
time. But to be fair,
I am maybe not anyone special in his afterlife.
I did not have puppets working for cameras on strings as I took
three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing
around with every intention in the world to save humanity. I
don't know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job
with him again.
Ten times I laughed at the man that wrote things and spoke
letters of the true word of nowhere and nobody. This man was also
a shopkeeper. They did not listen to this man and laughed when he
walked by himself. Better than in spoken drafts, their magic
works. People spend their time happy like fearless people. So do
I know my machine works and it seems to have been invented before
1984, technically the year of my birth. But maybe I just invented
it now. With music we sing, dance and frolic around on stage
throwing away bodies and playing things like, "You have requested
the Whitey the Crime classic… How many people could you kill?"
Or maybe I am someone past death. I may never know. All I want to
do is write. It is that I live next to Summerland in a town that
rhymes with Perdition. It began as a pivot point for my thoughts.
But in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually sent
towards the innocent.
Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight
back? These thoughts are thieves. Why do I allow these thieves
into my space?
About half the people who know about me respect me. And I feel
partially depressed and partially ecstatic on most occasions.
This idea comes from a failure to act properly in response to the
questions asked of me. These simple magistrates fight and I claim
that I am a still around king of Spain, or something of the like.
But the state of mind brought the world my invention.
I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life
better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard
worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence is
a foundational response to simple paraphrasing of greater writers
than me. This is apparent in my work rewriting the Brave Little
Toaster and claiming that these works are mine, without
influence. Because a wise man says, he who does not imitate does
So I light another cigarette in failure and I wonder why I act
the way I do.
But the silver lining on these clouds is apparent once I realize
that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now.
I have my own little reasons for being like this as I sit hoping
that I am credited.
This topic warrants strange impulses at the backlit porch.
This sort of anarchy is not what I want to be recalled for. That
will not look good on my post-mortem resume.
Which begs another question: What do I want to be remembered as?
I want to be remembered as a man who changed things. These were
my self-induced thoughts that lead me towards this change of
winds in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to
be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as
important as inventing the clock.
Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is
life after death and you have left the world before now. You
still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are
still sitting in the old world. You live in a town that is marked
by your fame and know that everyone here is much cooler than you
because it is their heaven. This is an odd way of life and I know
that most people do not write in letters anymore. They simply
find a haunting path or their rider that leads them away from the
Theory is claiming to be someone that is special and kind. It's a
kind of new school artistic writing, literal, water and torn
When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have or the inner
working of my subconscious I repent and claim to myself that I am
not interesting and nobody cares. But someone is reading it
because I am running and the cars stop, when pancakes and little
devils shape the road. And they will recall me as a hero lighting
strange paths, a man who can help them through troubles by being
insightful and leaving a trail of paper in my wake, because I am
going to run for office.
Strange hands that lead my old harp with a loaded discussion
because I am the turbulent man who said something that needed to
be heard and read with strange valor have troubled me. The mayor
tried to sell me heroin. He was hanging around in the parking lot
of the twenty-four hour store. I am nothing yet a member of Fancy
or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The
answer is that that should be thought about on Sunday and the
rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone.
I cannot be sure. I wish that I knew that I was some certain
relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke.
These Martian landscapes on this simple old letter had motioned
towards me and I simply do not know. It is a classic example that
leads to these motions I want to make sure that everything is at
home. I am writing over these words in my mind as I think I'd be
better off living alone. And I have no right to complain because
I am able to do this somehow.
But is this world one like my friends think, with past life
regressions and what did I do to be murdered on stage? And if I
am not in the media Shiny will never know me. This is the remark
I made to myself because I am an old soul from England who I know
that I am and I can be again. I am so simple and happy when I
know that I am a person who loves and reads from below. These are
the lines that marked a platform.
I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I
watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these
simple crossed lines that are marked and taken out from below.
These poetic little pieces of nonsense and liturgy are motions
that take their old hearts and dispose of these soldiers and
lighters that take my breath passing I want to be that man who is
settled like before.
So I am unsure if schizophrenia is a blessing or a curse. There
are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept
work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many
reasons to write and play music. Sometimes I think that I should
pick one of my hobbies to be my vocation.
So who am I? Why do I care if people care what I think? I am
happier knowing that these are my traits not the ones like before
that haunt my marked way. I know that these people usually do not
think that I have been someone who is attributing traits to my
friends as they are the morning through my written world, as I
have imagined that I was asked to write a book about my blessed
childhood in Summerland and not one from home that other people
saw me living in. I was marked as a Martian, basically martyred
and moving from one sense to the other before I know that these
simple based marshes and paths are my young life passing before I
I am gaining ground quickly as I march towards these halls that
know they have ideas or symptoms below. I have been quickly
attaining my clarity as I have been settled and imagining this
home. I was not referenced as an old or young saint but I must go
to church every chance that I have. I want to be simple and I
want to be the man that is proud of what he has done.
I sit this morning as I sat yesterday. I am in a position of
truthful documentation that I am an old soul that is
intentionally known. Can many of these people walk on this path
and be happy as a sitter, slowly disturbing these reflections so
they stay away for the little red pills that I took?
And I know that I need these old former refractions of light. I
am not the simple child I once was. These reptiles and an early
morning dew sit in their halls and I cannot be known to complain
because that is the situation that makes a symbol's life in the
One cannot have everything but it is best just to type and maybe
read these editing symptoms of night. I would love to be
motionless and lay in the sun but I know that I can't because I'm
yet to be proud of what I've done. I am happier as a soldier of
the pen. And I have an invention.
I wanted to be the prophet that I was. We were all prophets. One
way or another, one gains a relationship with the word profit.
Perhaps it is how we choose to interpret the word. I was an icon
and my memories are faded I cannot be happy without these old
ladies that are the silence.
I fear that I spoke too much of myself. I know that these little
red acts are refractions and nothing but lies. I am much happier
as a morning dew sickness. I want to be the person that leads
towards life. I am such a person but I know that this kind waffle
based pretense is nothing to me. When these unsettling feelings
become a lonely road towards them they march into these halls. I
want to be personal and friendly and kind but these motions are
not what I like and define.
So this is just practice until I have prompts. I want to write as
a living and I need to be sharp because I am a leader among men.
I want to love that more than bitter tastes it leaves my mouth.
Hopefully these signs are settling in and I can turn this work
into interesting insight and leave my world behind. These options
are the best events, as I know it.
And why is the CBC right on the button of my emotions every day
that I listen to it? Is it because they have planned the insight
for tomorrow by subliminally placing thoughts in my head today?
My childhood dream…
What are my dreams? I just wanted to play shows until I fell into
fits of uncontrollable loneliness and self-doubt. It is now more
likely that I am not able to be a NHL goalkeeper. What is it that
I really wanted?
If ever I had ever no idea
She says to me
Simple set souls stepping up the scene
To raise the lean
On the hearts of one that left that one to me
And so I
Have ever no never ideals
Claim to me
So do the right thing
Every chance you can
Spells and written arguments
I should go to school
Because every time I grow afraid
The girl sees right through me
She takes my heart and runs
And I turn and run
I cannot help this
Yes I can
I can jump through time to reach me in a new area. These ideas
claim that my mistakes have not been made and I am some righteous
world figure and leader on a famous rampage laughing and making
friends. The truth is always that I am disabled and my upbringing
has led to a revolt that leaves me sitting and arguing about the
benefits of doing this. I am good at that and I should be able to
excel at the trade in a school. Maybe I could be the teacher.
Even if I work for 40 dollars in a day it is better than sitting
around the apartment smoking cigarettes and pretending that
people listen to hip music.
I am not a rock star. By now this is a conscious choice, as I
have not made the break to watch myself on TV. This is because I
truly do not want to be on stage for a living. I feel like I have
been obligated to pretend that is the path I choose. Or maybe
that is just that I am saying that now that I understand that I
have not made the steps necessary to become a figure like that in
What I really want to do is be a writer. That is why I am. I want
to be read and love my life living in the office and my home. I
want to sit here and type and be able to support a family like
all the normal folk I was afraid of one day becoming.
Twenty-five snuck up on me. I do not want to be in this position
anymore. I want to be a good provider and live in a comfortable
home taking care of my wife. As it sits right now I cannot
provide for a family and it shows. I drink too much coffee and
smoke too much to be truly happy. I tell myself daily that the
first draft of everything is horrible. The turning point is that
I want my books to be read far more than I want to be John
Lennon. Is my dream vanishing into dust or is my reasoning behind
feeling that way true?
The irrational fear of have of being very good at music seems to
come from the murder that was committed on me and the resulting
life that I have lived. I feel the radio flow through me and I
see colors when I listen to music. I have been able to play very
well on many occasions but I have refrained from playing shows or
keeping a steady band while claiming that I have everything I
want and my life is perfect.
I can mistake this world for a quick stop near heaven. It seems
that most of my mistakes have been from my own inebriated actions
that lead me to live a lonely life filled with ministries and
fortunate events. If I did not have everything I wanted I might
have tried harder to benefit myself up until this point.
So instead of being upset that I can be twenty-five and a
comfortable position with a home and food in the fridge I must
These opportunities are the dew on the grass as I sleep until
noon convinced that my input to the world media has been well
received and is serving me well. Are these various deliriums
symptomatic of a man who feels he should have done more?
I am in the court of England. My life in the show was watched and
recorded and I wield the power of a celebrity inventor of things
that have affected people's lives as if it had been the clock.
And even thusly I am a failure in many ways. These reminders make
me feel better. I am not any great leader yet. But I am working
I should live in the way I find the most righteous way to be a
I want to work doing exactly what I am doing right now on a topic
that is sent to me so I can write about it. I want to make books
and be an academic as I am smarter than I give myself credit for.
The time is now because all the things that I have done up until
now have simply hindered my career and life. These hindrances are
simply stupid actions by myself that have led to mania and odd
depression. These speed bumps are holding me back.
I want to live with love and happiness in my heart but I know
that the balance of this blessed universe will create turbulence
when I most need it. I created the turbulence that haunted me in
these last few years because I had lived up until then as a silly
person of little acclaim and a lot of drunken ego. I do not want
to drink and such anymore, although I should not be against it as
it has been such a part of my life.
The Queen will pay my way through school in exchange for clean
bills of drug use and it is something that I should make myself
do. I have a shine that streams from my subconscious onto this
computer screen and I have a printer to print my work for editing
and the usual symptoms of these harping motions.
But all I need to be successful at this point are the outside
prompts for written experiments and the lore that haunted Edgar
Allen Poe. I want to restart the Rhinoceros Party of Canada. I
want to give society something as important as the clock. I want
to be people's hero.
But how do I reach these goals?
I need outside prompts and people that are hustling to get me to
produce more first drafts and edit these drafts into interesting
material for magazines and written worlds. I want to be smarter
than most and live in the world as a writer and editor. I want to
win awards for my work and love a wonderful woman who sleeps
beside me at night. This will happen as soon as I want it to so I
should go finish this school thing soon.
The only thing that holds me back is my self-doubt. My doubt is a
result of wasting days smoking and drinking and walking alone up
and down the path to the coffee shop. Better men and women than
me do little else than write and learn and move freely around
this town. I just want to be a cog in the media. I do not need to
be up front.
This is the misnomer that I have allowed myself to fall into.
I want to read others work and write my additions while working a
deadline and managing to live. I want to work in the office that
suits my situation or maybe from home to a far away nation that
listens to me and lets me have a fresh start. This is entirely
possible as I am a capable person and need little else than I
already have. A strange man haunts my memories and he has
I should not blame anyone but myself.
I simply did not know better.
But now I do and I want to be real in this world. I want to exist
in the shape that I live and listen later to symbols that are
written in the sun. I want to help this world gain strength by
living in this city as a successful man in a suit or some obscure
figure making more fiction and prose that is insightful and looks
like a professional managed to sneak past them on a train and
little red markings that mean that I do work.
This is my mistake. I should be going through more paper because
it is a symbol for my lacking situation. That is to say that it
symbolizes my own shortcomings in my life.
How do I go about making money at writing? You must attain a
position in a company that writes and publishes something. The
position could be any, a junior editor if your punctuation and
grammar is very good. You have many talents but the most
acclaimed thus far is your writing.
And you should write. And if you write a page a day at the end of
the year you have a full book if you choose to publish it. I want
to be this way, not the other. I want to make a living doing
So I light a cigarette, or I say I do because I am now able to
smoke while typing. I need to learn to be smarter with my time
and move the nations with my prose. Otherwise my goals are out of
my reach and I know that goals are only out of reach of those who
decide they are. My goals should be written on this sheet because
I need the bible, not these damned states and silly wishes that I
was not in show business.
I wish I were afraid to be on stage.
But not trying is the only way to guarantee failure. So that
dream has been lifted a little off the weight on my back. I did
not want to be that person so I am not. I want to be happy with
what I have done in the day so I sit alone and think about
nothing just to let my senses dull and the fear overtake me. This
is the fear of failure that suggests that one should not even try
to find the job as in the symptoms of losing out or ruining a job
interview is a fear that has held me back.
It is the fear that I must defeat.
But the first draft of everything is horrid and I know that I
should take more time in summing up my stories. I want to impress
people whose opinions matter and win awards for work that I have
done in the valley. I cannot continue to lose faith in myself. I
must struggle for my next opportunity and take the bull by the
horns and win the fight. I need to make the right decisions and
make the world a better place like I had planned. So I must make
But something tells me that I should cooperate with the lady at
the office tomorrow. Ten o'clock in the morning will not come
I have continuous writing; a steady clicking at the keys on the
desk in front of me and the editing and reviewing of my ideas
will make such a life available for me. It will add to my
virtuosity of thought and the practice is what I need to do so
that I do not write sentences like this anymore. I will learn
about metaphors and the works of the great masters in order to
emulate them and be studied in literary criticism classes in the
years after I am successful.
That and I must learn to smoke properly. They say that if you do
not have to write than you shouldn't because without the practice
one cannot say what they want in a poetic and interesting way.
One must live in this world as a champion of literary praise and
be such a student of life. I will be better in the morning.
So when I have speakers for my record player I swear that I will
use my time productively. This input is necessary as I am a story
teller better for bibles and old uses of harm that needles and
monsters that act like a simple man take nonsense or stream of
consciousness writing and lead me to the Jabberwocky that I am
Those who use pseudonyms hold these monikers and some contact a
writer for sake of his missteps. The leaders of this world are
men who light ways I must write the book that I have already
written in downtime that leads me to coffee and lighters and
matchbooks and smoke that lead me to forests of wonderful reasons
to keep being a good man who likes to be a writer and reading and
writing is important. If I use a printer to look through these
words or maybe clack out a forum on necessary evil so I should
take time to look like a much better person as the black that is
night is leading the way. I need to be a person that acts like a
man, not a simple distracted person of little repute.
And if writing is this easy than I should know that it is best to
write as a leader and not as a forum for matched souls are easy
to find in the poetic nonsense that these last few lines have
been. But poetic nonsense should be found to be truthful and
might remain useful in the future so I continue to write all day
every day about anything that I find to be calming or
interesting. The best men who write are those who get lost in the
sharing of matters that come as good marks in school.
I get called both brilliant and disabled. These are the balances
of the great magnet.
The day began like many others; our hero was sleeping in late and
ignored his alarm clock twice before leaping out of bed because
he would be late for his appointment. The meeting was two hours
away but he had little do but sit at his computer and write
nonsense. The key to his morning was in the cup of black coffee
that allowed him to wake and enjoy his first cigarette of the
He knew he was a special sort of person. He was the kind of guy
that led the nations to a new civilized stable economy every
morning by listening to the radio and moving his fingers quickly
across the keypad. His coffee was bland and his writing was less
than creative but he found a heart shaped insight that allowed
him to repeat his phrases over and over again without fear of
He had nobody to hand his papers to but he continued to type away
at his keys. This was his job. He was told by an old man to pick
his favorite hobby and make it his vocation so he decided that he
would write all day every day in order to gain a fierce
virtuosity in this trade. He had no prompts so he just allowed
the words to come to him. He knew that most writers allow their
drafts to fall into place and let his words signal an overt
preoccupation with the church and other delirium that possessed
him at times.
What does the writer really want?
He wondered this aloud while thinking about refilling his coffee
cup. The leader of the world he lived in was a bland and mistaken
foreign kind of guy.
He is absent-minded and witty but a better politician than
leader. This character had red hair and a suit with lovely tithes
submitted to the church and special settings in his office for
every occasion. Otherwise the writer simply had nothing to say.
He needed to find the leader.
Friends of our hero claim that he is brilliant and successful but
he is not. He knew that all the rumors of his success were simply
mistaken as his secret suggests that writers do not have subjects
In this way he had lived a very full life without needing to
excel at any outside thing. The fault lay with him, as he never
allowed himself to excel or grow up before this point.
So little elves came in and marched by his legs as he laughed and
told tales of the stories of Nancy. He had little to learn on the
topic he wrote because it was a topic that suited his fancy. The
little red truck that lay on the ground was a remark to him, as
he had no children. This little reminder lay unappreciated and he
wanted to show the rest of the world that he could be a provider.
He wanted to make the steps necessary to be an editor or work for
some newspaper or magazine. These works could help.
The sense of the little ill children that watch as he motioned to
the invisible elves that marched over him came like a saucepan
when you are ticking away the times that are leaving our hero as
he ages. The editing of this story can turn it to something that
leads my leader to become a better person. The likely martyr of
this particular situation is the man trying to write and not the
elves. But this is what he really wanted.
So the trick is to write about other peoples writing and little
red papers tick off into the sunset while the mention of profits
seems to scare off the insight and writers that learn about this
topic we discuss. The old man had told me that all the lessons I
have half taken have not taught me enough to continue to do this.
The worried man laughs as he takes his next cigarette and lights
in and places it smoking in the ashtray.
These lighted lines will not all be used but one is able to take
both pieces and mix them together to write about writing quite
like some of the greats. The issues that I have are shared with
other people and I can take time to share these insights with
someone. The nonsense that I write now is poetic and just
practice, as I like to hear the constant ticking of my hands on
the keyboard because idle hands are the devil's playgrounds.
The habit is the kind of unsettling hope that I can be an actual
person and reasonable intellectual. If I write a page every day
for a year and it is workable material then every year through my
writing I have a book. But what is my book about? That is a
question that I will learn later.
Speed off distant shores. Take the men who marched you over and
people always have their home. I live in a world that I feel like
I can actually do this. The trick is to not play my friends. No
dice on the inside, like a formulaic message of hope for all
mankind. That is a difficult thread to approach correctly. Let
the players be played might work.
Deep inside every one of us lies a hopeful person that needs to
This is difficult without the right people.
More pens than pain and the utmost remedy, like a still pass and
the daily grind coffee shop painted the picture. He bustled into
the city every day in a white Cadillac car. It was a couple of
days before the white man became a liar and unleashed his half
loose nightmare on to Baker Street. He shot a man in Reno at noon
on Sunday, claiming it was a strike against the diner being open
on a Sunday.
He fled to Las Vegas to find the hopes and dreams that could be
repeated by a winning ticket. When he arrived he simply stepped
down to the end of an alley hearing the dull wail of dry desert
blues. He thought blandly that the music ricocheted through a
dead man. It calmed him, as if it was okay to do what he had.
This is when he came across a man from a periodical magazine.
This second man saved his change and more or less drafted himself
into any sort of indoctrination towards belief. The drifter made
a point of trying to scare the writer until the man bowed before
him. Quickly, and at risk of a knife the second man knelt and
watched as the first turned into the ninth embodied, a knight,
speaking those words while he changed his stance and looked
"That's some more dead humans, and a mean man charged with nine
drinks." The drifter stated calmly, "They call me Mr. Draft. I
usually sit near the back."
The key to my failure is simply not doing what I want to do with
my time. Otherwise I am simply able to exist in a world that
feeds me and for that I am thankful. The letters I write should
be taken as grandeur but not the likely centers of mentions that
need me to lack in the sentence of sent lights adore.
If I am feeling better now it is because I have done more today
than I usually do in a week. I am not a failure I feed myself and
am clearly a eccentric sort of person that needs to be further
from the truth that I feel is the déjà vu that I feel in my
mornings at work in my home. The feeling of truth that I know
that I am doing what I want to be is a blessing as I can be the
person that lasts longer in the media than the kind of person
that I have been up until now. I want to be a permanent fixture
known as an intelligent sort of simple hearted person I really
wish I could be that leader among men.
Do I want to be a viral video? No, not really. I want to have a
viral blog, I guess. I am a reasonable person. I am a successful
person who decides what he should do with his day every day, free
from examples and remorseless agents of fear. I need to know that
the best things I do could be hounded. The outside pressures of
the world I have created are a basic extension of everything that
I do. I need fancy fellows in convertible Cadillac's asking me to
produce more and paying me in checks.
These are still my dreams but I have learned that the most
important sense of the world comes from the limited expanse of
this small town. I need to quit burning bridges, as it seems that
I have not been quite as successful as I claim that I am. For
various senses are finally turning into the beginnings of great
work and practice for later. I just want to write and be taken
seriously as a person that does not do drugs and simply lasts
like one of those heroes of intellect and a doctor of journalism
that I want to be.
So what is it that I really want? I have, up until now, been able
to exist and live with what I really want. I do not have the
budget to continue to smoke without finding a job that is outside
this apartment. Soon this will change because I wish it to. I
want to be the sort of cat that lists his occupation and is known
as a servant of the whims of the big show and grains of sand on
I have been typing for an hour and I need to continue. Perhaps I
will finish after my meeting where I will claim I am a symptom of
lost manners and insight. I have my home and food in the
cupboards I will be able to survive and drink coffee, which are
luxuries and not always the space between the rails. I have
sensed a social norm that needs to be contextualized because I
have rules that I need to abide by.
I just need to say something but I have little to write about
outside things because I am far too self-centered. Is this true?
I do not know. I don't usually write about things outside my own
manic head and these letters are not read as nobody noted that I
am a nut while I wrote that I was Frank Zappa. I wonder these
days whether anyone will care if I become a success using
pseudonyms. Surely that will lead to my own happiness, as I can
be quite insightful and interesting when I try.
So outside my own head I need to find something to write about as
a human that wants to share some ideas. I need to keep clicking
about something so I am and I wonder whether the others share the
I need to remain a mortal and know that I have these old
weathered plots of land that I cannot see. Or I must decide that
I am such a person who takes the world by the horns and makes a
living doing something because many people do nothing at all.
The leaders of men take their shelters away. I have a letter of
my own work in Festin.
These things seem to come together. I will spend the afternoon
looking for work or perhaps typing away at my novel. I should
finish the work that I have spent on that book, as it will be
acclaimed and I will be a hero. A leader, you see, among men.
This is what I want. I want to be the sort of person that is
listened to. I want to be asked my opinion and write scathing
reports on various topics that are mentioned to me in person and
I also want to do things with my leaders.
Twenty-five snuck up on me. Instead of telling myself that I am
some great super-hero I need to understand that the things I do I
have done and they are works to be proud of, although I am not as
heavy handed as I tell myself I am. But I should remain proud of
my world and work. I should be happy with my life because I am
the sort of person that is becoming a figure in the media through
hard work and practice.
And I just spent the last twenty-seven pages practicing my
methods of sharing information. I just need to find something to
say today because I am not saying anything that people want to
read. Perhaps I am not saying anything that I want to share.
There are turns that do not need to be handed in and those that
These words haunt our hero. It is simple.
So I walked into the strident hair coffee shop and decided to
laugh over some bread. My friends are there and things are good
amongst the fierce leaders of the new world. Ghosts prepared
Montreal meat sandwiches and everyone hopes there is nothing in
this book about Politics. These issues with the dream teacher
other people listen to the other media that landed before the
recent soccer match. The announcer relentlessly tells me they
have very little else before the men required open roads and bus
payments. Or do they want to do that later?
The seventeen-year-old water bottle is stapled to the wall. In
ending and pinnacle business design had the other mount faded to
the distance and they see that only the men from the media speak
easily. This has taken the power from the man, as they used to
call him. But the gap is sacred. These situations must be
discussed, if for no other reason but so they do not become real.
It is bad to be too frank in discussions about things that are
simply calling names. I am relating to the comments I made that
our government is fighting their homosexuality with genocide. It
should have never been brought it up.
If you have read before that may ring a bell. But for the new
people, I still believe Richard Channing is to blame. This is
secondary, science and math for now. I have learned that only the
boring people abide by smooth replays and I should leave people
that are not good for your particular situation. Nobody cares
about that president anymore.
It is like the only man that needed the old woman to live inside
the old men who had nothing like that. This blog should instead
be about the betterment of misunderstood statements like the
wonder of a helpless old saint and prophet that came to earth as
a bastard child. This is the wonder of Peter Pan. As a sometimes
weirdo I fell on my knees like a withering lass. I had very
little remorse for this marked man who needed a harp for the
performance at noon. The better men watched from to bridge above
and those dancing below needed to be even or at least organized
by height. I am tired and I do not want to go on.
And because of this madness, sworn vengeance and strife I made
something that exists as if there was nothing. If a blind person
places a finger inside a small hole with a variable Braille
surface and watches a video played out as changing imprints the
could decipher the shape of a room or where the closet is. If we
take the finger wrapped in a streaming 3D camera to issue to
proper images to either side of the hand or finger, a blind
person could see that space that surrounded him or her.
The issue is that the images come as memories of people that we
see around us or as something much worse to me. The psychology I
want to study is about the images that blind people see. Some see
stairs, some see people and some see patterns. I wonder what the
effects of being able to sense room shapes would be. Can they
already sense the shape of a room? Would this line of theory be
offensive to a blind man?
The screen will tell a different story. The people I see are real
and in front of me. I live in a predefined space. I also feel
like I just came out of a coma. I'm not sure how in relates.
So the piece of technology is like this, a varied program. It
creates a 3 Dimensional immersive image wrapped tightly around
the inside of a shoe phone and I climb out of a delusion into a
room with a woman hugging me. So I placed myself under the care
of a nurse and did a fictional tour, scared and manic because I
thought that I had cured blind. This device could make it happen.
The image shows up far away at first and then meagerly approaches
the psyche until it is next to the person. This can work with
familiar things rather well but becomes rather transparent in
unfamiliar settings. The computer can send an image to a blind
man. The brain must interpret things in a favorable way or the
results could be hard on the psyche. Perhaps some would prefer a
flat screen and camera.
Then the doctor told me I needed a quick surgery and put a drill
in my eye. Then we were playing someone else's song and a
fictional person was showing me how to hammer nails into eyes. It
Then I saw my wife and child again.
The doctors have thanked me for being honest with them. They say
it is better than I have done in years. I watched the people I
had created mesh with the people in the room with this device.
And I remember telling them that I was glad about his answers.
They told me the device may even work and I have developed myself
well. So I used the device to look at myself. I was glad I was in
the hospital and could see it.
"But Penticton is a real place," I said, "And these are the
ramblings of a loon."
"At least you are sometimes entertaining," she responded.
So now I get two forty-dollar checks from the government and tell
myself it is for the patent of my device. It looks just like
those other patents I have.
Which could be none, for Jesus, I'm blind. And I do not know whom
I have on my side. But people are asking me to keep typing and
strumming the songs because that's what I do. Yet I do not leave
Penticton. This is eerie and makes me feel ill.
Is it my indoctrination with the idea of a place called
That is the place an abbot would go if he touched a Saint and
became paralyzed. I hope it is not real. But I'm pretty sure it
is a place on the map. The town next to Summerland, the one known
as Perdition, is this place real?
I hope I live in the real world, that one that is earth.
I hear so many good things about it.