Bank Dream

From the outside, the bank in front of me looks like black cube standing on its own in an open space. Strangely My surroundings have the same visual consistency of an architectural drawing. Most of the space in front of me is completely white with only vague pastel lines defining dimensions and features such as distant buildings, and street curbs. The bank itself also appears crudely drawn but is distinct, as if it was the focal point of the drawing I am in. at some point I am placed in the bank, observing someone else but from a first person perspective. At once I am entirely aware that I (not myself, but the character who I am) am part of a serious incident, and that I have been coerced into participating complicitly in a heist of some sort. At this point I betray the plan and notify a security guard. I now have the sense that I was never part of this plan, but was somehow planted undercover into this and am now executing my own well planned subterfuge. As the bank is evacuated I am unable to make it to the door in time and am trapped in the bank and seek shelter. It then becomes clear that the inside of the bank was not the target. I somehow becomes aware, that once the doors were sealed the perpetrators targeted the exterior of the bank leaving all inside unharmed. It's not clear the magnitude of the attack outside, but the implication is that it is severe.

End

Dreamy weekend

A few dreams over the course of the last 3 nights:

The Barbecue:

I enter a courtyard attached to the house that I am in. The courtyard is lush, surrounded by walls and is magnificently landscaped with river stone and dark woods. Among the stone construction is a very modern but well built barbecue installed into the courtyard with stone all around it. The courtyard looks like it may belong in a very fancy, golf club, or modern mountain lodge. I am grilling chicken skewers and as I try and determine whether they are close to being done, my mother approaches from behind and tarts to comment on how I am cooking. As she suggests some subtlety in the cooking technique in my dream, a (real) giant thunder clap sounds as close to my house as I’ve ever heard one. With my open bedroom window right next to me, and the force of the thunder clap which I can feel rumbling in my chest I bolt awake with a very clear notion that something enormous has exploded extremely close to me. At that moment I am not clear if it’s in my dream or in real life.

End…

The Hot Tub:

With two other friends I have broken into (or rather entered without authorization) an unknown persons condo, in order to use their hot tub. The condo is a luxury corner unit perhaps 20 stories up with vaulted ceilings and floor to ceiling windows on two walls (to the right and straight ahead of the entrance door). The hot tub sits in the left corner by the window straight ahead of the door. The view is magnificent, and even though I know we are in Toronto, we’re looking at a cityscape across a river or bay (perhaps more like Vancouver’s geography than Toronto’s). I catch a glimpse of an award or something similar on the wall indicating to me that the owner is in a familiar industry and think that is a coincidence. We sit enjoying the view at night, and leave the lights off inside the unit. Either on the way out sometime later after an indeterminate amount of time, we meet the owner. They inform us that they returned from their trip a while before we decided to leave and decided not to disturb us and simple go to sleep (the bedroom was next to the entrance door away from the windows. Why they made that decision is unclear. At some point later in the dream I learn that this individual actually works in a business very close to my own and that the likelihood of meeting them again in a professional capacity is very high. I am now forced with trying to explain why I had broken into a strangers place to use their hot tub and remember thinking that the odds of that coincidence are extremely low, but feeling very frustrated that it happened at all.

End…

The Man dog:

I am shopping in an unknown mall with a friend. We both try on some designer clothes and leave the store to play pool on a red table which is in the mall – either in a promenade or an adjacent store. As we play, the red felt on the table opens up and reveals a highly complex multi-layered surface below the rail level of the table – apparently this miniature world (like a pinball machine with multiple layers, and finely finished paraphernalia) is part of the game and does not seem unusual to us as we finish whatever game it has become. Once done I am now with my dog, who has through some odd and magical process (though not odd in the dream), become human. As I recall someone in my dream had shown me some simplistic arm movement which transformed my dog into a human. He had become a roughly 5 ft man, slightly overweight, with a bad goatee and strange clothes; an oversize white golf shirt, and denim shorts that were baggy and past his knees. Essentially the type of person you’d expect to see wearing a gold chain and driving an 84 Impala blasting hip-hop on a Tuesday night in a Midwestern town… Strangely, despite his clothes, he did not have shoes. He was also entirely mute what with being a dog and all. I took him by the hand and we went to a discount department store to get him shoes. I remember watching him trying on various cheap sandals and thinking hat I did not want to spend the money on shoes for him since he really wouldn’t know what a good fit was. I also remember thinking that I had no recollection of what the arm movement was that I used to transform him and if it would work to change him back. At that point I flailed my arms a little to no avail.
I jumped now to a recollection that I had left my clothes that I had changed out of at the store and was concerned that it might be closed. I was now searching the mall all over for the store because I did not want to lose a good pair of jeans that I had worn to the store. The mall was enormous with all sorts of impressive novelty attraction like a themed food court that looks like an amusement park. At this point it was also very busy. I continued through the crowds looking for the entrance through which I had initially come but could not find it. Eventually, outside, I ran into a group of friends; among them the person I played pool with. I expressed my dismay at not being able to switch my clothes bag and they pointed out that the ones I still had on from the store were nicer than those I left behind. I agreed, but shared my dismay about my jeans.

End…

Cars in Europe:

I was driving something small and respectable through what I knew was Europe. The “roads” had tracks in the centre of them similar to the electric toy cars that drive in grooves. I was trying to drive around with a passenger while dodging cars around me but was having trouble getting around. As I drove one-ways changed direction, roads got blocked and directions changed and for some reason I seemed to need to be going at a high rate of speed. One clear memory is a long straight away that seemed like a highway with a very high bank - almost 90 degrees - on the right side of the road despite there not being a turn. The car ahead of me was an Audi sedan and went up the bank and as it approached the top immediately crashed down on it roof.

End…

An exercise in role play.

Genre: Subway guy fiction
Inspiration: NYC

I'm Batshit crazy. People don't know that, they just think it. They assume it. They PREsume it. Exhume it, tume it ploomit!!!!!!

I didn't choose to be here. I didn't say to my mom, "HEY MOM! BE SINGLE! SMOKE CRACK! HATE ME! PROSTITUTE YOURSELF! SHOP AT WALMART! WEAR RAINBOW SOCKS! MAKE ME EAT FOOD FROM A TIN!" Haaahhhahahhahhaaaa. NOT funny. Shit.

Can't read? I DON'T WANT TO READ. It's an angry, twisted, hungry and stupid world. All the time people ask me why I don't get a job. GET A JOB? Where? I once had a park bench ask me to smoke it. And you know what? I DID!

I lit that fucker up! At first I tried to pee on it - my pee was broken. So then I got naked as the day I was born and emptied my bottle on it. My bottle wasn't broken. KABOOOMMM! Worst smoke I ever had.

I wasn't born yesterday. I was born tomorrow!!!!! I'm way ahead of you man. I'm from a world where shirts are made of dirt and shoes are optional. I'm from 3000 asshole. YOU GET A JOB!

Sometimes when I'm warm I can think straight for a few minutes and I begin to understand what people must think of me. I begin to recognize. Theorize, paralyze, pasteurize... TERRORIZE!!!!!!

Smoking that bench made me think, because as my clothes burned things became a little clearer to me: FIRE HURTS!!!! and I could never be a bench dealer - it lied to me, it wasn't a good smoke. NO JOB FOR ME BITCHES!!!!!!! ahahhhahaha.

This Blog is quickly becoming a dream journal...

A brief snippet from a Luxembourg night:

I am trying to use a device that I know is a washing machine, but which upon reflection is not recognizable. It's a cylindrical device which is smaller than a typical washing machine which has an open top. It is not working. For some reason, I need to jump off of a great height to make it work and I launch myself off what seems like a tower. I have a parachute. by the time i land my location and motivation has changed completely.

end.

I wish I was this creative when awake...

Dreaming...

I am on vacation at a ski resort town with my family. I have seen some images, perhaps on television, of the end of the earth, which portray incredible icy cliffs thousands of feet high that fall into an oblivion that is space. I inherently know that this is the most remote place on the earth; so much so that I have the sense that no one has ever been there and that the images have been captured by spacecrafts or satellites. The cliffs aren’t on the earth per se because in this place, the earth ends in an archipelago, as if a long and treacherous finger reaches into space composed entirely on rock and ice. Somehow, in this place, space, sky, and planet are combined into a strange and dramatic formation thousands of kilometers long, and thousands of feet high.

Aside: As I recalled this dream I remembered another in which I have an entirely new image of the planet earth on a map in front of me. Even though I was looking over this map as if it was spread in front of me, the view was more as if I was in a satellite observing the earth. In this vision, the earth is far more massive and sparsely populated – as if there are entire uncharted and unexplored continents on “the other side”. Distances are vast, and the terrain is uncharted save for what can be seen from above. I know innately that this land is far less forgiving then the earth we know.

I forgo skiing to get on a simulator that allows one to observe the end of the earth (as described above) using images that I know are taken from an unmanned drone. It’s one of these simulators where a group of people sit and the entire thing jostles on hydraulic pistons. The experience of this simulation is far more immersive and allows me to feel as if I am flying above the end of the earth. As I experience the simulation I see footprints in the snow atop the massive cliffs and I begin to wonder if the drones that send these images really are unmanned, and suddenly it become unclear weather or not I am still in a simulator or actually there. I feel the snow as I fly by which is wet, and the sky above is clear and bright.

My next memory is of being on a chair lift, which I am sitting on without restraint. I start to shift around wanting to drop the safety bar and am somehow now, hanging onto the chair with only one hand. I am not frightened but realize that this is not a good situation. As I continue to try and situate myself I realize that I am hanging on below the chairlift with one hand and that the safety bar is already down, making climbing up with skis on, insurmountably complicated. At that point the chairlift is only a couple of metres off the ground and so I decide to drop off it, rather than continue to struggle to get back on it. I do so nonchalantly trying to convey to those around me that it is what I had intended all along.

Later I dream that I am driving through what I know is Burbank, California (though it looks different than real life – almost an over-commercialized caricature of itself ) looking for a way to get to the LA airport. I know I should be looking at a map but instead am looking for street signs in heavy traffic. I am having trouble seeing signs around me and realize that it is because I am lying on the back seat of the car (in which I am alone). I see that there is a left hand turn onto the freeway coming up and I try to jump over the seats into the front. I don’t have time and can not brake, but I can reach the wheel and veer away from a car slowing in my lane. I am able to carry through the intersection but the car is not slowing and I can not get over the seats.

end

dream dream dream

I remember this one from the ten minutes between hitting snooze and the next time my alarm went off this morning...

I am watching a movie from within the scene, as it unfolds around me. A large crowd is inside a courtroom which is very grand in an antiquated way. All the surroundings are dark wood, but have a weathered look that suggests the room is well used. The configuration of the room is less like a courtroom and more like an old bank, in that there seems to be no judge's stand, and all the people seem to be very close to each other among the various dividers and tables in the room. There is a line of people standing behind a low wooden divider and I have the sense that disappointing verdict is being read – the crowd murmurs in recognition of an upset of some sort. At this point, a well dressed, young looking person who stands out in the crowd makes an announcement. I have the sense that I know what is unfolding at this point, as if I have seen it before, or perhaps know what to expect from a preview, and what unfolds before me is not as clear as my recognition of what it all means. The man has announced that he has chosen to defend the person that has been delivered the upset verdict. Ignorant of what procedures are taking place, and the technical legalities of the proceedings, the net of it is that this person, once in opposition to the defendant, was now switching his loyalties to help him.

The next scene is some kind of ad hoc ceremony that takes place in the courtroom, that serves as a closing scene, and appears to be either to close the proceedings that took place, or to swear in somehow, the young lawyer as the defendant’s council. What is clear is that this closing scene also signifies a ‘new beginning’ and represents a happy ending for the protagonist character (the defendant). This scene was actually remarkably touching for something that happened in my brain. The ceremony involves the reading of the Lord’s Prayer, and the officiate of the ceremony (who is an old, southern, African American man with poor teeth and simple farmers clothes) initiates it while sitting at a desk reading from a book. The defendant is standing a meter in front of the officiate and is now revealed to be a very large, African American man with the mind of a child. His face wears an expression of abject happiness as if he has hope and excitement for the first time in a long time. As the prayer is started the room falls silent as the defendant mouths the words in sync with the officiate speaking them. A feeling that the right thing was done washes over everyone in the room.

More Dreaming...

A meteorite streaks across the sky high above the compact car that I am driving in. I can see its dramatic, smoky trail as it shoots high above us in the same direction. I point it out to my companion (my wife?). We're driving along a residential street, and because of it's height and speed I assume that it will end up hundreds of kilometers from where we are.

Moments later the iron clump, about the size of a bowling ball, and decidedly lumpier lands on the street just ahead of us with a dull thud and begins to bounce. At his point I am excited and desperate to have the meteorite. It bounces down the street (at a rate much slower than one would expect of an object falling from the sky) and into a yard on the left hand side of the street. I was surprised given the obvious velocity with which the heavenly body was traveling, just how lazily it bounces across the front yards of the houses lining the street.

I watch as the meteorite bounces to a stop, at the last moment hopping a small fence wrapped around an air conditioning unit at the side of a small bungalow. It bugs me that the object is so close to a house because I feel like now picking it up will be stealing from the house owners. My determination causes me to speed across the lawns, following the path of the object, and come skidding to a hand-brake assisted stop on the houses drive-way right next to where the lump ended up. I pop the hatch-back trunk of the small car and look over the small knee-high fencing and see the object in pieces. I expect it to be scalding hot but am singularly focused on scooping up all the pieces as quickly as I am able. For some reason I now seem to be wearing gloves which is a great help given the unproven, but very likely heat of the object.

As I throw pieces into the back of the car my companion says that the house owners are now watching - I look towards the side door, which I am very near to, but see only the dark door masking whoever might be inside. I finish piling the pieces into the car and speed away.

End.


I recall only being in a cement floored retail store with very high metal shelves on either side of me - very warehouse like. The floor is flooded up to knee level and for some reason I think nothing of spitting. An employee sees me do that and makes a face implying intense disapproval. Jump to the same space, now unflooded - I have the sense that its soon afterward. She points to a spot on the floor, seemingly to imply that my spitting resulted in a mess on the floor. I nudge the spot with my foot and discover that it is in fact a piece of garbage and not my spit.

March

Rain cleanses and drenches and warms and passes,
Wind blows and forces and throws and clashes
A river drives, and belows and speeds and flows
Life thrives and triumphs, inspires and grows.

People "are", and love and sneeze and live
Lovers meet, and court and cuddle and give
Wisdom flushes and builds, renews and rearranges
Preparing us for inevitable changes.

Keep on Truckin'

er

Genre: Dark Superhero Fiction
Inspiration: Snow covered trees just out the window

The high winds blew the masked man's cape across his field of vision. Perched in the branches, high above the rocky cliffs below him, The Shepherd knelt surveying the valley below. The light of the full moon accentuated his formidable, sculpted physique and he lamented that there was likely no one secretly appreciating it from a distance. Even if there were a lone wanderer who did happen to be looking up into the branches while walking alone, late at night in a remote wood, the steel gray camouflage of his suit was too perfect to be seen by a mere mortal. It would take a creature, likely devoid of a human soul, but capable of sensing heat signatures to even detect his presence; or perhaps some kind of diabolical mind capable of deploying a hyper-sensitive motion detection system. Regardless, the likelihood of being seen, let alone appreciated for all the hard work he put into his rippling physical construction was nil.
The flapping cape was becoming a frustration, but frankly, would have been a more pressing issue were in not for the nuisance that his Shepherd's Crook was causing him. It was large - over six feet in length, and very inconvenient for someone who favoured a perch in a tree to a pasture. He was beginning once again to second guess his cunning disguise, which was inevitably the result of a slow night. If only someone - perhaps the same hypothetical, diabolical madman with motion sensors - would attack, or even persecute the villagers below, the Shepherd would have to indulge his wandering mind. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Being the village blacksmith by trade, and immediately familiar to most villagers, he had chosen his secret identity based on his deep loathing of shepherds (a direct result of their refusal to shoe their animals, which seemed only natural to the blacksmith given their arduous grazing). It was either that, or capitalize on his hatred of jogging. Regardless of motivations, once he had settled on his identity the crook seemed a natural accoutrement, and was easy enough to fashion. Indeed, there was never a question of appropriateness for his disguise...

My Mind is Racing: A week of dreaming.

A dream:

I'm swimming the open sea not far from a green shore to my left. I have the sense that I am with people not because I can see them, but because someone has convinced me to be here despite what I think is doubt. I am treading water as suddenly a herd of sharks and turtles speed past me in a steady flow of animals. The flow does not stop as I watch the creatures swim past and jump over me at what looks like 30 or 40 kilometers an hour. As the sharks approach me their mouths are often wide open and menacing but none bite, grab or even graze me; the turtles I can see are the ones jumping through the air, often over my head. I am not frightened, but not entirely calm either.
At some point I decide to submerge myself and as I dive deeper I look above me to the light surface superimposed on the sky with the steady stream of creatures speeding by. I turn my attention to the depths which seem as if they are only 10 or 20 feet under the surface judging by how far I've swam, but which also are receiving no sunlight making it cold and unfamiliar. Somehow my gaze is illuminated by some kind of spotlight as if from a submarine in an underwater documentary. On the dark bottom, which is flat and manicured like a golf green I see an illuminated building alone on the bottom of the sea. It's tiny and appears as a decorative porcelain house one might see at Christmas time adorning a diorama, even though in my mind I know it to be a functional building. I recognize it's red brick architecture as belonging to an institution - a university perhaps - and continue swimming. Because of the scale of the building I get the sense that I am either extremely large, or the place I've found is extremely small - I am not sure which. It's at this point, when I start to run out of breath, that I realize I can breath under water (at this point I actually did realize I was dreaming I believe, but did not wake up. I didn't make the mental leap to realize that I could control my dream though). As I slowly swim through the water I make my way up a small rise in the ground -perhaps 10 feet high. I know because of the scale of the building that this must be a huge hill to those who occupy the building, and on its manicured side I see a sign which bears the logo of a university. I am excited to have discovered something that might be long-lost and think nothing of the scale of it.

I have a vague memory of recounting the discovery to someone at a dinner table later in the dream and waking up soon after.

Another dream:

I am in an urban environment which seems to be a deserted town. Despite not having seen them, I know I've been separated from my friends, or perhaps some kind of team that I am a part of. When I am inside I am not in danger, but running between building puts me at risk of being caught by vicious and ravenous kangaroos. I don't see them but know they are there. I have my dog Murray with me and am very concerned for his welfare (in retrospect this seems an awful lot like the movie "I,Legend" which i saw about 2 months ago... odd) . He's generally being obedient and running with me. I find refuge in a deserted house. I then realize that because this place is deserted I have completely open access to explore the abandoned houses. As I explore I find a secret room of sorts... its in the top floor of a house - perhaps in a spire or a tower. It looks like a kids room and is very densely packed with clothes, books, posters etc. It seems like a fun place to be and I feel perfectly safe.

Note: I often dream of exploring secret or obscure passages in old houses. They are almost always very high up in large houses, and are small, carpeted rooms.

Another Dream:

I am in a mountain lodge of some description, not alone. I look across that the lodge is on to see a mountain pass, which green as if it's summer. I somehow become aware that I am expected to go skiing with the people I am with but only have part of the day to do so... I am unsure of weather I should given my time restrictions. they walk across the street to got to the ski hill and I decide to join. I realize after the very short walk, that because I was in such a rush to catch up, that i somehow managed to bring along a spare set of cross-country skiis and what seems like a stack of papers (it is later revealed to be strange contraption I don't recognize - some kind of plastic light box for viewing pictures... it's white). I consider going back to the lodge to return these items but am in a rush. There is some confusion but I quickly end up in what I know is the ski hill base station... It looks like a mall, being very wide and long with tile floor. Knowing that my goal is to find a place to put my superfluous items I manage to stow my cross country skis inside a couch cushion which provides the backrest on a public seat. I then walk a distance, aware of my skiing time running out and somehow end up chatting to someone I know. While sitting on a couch I end up using the picture display machine briefly. I then end up walking the wrong direction trying to stow the machine somewhere, constantly aware that my skiing time is
being diminished.

A Midwestern Tale

Karen parked her car in the busy lot, applying the parking brake with significant force. It was a mix of both the day’s frustrations and habit and caused the car to make a jarring crunch. It satisfied her need to inflict a jarring crunch on something. She slammed the door behind her for good measure.

She looked back quickly, and pressed the lock button as she walked away from her car. “Perfect”, she thought to herself with a sinister inner smile, as she looking at her red Pontiac Grand Prix occupying a quarter of the space beside the one with the other three quarters of her car in it. It was that type of day.

She galloped across the parking lot intently focused on her target - the Subway, where her husband Barry worked; 70 yards.

Her feet felt heavy, like she had grown hooves, and she found herself deeply resenting the fancy cars that surrounded her in the lot. She positioned her car keys in her fingers strategically and extended her right arm digging the 18 year old metal into the cold steel of Mercedes, then Toyota, then BMW then another Mercedes; 60 Yards.

She was closing in on a woman who with the aid of a walker, seemed to be making her way towards the bus stop. Karen hated public transportation and on any other day might have left her impulses at that, but today was special and she required consequences. No public-transportation-using, walker-needing, frail old bag was going to impede her progress, and so she walked – directly through the woman. The sound of scraping metal nearly drowned out the sound of the woman’s shattering hip, but not so much that Karen missed it. She was flushed with an adrenaline blend of guilt and satisfaction; 45 yards.

Karen thought she might have been frothing at the mouth, but if she was didn’t have time to address it. She was too busy marching forward, assessing the threat of the various people now approaching her with angry and confused faces. Guy with glasses at 9 o’clock, just strapped his kids into the mini-van after food shopping – anyone who does the food shopping with the kids in the middle of the day couldn’t possibly be a threat. 12 o'clock - Middle aged man wearing an expensive leather jacket, carrying a rented video – no threat; he’d be too worried about his hair. Woman, 3 o'clock, 60, hip pouch, smoking, T-shirt saying: “The only Bush I trust is my own” – This one was trouble. 30 yards.

Karen pivoted on her feet turning left and for the first time in 40 yards lifted key from car. Her new path took her on a collision course with Poindexter McGrocery-Shopper; a name she would have called the man if she had taken the time to talk to him. Instead, without the volition to verbalize her feelings, she screamed; a bestial, primal roar, uglier than the most heinous of vomit puddles. Poindexter was clearly affected and slowed his pace. He rethought his collision course, stopped in his tracks and crinkled his face as if to say “What the…?”. And had he said that out loud, would only have gotten that far, because in an instant Karen had reached him. Missing the physical reassurance of her keys causing significant damage she remedied the situation by stabbing him in the forehead with her “The Club” key – a jagged and unnecessarily pointy specimen ideal for stabbing the father of two. The wound, as per her plan, was both conspicuous and disfiguring, while not crippling. He did need to drive his children home after all. Impressing herself with this display of mercy she resolved to walk faster. Poindexter stood incredulous behind her, applying pressure to his forehead. 20 yards.

Now her pursuers were hot on her tail, but Karen was close. Close enough to smell her husband’s insolence… his extreme disregard for all that was precious to her, his uncanny and irrefutable lack of consideration for what she loved, his callous and calculated willingness to dispose of her Franklin mint commemorative plates. A collection, judged to be world class by not just one, but two of the local church collectors guilds. She seethed with rage, as she thought of him last night photographing her collection; “for insurance” he had said. All bets were off when she found the welcome message for his newly registered Ebay ID in the email inbox this morning. She knew. 10 yards.

Karen was running now; from the pursuing masses, among whom the 200 lb (clearly lesbian) democrat looked most intent on bypassing pleasantries and inflicting pain on her, and toward her lying, pathetic and technically retired but only recently re-employed husband of 37 years upon whom she intended to rain a torrent of harm.

Her laser focus zeroed in on the bar across the door and she lunged, pushing it with all her might, intent on her entrance being not only noticeable, but also, with any luck, destructive. The force with which she hit the door and the strength of the safety glass both shocked and impressed the onlookers. 0 yards.

As she regained consciousness she could feel the heat of the “Live at 6” news camera lights and the sting of the cold handcuffs behind her back. Her haggard and lethargic image made her an instant star across the state, if not simply for the damage that had preceded it, then for the red and swollen “lluP” embossed in mirror-reflection on her forehead; a result of her 7 Mph (by conservative estimates) lunge into the etched door handle.

If only the mall security cameras had been good enough to allow both zoom and slow motion, Barry was sure that he could have made more money off the video. As it was though, he’d have to settle for the $1,700 that the Fox producers had paid for his contribution to “Wife-Zillas” – just enough to supplement what he expected to make selling his wife’s collection; He quite liked the plates after all.

Life Lesson

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Plush

I cringed when I saw her walking my direction across the Quad. I knew I'd have to answer for the mess I left at her house this morning, not to mention last night - oh shit... last night. Still in recovery mode I felt the very real and prominent symptoms of my hangover intensify as she got closer.

It was a great night, but it only hit me now that I'd have to answer for the things I'd done. Depraved, awkward and strange things. Instinctual things that lurk in the depths of men's souls; things we should never have to answer for. Part of me must have known. We were 7 months into a 2 year program together and she was in all but 2 of my classes. I was old enough to know I had to be accountable, but perhaps young enough I hoped to get away with it.

Her face was streaked with the dark smudges of running mascara; she'd been crying.

"You Asshole" She screamed 10 meters away.

Everyone I was with turned and after a quick assessment knew she must have been talking to me. Their collective gaze fell upon me, all with an awkward smirk, not yet sure of the severity of the infraction.

"What is THIS" she pleaded, clinkled face, drastically contorting her soft features.

Holding back a retch, I stood to face my accuser, nay witness. Filled with shame I knew i was cornered.

"Stuffing" I answered "synthetic cotton".

"You violated..." Shit, here it comes "Mr. Mcgoo! I've had that dog since I was a BABY!"

"Stuffed dog" I offered by way of correction. It was after all, in accurate to call it a "dog".

"What happened after I went to sleep you depraved pervert?!" She was angry I could tell, but I couldn't shake the feeling that if she hadn't passed out on her bed as soon as we'd gotten home none of this would have happened.

"I lost control" was all I could muster - I did after all, I just wasn't sure how. After hearing her snoring the last thing I remembered was waking up naked and sticky on the cold tile floor of her decaying bathroom, empty plush carcass of a stuffed dog beneath me. There was synthetic cotton stuffing everywhere.

"I can sew" I offered with a slight desperation in my voice. My eyes must have been closed, or perhaps I was distracted, because I missed the lunge. Before I knew what was happening I was on the ground and being smothered by the shaggy, time-worn skin of Mr. Mcgoo.

I knew then that this relationship was over.

Tomorrow...

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Enlightenment

Gordon had been waiting for "tomorrow" for the better part of seven months now. Not tomorrow, as in the day after today, but "tomorrow"; a concept, or premise that was meant to be the day after "today" but never seemed to materialize. The "tomorrow" Gordon waited for promised more than "today" (which is yesterday's tomorrow), ever managed to deliver.

The tomorrow he waited for was promised seven months ago by a powerful and odorous Psychic; Madam Consuela. Consuela - in addition to a glandular problem which made her smell like a meat locker 4 days after a summer power outage -had powers of insight beyond regular comprehension. She had told Gordon that "tomorrow" would be the day that everything became clear to him - murky rivers of thought would be as clear as mountain springs, gloomy skies of reflection would be upper-atmospheric in their crispness, and cataract obscured logical conflict would be laser corrected to 20/20 hawk-eyedness. Aside from the astute and richly imaged metaphorical prophesy, Gordon's epiphany came from never having realized that he was quite that stupid. He'd only gone to see Madam Consuela because his friend Arnold had told him that her stench exceeded that of any creature (alive, or dead and bloated on steaming asphalt). Experience the stench he did, but he never expected to be enlightened... furthermore, to find that all of this time he'd been crippled by a lack of clarity was icing on the cake.

So Gordon had been waiting with baited breath. Since seeing Consuela he had actually become quite frustrated with the degree of his stupidity and was eager to shake it. Seven months later; today, the day on which he'd payed the very last installment on the prophecy which by sheer coincidence had cost exactly the amount of his life-savings, he was certain that tomorrow was the "tomorrow" he was waiting for.

The Farm

$1,000 for the first person to find the chicken in this drawing....

Right.

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Case study

Jen wasn't a model of consideration. Because of this it wasn't news to her that various people preferred not to spend much time with her, but she blamed them; they were too lazy to make the emotional commitment it took to better themselves in the ways Jen saw necessary. The difficulty was that she wanted to be around them - around anyone. In the company of others, it became abundantly clear to Jen that what others would perceive as failures in her life were entirely out of her control.

For example: last week she had been shopping with Martina - a co-worker that she had befriended and her phone rang while they perused the selection at Town Shoes. While silently judging the awful pumps that Martina was trying on, and secretly hoping that she would buy them so that everyone in the office would see how fat they made her legs look, she snagged the phone from her purse and answered. Answering was a mistake as it turns out - Stephen, who she had been seeing for 4 months had reached the end of his rope that morning when he found a bag of potato chips he'd bought in the garbage, unopened. The call was abrupt and to the point. After learning where to shove her "controlling, ego maniacal self-centeredness" Jen hung up in arrogant disgust but felt slightly warmer as she saw Martina paying for the shoes. It was a small victory considering Martina's choice to browse the upstairs section instead of in the basement had caused Jen cell phone signal to stay in tact and therefore resulted directly in her current emotional distress. She made a note to punish Martina further. If she had been able to avoid the call she was confident that she would have avoided the breakup through careful manipulation of Stephen.

It wasn't the end of the world she convinced herself (again); Stephen was a pig. He had the foundation of a strong and worthy partner but chose to poison his soul with trans-fats and charitable notions. With no patience for those sorts of endeavors - she understood the notions, but execution was never practical as part of a desirable lifestyle - Jen had immediately set out to adjust Stephen's perspectives (as she had done with others many times before). She had begun to suspect over the last few weeks that Stephen's constitution was too weak for her reforms, and that day he had confirmed it for her. Just as well.

Jen had never imagined her future as her present had manifested itself. It was a failing of humanity and community that every potential companion in her midst fell so drastically short of her exacting standards. There was no question of reasonableness; as a successful, beautiful, well adjusted psychologist of 47 she knew she was better qualified to judge.

Sink...ing

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Kitchen sink


In a blinding flash it came to me. Literally blinding, as I felt myself wincing at the world around me struggling to stay upright. It was what had become my darkest day - one for the ages upon which I could reflect in my old age and remember how truly dark my origins had once been. It wasn't a rebirth, just a shitty day and it's a matter of personal disposition that my lowest points become yet another beginning. After all, were I to consider a mid-point, or perhaps even a mid to high point a beginning then I'd just be giving my experiences too much credit and ignoring the gut-wrenching value of emotional destitution.

This epiphany was a simple one and yet probably my most profound: the strongest bond I felt in my life, at the fragile and emotionally incontinent state that I knew as the age of 48, was to my dish rag. I hadn't stopped to think about it often enough I guess but in upon reflection I realized instantaneously that it was my centre. Close not because of sentiment, though it was knitted by my mother, but because of its longevity and reliability. It was a hideous, odorous, utilitarian, practical and ultimately disposable accessory that provided a familiarity in my life unlike anything I knew at that time or had recently experienced.

Snow day

Perhaps I was too hasty below in judging the weather. I'm actually a big fan of snow - it would be nice if it was more fluffy, but beggars can't be choosers and in a year that's seeing the effects of global warming, El Nino and myriad other frenetic scourges we seem lucky to see vestiges of wintery comfort at all. So I'll make the most of it.

Stumpy

On the first snowy day of Toronto winter, I'm finding myself looking forward fondly to warmer days.

The Tuner

Genre: Gaudy fiction
Inspiration: The word "fork"


The tines of the tuning fork rang in the air, piercing the smoke filled room; a sonic aurora. Stanley felt the bead of sweat threatening to fall from the ledge of his brow into his eye but he dared not move too abruptly. It must have been forty degrees in there... that coupled with the odd darkness and the cigarette smoke dancing in the few sunbeams disecting the giant room gave it a feeling of a seedy, burlesque lounge. The velvet accents and gaudy crystal that vomited across the marble floor only accentuated the uncomfortable feeling that he had travelled into a different dimension; perhaps changed forever by a cultural revolution led by Liberace.

From the corner of his eye he saw her watching. Cigarette holder in hand, her fuscia silken slip flowed across her leather arms and legs. Like a tanned hide flapping in a windy shed, the backs of her appendages swayed fluidly as she adjusted her awkward and disturbing position on the love seat 30 ft away. This was not the first time Stanley had tuned this piano.

Margaret was rich. Too rich. And she was lonely - not because she lacked the reassurance of constant companionship, she hated people - but because she had not felt subject to the lusty testosterone fueled desperation of men that she was at one time unable to escape. She often thought to herself that this was the curse of old age: to have spent so many long and irresistible years on earth subjecting men to her infallible perfection that clearly, they had grown immune. Tirelessly she vowed to search the earth for the genetic anomaly that had been spared the fate which in her mind was worse than death - an inability to recognize womanly perfection. Stanley was being tested - he had been here before and had shown a glimmer of desperate need that she knew she could incite.

Stanley had no idea that he'd projected such strong signals while tuning the same piano 5 weeks earlier. The room that day had been hotter (if that was even possible) and despite an ominous creepiness emanating from Margret's disturbing perch surpassing what he was now enduring, he was unable to resist the need to ask for some water. Margaret knew immediately that his intention was to have her rise and to watch from behind as she walked to the kitchen. It disgusted her in a way that she had been craving for 27 years.

The sweat on his brow was now threatening Stanley the same dire sentence so he tried to move as little as possible. He wasn't sure what had him back here in only 5 weeks, but he was going to do anything to avoid returning again. The tears he saw forming in the wrinkled corners of Margaret's eyes as he declined to stay for dinner then conveyed the kind of desperation he was only too familiar with.