i woke up this morning, “The blues was on my mind”
Sounds like the beginning of a song… No, woke up and
walked to the mirror first thing. Two blood red eyes –
big ones – were staring back at me.
     I`m reading some papers on my desk… about
heaven and hell…Screw heaven and hell, that`s what
I say.

      I got a call at 3:00AM from the ORGASM CLINIC
to the south of me. The chief psychologist (the only one
with a sense of humour) was discussing moving
out east, doing some psychological work
on an army base.
      Some of the young men returning from
Afghanistan needed help. And that`s fair enough
 – you see a child get blown to bits before breakfast, it`s going to mess with you deeply.
       For now they need distraction…. after they`ve
been in this country for over a year, then they
need psychological assistance.
       What`s the best distraction, the best way
of relieving trauma and tension? (Other than
lovemaking, of course)
       Laughter is the best medicine, whatever
the situation, that`s my opinion. Of course
there are situations in which it`s impossible
to laugh… but let`s forget them for now. 
        There are also scores of hard-working,
earnest women in this country, who cannot quite
reach orgasm – due to a fucked-up
religious upbringing… with all those
hidden messages…
         “You can`t do this… God will never forgive you;
you can`t do that, you`ll be stepping into
the devil`s lair” Hogwash and bullshit! But if
we have these hidden, unspoken messages 
deep down inside… they can be terrible inhibitors.
         These messages we absorb from early
childhood never have to face a critical
arbiter … They have crept  into your system
before you could think, before you ever
wanted to think.
         So now you have these unseen messages
in your system which inform your actions…
and you don`t even know about them…
A religious voice from your grandma could 
be saying, “You can`t relax now… not when
you`re naked. People want to USE  you!
So tighten up, tense up and be on your guard!”
          And these messages will not be overcome
unless the stimulus is strong.  That`s why
I advocate the use of vibrators in stubborn cases,
and pneumatic drills if necessary!
          Whatever it takes! There must be
a coup within… The unseen moralistic
voices must be overthrown in your inner kingdom.
          It`s often not easy….In a thirty-five
year old woman, the inner regime has had
lots of time to build up its defences – 30 years
of re-enforcing the walls… You`ll never reach
orgasm with normal sex… maybe later, yes,
but now what you need, dear lady, is an
irresistible invading force that will break
down any resisting scruples you have…
when you`re “doing the dirty deed”, “acting
like a dog in the street”
 dealing with the urges that come from
“Down There!”
           Perhaps this is why most women
have secret rape fantasies that they tell no
one about… because they need that restrictive
moralistic citadel within to be overthrown.
           Often it takes more than one person
working together in the `invading force`
in order to breach the walls.

          All those sayings parents come up with
when they`re trying to tell you how special
you are: “A person of your quality need never cry.”
That`s a dandy one.
          Parents are not trying to twist and screw
up your love life beyond all recognition. No,
parents for the most part are trying to protect
you. And you knew that and your trusted them and
you believe everything they say….
        No critical arbiter  need be passed. These
parental sayings in early childhood never have to
“clear customs, so to speak”.  They never pass
through a rational assessment… And deep
down inside. they might be your dearest beliefs.
         There are many kinds of tragedy, and being
blown up by a bomb is just one of them, living
in a psychological trap is a kind of death
          For this reason the psychologist should stay
here, deal with the stricken you have around
you. Forget about going East.

          Of course, I`m biased. Also, the clinic
needs the help. We need every 
psychologically-trained brain and every sense
of humour we can find.

          Laughter’s just the tiniest bit like
orgasm, isn’t it?

(C)2015 by W.G. Milne                


ON AN EVENING SUCH AS THIS —poem from a spiral notebook

Awakening at 3 A.M.
Hear voices  from the street
             people pass
Two ladies in an alley disagree
They fight – screams and shrieks
Guttural grunts, stabs and jabs
Gouge away with broken glass

A man is silent
Leans against the understanding brick

And lets them;
He doesn’t judge or bless
But let’s them pass
Down into the street
And Ford drugs

He will not guess
Seas of traffic pass
And the tides of the addict
Chemicals, heroin and flesh
The man of many ways
On the wine dark street
With Belladonna beckoning

And from a side street
The alleyways in back
He comes to consciousness
By the back door, where
The strippers smoke and certain
Purchases are made

The TV is on above the bar
And the glazed eyes on the patrons…
Outside a party girl
Engages and plays with men
Decks a policeman with her knee
And a roundhouse kick to the head
Leaves him on the pavement
And enters a restaurant

Outside a party girl
Engages and plays with men
She taunts and teases
And in this alley down the street
Gives men a sense of possibilities

On an evening such as this
We might launch a ship
Beyond the land’s grasp
Explore the light of the Pleiades.

(C)2017 by W.G. Milne


          She lay back on the bed and slowly spread her legs. I tell her to roll over and put 3 pillows under her belly, so her ass is the highest part of her body.

             “Don’t you like missionary sex?” she asks.

                    “No, I prefer you naked on your hands and knees, baying like a hound.”


This is the beginning of a story that keeps my interest.


Or to take a page out of Mickey Spillaine’s book:

        He was lying in a pool of blood, dead as hell.

         sHE was naked, kneeling in the corner, giggling.

I walked over and looked down at her closely.She was licking something red and sticky off her hands.


        Mother died today.                         Camus



I don’t know whether you know WAIT-A-BIT!,

if not it is of no consequence. For if you know

the North of Canada at all, you probably know a dozen towns just like it.

        There it lies in the Moonlight, sloping up from the Big River,

the Mackenzie River sweeping along its range of mountains

rolling down along its miles of woodlands, the wide river

runs rolling on towards the sea. And silence, the wide

wild silence of the Arctic, tempered by the caw of ravens,

sweetened with the howl of wolves, and seasoned through

all seasons, by endless light and interminable darkness.

There it lies in the Moonlight, sloping up from the

wild river at the foot of the hillside on which the

town is built.

There is a wharf beside the river, and a movable

section of floating wharf which forms a “T”

into the river.

There are three boats upturned beside the

wharf. The boats go nowhere. Men used to go fishing in them, but the freshwater sharks that come down from the ocean inhibit

the fish, stop them from coming to this corner of the river.

The bears still catch fish north of here, in the shallows where the river runs very wide. And indeed the 100 pound weasels, known as wolverines; they have been seen eating the occasional carcass of a shark.

      There’s a pair of binoculars at Artie’s Bar…And we watch the weasels cavort over the shark carcass down the hill on the mudflats by the river. These devil beasts seem to be much larger than they used to be… maybe fifty pounds heavier. And they appear to be faster, and far far smarter. It seems they have taken to using human tools.

          No one remembers anything like this. We’ve consulted the tribal elders and they are just as perplexed as we are. Everyone agrees that this is not a positive development in the history of the big weasels.

 The boats go nowhere. The distances are

too great, the immensity is so vast…

So the remaining inhabitants of Wait-A-Bit!,

the ones who have survived ( and I am

lucky to say that I am one) we sit here,

sons and daughters of Intemperance,

and we observe the immensity…

The inhalation of solvents is

discouraged, but the use of alcohol

has been approved of once again,

as being indeed necessary to

contemplate the Eye of the Universe

which is looking back at us.

        It’s like some of the stories Leacock wrote in the last century, but the environment has changed. The

locus – the town that has been bombed flat by a crazed jealous flyboy. Now the village ( for most

people have left) the village lives in weird enlarged foxholes. Artie’s bar still stands. And that’s the one place the pilot wanted his 2000 pound bomb to hit.

As I say, the half-mad village of WAIT-A-BIT (they call it that because no one can remember what the former town was called)

So they decide to wait a bit…. until their memories return. Each year the village decides to spend its entire budget on alcohol – rather than get electricity…
You get the idea. Think of: “Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town”… then remember: this

place is far more remote and far, far more savage. And it takes an entirely different sense of humour to live here. Here even the domestic dogs want to kill you!

              How do you laugh about that?

              We manage.

(C)2017 by W.g Milne


Perfection isn’t human. Human beings are not perfect. What evokes our love–and I mean love, not lust–is the imperfection of the human being. So, when the imperfection of the real person peaks through, say, ‘This is a challenge to my compassion.’ Then make a try, and something might begin to get going.


                         Joseph  Campbell is one of my heroes.

                          Also, he wrote about the hero’s path –




THIS short first article is just the beginning of my study of this remarkable, heroic man.

For you,  perhaps his words will be THE CALL.




(C) 2017  by William G. Milne – assembled

PART 1 of 2


Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us, the labyrinth is fully known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.


You know, when real trouble comes your humanity is awakened. The fundamental human experience is that of compassion.

Joseph Campbell



Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.**********


Nietzsche was the one who did the job for me. At a certain moment in his life, the idea came to him of what he called “the love of your fate.” Whatever your fate is, whatever the hell happens, you say, “This is what I need.” It may look like a wreck, but go at it as though it were an opportunity, a challenge. If you bring love to that moment-not discouragement-you will find the strength is there. Any disaster you can survive is an improvement in your character, your stature, and your life. What a privilege! This is when the spontaneity of your own nature will have a chance to flow.

Joseph Campbell

Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived. Follow the path that is no path, follow your bliss.


You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.


You’ve got to say yes to this miracle of life as it is, not on condition that it follow your rules.


We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.




                      The mystery I find in this man – is that he has been working at the same rock cliff as I have.

And when you pierce the stone with a pick, the sun shines through, and you  are enjoying a new dawn, golden above a calm lake – you are not in the dead end rats’

alley you had been in before.

                     I found myself in a disaster that seemed as if it would never end. My plans and my habitual life had been wrenched away from me. I was in jail,

naked in a dark cell. With no writing material, nothing to read – not even a pencil –

It was a sudden, total shift. There was no choice in the matter. I was arrested; I had been stopped in my tracks.

                 I had no choice but to learn how to look within.


                            What makes me laugh, what makes me delighted with Joseph Campbell is he would see this whole happening as a positive experience, as an opportunity to be cherished. An opportunity to find gold.

And now, many years after the experience, I agree with him. Because that’s the way it was, that is the kind of experience it tuned out to be.





(C) 2017 by William G. Milne/ Walker Ballantine

MOONSHINE SKETCHES OF A PICKLED TOWN by W.G. Milne “Lighthearted Tales of Isolation and Panic”


There are a bunch of stories called, ‘LIGHTHEARTED TALES OF ISOLATION AND PANIC.’ Some pretty wild stuff about a town ( I made up the location = couple of hundred miles south of Inuvik….just west of Great Bear Lake….) but the town actually exists in many places up and down the Mackenzie River…
           It’s a village of foxholes because a fly-boy bombed the place out of jealousy…
The town is like Orillia in Steven Leacock’s book, but it is far, far, far more savage.          Have you ever been left abandoned in a strange remote place… and the plane that comes 4 times a year has left without you… and you’re from New York City, and after 4 hours of utter silence you start teetering on the edge of totally unrefined madness… and you start crawling and weeping in a most undignified way… And you realize you are the only entertainment the village of weirdos living in foxholes have….
And they try not to laugh in your face, but it’s difficult for them, because they’ve all been through the panic. And you’re the first tourist they’ve seen in 3 years…
Pretty soon they’re on their knees laughing. Especially when you panic and run down towards the river, but you run smack into a tree instead.
See it from their point of view. There’s no T.V. up there. The postman’s been shot. Once every couple of weeks they might get a hint of radio.
link at:
You’ll find the whole story there.
(C) 2013-2017 by W.G. Milne .

Hope you enjoy.

Some of these stories are over 18 only.