Hear voices from the street
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.
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?
(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 –
THE HERO WITH 1000 FACES
As Freud has shown, blunders are not the merest chance. They are the result of suppressed desires and conflicts. They are ripples on the surface of life, produced by unsuspected springs. And these may be very deep – as deep as the soul itself. The blunder may amount to the opening of a destiny.
Campbell also wrote: “Where you stumble and fall, there you will find gold.”
Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.
The hero’s journey always begins with the call. One way or another, a guide must come to say, ‘Look, you’re in Sleepy Land. Wake. Come on a trip. There is a whole aspect of your consciousness, your being, that’s not been touched. So you’re at home here? Well, there’s not enough of you there.’ And so it starts.
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.
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.
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
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: www.wait-a-bit.blogspot.com.
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.