Any survival situation is interesting.  Toxic Psychosis
is definitely a survival situation. – often the danger is more
acute for other people.
      Extreme paranoia, however induced…can be a danger
to other people. If the subject feels he is under
attack, by let say six schoolteachers walking their dogs
across a public park…
      And if the subject is in the same public park, hiding in the
bushes and watching carefully at the approach of the enemy.  And the subject naturally has already gained the higher
       And if the subject is the survivor of several jail
fights and has learned the art of using anything
at hand for a weapon.
       And let`s say our hypothetical subject has
just snorted six ounces of Peruvian Marching Powder.
And has walked out of the family home at the start of
dinner. And he has slammed the front door
very loudly as he begins his fast search for higher
ground… And some fiend has cut the cocaine with
(Angel) DEVIL DUST – PCP….
       Now he`s carrying his shoes in his left
hand….And he`s having trouble putting these
shoes on – because every time he sits down to pull
on a shoe, he starts to levitate…
       And levitation is a problem I`d prefer
not to discuss before breakfast….
        Time for a cup of coffee. 

        Well, that`s why we call them drug fiends,
children. And they might attack out of the
bushes at any time.
        Because even if you`re only sixteen
and even if all six of you weigh less than a
thousand pounds, and even if you`re walking Labrador
Retrievers, not Dobermans. The DRUG FIEND
 walking with the king  SEES THE SCENE
 than you your school-teacher buddies do!
         The drug fiend sees danger everywhere he turns.
He is in what the doctors like to call, a “FIGHT OR FLIGHT”
          You see, you think you`re walking along in a
safe park  and it`s a balmy spring evening, and you`re 
talking to your wives, whoops! wife. And the dogs you
are walking are frolicking along looking for bushes to sniff.
           But you see, that`s not the reality at all…

           In fact, you are walking 2300 years ago…

           You don`t hear the shrieking citadel geese, because
you are not aware that you are approaching the citadel…
and the bushes your dogs are sniffing give rise
to the bushes on higher ground where the brave soul
defending the city from Etruscan Invaders… awaits.
           And he passed right through that little fight-or-flight
problem six minutes ago. This Drug Fiend is a brave soul.
            He is defending the lives of his people. And he
has been doing military exercises for decades.
             He`s been practising hurling sharp implements against a reinforced wall in his basement for six years now
taking speed all night, night after night, for years
and lifting weights after his fingers have become too blistered from whipping around all those six-pointed stars
at the human head drawn in the wall 30 feet away
from his barricade.
         He works out nightly in his Roman exercise gallery.

          Your dogs have transformed themselves into the
200 pound snarling beasts ( precursors to the brave Rottweiler breed, only larger and trained to eat what it
kills – trained to eat and kill the citizens of Rome.)
         Our brave fiend is truly lost in madness now.
But for him, remember, the situation makes sense.
It doesn`t to you, but you`re not making the rules.
You`re not the director of this very real theatre piece.
             Well, you`ll see the problem developing…

              When you see the 320 pound, extremely agile,
shoeless monster burst from the bushes you are
attacking…. when you hear him howl in a chattering
fashion teeth flashing in a snarl which may also be a laugh…
               When you see him running downhill in a leaping
motion… running past your company  to your left – down
the hill and cutting off any chance of
dignified escape…    or any escape at all.

                  Well, then it`s time, my friends, to start seeing
the situation the way he does.
                  TIME WARP does exist.
                   principle: The craziest among us, he defines the time and space.

              If you see him BOUNDING, moving the way you have never seen a human move – chances are, what you
are dealing with is an entity rather less and rather more than
             (1) bounding,  that`s a sign
             (2) when your domestic dogs have stopped barking
                  and now they`re just pissing themselves where                    they stand, that`s another sign.         

             It`s a sign to run like a motherfucker!
             Go ahead, sprint for the bushes.  Forget
about ripping the shit of your $1000 suit.  Run through
the bushes… don`t worry about what may be permanent
facial scars as the undergrowth tears at your skin. That`s
what plastic surgery is for.
            Run right through the brand new one by six pine
planking of your neighbours fence… Let the men do that for
you, ladies.Chances are they`ve got a good head start on 
you anyway…

principle: When reality strikes, forget what ought to be.
can outrun you – one good thing about animals, they
never forget how to flee…

          Ask any 20 year cop who`s worked the inner city
and the ravines… Ask him about the mysteries, the delights
and the insane dangers of fiends on PCP.
           I have heard horrible stories. Babies have been
eaten… A man crossing sixteen  lanes of the 401
with an arm in his mouth… unworried, as if he`s
going to church.  I have heard horrible stories.
        And what I have SEEN is far worse than what I have heard.

        If you`re lucky enough to SEE such a beast approaching, shoot for the centre of the chest. 
(Fuck luck! If you`re unwary, you won`t see a thing and you`ll be dead) Chances are he`ll be too fast for you to hit him in the head…
        Shoot him three or four times in the chest…. then
run like the demons of hell are nipping at your heels.
         And don`t for a minute think… just because you`ve
hit him four or five times in the chest with a 303, don`t think he`s dead.  He won`t be,
           With all that adrenalin and lead in him he can still
run faster than you can.Don`t bother checking to see
if he`s wear body arm.. MANIACS DON`T NEED VESTS!
           Throw a chair or a boulder thru somebody`s
living room window… get your crew inside and shove a couch into the ungainly opening you have made in the wall. Ha! Ha!
           THEN CALL 911.
            Forget cell phones at times like this — your fingers
will shake too much to use them…
            Shove the couch into the wall opening. Get any of the men with you who are not weeping on their knees and praying for SANTA… get them to rip legs off chairs off chairs for added impact defence.
            Remember, I AM SANTA. If you`ve been to jail
you`ve probably already met me – and you know I tell you
no lies.

            Tell the house owners of the house to “SHUT UP AND FIND A GUN.!”
            This guy`s still coming for you. Don`t ever think he`s not. He might be catching his breath.  No, scratch that – he
          Forget the weak and the slow, your friends who were walking in the park with you…
they`re dead already!

           The cops`ll get there quick.  A lot of the guys like
situations like this – and thank God for that! 
         Never criticize a certain love for violence in your constabulary. What do you expect? It`s their stock and trade.
At times such as this you`ll wish they were more violent –
at times like this you need ravening beasts

             Fuck luck! When someone`s trying to kill you,
the only response is –  TRY TO EAT HIS SKULL!

             I`ve been through a few situations like this
and I`m still alive… And this little article might just save
your life…
             There`s no time to think when the rams`horns are
blowing in the hills.



b057e-paintingswgm-stguillaumephotogrid_1403319398438_1L’ETRANGER, THE OUTSIDER – CAMUS AND VAN GOGH, THE EYE OF THE ARTIST


                     *           *                *


Some years back, I was studying “L`Etranger” by Camus,
which is: `The stranger`, “The Outsider”…

      The man standing  outside the restaurant windows in the large  city –
 Paris, Toronto, New York, London – he might be
highly intelligent, but he does not partake of the affluence
of society; he`s not included in the good times or good food; he`s not invited to  cocktail parties,couples groups in fine restaurants.  He is totally excluded for one reason most of all: 
he is an observer.
         The only consolation L`Etranger has for all this rejection and ostracizing – 
he knows that most fine artists
live lives as solitaries. Oh yes, they may be in the
midst of a family, or they may not. But one thing is sure –
they are alone. They are alone now, and they have always been alone. 
Even when they are in a bar attempting to
talk to others, or at the funeral of a loved one,
the artist might be acutely observing the scene;
but he is detached, an outsider – he is The Stranger.
           There are too many examples of this “healthy sickness” – too many examples to count: Van Gogh,
why didn`t he have sex with the prostitute? Why did he
send his ear to her? 
           Because he was too detached?   Likely so…
Detached, yes, alienated, apart from… observing…
He saw her closely; he saw her so completely
that he loved her in a way she had never been
          She may not have known this… (What do
any of us know about the people around us?) 
But she likely sensed it – she may not have sensed
his love; she might have thought it was lust… but she
certainly sensed his attention.
         He was detached. He saw her every colour, uncertainty
and frown. He probably never took her hand, or
shared a coffee with her. But he loved her in a way
that no one ever had…no one had ever seen her
so completely.

        Although, if you look at it from the woman`s
point of view. perhaps she would have rather had a meal and sex 
with the man instead of being observed so closely… even if he
looked at her with utter love, what good was that to her?
She might have thought…  She was busy.  She had
a child perhaps and cats to take care of.
         I`m sure she would have preferred to take the man`s
hand… but to endure his disconcerting stare?
         Who among us want to be observed so closely?
Most of us have our  guilts and paranoias…
who has the gift of repose?
          Sometimes the artist.  And sometimes not.

           Van Gogh likely would have preferred to take
her hand, also, or to pat her rump. But it was not to
be. He was too much the outsider, too much
the stranger…
        If he had been able to hold her hand, he would
not have had to send her his ear.
        Of the few women I can think of at the moment –
none of them would be more likely
to spend time with me, if I sent them
my ear.
        What do you think, my lady? If I sent you my ear,
would that patch up the differences between us?
Would that make everything all right.
         Or would I be taking another trip
up the hill into a locked unit?

          Close attention makes people uncomfortable.
They have their own lives to lead, and they do not
need some maniac perched like a jackdaw on the back
of the chair next to them… closely watching
the expressions on their face.

        But most true artists are exactly that: painters
and writers have been primarily that – observers…. 
Maniacs,madmen, excluded outlaws and pariahs
they are the watchers no groups are comfortable with…

      And so the artists are found looking in
through the glass  into the restaurant from the cold sidewalk…

Shivering in a wet raincoat with two dollars and forty cents
in your pocket… if you go to a cheap restaurant, you
can just about buy a coffee.

And when you go home, you can eat your oil paints
instead of bread.




cliff-top text:


“Drink the waters of the fountain
I have dug. and you shall be as I am.
And being what I am, I shall breathe
into you new Breath. I shall be your
Comforter; I will not leave you
comfortless. You shall know Me
through My Word, and you shall not
taste death.”

“I am always with you, nearer
than you think; and when you replace
an Eye for an eye, not in vengeance,
and not in pride, then you may see Me
as I always am, throughout unending
days and nights, I reach to you My
hand; I offer you My Sight.”

“They have killed the Son,
but here I am, the true Heir
of the Garden.”

“The Kingdom has come, but
men know it not.”

“You have asked My Father
for the Son; My Father and I are One.
On the day of harvest the…

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Once upon a time there was a train
where people could breath and eat with knives and
forks like human beings and we didn’t have the
urge to kill the fat guy on the seat next to us.
      In those days we didn’t have to behave
like farm animals being transported they
know not where, making the sort of sounds
you hear coming from a barn over-packed with 
goats, chickens and cows.. And the grunts of pigs
and the squeals when a foot or a tail was yanked
on stepped upon.
           No. Those were the days of dignified travel.
When we had room. When there was a certain grace
to the dining car.  When passengers could breathe
and have a few thoughts along the way.
          A person might even feel a frisson of
 romance when he heard the lonesome
whistle of the train he was riding on. Bashing through
the deep snows in the winter, watching the pine
forest up  close to the windows, passing by.
 The trip was fun and alive, and tourists liked
it, too.

        No longer.

        Northerners no longer can travel like
normal people. We must skulk
like addicts in small little groups
in the wee small darkest hours past midnight –
to nab a bus which is not packed with people,
a means of travel where we can breathe

A lot of northerners do a lot
of wood chopping. This makes our
shoulders larger than the shoulders
of many southerners.
        As a result you cannot place two
 northern  wood-chopping
males next to each other in two narrow
seats and expect to achieve any kind
of harmony.
         Someone measured my shoulders the
other night (a sordid story I’ll tell you
another time). I am close to three feet across
at the shoulders if I breath in, which I hope
to do when I’m travelling…And I’m not
considered a huge northerner, just a tad ungainly
in that I resemble a gorilla when
I walk.
         So you put me next to
another 240 pound beast from
the Great White North – say Swastika,
Ontario, or Iroquois Falls… well, we get to 
hate each other in thirty minutes.
There simply is not room in bus
transportation to seat two bushmen
        Luckily, people such as we are
tend to bring libation with us – and
so even though there is no room 
to sit down – there is space to lie
down in the aisle – or  you could throw open
the luggage storage shelf above
and lie down there…
        But I have found this makes
the ladies nervous – taking bets
on exactly when the behemoth will
fall and break their mothers’
corning ware all at once and             ***
once and for all.
Northern women chop wood, too.
And such ladies are quite capable
of knocking a southern liberal out,
if he falls into her lap at an
inopportune time.
      Nope. If the BUS is full
 we’re like BEES in a BOTTLE.
I’d like to know which dingbat
made the decision to remove
trains from the north: the person
who pulled a fast one and turned
northern transportation into a
cruel farce.
      The woman ahead of me
in the bus was making a bit of a
speech to her fellow travellers.
And of course I could hear it 
because I was crammed and
seated in such a way that my nose
was about six inches behind her
left ear.
       She said: “They did it to
punish the north! For not voting
 liberal lately!”
        All the people up front were
talking to her, too, and murmuring agreement.
         “Whoever did it we owe
him one. We’ll wait…!”she called out rather
 too loudly for what they call ‘polite society’… 
but that didn’t matter.
          We were no longer in polite
society. The bus was stuffed like the
Christmas turkey! I was wondering what
the scene reminded me of… and then I knew.
It reminded me of a bus in a third-world
            In Jamaica, when I was a kid, buses
used to bop along from stop to stop,
careening around blind corners with the
horns blaring. But those buses were fun,
even if you were on the verge of getting killed
every second. Because… you were allowed
to smoke and drink alcohol,  stick
your head out the window and shout to people
in the street. You were even allowed to bring
chickens or a goat on board.
         Also, it was warm, so that helped, too,
if the bus broke down… or if seven or eight of
us had to get out and push the bus the last
hundred feet up a hill. That wasn’t so bad
because of the sunny climate. 
         In Canada, of course, you’d freeze off some
body parts if you attempted this

         The woman up front was shouting 
again. It was impossible to ignore her.
          “Yes, we’re going to wait!”
The other passengers were cheering.
          I didn’t hear the whole speech
because the guy to the right of me
was breathing garlic into my nostrils.
However he passed me half a mickey of rye
and said, “Go ahead. Finish it!” And I
did… in two large gulps. So the garlic
no longer mattered to me.         

        The woman was standing now.
I couldn’t really move my head, so I 
had to look right at her ass. Her
butt was big, made her look like the ass
of  a mule in blue jeans.
           But we all have our little problems
so I’m not one to judge.

        “Oh, yes, wait we will!” She
was waving her fist in the air. We’ll
vote the bastards out! We’ll get
payback!  We’ll count the days!”

          There was more cheering,
but I didn’t listen any more.
           My mind had moved on
to other things.