Friday, July 29, 2016




       Looked bad….. worked like a coolie all day. Didn’t like it. Trying to find a place where I can sit against a stone wall in the shade. And drink… with no one bothering me.
         That’s easier said than done.

          So I put my feet in a small stream and sit against the brick wall of Marin’s house… She has been my woman for a while… maybe she still is.  Part of her hates me. Well, that’s normal. No need to worry there.
         I sit there and cool off.  Did I say the day is hot? It is hot as a motherfucker – as a cat on a hot tin roof… as a snail molusking across hot asphalt at noon on the summer solstice. Pain! Pain! Pain! Hot as me in my apartment, upstairs above a store.
         Hot as dripping balls, hot as your bare ass sitting down on a  steaming winter radiator…

        I pour water over my head, even pour some chilled white wine. I snort some of the cool wine right up my nasal cavities….ooooo
what a burn!  
       Starting to feel a little better, still hot as hell. I have a deep drink of the highly chilled Colli Albani. Yeah, I know it’s not classy… but it works great when well-iced.
       My sinuses feel a little better. My face is hot and my head is sweating. I look into the woods.
There are wavy lines of heat everywhere in the air… Or maybe that’s just me.

 I hear some screaming from around the corner. I’m too tired to even look.

       Now I’m hearing some slaps and the grunts and growls of ferocious women. Oh, I’ve heard those sounds before. And I know who it is.
        “What the hell’s going on?”I say.

        “My neighbour’s mother keeps parking in my parking space…” Marin says, ” And she has her daughter’s empty parking place right next to mine!”
          The heat’s getting to everybody.
“Yeah I can see how that might be a piss-off,”  I say. 
           Two empty parking places side by side on a hot day.           Then the mother drives back in again.
     The woman drives back down the street and parks in Marin’s space again.That’s really pushing it. Marin has been known to get a tad violent on occasion. Even when she likes you,
things can get rough. And she really doesn’t like this woman.
            Once again she parks in Marin’s space,
really rubbing it in.
           She walks past Marin about five feet away, and says: 
      ” You!Don’t talk to me!  I’M IGNORING YOU!”
           “I want to twist her her neck like a chicken’s,” Marin says, “But I’m restraining myself.”
            “Why does she keep parking in your space? And walking by right in your face? Is she nuts?” I ask.
          “Her daughter’s space is right next to yours and it’s always empty.  Why does she do it?” I ask.

             “Because she’s  A CUNT!” Marin says.

               That summed it up.

              You ever notice, when someone uses the “C” word, especially if they shout ‘CUNT!’ loud enough to be heard the next block over…
it tends to be the last word said in most  conversations?
          You want to have the last word?

          Shout, “CUNT!”
           I’d crawled around the corner to look at the scene unfolding… Now I’m crawling right back around into the shade. No words are necessary. I’m too hot to talk. 
         No one has any firearms or sharp implements.

             Not yet, anyway.

                        (C)2016 by W.G. Milne



         Admittedly, I have had some bad reviews. Some!  Did I mention that I have received a few curses in Latin? Well, here goes then.
          It seems it’s O.K. to talk about mystical union with the One who is creating us, but it is not acceptable to enter into the psychological depths of the intricacies and necessities of  a Woman’s Orgasm in the same article. This is what, sacrilege? What century are we living in?
          May I suggest to you – it’s not such a big step from the 21st century back to the 16th century, when they had public lashings and brandings! But it wasn’t all fun and games.
           Do you know how long the Spanish Inquisition lasted for? A hundred years? Oh, no the private torture chambers continued long and long. And the public didn’t get to see! Nor did they get to see the hidden repressed spasmodic orgasms of the long-robed clergy… Nor do we now, for the most part, but we get to see them weeping in their beers the morning after, begging for forgiveness.
           ( The Spanish Inquisition continued on for 600 years.)
            My position is this: forgiveness is the Christian way. Ho! Ho! But before we forgive these pale, limp-wristed members of our clergy – skin that makes ’em look like they’ve been hiding under lily pads all their lives: it’s our absolute and holy duty to put them through a few hoops.
The hoops should be: (1) Fearful public humiliation; (2) a taste of the lash over some months.
As Charlie’s Nana used to say most mornings at breakfast, from the time Charles was three: “Cowards fear pain; and they hate to cower in public; and to scream like eunichs every time they feel a taste of the Lash! This is good for their grovelling souls; and to expect more of the same each Sunday morning, with exacting  regularity… It makes them think.”
            “And one thing you can be sure of: never will such a half-man/ half-newt transgress again! In fact, it’s quite possible you’ll never see the fearful little shrimp in public again for the rest of his life!”
             “No one will miss him! Besides, the Lash is cheap! It doesn’t cost a hundred grand a year to keep the little fruit behind bars.  And also there is the social aspect to consider: it’s fun for the whole family to watch such a wimp begging in public – on his naked knees, “Please don’t lash me again. No, please! And his weeping and loud bawling: everyone enjoys that! Especially when he tries to wiggle and crawl off into the audience; and there’s no escape nor mercy anywhere.”
              “Then she’d pat me on the head,” says Charlie, and she’d look into my eyes with the deepest seriousness: “Never forget, sonny, ‘Hilarity is to the public’s good.'”
               Says Charles. “I never knew what that phrase meant. Nor do I ever want to know.”
           (3)     Oh yes, the third hoop that must be written permanently into our Criminal Code is this: “Any anal tears the perpetrator causes, he shall receive in kind.” Now as a former defense attorney I must admit, this provision sounds a bit ominous, especially when followed by this following clause “All provisions of this section shall be judicially interpreted solely in terms of the tenets of the Old Testament.”
                  This entire section is a bit like  Wonder Bread – you eat it and wonder. And I can only shake my head and wonder about the implications. Though, having listened to the Affadavits of Charlie’s grandmother, I must say, “All in all I approve wholeheartedly.”
                  You must weight the limited pain to a few dubious defendants against the health,
happiness and psychological well being  of the entire non-offending Community.

                 I do forsee a few possible legal problems with any admissions against interest the clergyman makes in public, while under the lash. But we’ll deal with those ducks when they start to quack.
                 One thing I must say, though, after a six months program of screamings and lashings, our public prisoner would have no psychological blockages left. Though he might have developed a few tics, involuntary quavers and shudders he’d prefer no one ever see him do in public ever again.
                   So it goes. Explore every mystery, no matter how disgusting the journey might become;
your Roving Reporter will see it all the way through to the end!
                   “Discard nothing. Everything may serve.”  Carpe diem.

(C)2011 by W.G. Milne072










What had happened to me?

I wanted to know

on that Christmas morning

all alone


I saw one star

amid a sky of cloud

I didn’t understand

it wasn’t possible


and I wondered with all those lost     dreams

where I had gone

and lost myself beneath the wave

beyond the farthest mountain

under the sea

where lady with her red dress

was waiting

II saw fear in the great mirages
success, death, happiness
little did I know that
none of those
was permanent
I had to seem so tough
to confront you
a regular he-man
a regular screw
whatever happened to the child I knew
in the land of Nod?

then I started laughing

I laughed with that last star
as God’s eye opened
and blessed me from afar
from beyond the rusted alleys
and the wasted streets
and the dull grey depression
that greets every success-bound
boy – a real rube I was
to some other tune
but then the laughter started
I don’t know when it came
I just knew  I no longer

was the same


the dark days had broken

their bats’ wings on the walls

your gloomy illusion

did completely fall

and I was free again

free as I had been

free as the open skies

above a sheath of rain




free as the dark wildcat

with her quivered thighs

free as the sweet child

who no longer fears the night


free as the lost shepherd

coming home again

free as all the little boys

lost in the rain

with just a leather jacket

and nothing in his pants

free as the dark pines

towering over me


with a great Significance

oh don’t ask what it means

free without the dark tide

that consumed my life

free as the lost chickens

playing in the grass

free as the adolescents

checking out the ass

of every passing schoolgirl

free as horses and maidens

sailing ships that pass


free as fourth of July crackers

as a madman’s laugh

free as crickets in the night

and the crimson tide of death


free as dark beginnings

so lost then in the night

free as bears in the forest

walking on my path

and now in the forest laughing

laughing a new laugh


free as Christmas morning

with a little child

free as all true lovers

across the miles

free as broken English

on a sea-side holiday

free as new tires squealing

at the crack of day


free as the dark night

when all is lost

free as the new morning

drenched in the rain


and now I’m here without you

and I’m glad again

whatever did happen

to all the pain?




(C)2000 by W.G. Milne




        THERE’s silence up here, nothing but silence. You can go two weeks and never hear a human voice or the caw of a crow. Only the sound of the wind, reaching up from the river and travelling across unimaginable wastes, the vast reaches of the Arctic. Only the wind has an understandable voice…

        Then  there is the silence once more.


 The fella over there is part of the Wait-A-Bit! stories. I’ve got about 16 people in the foxhole village – I couldn’t say all their names,

but I know who each person is &and what he/she wants.

        There aren’t that many women in town, but there is Matilda, who has also been the mayor the past year.

          The preacher who left the wild skin mags under his mattress of skins, straw, linen and furs….he brought a stripper to town. That’s just as well, because 1/3 of the town try to watch Matilda undress… Most nights the curtain at the end of her trailer tends to fall open.

         I suspect that open curtain and a few other personal favours Matilda has given to the menfolk in town – well she won the mayoral  contest in a landslide.

          I’m Frank. I used to be mayor, but the mayor does very   little except greet visitors etc… There were no visitors last year and no tourists, either.

Last time we saw a tourist

was eight years ago. Many of the native folks in the area

think this site is cursed – but I can’t agree with that.

          It’s ‘INCINERATION DAY’ that got most people nervous,

when a jealous Canadian Forces pilot bombed every

brick building in the area. Reduced City Hall to a fine grain dust. The A&P didn’t fare much better.

           Artie’s bar burned for some time after the firestorm.He’s the guy the pilot was jealous of. (Artie was havingsex behind the bar with her. Problem was he was doing it in public. This got stories told up and down the Mackenzie River, all the way down to Norman Wells, which was where the flyboy was stationed.                      Artie    was having it off with

the young woman,the pilot’s fiancé, but he certainly never admitted to it…participating in these  tales of wild doings behind his bar.)

             She was the only woman in town for a whole year, so you can’t blame anybody too much.. for what  happened.
Most of the townsfolk made an exodus to the East after the bombing. There used to be 157 people in _________. No one can remember what the town was  called before the BLAST. None of us has had much of a memory since that day.

                    What good is a memory anyway? I don’t miss it. No point in worrying about the past or future, because they don’t exist.

                     I’m Frank, the former mayor. That idiot over there sitting on the big rock taking notes is Hank. He used to be a reporter for the New York Times. When he arrived here, he sure ran after the plane like a mad fool…looking  to catch it. When he realized the newspaper building didn’t exist any more, he was troubled. Boy, was he ever perturbed!  What really shocked him the first few days… was the endless, all-embracing silence.

        Have I sent you one of the Mad Poet of Rat River’s Poems?

He’s our nearest neighbor, 400 miles to the east. Near Port Radium,or whatever the hell they used to call it, that now abandoned town.          It seems the Mad Poet of Rat River has taken to travelling down the Rat onto the Mackenzie, and he’s getting all the women drunk, up and down the Mackenzie.We’re getting radio calls from Inuvik, demanding that we –

“Drag him the fuck out south!”

Now Ratty could always be a pain in the ass,and  at the same time, his pervasive powers are remarkable. I only hope he’s stopped showing people his member. It has a remarkable effect, I’m told, to many of the women.              After all he’s a poet. And Melissa whispered to me into my left ear: “All poets are well hung.” She played with a sensitive, hungry part of my being,at the same time. Proving her pneumatic point,whispering and pulling at me.Lucky I was drunk, or I might have embarrassed myself in my pants., before she even got going…





I have no idea what time it is. We use the sundial

approach up here. That’s when there is a sun. about six months of the year. 

It snows 9 months a year, at a bare minimum.

And when it’s not snowing we tend to be in darkness, because of the peculiar habit of the village council.

        Of course living in bunkers underneath mounds of the last town… well, it’s dark underground every day.

        I hear a peculiar jingling sound across the bunker. I turn up the oil lamp by my bed

so I can see… Hank is affixing a tall pointy hat to his head. When he moves his head

I see he has sewn tiny bells around the hat.

       It  looks for all the world like a fool’s cap, but I say nothing. We have to make our own entertainment up here.

Wait a minute, it’s a dunce’s hat! And when he

shakes his head he sounds like a wee reindeer.

       I lie back down in bed, “That’s it!

He’s finally gone over the top.”  I laugh

quietly into my pillow.

       There’s no reason to hurt a person’s

feelings, even if he’s already crazier than a shit-house rat.


And maybe he’s getting worse.

       The preacher showed up with some lumber  the other night, and some kind of beauty queen.

It seems he’s going to build a small house over the bunker and use the bunker as a basement.


        I go over to Artie’s bar, hang my coat on the moose head nearest me. I have the Lee Enfield bolt action 303 hanging under my right arm, as per usual. The barrel and the stock are both cut short, of course.

       When living in the Great Beyond it’s best to stay well armed.


       Preacher and Helga show up and they sit on the stools next to me. She has powder blue tight jeans on, and she has curves where most people only imagine curves could be.

      The story unfolds naturally. Preacher had a small white church in Inuvik and he was getting no donations for his Feed the Children fund. So he got drunk and threw several well- publicized tantrums.

   He was up on the church roof waving a scotch bottle above his head

and screaming  “FUCK DONATIONS!” Helga says.

       His next bright idea was to make porn movies in the basement of the church, and raise some cash that way.  And bingo, it worked.

In the meantime he developed some arcane erotic tastes. And he had left his pervo mags under the bed in his bunker.

      The upshot of this whole situation is – he wants his mags back now…!

And he thinks he knows who has them. 


      I get Artie to pour me another of the special standard drink of the house: “PROOF AND BUSH BERRIES” served in a tin cup.

      The door of the bar opens to the Main Lane and I hear that jingling sound again…

      Then I hear war hoots and the banging of

a drum! And somebody out there is chanting.

        Hank has had those extra-special porn mags all last winter. Now he doesn’t want to part with them. He really doesn’t want to part with them.

         I catch a glimpse of a man with a white priest’s collar wearing a very bright Indian

headdress. He’s chanting and waving a club

above his head. Also, he’s beating beating a drum. And making war whoops to a rhythm

no one can discern.

         “This happens all the time up north,” says Helga.


I ask myself.


            I take a quick look outside the door of the bar. I see a scenario out of the stuff

of a weird comic’s dream. A man in a priest’s collar is standing erect in a headdress, holding a club over a man in a dunce’s cap who is on his knees, trying to extract something from

under the chief-priest’s foot.

           This is a scene that is not approved by any version of the Indian Act throughout it’s entire twisted history. 

               If the legislators who wrote that moronic law, if they had had the imagination to foresee any scenes like this –  the one unfolding on the Main Lane of WAIT-A-BIT…  they would have outlawed such bizarre scenarios

with extreme prejudice.

            And added major jail sentences to any and all of the participants, and forbidden alcohol and guns to everyone in the environs forever.


          (  Up here we have no police. And no maniacs with badges come through this valley

at any time.  We make our own liquor, so no such law would affect us, or be any cause for concern.)

            Except now I’m hearing slaps and body blow. And I see Hank is on his feet again, In his hand is a two pound weight swinging at the end of a nylon  stocking.

            The crazed preacher and my  roommate with cabin fever, they’re circling each other with  an evil glint

in and a mad look in their eyes. Both are carrying large weighted saps. In no time at all, someone will be unconscious.


We decide to go back into the bar and relax,

have several drinks… Really listen to  the silence for a change,and like it.


(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne




               O.K, they  came to me out of the mists the other night at 3:00A.M., also out of the forensic wards of a major educational hospital located in the environs of the Province’s Capital. And if that isn’t vague enough for you, let me also say that this event was long ago and far away ha! ha! and well beyond the statute of limitations of all independent nations which speak in recognizable tongues.
               What was being said to me in the middle of the night was scarcely recognizable. But it sounded like this: “There is a woman who feels she must be branded…. in order to achieve what all women wish to achieve.” (This blog is now available to all ages, so we must be delicate)
                “We’ve had her locked up for the past seven months, but we really do not feel justified in holding her any longer. She’s basically an intelligent, witty, delightful person – with just one horrible and monstrous and psychic black hole of an obsession.”
                 “Sound’s interesting,” said I. I just happened to be up at that hour, the  “hour of the dead”
in most hospitals, “Tell me more.”
                 “Well, we tried ECT on her. (This means electrical shock therapy) And she seemed to enjoy it! Not the shock itself, of course, because she could scarcely feel that – but the idea of being strapped down to a table, fed a tongue depressor, and being hit with something that made her quiver and spasm…”
                  “I understand! I understand!” I say. I believe in shock therapy myself, but I am not licensed to administer electro-shock. I believe more in what I call,  MINDSHOCKS, sudden,
surprising moments that blow all thought out of the human brain, rather like a high pressure hose cleaning out the cylinders and pistons of the gasoline engine. I guess you can say I believe in “Blowing The Mind” as we used to call it, but only in a positive way and for a positive result – to facilitate further and better flow.
                    “She got it in her mind,” the Good Doctor was saying, “That only by being tried down naked over a rock and branded on the buttock… could she ever achieve the orgasm she very definitely needs, and one might even say, ‘ requires’.”
                      This called for a drink from the office bottle, which I keep in several hidden drawyers
in the counter beside my desk. (There is more than one office bottle). I pass the goblets around and I pour the brandy. Only brandy will do at such a time of inveterate introspection.
                        I asked the psychologist if she understood the direction this conversation was taking, and boy did she ever! She was ahead of me.  She said, “I vill go downstairs ‘maintenant’ and light
ze bed of coals.”
                         “First a toast!” We all stand. And raise our glasses… “To science!” I say. We all clink glasses and drain our cups.”
                          Our psychologist went downstairs. I heard a door slam and then the sound of the heavy garage door opening slowly at the end of its chains.
                           You must light the coals in an airy space.
                            “Where is she?” I ask the altruistic scientist.
                             “Over there!” he points out the window. I walk over and look down. Ye Gods there is a paddy wagon parked in the middle of my driveway!
                              “Of course, she must be restrained… always.” says the good doctor.
                               “Underst00d,” I say, “But at least let’s turn off the lights!” Flashing blue lights were circling across the trees and the lake and my
neighbour’s bedroom window. Oh, and there was my neighbour sitting on his porch steps, staring listlessly at the emergency vehicle.
                                It’s O.K. My neighbour is also a medical man. He understands such urgencies. But was he questioning his association with me, even back then?
It was impossible for me to tell.
                               The psychiatrist spoke into a small radio in the inside of his lapel. The lights went off immediately.
                                I do not think it’s prudent that I finish reporting this entire case at this time. But let me only say, the woman was unshackled and then shackled again in a more compromising position. She did achieve her goal, but it was not exactly as she had imagined it would be.
                                 I must caution my readers that Fetish and reality can be disappointingly different. And only a very rare person will achieve orgasm the moment a branding iron touches her bare flesh. The pain is extreme and intense beyond all imagining, and not really conducive to pleasure of any kind.
                                   It is the aftermath which is sometimes rewarding.   
                                                                                              Case 7:  Respectfully submitted.


2016-03-17 00.10.30 (2).jpg BACK IN THE BUSH WITH MY UNDERTAKER


Tuesday, July 19, 2016


About dawn the roar of an airplane woke me up. Some fool had buzzed my bunker.
                   I crawl up the steps and emerge
from the moon gate. A Cessna 180 with a huge spotlight between the floats is searching out the flat black waters of Rat River.
                  I sat on the stump I had carried to
the rooftop.  The Mad Poet had been staring at
the same wall for 10 hours. He was in some
subterranean low place. 
               It’s almost as if he’s a reptile
shedding his skin, before he emerges again
with a new torrent of words. I’m not sure
how the whole process works, but I think that some lower hell is involved. Some questions…
it’s best never to ask.

             Wildman’s sneaking up on me this time,
because he knows I’ll try to avoid him. That last bender that took us to Lima, Peru. That
was almost the end of us both.
             It’s as if Bobby takes his own blitzo- monstro holocaust with him wherever he goes,
and we both have irresistible urges to drink ourselves unconscious. But when we add some crazed drug to the mix, a high-octane upper guaranteed to keep you awake for a week without napping…This is when the combination
gets dangerous.
            About the third day we have a tendency to want to kill each other. He brings a hammer
down from the plane. I have a hammer in my inside jacket pocket…in case things get heavy.
           Hank emerges from under the bed:
“A plane! he shouts, “Did I hear a plane?” he asks, his voice is trembling. He’s like a kid caught in the wrong boot camp.

          “Will you take me with you when you leave?” he asks.
           “Sure,” Bobby says.
            “Sure he will,” I’m thinking, “Sure.”

  • The last time Bobby came by ,we went thru one of those benders
  • beyond all rationality. We very nearly came to blows, and that would have meant blood. Last time he ran at me saying, “I’ll Keeell you!” I had to give him a tap on the forehead to slow him down a little. I hit him with a 40 oz bottle of CC rye. That sat him down real fast on the floor. Then I had to patch the prick up and clean the sticky stuff off the floor.
  • Will Milne

                    “You got anything to drink?” he asks.
          “I may have a little something tucked away…” I say

         I have a quarter of a 250 gallon drum of moonshine we put thru the hopper two times.
When you look at a tin cup of the stuff, you see
little wavy lines above the surface of the brew.
         I hand him a tin cup 2/3rds full. He tosses
it down. The expression on his face doesn’t change, through his eyes cross a bit.
         There’s no way I’m going to tell him about the two full drums in the back of the woodshed.
          He passes me the cup again. I shake my head and refuse to refill the tin cup.
           I give him a nasty smile and say:
          “Not until you put that hammer down,
on the shelf across the room behind me.

           He puts the hammer away. I pour him
the next drink.
           “Shit tastes like varsol,” he says.
            I nod.“It grows on you.” 

            I add water to my brew and pour it down my throat.
            Out of the corner of my eye I notice
he’s playing with the skinning knife.



*        *          *











Screenshot fromSANTA'S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE 2014-05-17 17:54:38

         “Managing psychosis, hallucinations and arrest.”



received_963730106973138   gEESE

( Caricature sketch by the brilliant Ernie Taylor)




IT’S nice when you try to remember something and you draw a complete blank…There’s only white noise in your head. But maybe it’s not so bad: people train for

years to get an empty head.



**  mmmmmm   oh, yeah!   Can be quite disturbing if you worry about such things. People forget… … as they approach death, they lose everything

all your proud cars; all your muscles:  you shrink and so does your dick.


So how to make peace with this?

That’s a good question…


Well, believe it or not – being in jail helps.

—If you don’t want to stoop so low – try a strict Trappist monastery or cave in a mountainside in Tibet.

       After that you might want to

find the nearest county jail & check yourself in.

          (If you don’t know how to get admitted, I have several suggestions…

that sure worked for me, and fast, too.)


Yeah, pride is the problem, and we all got

lots of it. It’s all gotta go, disintegrate into

the universe. … Before the

angels take you and you begin to feel at peace.


“I hasten to inform you that it’s as lucky to die

as it is to be born. And I know it.”

  Walt Whitman                            “LEAVES OF GRASS”


Meanwhile, here we are in this weirdly miraculous world.




(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne


Q:What to do?

A: Anything you want.

Yep, and that’s good advice until it isn’t.


There is no such thing as eternal damnation.


(Hey, this article was supposed to be funny!)




THE GREEK GODS  hated hubris.  And you can bet

The Trickster hates arrogance, too. He’ll have

a lot of fun with you. But it’s his kind of fun,

not your kind of fun.



      So how do we lose the pride.  Oh, there are many ways – none of them pleasant.I can list some of the ways for you – HOW TO LOSE YOUR PRIDE:



Get whipped in a fight in public


Watch your wife get royally humped by a well-endowed

lover, when you are impotent and you’ve lost house privileges… ie:    You’re  in the back yard…


Getting beaten badly at high-stakes poker on prime time TV & you lose your house.


Being butt-fucked at noon on National T.V.


Being told by your wife that you must wear a chastity belt

when she’s out on a date…. and you  imagine what she’s doing….

And you have to clean the kitchen, too!


Being fired from your job for incompetence or drunkenness…

And every morning your dress up and pretend to go to work….


Being ordered by the Court to undergo a series of depo-prevera

shots… and your nurse wife administers the needle into your bare ass

every Saturday, while all the other nurses watch and snigger.






You do not want to go through these nasty dramas

when you’re sick…As I saw my father do.


                                   *   *  *



           We didn’t have masters in the West, until I came

along. After all, they killed  Bhagwan Rajneesh. No

one was very encouraged by that small-minded spiteful event. But things roll on.


 I have no need or desire for any kind of fame…I had

a taste of fame and I hate being stared at in restaurants…

Still…Someone has to say a few words.

And, hard as it is for me to believe it,

that person’s gotta be me.


        They have the TIBETAN BOOK OF THE DEAD….


great books, too.


We have Walt Whitman, though it’s difficult to discern his intricate purpose.Sometimes even Walt

didn’t know what it was.


          Father Belyea’s here, and I honour him.

He taught me things he didn’t mention to others.

What a guy! He even appeared at my trial to defend me.


         Are we not worthy? Of course, we’re worthy!

So we need this book,*




which  I’m writing, very slowly… Like

lichen growing on a rock.





Who’s going to stop us? They already call us.

“The Great Satan”, but we are not that, nor

do we have any desire to be that.


To be the Great Satan it takes a lot

of hard, concentrated work in the black arts.


Who makes the rules?

… … … We do.


I honour the Sufis. And why should I not?

This war between the east and the west   is a transient thing.



MOUNTAIN”***(WGM), it knows no denominations —– Only love for all our fellow creatures… this is the way…

And determination, focus,and the will to awake many hour before the dawn.


I honour the great Master Philip Kapleau of the Zen Center in Rochester, New York. We had a long and

fruitful relationship, although we never talked. We certainly spoke without words. And he appeared to me recently, years after his death.


It was said he would bring Zen to the west,

and he did.


I am not a Zen Buddhist. I have not spent years staring at walls. I do not have that kind of discipline.


The bush has been my teacher.

 The Great Silence, the Trickster God, and the vast distances between the globes. Also, a medicine

man who  who could laugh.  Man,

he had the sight!  And the ability to project his intentions across distances!

         The first time he saw me, he stared deeply

into my eyes and I stared into his. When recognition

came, we both laughed for quite a while.


       Ah, the north!


                                  *    *    *







You’re a rich man. You start to lose possessions. Ist a house…. then your Porsche,

then your airplane (your stomach fills up with blood) you’re banned from

flying, your pilot license is revoked.

You drive your brand new gleaming Cadillac right thru a stop sign

into the side of a city bus…. your driver’s license is revoked.

You sell your other 2 houses to juice up the bank account, but

7 folks on the bus have ‘back pains” and civil lawsuits have followed.

So now all you have left is your inboard-outboard boat.

 You drive that into a shoal of rocks, too.  You do not want to discuss it.  You damn well won’t allow anyone to broach the subject.




 Here’s a quick shot about the Gospel of

Thomas… which I didn’t write.


“Had I known the Gospel Of Thomas,” a Buddhist monk once told author Elaine Pagels, “I wouldn’t have had to become a Buddhist.” Presumably he was at least half joking, but the fact that he could say the words suggests the degree to which the subject of Beyond Belief veers away from what would become the Christian tradition. Pagels’ 1979 book The Gnostic Gospels was one of the first works of popular scholarship to cover the early Christian writings rejected as the religion began to establish institutions and traditions, many of which would have been lost to history were it not for their chance 1945 discovery at the site of the Egyptian Nag Hammadi Library. It’s no wonder that Pagels’ monk would find an affinity with the gospel attributed to Thomas, which deals, at least in part, with the concept of earthly illusion; her book might have done well to explore such connections at greater length. ((((Instead, the slim volume takes a hodgepodge approach to its subject, freely leaping from Thomas, which Pagels never fully explains)))), to other early Christian writings in an attempt to portray an alternate version of Christianity that never quite comes into focus. Pagels gives the impression of an expert who knows so much about her subject that too much of it gets crushed in the attempt to put it all in layman’s terms. At her clearest, however, Pagels makes her subject fascinating, particularly in chapters suggesting the possibility that Thomas lost out in the spiritual horse race between its followers and those of the Gospel Of John–a theory that explains both John‘s portrayal of a doubting Thomas and the reason Christianity began to explore the paradox of a human divinity, instead of attempting to parse cryptic sayings like


“But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty, and it is you who are that poverty.”


History could have taken a different turn, and the speculation Pagels encourages by simply raising that possibility frequently compensates for her book’s shortcomings.


O.K.  Lots of people are brain-dead drooling idiots.

 It’s wrong of us not to embrace them.


I know a little more than Elaine about the mystical core of this subject. But this is not a competition. The time I spent on top of cliffs, mountains and rooftops emptying my thoughts and emotions out of my psyche   until I had the ability to see… they don’t give diplomas for this stuff… and there’s no need to. These experiences are their own reward… If you

survive them.


Competition is the law of the weak.


This is the beginning of the story.



(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne





We’re building a bell on a cliff.

It must be done.




If you’re interested.



photo-art by Krista Gedem


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