It was finally warm on April thirtieth.

They are digging a large large deep deep pit just down the street, closer to the lake.

The pit is approximately sixty miles deep, and there were backhoe machines there which were continuing to dig deeper still.

My eyes are not skilled at fathoming, it may have been fifty miles.

You cannot see the pit unless you are walking by one exact side, after giving up and starting to walk following a bout of exercise joggings. The excavation area is sheathed by fences which make advertisements of the bejeweled condominium complex which promises to take the hidden pit's place, one day soon, if you would only please lay your money down.

I think that the pit is becoming very close to scraping the tops of a metamystical localation that most people call Hell, and that is where Satan decides to lay his forlorn horns.

If a backhoe were to scrape Satan on his cheek while he is trying to sleep, I think that my building would be one of the six buildings which would be pulverized in the first ensuing rage.

Luckily, the backhoes are only delving while I am at work, which means that I will tend to avoid the first of Satan's rages, although Linus is in for a scare.

But I do not fear for Linus' safety, because I am pretty sure that Satan has had run-ins with Linus before. Those run-ins are the reason that Satan has his legendary six-hundred and sixty-six scars, and Linus has a brown discoloration in the corner of his right eye. Satan is also the reason that Evil bores Linus.

Linus is from Richmond.

And so if they dig the pit too deep and Satan blows up my apartment and Linus subdues and appropriates Satan into bite sized pieces, I will be less distraught, except that I will still need to fill the void left by my vanished furnitures and music collections and strumming equipment and my bookshelf full of books which makes it seem as though I am a bright lad and an avid reader. I will be left no choice but to make the trek down into the sixty mile pit, with naught but the clothes I happen to wear on that particular day, and sift through the wreckage and hope that some particulate semblances remain of my mangled possessions, and especially my super glue, which I will hope to discover intact, because if that is ruined then nothing is salvageable.

If only Linus were more proactive.

On the bright side, digging into Hell is the only way to put a stop to rampant suburbanization. Someday, Heavens and Hells will be adjoined in concrete, and Jesus will ask you to hop into his Prius so that he can take the HOV lane down down down because he has "never seen stalactites before, dude!". Incidentally, you will end up feeling somewhat gypped, learning that there has been a bureaucratic loophole since the beginning of time that caused exactly no one to ever actually go to hell, and suddenly the thousands of years of scare tactics and propositions of retribution ring hollow, like a bell made out of wax, or something.

Things against stuff.

DSC_1540
Originally uploaded by amnesoid.

When I am in need of something to blame, I never resist the opportunity to blame coffee. Sometimes, when I blame coffee with enough fervor, I even stop gorging myself with it like it is the cure.

Most recently, I have blamed coffee for my inability to complete a sentence which is error-free, and also of historic significance, and prophetic, and which will change peoples' lives. I cannot seem to construct sentences with these basic properties, lately, and so I have blamed coffee. I would blame my brain tumor, but we are still feeling each other out and I don't want to begin on my wrong feets.

By the way, here is a photograph of a rocky mountain. Is it not rocky? I think that the Rocky Mountains are very aptly named, but that is just my dumb opinion.

I allowed myself to tour the Banff Provincial Park for four hours on Sunday, at a speed of 100 kph. This is the reason that most of my photographs contain automobile parts, such as sideview mirrors, which almost allow for a 'photograph-within-a-photograph' effect. The only thing that the photographs do not happen to Capture, is the Danger which is involved when focusing and framing at 100 kph.

Anyway, I am a fan of mountains, and I am often mistaken for a rugged lumberjack type of fellow, who makes countless grammatical errors. It was almost painful, to see so many mountains and not Conquer them Mercilessly, but I remind you of my four-hour window, which I was to remain faithful to.

I will plan to plan to arrange a more extensive mountain adventure, sometime before my brain tumor dissolves my ability to plan and/or walk and hike.

The highway out of the mountains descends square into the abyss that is Calgary, and that is where I spent Sunday evening. The sociologist in me wished to go to the bar, next door to my hotel, to observe the natives in the midst of an 'elimination game' scenario for their hometown Flames, who are an NHL hockey team. Their season was ended like a knifes through the heartss, in overtime by an American hockey team. The citizens stared into space, contentedlessly, or something. And then the bar manager asked the nonsmokers if it was alright if the smokers could smoke a cigarette out of sadness and lack of victory, and for my part I said "Yes!", because I was observing and wanted to see what would happen if people in a bar began to smoke cigarettes.

Calgary will be alright, despite the loss of their beloved hockey team's year of efforts. No less than two customers were hired for jobs at the bar, during my short visit. If YOU wanted to move to Calgary, dear reader, you would most assuredly be asked to take over a management position at Microsoft by the time your supper arrived.

This picture of a rocky mountain is from outside of the car.

I cannot have this many socks. This will not do.

Here is a song called 'Socks'.

Song called 'socks'.

I did not make the song called socks. King Missile did.

John S. Hall is lazy, anymore.

Red tape emblems

P4210290
Originally uploaded by amnesoid.

I have bidded a farewell to 37-A-8034-1, who is very much like 37-A-8048-1 and many of the others I have met over the years.

"One end sucks and the other end blows". These are the type of sayings I have been able to collect in my line of work.

Now I will sleep for a few hours, then I will drive to the top of a mountain, where I will be temporarily and fractionally closer to the now nameless and dark dead star that once exploded and made it possible for my blood to have iron. Iron and everything else heavier than 15.9994, I think. I think it is poignant that trillions of our bits are from a supermassive explosion that happened billions of years ago in unbelievably far off places. This has everything to do with mountain tourism.

After the mountain, I will go to the airport and try not to act like there is a stolen race-moose in my checked baggage.

I made three errors in the writing of this short and simple posting. At least corrections are still within my sphere of influenza.

please if you get a chanse put some flowrs on Algernons grave in the bak yard...

A red star on the inlet scroll

A red star on the inlet scroll
Originally uploaded by amnesoid.

Communist stars get squared. So it seems.

It is not good to go for weeks completely uninformed on current events. But it is no good to watch too much CNN and be inundated with disaster, or to think too much about how gun laws should be a little more scrutinous, or to think too much about how mental illness works, and etc.

In any event, John Markell will probably be allowed to continue to sell pistols to the mentally ill.

Red Deer!

I am in Red Deer.

Do you know where Red Deer is?

If you do know where Red Deer is, then you are a nerd who has spent too much time paging through atlases. You know what they say about kids with atlases? Those are the kids who are never wanting to be wherever Here is.

Red Deer is betweenst Calgary and Edmonton, and in a very boring yellow/brown flatlands region just east of the Rocky Mountains. It is in a province called Alberta, which is legal to also refer to as "Canadian Texas", because Alberta is the part of Canada where they have stowed all of the tractors and dungarees and cattle and cowboy hats. And cowboys, even though they are phony cowboys. Everybody knows that there are no real cowboys, anymore.

Red Deer might be the driest location on the planet of Earth, considering that every time that i open my mouth, the corners of it crack halfway around my head. Everyone can see my molars. But i am lousy at exaggerating. Needful to say, i am downing a litre of water per two hours. I may also begin moisturizing my skin, if i can be sure that no one will find out.

Here is a ridiculous piece of carpet in our office, which is a trailer.



Oh yeah, i am in Red Deer for my job. I will be working thirteen hours a day, seven days a week, and i will be wearing a hard hat and coveralls, most of the time. I will also be missing out on plenty of exciting hockey games. But i will be able to act like a smartypants and fondle a turbine.

As an aside, my co-worker on the night shift is a feller i haven't worked with in four years. His lifeforce depends completely on dipping snuff, and he never swears, his vocabulary is filled with completely un-ironic dang's, heck's and dad-gum!'s. My favorite sentence from my co-worker yesterday went like this: "Golly, folks sure is nice up here, Tee-im."

When this is all over, hopefully sooner rather than later, maybe i will have some time to engage in the Art of Mountain Discovery, and drive to the bit of Rockies on the other side of Calgary, which seem to be stout. I would probably not leave my car to explore for glaciers and trees, on account of GRIZZLIES.

The runs

Running will become an important exercise as soon as it becomes warm again, except that it is never supposed to be warm again. I am only five pounds more than my peak conditioning of last Fall, but since i went into hibernation, things seem to have transferred. Flabbiness has returned to my topography. It's not a terrible problem, though. It doesn't even come close to my alcoholism, and that's good news. Once i do exhume exercises, it should not take much punishment of my lungs to achieve good-enough physical conditioning.

Probably the most difficult thing, even with good weather, would be chalking up enough emotional investment with which to care to put on shorts, etc.

Okay i have to go, because my arrival times to work have drifted from 8:30 to almost 9 in the past month, and i need to make AN EFFORT to IMPROVE. Don't worry, i have not been scolded by my management. They do not arrive until 9:15.

Neverending goddamn winter

TODAY, THERE IS A FRESH LAYER OF SNOW ON THE GROUND. SOME OF THIS GROUND, I WILL BE NEEDING TO USE IN ORDER TO TRANSPORT MYSELF TO MY EMPLOYER'S LOCATION. ALSO, RIGHT NOW IT IS SNOWING AT A MANIC PACE, AND THE POTENTIAL FOR BEING PUMMELED BY SNOWFLAKES DURING WHATEVER TIME I SPEND OUT OF DOORS IS VERY ASTRONOMICAL.

I AM NOT IMPRESSED BY ANY OF THIS. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT WINTER WAS OVER TWO WEEKS AGO. WINTER STARTED IN THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE TWO WEEKS AGO, BUT WE DON'T FUCKING LIVE THERE, AND NEITHER DOES ANYBODY ELSE.

IT IS APRIL.

THIS IS A FUCKING ATROCITY.

THERE IS ONE MAN WHO COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING, BUT INSTEAD, SAT BY IDLY.

IT IS THIS MAN:



HE PROBABLY FIGURES THAT HE IS IMMUNE TO WEATHER RESPONSIBILITIES, SINCE HE IS RETIRED. BUT BEING BORNE OF SUPERHUMAN POWERS MEANS NEVER RETIRING FROM ONE'S RESPONSIBILITIES, YOU FUCKING JERK.

AS OF TODAY, I AM NO LONGER IN COMMANDER TOM'S CADET TROUPE. I AM TEARING UP MY MEMBERSHIP CARD.

11,040

There are some of us whom Miranda July will never fall in love with.

Our shirts are blinding blue. Ultraviolet.

I am living in an age that is absent of exclamation points, and semicolons, and parentheses. There is so much bureaucracy just to get a questionmark. Words get so endangered. There are ages and ages of lava or ice.

If my fingers were to engage a circuit, shall i manipulate it until far far past my bedtime? I would like to feel nineteen. I would like to feel nineteen ninety six. Staring into space, being lost for words, innumerable words, thoughts forming sinkholes, psychedelic daydreams, captured by a presence, the gravity of a lust, unbearably high and unbearably low.

Time is the eldest prozac, it fucking seems.

Deletionism. 5th-floor insulationism. Icecube deaths beneath the poisonous vapours of perfumes of sixty-year-old rich women.

Resurgence and gospel.

When i wake up next, north america will be turning towards the sun for the 11,041st time.

I will resist the urge of thinking that i have some sort of obligation to those that observe. I should know.

I will have a song. It contains the phrase "broken bullet", which is a play on Neil Young, who is very old.

Brain tumors

Thankfully, i am always premeditating the demise of my own psyche, over the course of an unbearable, decades-long warble of crashing demonic tritones. Like how being too neurotic about dumb shit over the course of too many years will cause a plaque to form on specific neurons, causing certain brain cavities and eventual unreplenishment of former genius abilities, revealing itself in the gradual increasing tendency for spelling and punctuation errors, in written communications to family and friends and the public at large, which are decreasing in frequency, breadth and insight, incidentally.

This would all hint to a brain tumor at the age of thirty-one, or sooner, of course. One of those "you've got six months to live, before you die, champ!" moments.

And then you would be dead, and not even being able to think about how no one would give a shit about the facts of you having ever existed. Except for some fleeting moments in the lives of ongoing friends and family, or children, if there were any, wherein they have some passing interest on some particular day when they are not busy going grocery shopping, and would like to investigate into what kind of person you were, before the tragic death. But then, eventually, they would also be dead, and maybe then you would have grandchildren with a similar fleeting interest, far into the future but not That far, and then after they are dead it is certain that no one would care in the least acceptable amounts, you will only be a name typed into a futuristic family tree on the future internet, maybe on Wiki-FamblyTree, which some great great great grand-niece is putting together because she does not have a way with boys.

Won't someone ever cure brain tumors?

I may not have a brain tumor, yet.