ps what the hell was going on in that last post?

(as for today, 'nother delirious hodgepodge)

Dragon slayers fret about the lack of business... 'I am here to kill a dragon,' the man said to the shopkeepers looking curious at the shining knightly armour the tall man wore. 'Dragon slaying ain’t like dusting crops boy.' And so we come to the great crossroads of the age: to kill a dragon or to step on his face with dirty slippers, and by doing so maybe undercut a bit of his momentum...

I try and fail to describe the freshness of the breeze that licks at my neck; the words are washed away in the wind. The lake is a cool friend, and without the stench and humidity of July the mosquitoes are more and more scarce. Fewer than ten bites this week, says Jeb. Poor Jeb always wears dark colours, and so always gets bit more than I, who am draped in white like a ghost.

We drink vodka mixers on a cool summer’s eve. We talk about booze and clouds and how the sun never comes out when you want, and when it does it’s never for long enough. I ask the boy at the dockside to fetch me another, and he goes upside obediently. And this is so banal. Here I am, trying to write sentences never before dreamed up, things that won’t ever be thought in a million years, and then I go off on a Muskoka tangent. I admit it, finally: I am ambitious. I am vain. I am not even close to perfect... just wait till I write my back story; my prequel.


The cost of living at home is untold inertia. And living a life so predictable. So much staleness. We eat the tripe the part of the cob that gets thrown to the elks in the Norwegian forest. And there is such an industry for us people, but the gulf between us is enormous. And so what? Legs are too warm; there is too much harm in the air. And the ways we justify and the fears we feed. Germanic in origin, but those Latinate verbs lack the basic poetry. Submit infer preordain. Too much stimulus, try to track the thought that bounces back, forth through a thousand consciousnesses. The mouse in the back room scurries and hurries. We expect a lot of flurries and the hurricane will arrive by noon; and depart discourteously through the back doors, the Kawarthas, which I am told is lousy cottage country. The tired refrain of multiple media and the detrimental effects of too much scriptedness... I found a sincere lady, who smiles and talks and offers me her hand. I found a love on the internet, a cyber fox. Oh the safety of it all. And pre-screening. There is always a market for boredom. Lavalove Starbucks and McDonald’s, and the predictability of lust. Because lust is what is predictable, so they package it on-line. The coup of the usual; dictatorship of the mediocre. And we can pre-qualify for a friend. We want the instant access and the physical stim and the tight fitting hosiery in full view. Two dimensional love, brought to you by your fibre optic messiah. But this is written upside down, fragmented and intermittent in four dimensons at least. You know, twisting dials on a radio, searching for that one kickass tune...


Dear Fiona of Tullamore,

You are at risk of being evicted. You have stunk up the neighbourhood with your long-legged dromedaries. These animals, while enjoyed by the town children, are a menace to the blind folk, because they leave droppings and tend to spit when least appropriate. Please send them to the knacker and have them turned to glue. We can share in the revenues from their ‘gluement’ in a 50-50 manner but beyond that we do not compromise.

Please also remove the large signs on your lawn that say ‘Death to the Mayor.’ They can be construed as inciting hate. Consider the Environmental lobby; as the mayor of Hybrid, Indiana, once said at a general meeting of bucket-sniffers, “We have to root out methane-causing cow stink at the source.” This quote can be generalized to all situations, but it means one thing in particular: banning the foxtrot. It is a most vicious and suggestive dance, not meant for practising in this burg of moderation, especially under our right-thinking governance. So all citizens have good reason to despise this fox-hoppery, as it will only promote intolerance and devilry if observed and imitated by any soul with an ounce of credulity.

We also advise you, Fiona, that it is uncouth to snap your fingers at senior citizens. This has been a vice of yours, one much noted to be on the increase. The other day we had to pacify a seventy-year-old woman from Ulaan Batur. This Mongolian had thought Tullamore was a peaceful place, until she reckoned with the harsh crackle of your thumb and forefinger rubbing together. Now she complains without cease. Let me assure you, it is most disturbing to behold an aged Mongolian applying ointment to her earlobes, and we will tolerate it no further!

Please also end the profligacy of your husband, who has been seen spending large sums at the local five and dime, purchasing unnecessarily large quantities of string. How much string can a citizen use in a year? 500, maybe 800 yards-length? Your husband has now purchased over 6,000 yards of string, and we fear he may have no place to rest it all. What if there should be a hurricane, and a resulting shortage of string? Your husband has a monopoly on quantity, which is not good for economic laissez-faire competition. And so we are revoking your bond-trading license as well, as of this morning, at 10 p.m precisely.

Yours sincerely,

the Administrative Council of Tullamore



(pps what the hell was going on in that last post?)