Tag: darkness

In The Beginning

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And then there was light.

In the beginning there was a big bang. And from that big bang a nation was born. And that nation was China, a maker of crap and a developer of human excrement, suffering and sewer oil. A true interloper and champion of totalitarianism and consumer product mediocrity.

And the globalists were happy.

And out of that big bang, on the first day, a city state was born. And they called it Wuhan. And that city was virulent.

But the globalists plugged their noses, held their breaths, farted  and smiled as they were all very, very happy. Woo…Hoo, Wuhan!

And on the second day a new organization was born. And they, the globalists, called it the United Nations. An august body that was formed in July. Therein followed by elitism in the World Health Organization. Who?The World Health Organization stupid, and the World Economic Forum (WEF)- woof!  Lead by doctors who are not really doctors. But true followers of the cause for world domination. But they all love Wuhan and China. They virulently love Wuhan. “This is our ticket,” they all yelled in babel confucius…er…confusion.

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And then little nation states were born. One was called Kanada. Why was it called Kanada? No one really knows, least of all the globalists.

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Don’t look at me

But Kanada was a good little player and supported the globalist cause. Kanada admired China’s dictatorship because they could turn their economy around on a dime…See the source image

…something Kanada truly envied but was hogtied in implementing their post nasal drip…er post nation state dream. So Kanada went rogue and prorogued.

And the globalists smiled…and were very, very, very happy with Kanada.

And on the third day something flew out of the Wuhan nest. And it was not good but the Globalists were very happy. The non doctors of the UN and of the WHO’s on first, with the WWF…er WEF…  on second were virulently ecstatic for they had found their cause…and their power broker. “Oh, I don’t know…”it was a force multiplier. Whew! And the cause was viewed as good…for them…for mankind…for them…for people kind…for them. It was called “Winter Knockdown” followed by “Summer Slam.” This was viewed as being very good but not for the feint of heart.

The globalists smiled for they were very content with their progress to date.

And on the fourth day a plague was born. A virus…so contagious it forced all of the Chinese to wet their pants and sell them off at their wet markets, which were located across the city. The virus was more virulent and progressive than their sewer oil, a hot commodity of the Chinese market.

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And the globalists and Kanada cheered for they had found their catalytic converter…er cataclysmic conversion…to transform mankind into their own likeness. Their god Gaia had been born. And they were happy and pleased with themselves. They wanted to spread the good cheer and this they achieved in dramatic fashion during the new year from China. “Go out and multiply” was their religious cadence to the beat of their chopsticks. And this they did…all over the world. Italy, Spain, Kanada, France, UK….It became…Chinese food for naught.

And the globalists were very happy indeed.

And on the fifth day something extraordinary happened. The virus, or plague, spread all over the world…to the delight of the WHO. Who? The World Health Organization stupid, and the WEF, and Kanada, and Zoro, Faucet, Yates and a few other global potentates.

“Lockdown, lockdown” became their rallying cry. “But not for me” they cried. “For thee.” For thee are like sheep, especially Kanadians from Kanada. And they were pleased and righteous…er, no leftists, as they gave out millions of masks developed by their chosen people…the Chinese…that had exceeded their best before date. They were crap. They were useless. But no matter. “Wear that mask.” So says the WHO. Who? The World Health Organization stupid. For they are ineffective. And Yates was extremely happy to reduce the world’s population by 6 billion people. If the masks don’t do it, then the vaccine will. And if that doesn’t work well?….the Chinese sewer oil definitely will.  Zoro chimed in to the tune of AN..TEE…FAH; AN…TEE…FAH; AN…TEE…FAH, and Baseball League Major; Baseball League Major. “Er George, not MLB spelled backwards but BLM for Black Lives Matter.” And Kanada’s Trudeau smiled and showed off his socks, which were sooo vibrant in virulent colours.

No matter. The globalists all took a knee because they were extremely happy with their creation. They worshiped Gaia.

And on the 6th day, things finally fell into place for the globalists. “It was never about the plague.” Dr Knumbnuts of the United Nations revealed. “So true,” Dr I.M Coughin of the WHO agreed. Who? The World Health Organization stupid.

“We took our lead from Kanada.” they said. “Kanadians will do anything they are told to do. Wear useless masks? No problem. Wear it on.”

And the globalist were very happy. For on this 6th day they tied this plague to Mother Earth, Gaia, their god, that Gaia was not happy and that the Plague of the Wuhan Virus was really caused by Climate Change / Global Warming and not some mixture of sewer oil and Chinese food. Gaia was not amused. Kanadians went ballistic with joy and were sooo smug in their happiness.

“Time for a major reboot of the World Economy, Religion, Education and Governance.” Dr Banderas from Mexican’t proclaimed as the lead procrastinator of the United Nations Security Council. Dr Freeourland, Kanada’s lead representative of the WHO, responded in kind. Who? The World Health Organization stupid. “This plague has given us a golden opportunity to reboot the entire world economy placing Gaia as our head.” She said. “Green, green… green it will be.” as she blew a huge greenie into the face of Dr Banderas, sitting on her far left because she forgot to sneeze into her inside elbow, which was the accepted sneeze protocol although her elbow was laid bare by her sleeveless dress.

And the Globalist were very happy indeed for they had their hands firmly crunched on the gonads of the world. They had their god Gaia. They had their holy trinity of fear, terror, panic. They had Kanada. “You’re all going to die.” became their mantra, their creed, their gospel. And their rosary of anxiety, depression and violence was forced upon all the disbelievers to submit to their credo. “Just look to Kanada.” they re-snorted…er…retorted.

See the source imageAnd on the 7th day they, the globalists, rested for they had achieved their goal for world domination. The procrastinators of the United Nations, the non doctors of the WHO…who?…the World Health Organization stupid, and the World Economic Forum were extremely happy.

And then there was darkness!

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Go West Young Man…5

…My routine after work and after supper with my sister and her partner never really varied that much. After a very long walk in the rain, I would hit a local fast food outlet and gorge myself on the standard acceptable food groups of the day: hamburger buns… carbs, hamburger patty… protein; cheese…dairy; fried onions… vegetables, french fries…carbs and starch; topped with mayo…egg whites; relish and mustard…sodium, sugar. It was always the same routine.  Livin the life.

I never met anyone other than family and Sandy the whole time I was out there. I just remember being very lonely while walking up and down those downtown streets at night and in the rain, the mist, the drizzle, the light rain, the light mist and the light drizzle amid the high rise apartments and sky high business skyscrapers, alone with my thoughts and a weird habit of conversing with myself while walking to keep myself company. It didn’t really matter being considered a nut-zo in a city such as this as the streets were almost always deserted. During the day the mice came out to play in the liquid sunshine of course, scurrying about as the city seemed to come to life but at night the place resembled a ghoulish, grey coloured morgue: eerily dark as only Hades himself could appreciate except for the glint of the dull yellow or faint orange glow of its street lights. The inhabitants seemed to be nearly dead and laid up, one on top of the other, in their individually marked trays or cocoons called apartment blocks.

After a couple of months I had had enough. I quit my job and returned home.

The west end of that city appears much the same today as it did 55 years ago.

It still rains. A lot!

Go West Young Man…4

…Every evening, after work, I would go out into the mist and go for a walk. My sister’s place was in the west end, a favourable part of the city because of its funkiness, its weirdness and its gayness. Unbeknownst to me this was the gay part of town. I guess I must have suspected it, especially the time that I inadvertently walked down from my sister’s apartment to the beaches area at the English sounding bay. There, just off the roadway, between the sand of the beach and the black blacktop of the avenue stood an old Victorian era styled bath changing rooms, for this was once a popular bathing and picnicking area. It was deserted now except for the whispers and the secrets of past encounters or the glorious and better days of a very distant memory.

The building was quite ornate, of mortar and concrete, with tunnels and porticos abound. On the one side there was the business of the avenue while on the other a concrete gangway adorned with a wrought iron railing and baluster separating the beach from the street scenes. Leaning against this railing I looked out into the blackness of the night sky, over the waters of the bay, which resembled a purplish but dark sheen of wavering velvet, or silken sheets. I could see lights far off into the distant shore and make out the synchronicity of the various green, red and amber lighted aids to navigation. Looking over this dark scene I wondered how they ever managed to enjoy swimming in the frigid water or to picnic in the pouring rain.  It is beyond my understanding. Perhaps these wet coasters were masochists as well. Vitamin D deficiency can play havoc on one’s disposition and mental well being or so I am told.

Standing there, looking out over the water, I sensed that I was not alone and was being watched. Turning back suddenly and with my back to the bay I could faintly see various shapes of various sizes mingling about in the tunnels and porticos of the bathhouse. It suddenly dawned on me that this was a gay hangout and a place for gays to hook-up. I got the hell out of there. I made a mental note not to pass this way again, at least not after dark. Unlike today, gay activity in this particular city was not unlike the city’s drug culture in that it was better left unsaid and to rest and fester in the darkest corners and recesses of the underbelly of what was considered then to be the acceptable norms of society…

Go West Young Man…2

…My sister met me at the station then took me to their abode in the downtown core. They had rented an apartment in the City’s west end, very close to the beach of a British sounding bay with water that was so cold as to render it un-swimmable. One would have an extremely difficult time finding one’s privates and taking a piss after a swim in waters such as this. And who was one anyway? Close to that were funky looking shops and high rise concourses that spread their way along narrow streets, avenues and boulevards toward a massive green expanse of a park that adorned itself with towering trees of old growth forest. But in the rain these towering, magnificent giants of nature were mostly obscured by the fog in the midst of a city that was blanketed for the most part of the year by a canopy of clouds and mist. With all of this rain the buildings of the downtown core exuded a depressed aura of doom and gloom being grey on the mind, grey on one’s thoughts with an outlook of a grey depressing world in the midst of all of this precipitation. “But at least it’s not snow, you don’t have to shovel it,” I heard over and over again. Yes, but saying this was really a defensive mechanism on one’s part, a sense of insecurity or rationalization by some idiot who chose, regrettably, to live in such a grey expanse of concrete within what is, in reality, an urban concrete rain forest. After a few days of this I wondered how anyone in their right mind could live here. The dampness of the place was bone chilling and mould worthy. But then again I guess home is where the heart is.

I don’t want to dwell too much on this place; needless to say I got a job at a paper, cardboard packaging company that had an international flavour to it. My sister and her partner welcomed me with open arms and made me feel at home. In their old beater, they took me on day trips around the city and surrounding country side. I must admit that when the sun did come out on those rare occasions, the city’s natural, geographical setting was spectacular. Only problem was that these occasions were as remote as a west coast hippy’s tendency to find a job. Me, I worked…

Go West Young Man…

My employment prospects, while numerous, were never really career worthy. In between jobs, or between a period of steady employment I would sometimes hit the road and do some travelling.

My first bit of travel occurred just after working for A.C. Wickman. Working there, polishing the fat wide ends of the tiny drill bits, I was let go just one day before my three month probation period ended. All of us rookies, who had all started at this factory on the same day, were all released, terminated, let go, made redundant, superfluous, surplus, unused, outmoded, unnecessary….fired. It didn’t matter how or why or what you said to describe your circumstances, situation or bit of bad luck. It all meant the same damn thing. Pogey! And how I love that word redundant!  Code for fired.  A nice English bit of linguistic mumbo jumbo, confusion-speak to tell someone that they’re sacked.

“You’re being made redundant” someone once told me. Great! I thought I was getting a promotion. Redundant… wow.

I decided to head to the west coast. By train! The Transcontinental…all the way to the Pacific coast. All by myself. Well not really by myself because when I got there I stayed with my penultimate oldest sister who was shacked up with a Japanese fellow. Her best girlfriend, my next door neighbour’s daughter, was also out there. You see, this was 1968, the year prior to the summer of love.  Yet 1966-69 was, in reality, the longest summer of love in history.  In the day, go west young man was hippie-speak for the wider, greener pastures of acid rain, or West Coast Bud. And I could stay with them until I got settled.

“Why not just stay here and be a stoner” someone once said. “Why go all the way out there?”

“Well, man, sunsets are really, really weird out there.”

“How so?” they queried. “You can’t see them anyway cause it’s always raining out there.

“Well man… because man, it’s like, wow man, out of site…there is no land anywhere west of there. Don’t you think that is soo cool. Soo out of site. Land I mean. You can’t see any land man. It’s out of site”

“Well yes” they thought of this stupid idiot. “Land is out of site west of there cause it’s all Pacific Ocean from there on in. Until you hit Japan.”

“Japan? Like wow man! Japan? Really? Man, that is so weird, so cool, that is so profound man.”

Good gawd I thought. The future of mankind!

My parents were fine with this although they were entirely tuned out of the reality of the drug culture. Unbeknownst to them they were letting their young son, at 17, to hit the long and winding, purple hazed road of personal freedom. I can say this now, looking back on those years, but at the time I was scared shitless.

I boarded coach on the continental at the very large cavernous platform of the enormous train station that served my hometown for over a hundred years. I could imagine then and there, at that very moment in time, how the soldiers of the Great War and World War Two felt while leaving the familiarity and warmth of families and loved ones for the trenches of France and Belgium, or the training fields of England, knowing full well that many of them would not be returning to the comforts of home. Why did I feel this way? Think this way? At this particular moment? I don’t really know but the images of troops on trains in cavernous train stations like this one just seemed to just pop into my head for no apparent reason. It was as if this thought had been ingrained into my psyche from such a young age that their individual and collective sacrifices paved the way for my very own freedom of choice at this very moment in time. As I was waving goodbye to my parents, just as the Transcontinental was slowly leaving the station, I could almost see or visualize the spectres of long lost loved souls roaming about this station waving goodbye to their friends, their families and their loved ones for the very last time, for eternity. These willowy images dissipating slowly like some mist of memory in the stillness of time.

It took over three days to reach the coast. I was dead tired as it was extremely difficult to sleep in coach. The scenery for a young lad was extremely boring. Trees, and lakes; trees and lakes; the occasional hill covered with trees then more lakes with trees around them. Muskeg, Muskox and Muskrat – it was rather musky out there with a lot of musky critters running or scampering through the musky forests of trees and lakes and streams. Then more trees and more lakes and more trees and… trees. Finally, no more trees. Just flat grassland. A sea, no an ocean of grass. More grass, then a lake, maybe a river bounded by grass on all sides, but no trees, just grass. As far as the eye could see. Grass! Sometimes a small rise would come into view, a small hill covered with grass. I dreamed of grass, of trees, of lakes of grassy knolls. It was weird man and I was no stoner.

Finally hills, as barren as Sister Mary Bernice, my elementary school principal, morphed into bigger hills which transformed into very large hills with deep, deep valleys. Valley’s covered with trees. The mountains, the Rocky Mountains: all the granite one could ever imagine. Most people see these mountains as majestic, beautiful, God’s handiwork, a reflection of his power: the very smallness of mankind in full view when measured against this spectacular backdrop. Yet all I could think of was granite. Enough granite to cover every kitchen counter top on the planet. But wait, that wouldn’t occur for another thirty years. What was I thinking?

Mountains, and more mountains, snow covered, nature’s monuments. Mountain passes that scoured a route for the early explorers: Lewis and Clark, Thompson, Fraser, Carson, DiCrapio, Morrison I thought. Unbelievable! Then darkness. What? These idiot trainers scheduled the very best transit, the transit through the mountains, to occur at night? Dopes! And they called us stoners! We would arrive at our west coast destination in the morning? Try to sleep I thought.

Waking up to a slow moving chugalug train inching its way it seemed into the outer burbs and run-down industrial sites of this so called magnificent coastal city. Magnificent in that it was a large metropolitan area surrounded be the majesty of the coastal mountain range and the Cascades: a nice name for a string of active, dormant and extinct volcanoes. Think of Mount St Helens, Rainier, Hood, Baker, Shasta and other non descript names for mountains that have the potential of reeking natural havoc, cascading death and destruction on an unsuspecting, unassuming public. These mountainous, frighteningly natural megaliths formed a formidable barrier to the north and east of the city’s metropolis but then offset by the calm waters of the Pacific Ocean bordering its northwest, west and south-western flanks. Only problem with this visual description was the curtain of rain, drizzle and mist that permeated my vision out of the coach’s dirty windows. These titans of nature and the oceanic beauty and seemingly calmness of the Pacific were really just figments of my active imagination in all of this rain, or as a described picture by some nature magazine article I read about the place.

My first impressions were not good. I found the outer fringes of this city in disarray: disorganized, third worldly in its ardour and its feel. Low rise buildings of various sizes and shapes with facades of every colour of the rainbow. Ugly purples, grotesque yellows and grim orange décor trims added to this canvass of dirty grey stucco buildings and rusted out arches and gantries of the numerous bridges that spanned the delta of a mighty river. With the dreariness of the rain and the drabness of the grey skies these colours and contours were transformed and morphed into a visual scene that reminded me of some hippy’s bad acid dream of an undulating kaleidoscope landscape of a barf induced wasteland. When we finally reached the western terminus of this national journey and could go no further, a young fellow like me could only sigh a sigh of relief that the torturous three and a half day trek in coach was finally over….