The thing is, the Muse knows I need him.
                        ***
“In the stillness of one’s being is the centre of Creation 
  there I am the camera, the image.”
            Louise Nevelson 

I often don’t know what I’d say to my Muse, if he did climb the stairs to find out what smart idea I had to pitch.

​I know this. My Muse is no friend of my Ego.
​

I know. I know. Marketing only makes sense. But what about the Death of a Salesman? Ay?

You see, my Muse doesn’t give two ships about marketing.  

​And there’s another thing I’ve noticed about my Muse. He’s getting more unruly as I get older. I was taught to write, no matter how I feel. Grind my teeth into powdered enamel, if I have to, but write, write, write. Make a schedule. Find a set room to hammer on the keyboard. Pound the crap out of the keyboard. Almost every day. Even if the words look and smell like a dog park. 
​

My Muse and my Ego agree on practically nothing.

​For example, I remember a fella telling me that he’d read a story in one of my books. He’d said, “I didn’t like it.”

​He thought the main character was crazy. It upset him. 
​

I thanked him. I genuinely meant it. My Muse was proud of my reaction to the reader’s criticism. He even came upstairs to see how I was doing.

​My ego went into a hissy fit. 
​

I did let my ego take some pleasure from these accolades. I can’t totally shut my Ego off. He’s not horrible. It’s not as if he can help himself, but, you see, the stories came from my living with a culture that was massively and intrinsically different than mine, and had been significantly abused and mis-understood. It was only when I began to get positive reports from the Indigenous readers that I felt some peace and comfort about having written White Eyes.
​

I do say to my Ego, because I know he has feelings too,  “You have your place, but you can’t be living in my house full time. You’re too much of an attention getter.” 

You might think, why does my Muse live in the basement? That’s just my Muse. Give him all the niceties of a place and he’d be no good to anybody. 

​“The first will be last and the last will be first.”
     Luke 13:30
​

Some people say that I should write about some of the interesting events that have happened in my life. Sounds like a good idea. Why not? Makes sense, just like marketing makes cold hard sense.

​Not to my Muse. I mention this to my Muse and he’ll give me his quirky little sideways look, probably say nothing and then dramatically ignore me. I get it. I get it.
​

Many creative people, go to great lengths to keep their Muse happy. Some will fight to the death to stay true to their Muse and the messages it receives from SL. 

​I worry, maybe neurotically, that my Muse, when it’s buffeted by all the pressures that try to make it sit, roll-over, be silent, or play dumb, that it will become domesticated. But, I’ve learned that it’s one of the strongest forces in Creation. I think it’s because of its connection with the SL. 
​

I can sometimes feel the SL’s presence. It often happens when I’m in a crowd. I might worry that my Muse and the SL, which has a terribly soft voice, will get ploughed under by the multitude of noisy Egos. The power of the throng. But then, that's when I often become aware of the deep sadness and Joy that permeates the universe. I think that’s the SL speaking softly.
​

 And, no matter how much my Ego pushes me, if I listen to my Muse, I can usually see that King Ego is often wearing no clothes, or they are only shabby rags. Even though, in his mind, he’s wearing colourful and unique designer garments.

 There are, of course, many reasons why I write.  

I love books. I love to touch books. I love the pictures on the front and the back of books. Such a pleasure to turn the pages, feel the flimsiness of the paper and to think of the strength and resiliency of the words that are on the pages. 
​

Occasionally, I will look at my books, three so far, and how many total pages, I don’t know, and will feel sad when I think about how much time and emotions they have cost me. 

​However, I’m also proud of them. I know that they came from a solid, soulful need to hang on. To spit into some very blustery winds. 
​

 So I keep in close touch with my Muse. I let him stay in my basement for free and I buy him most of his necessities.

​And if you are lucky enough, as I was, you might meet a person, such as my partner Susan. She understood this energy that fills the universe. She understood what drove me. She respected and honoured my, often disruptive Creative Muse.
​

 I am super lucky to presently know a few people who feel the need to stay connected to that awesome joyous melancholy that fills the space around and inside us. 

How can I not love a person who understands the need to stay in touch with their Muse and its omnipresent connections?

And, surprise, surprise. My Muse, believe it or not, just a minute ago, bounded up the stairs, opened the door and said, “Way to go! You’re feeling it. Take a break. Let’s go get a beer.”

​“No,” I said. “Let’s get a cold Iced Cap.”

But some people say the Virginia Creeper could ruin my  walls and my roof and maybe do other awful things. 

​But golly gee folks, I like it. Maybe it makes me strange. Maybe it’s part of my story.
It’s a gamble.
​

 So, I often just say, the heck with it. 

​For example, I drink water from a spring that pours out of a pipe that is located along the Trans Canada. After years of drinking it, I have now taken some precautions. I boil the water. Much of the brook, as far as I know, runs above the ground. And I learned from a fella who worked in the forest, that he once saw the water running over a dead deer. 

Stories everywhere. 
​

  “Know things in nature
     Are like a person.
        Talk to tornados;
     talk to the thunder.
     They are your friends
     And will protect you.”


       Anonymous

Life’s a gamble, but there are always stories.


“He who is swimming against the stream comes to the Source.”
            Gottfried Muller
​

“Generally speaking, whether something is logical or isn’t, what’s meaningful about it are the effects.———————But pinpointing the cause that produced the effect isn’t easy. It’s even harder to show people something concrete that caused it, in a “Look see?” Kind of way. Of course there is a cause somewhere. Can’t be an effect without a cause. You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. Like falling dominoes, one domino (cause) knocks over the adjacent domino (cause), which then knocks over the domino (cause) next to it. As this sequence continues on and on, you no longer know which was the logical cause.”
        Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatory
​

I empathize with my Muse. I protect my Muse. So, I can’t overly plan or be unduly logical. My Muse needs space. Besides, it gives me headaches, hives, stomach cramps, pressure in my chest and a feeling that I am pissing myself off.

​As my Muse has pointed out, “Get too logical and orderly, Larry and you’re in the magical land of logical illogic. Insanity Larry!”
​

I think, why some people who are involved in the creative world, often appear offish, defensive, weird or disorganized is because they are protecting or listening to their Muse. 

​A few days ago, I was waiting for a friend to return from his hospital appointment. It’s an excellent hospital, but as I looked at the building, I saw a pile of blocks. Which, to me, represents how our society perceives our bodies and our spirits. It gave my Muse the shivers.
​

My Muse and I both like surprises. Over planning and too much logic are, often, an inoculation against surprises. I know that they can help to prevent chaos or bad results, but, you see, I think that even some bad surprises can lead to good surprises. 
​

Often depending too much on logic or planning can be like locking a solid door, throwing the key into the ocean and then remembering that you left your wallet inside. 
​

I often have logic and planning this and thats thrown at me. They sometimes come across as some new form of the Ten Commandments. And, because they sound logical, they make sense at a certain heady level. They appear in a fine and fashionable costume made out of very thick coloured rope. It looks so impressive and those who live in the muted magical world of logic, well, it’s kind of difficult to hear the child, who is saying, “Look mommy, that fella is  wearing a rope.”
​

So, if you want a label, one could say that I’m a big fan of happenstance, Mabel. 

​Here’s a happenstance example. 
​

You see, to play hockey or public skate now means an hour of driving each way. It seemed daunting. Maybe even obsessive, at my age. 

Then I had a dream. In the dream a hockey buddy said to me, “You’re tough, Larry.” 

​So, I bit the bullet.
​

I’m knocking down a domino here, so please stay with me. I’m making a point which my Muse thinks is a good one.

​I was told, when my latest book was published, that it was going to be difficult to get it promoted in the newspaper.
​

“Instead of a stable truth, I choose unstable possibilities.”
​

                       Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatory
​

So, to protect my Muse, even though he isn’t paying a lot of rent to stay in my basement apartment, I try not to let him be swamped or crippled by worries about such things as disease prevention, financial organization, garlic breath prevention, the science of relationships, anxiety creating advertisements and friendly educational statements that have been a boom for many industries, and has made many of us feel like we are lost sinners and must obsessively get our houses into order. 
​

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this ‘emotion’ is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder, or stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. His eyes are closed.”
                              Albert Einstein 

​

When I recently returned home from Ontario, I arrived to mayhem. The mice, the squirrels and the chipmunks, had a party. Empty cereal boxes on the floor, chewed up notes, toilet paper strewn about, lots of mouse turds, stuffed animals on the floor, cripes, I almost expected to find empty liquor bottles. And, the Virginia Creeper had crashed the party by pushing its tentacles over the door and into the hallway. Now that’s a wild party.
​

On top of that, there was poor Dominic, hunkered down in his squirrel hunting blind. But there were no squirrels because I’d stopped putting out seeds. It’s one of his joys in life. He never hurts the squirrels except by mistake.
​

Well, I’m now feeding the birds. And the squirrels and the chipmunks.

A few days later, some of Sue’s family visited. They were entertained by all the activity going on outside my living room window. Which proved to me that it’s how we perceive positives and negatives.

​My next story is a better one to describe a third eye event. 
​

I believe that my Third Eye got to take a peek through a crack in the infinite veil. Witnessed a parable in action. A story blossoming in front of me. 

​And, I received another shiny silver sliver of closure.
​

 “Tell all truth but tell it slant.”
                            Emily Dickinson
​

I will have to do plenty more thinking about AI.

​I can guarantee that this blog isn’t AI generated. 
​

Robert Burns wrote the poem, ‘To a Mouse’. It could have been called ‘To a Wasp’.
        
​“I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
        Has broken Nature’s social union,
        An justifies that ill opinion
                    Which makes thee startle
        At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
                    And fellow mortal.”
​

Some of us fellow mortals have discovered that wasps can use logical deduction. They can absorb two bits of information and come to a conclusion. Maybe another fellow mortal will discover that they can handle more than two bits of information. 

​That got me thinking about the present day politics. How some people can take two bits of information and turn them into an irrational-dumpster-fact fire. Is this called artificial intelligence?
​

“My religion is kindness.”
                 The Dalai Lama
​

Some years ago, I wrote a blog about a wasp nest. I had been thinking about how many non-human creatures have been killed by humans. I, of course, could have been thinking about how many humans have been killed by humans, but there’s something about the innocence of animals that grabs me.

​And another thing. Animals are so often seen as being in our way. They encroach on our territory. Can you believe that? We don’t?!
​

But, get this. Last week, I actually went out into the river and rescued a wasp who had been buzzing around my beer, and may have gotten a good whiff of it. He went ass over kettle and tumbled into the running water.

​A few days ago, two wasps, at different times, tumbled into my beer. I rescued them by putting a long blade of grass down inside the cup. I gave them an out and I’m not sure they wanted an out. I watched them dragging their waspish bodies over the ground. Too lubricated to fly.
​

 I suppose, some people will say, living alone can make you weird. Well, I’m not totally alone. I do have my dog, and I was living with Sue when I made this wasp pact. And besides, listening to all the creepy, mean-spirited, insane, despicable political discourse that’s diarrhea-ing around these days, I would have to say, with some measure of assurance, and outside the margin of error, that my dog, Dominic, is saner than a multitude of people who I hear speaking. And his bark is more sincere and meaningful.
​

What really got to me, a few weeks ago, was when I caught a little mouse in a trap. When I got up in the morning, he or she or they was still alive. I took him outside and let him go. I could tell that his leg was broken. And, when I released him, he did what my dog Dominic might do. He sniffed and licked his belly before he crawled off. He was tending to his needs and the pain. That action pulled at my heart strings.
​

Maybe we should stop seeing ourselves as spiritually, intellectually and emotionally superior and separate from the rest of the world. 
​

I parked close to the Salvation Army store and as I was about to get out of my truck, I heard a voice. 

​"Would you have any spare change?” 

I said I didn’t, because I didn't. 

​“No problem,” she said. 
​

“Would you like a toaster oven?” I asked.

“I can’t go into that store. They kicked me out.”

Well, I had meant to donate it to her without going into the store. However, her next words sent me for a bit of a moral jolt. 

​“They banned me from the store because I tried to steal a pair of shoes.”
​

I stopped, turned around, pulled the ten dollar bill out of my pocket, approached the woman, with virtue shining forth from my eyes and presented her with my precious ten dollar bill.
​

Once upon a time a kind blog reader called my blogs, essays. I got to thinking, wow! that word sounds more official than the word blog. It made me nervous. Because, the word blog, in my mind, sounds light-hearted and reasonably rule free. Essay sounds, high-schoolish, formal, rule-bound and it drums up a mental picture of a teacher pointing his educated finger at me while I’m struggling to write an essay. 
   
​Anyway, in the spirit of this piece of work being a blog and not an essay, I’ll mention another word. Waggling.
​

You see, a few weeks ago, a friend told me that there was a lot of tongue waggling going on in this part of the country. 

​I thought, does that word mean gossip? Don’t think so, but, then again, what’s a word? Well, one definition is that it’s a distinct meaningful element. I think the word waggling is distinct and meaningful and probably an element. 
​

This person was pointing out that there is plenty of tongue waggling going on about me and others. 

​I suppose, if a person doesn’t fit into an acceptable mould they might get waggled about. Or, if things happen in their lives that are different, or newsworthy then that’s fodder for waggling. Let’s face it, people get bored and waggling about other people can be fun. It can be energizing, almost sexual and for some an addiction. 
​

Lately, I’ve had a tendency to give people who I think are waggling about me or my friends, the stare. That’s where I look directly into their eyes while they or I am talking. What I’m doing is looking for waggling clues and also, I’m trying to telepathically say, “I know you’re waggling.”

​Last week, a person said to me, “I like to go into town every once and awhile to find out what I’m up to.” Funny stuff.
​

I believe that most people do some waggling. I waggle, and the loss of Sue was definitely big time waggle material. I understand. At the same time, I know that most people were trying to help me deal with my grief. That in itself was a hard job and I’m thankful to all of them. Not only that, but like myself, most people were also trying to make sense of what happened. So, of course, there would be a mighty outburst of waggling.

​However, when I was out in the public, I was sensitive to the rushing sound of a waggling bird’s wings. 
​

Shakespeare wrote, “Everyone can master a grief but he that has it.”

​As a person said to me, we are all broken. I agree. There are broken people who are living isolated lives because of waggling tongues. 
​

Some people are so sensitive that they can hear the cocking of a person’s tongue before they waggle. So, they take something to dull down their hearing.
​

One friend said to me, who is definite waggle material, “If I ever start crying, I’ll never be able to stop.” Sad!

​Interesting that what one culture may see as worth waggling about, in another culture the same behaviour isn’t worth a single waggle.
​

One of the statements that I’ve heard over and over again is that it’s too bad that I can’t get any closure because of how Sue died. This was mostly said because of their concern.
​

However, whatever people might think, I did get closure. I did see, through my little eyes, Sue in spirit form. And what helped me believe in the accuracy of my two peepers was that my book had been published before Sue, my partner and greatest supporter, died. I think my book was a forerunner. It was titled Dead and Not Dead. I have no idea what the odds are that this would happen in my corner of the world, but I imagine it may be tail-gating an infinite number. 
​

 deadYou see, Sue was not officially dead until the court declared she was. So, she was Dead and Not Dead. I’m sure that what I just wrote has been a catalyst for some waggling tongues. 
​

William Blake believed that the dimensions of the material existence is a prison. He wrote:
“Six days they shrunk up from existence
And on the seventh day they rested
And they bless’d the seventh day, in sick hope:
And forgot their eternal life.
                    The Bible of Hell
​

This sighting and seeing my book as a forerunner was a comfort. Because, it said to me that in the great scheme of things, there is no past, no present and no future.
​

And when I read the following aphorism by the itinerant, Jacob Boehme, well, it seemed very appropriate to my life.  

​“He to whom time is the same as eternity, and eternity the same as time, is free of all adversity.”
​

So people will waggle away until eternity or hell freezes over. And, I’m sure that I will be doing some more tongue waggling. Because, I just can’t help myself.
​

Every once and awhile, I run into someone who seems so real that I almost forget about how madly frantic this world is. Where it seems that anything that is discovered to be useful or new or exciting or spiritually attractive is priced and advertised to death. This includes ourselves.

​So, if I meet a person whose personal-protection shell is thin enough to reveal their true beauty, brokenness and authenticity, well, I consider it to be a special encounter. 
​

However, being open and having a thread-thin personal veil, can make you feel vulnerable, if there isn’t some form of sensitive reciprocation or if it’s seen as a weakness or unworldly. 
​

Personally, contacts with some folks makes me feel as if I’ve shrunk. My throat hurriedly hanging a ‘Closed Due to Frigid Conditions’ on my voice box.

​A minister friend mentioned to me that the world is in such a mess that it needs genuine people.
​

Often, when I’m travelling and stop at a motel, weary and travel-worn, I find that most people behind the counters are suitably and appropriately cordial, but I can sense that some of them have little interest in this weary traveller, me, who is standing across the counter from them and will be staying in their establishment. 
​

However, I met a genuine person on the way to Ontario. This encounter occurred at a Quebec motel. I was tired after driving all day, and of course a little worried about how my French would mesh with the motel clerk’s French.
​

I got out of my truck, stretched the cricks out of my back and neck and then stiffly walked into the office. The woman clerk came out from the back and the first thing she said was, “I’m sorry, but I can’t speak French very well.”

​That was a switch, seeing I was in Quebec, but she was being honest. Genuine, in my books.
​

We then went through the usual signing-in-to-a-motel-room necessities and then, somehow, we began talking about other things. I think I made a personal comment about myself, because I bet that what I said would be reciprocated with some real connecting on her part. 

At one point in the conversation she said that we are all broken. I agreed. I know I am. I think most people are, whether they know it or not. This is Larry theory 123Z

​Anyway, while in my motel room, I discovered that I couldn’t get my email. So, I went over to the office and asked her if she would help me. She said she’d be over in a few minutes and then, surprise, surprise, she offered to bring over a bowl of stew. I hadn’t had much to eat and said that would be great. 
​

The next morning, before I hit the road, I left on the desk, a copy of my novel, Dead and Not Dead.

​In Ontario, I phoned the motel to book a room for my return trip. The same clerk answered the phone and thanked me for the book.
​

When I stopped at the motel on the way home, there was a different person behind the counter. As I was giving her my information, I heard another person from behind her say, “Hi Larry. I like your shirt.”
​

It was her.

​I have to admit, my shirt was very bold, and covered in pictures of horses.
​

You might be wondering why I am writing a blog about this motel clerk. I’ll tell you why. It’s because she gave me one of the best compliments I’ve had in a long while. Maybe for others it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but it was for me.

​You see, this time, while staying at the motel, I couldn’t get the television to work. I am not technologically competent. So, I took the remote over to the office. The clerk was sitting at her computer. When I walked in, she looked up and said, “Oh good, it’s you. I can be myself.”
​

I responded by saying, “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve received in a long time.”
​

I returned to my motel room and grabbed my other book, White Eyes. As you can tell, I’m not a great marketer as many of my books are donations. Anyway, I took my book to the clerk and then returned to my room. 

A few minutes later she came to my room to tell me that her husband was part Mi’kmaq and part Algonquin. My books are about White and Indigenous characters. What a coincidence.

It was as if this person and I were walking in the same part of the universe’s massive psychic landscape. That somehow we were both listening to the same universal music.

​Life continuously surprises me, and it seems when I meet a person like this motel front desk person, the universe’s mysterious veil thins and then I realize how soulful and magical our world is.
​

More surprising, is that this mystery, when being experienced, is understandable and feels reasonable to my innermost self. 
​

“I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw, for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being.”
                Black Elk, Ogilala Lakota Sioux Holy Man
​