Larry Gibbons
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Master Muse

19/7/2025

1 Comment

 
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I’ve written a pile of blogs and am aware that they are my opinions. My feelings. I also realize that nobody, including myself, knows an awful lot about anything, when put up against what there is to know. 

​Anyway, I’ve been jawing on something. It’s how I felt after my last book, ExtraOrdinary was launched out into the reading-sphere. My fresh-faced feeling of being published had lost some of its gloss. I figured that it might have something to do with my having lived under so many moon phases.
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But recently, I thought that I might also be dealing with postpartum feelings. I think that many creators have these emotions. I might write about this in another blog. 

“Hey Muse, what do you think?” 

​I think that one reason, for these feelings, is that my Ego, which was one of the driving forces, has lost some its influence. 
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So, my question is, is this why my Muse is spending more hanging-out-time in my mind’s damp basement? Not the greatest place. The concrete walls are unpainted and cracked, the floor is clammy, dust covered unused objects sit in the shadows, and spider webs, filled with dead bugs, hang from the ceiling and furnace pipes. 

​And lately, when I knock on the basement door, he often doesn’t answer.”
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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.

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And do you want to know one thing that drives my Ego nutsoid, but doesn’t seem to effect my Muse one tittle? It’s that I’m a pee poor marketer. So, even when my Ego works itself up into a dramatic tantrum, and goes on about the absolute necessity of my getting out there and shoving my books into as many readers’ faces as is humanly possible, using every communication method ever invented by man-kind, I can only let out a small whimper of agreement. 
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Corney Brook Trail
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. 

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Now, the Muse wants to work only when it wants to work. He’s more picky. So, I keep trying to come up with more bizarre writing ideas and rituals and more colourful notebooks, lined and unlined, to arouse his interest. And, they usually don’t entice him to even walk to the bottom of the stairs to tell me that I’m boring him.
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Dinosaur on Beach
However, he did like the leather covered journal with unlined pages that I showed him. 
                       
​“To dream within the mist of one’s own accomplishments is to allow the true essence of life to find all its destiny.”
       Quote by John Williams
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What’s so darn frustrating is that I know he’s right. He represents the authentic part of my writing and I don’t want him going sucky, shallow and weak. Luckily, he’s stubborn as hell.
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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. 
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My Road
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. 

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You see, this particular book, White Eyes, contains plenty of Indigenous content. When the book was first published, I felt somewhat guilty when I was told by non-Indigenous readers, that they liked my book. I mean, what right did I have to enjoy being complimented by those who mostly viewed the world from my perspective? 
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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.
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My novel, Dead and Not Dead, also has plenty of Indigenous content. There’s lots of humour in the book. There is also deep sorrow.

​Some readers told me that my novel was difficult to read. Not a big surprise. It isn’t about Dick and Jane having a good time at their summer cottage.
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When I phoned my Muse, he has an old cell phone, I told him that some people were having trouble reading my novel. It prompted him to jump off the raggedy basement couch, scurry upstairs, tap me on the shoulder and ask me if I wanted to go out for a beer. I felt honoured that he’d invited me to go out with him for a beer. His face beamed out happiness.

​I trust my Muse because he sometimes hangs out with my Soul. 
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I think I should take the vowels out of the word Soul and just say SL. Just like when the word God used to be an unmentionable and unspellable word. These days, many people stuff God in with their credit and debit cards.

​And, can my Ego ever get jealous.
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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
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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.

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I think he wants me to attempt to capture the soulful essence of whatever I am writing about. Then he almost always joins in, and sometimes even smiles. Will even spend a day or two in the room I specially made for him, when I first began writing. I followed the building instructions from many of the books I first read on how to try and make a special space for my Muse so that I could keep him happy. I’m not sure that it was all good advice or he was that impressed.
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I did see him wipe away a few tears, when I was working on my novel. I guess he likes it when I dig for the diamonds, buried far below my shallow ego.
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Lake O'Law
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. 

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Margaree Beach
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.
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 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.
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 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. 

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I love telling stories. I will tell stories about myself that sometimes paints me in a bad light, but if it gets a laugh or a smile or a frown, or some kind of emotional reaction, then I’m happy.

​I also need to write because I want to try and touch people in a deep way. I don’t think Ego has so much to do with that. It feels more like I’m doing something that is the right thing for me to do.
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Beach Squirrel
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. 

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Salmon Pools Trail
Money, fame, shallow relationships, security, appropriate career choices, and many, many other decisions, I have heard, knocking, pounding or even trying to kick down my door. Shouting threats and filling my mind with uncertainty. Often, promising full-blown existential chaos. Which can, at times, remove almost any sense of my having a secure conceptual or emotional place for me to write from. 
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 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.

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 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.”
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Slug Glitz
I grasp why he likes this blog. He understands that it was my honest attempt to connect and to write towards the truth that I deeply feel. He likes that. No. He loves it!
                   
   “Art is a Universal love affair for me and I’m in love with Art.”
Louise Nevelson
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1 Comment

STORIES AND BIG TIME GAMBLER

26/4/2025

3 Comments

 
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APPLE TREES
“Whether age or wisdom is the cause,
Welcome the confusion of your thoughts.
Out of chaos God created the world.
Out of confusion truth appears.”
   Robert Van De Weyer, Celtic Parables

Life is a gamble, but there are always stories.


​I’ve been a widower for over three years. What a weird and scary trip! And, sometimes, I feel like I’m peeking through a peep hole and looking into other dimensions. 
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Such as the snow rainbow. I saw it on a Christmas morning, only 22 days after I’d lost Sue. I’d never seen one on a snowy day. 

​Anyway, I was driving through fairly deep snow, as the road had not been ploughed, and there it was, a beautiful snow rainbow arching over the top of the highlands. A Christmas miracle and part of my story.
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One morning, after taking Dominic for a walk, shovelling, feeding the birds and bringing in a wheel barrow load of wood, I sat in my woodshed and looked at my mobile home. It was still snow-covered. Spring had sprung, but the snow hadn’t. My mobile home looked cozy. Wood smoke curled out of the chimney. 
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I took a closer look at my green coloured mobile home that isn’t totally green anymore. You see, the blue jays have been pecking the paint off the walls. So, my home looks like it has the measles. Miraculously, the blue jays aren’t dropping out of the sky. 
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GREAT WHITE SHARK
Then, I thought about my age and this living alone thing. Thought about how it was a miracle that fate managed to tuck Sue and me into the Cape Breton highlands.

​I looked at the Virginia creeper climbing my home’s walls. A friend, who gave me the Virginia Creeper, said it would take over. They have. So, Virginia Creeper is creeping up and over the walls and the roof and crawling across the ground towards other waiting surfaces. 

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The creeper looks pretty, specially in the fall and I’m expecting that it will grow and cover up some of the measle-spots. Kind of neat, don’t you think?
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PUDDLE ICE ART
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.

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I was asked if I had a girlfriend. I said I have close female friends, but no full relationship. I then mentioned a few of my friends who are different from run-of-the-mill people, and this fella, who lives in a beautiful house, with a wife, and a two car garage, said that I should find somebody that is normal and not broken.
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ICE RABBIT
I find broken people interesting and they often have more compassion for others. They know what it’s like to have been bruised by life. 
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And who gets to say that somebody is broken? It’s not like a person is a car or my alarm clock. Many of the books that are in the library and in the book stores, were written by broken people. 
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MANY WAYS TO GET ACROSS
There’s plenty of time to think when one lives by oneself and so I got thinking about something else. How life is a gamble. 
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I mean, how does one make a decision that makes one feel like it is a good decision when there is so much information, much of it changeable, to synthesize? No wonder we’re all ducking and covering as we try to make our lives picture perfect, healthy, successful and authentic, while hammered by information over-load, so that we are all carrying around a certain amount of low or high grade anxiety. How can we not but feel that we are gambling? 
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PEEP HOLE
 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. 
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MY DOOR MAN
So, we all, from time to time, must gamble boldly, even if the wealth of information can make some of us feel as if we are, rather than gambling boldly, sinning boldly. It’s our new modern way of sinning.
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NEAR MABOU
Virginia Creeper is a gamble. Feeding the birds is a gamble. They eat my house. Bird seeds bring squirrels who chew my house and who recently built a nest in my truck’s fan. My truck now smells like Bounce. It’s supposed to keep squirrels away. 
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"SHE'S MY STUFFED RABBIT"
Living next to an active river is a gamble. A few weeks ago, flood water came roaring down my driveway. It formed a huge pond on my lawn and got me wondering if this might be the big flood that will wash us to the ocean.
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SNOW FACE
The last while I have listened to the sound of a big machine hammering piles into the ground. The workers are replacing the bridge that was washed away in the last major flood. It happened only weeks before my partner disappeared. The rushing high water actually disconnected my septic tank from the pipe.
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HOWLING FOR LOST FORESTS
And there’s the high winds, huge maple trees threatening my mobile home, bears in the driveway, coyotes, hoards of black flies who stay around from spring until winter, snow, snow, snow, so that I was still having to use snow shoes into mid April, and always, the massive forest that Susan loved, growing on the highlands. Thick-trunked birch trees watching over the special memorial bench that honours Susan’s life. 
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TREES AROUND A POND


I do love stories and I do love telling them. And I think I can safely say that we are the stories we tell ourselves.    

​My opinion is, that when we experience a great loss, one way of coping is to be able to tell oneself a good story. A tale that one believes. A story that is based on as many facts as one can dig up, while viewing life through a panoramic lens. Believing that out of our personal loss, there is a healing story. A story to live by.

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WAITING AND HOPING FOR A RIDE TO TOWN
Stories everywhere. 
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ANOTHER VIEW THROUGH THE PEEP HOLE
  “Know things in nature
     Are like a person.
        Talk to tornados;
     talk to the thunder.
     They are your friends
     And will protect you.”


       Anonymous
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And I feel lucky that I have a deep sense of connection with something outside the purely practical way of looking at life. I’m fortunate to be able to create stories that feel authentic, and in my mind, are in line with the invisible powers of our great universe.
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STANDING OUT IN THE CROWD
Life’s a gamble, but there are always stories.


“He who is swimming against the stream comes to the Source.”
            Gottfried Muller
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MY LATEST COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES
3 Comments

Logical Logistics

21/1/2025

0 Comments

 
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After Last Snow Storm
“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

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From Kitchen Window
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!”
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Gallant River
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.

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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. 
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Hunting and Having Fun
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. 
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Coming in for a Smooth Landing
Being a writer and writing the kind of material I write, it would hinder my creativity if I put too much faith in logic and planning. Anyway, my Muse, who lives in my basement apartment, would blow a fuse or take off.
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Sitting on Sue's Memorial Bench
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.”
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Laneway After Storm
So, if you want a label, one could say that I’m a big fan of happenstance, Mabel. 

​Here’s a happenstance example. 

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This year our town’s arena closed. It’s going to be demolished.

​It was almost scary not having the arena close by. You see, last year, when the arena was open, I public skated twice a week and played hockey once a week. That’s three days out of the week. Now what would I do?
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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.

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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.

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Don’t I need to market? Marketing and creative writing are not always good bed partners. I like to write. I don’t like to market. But, it’s the logical thing to do, if I want to sell more books. 
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So, I was aware that my book hadn’t made it into this news paper, but it wasn’t on my mind when I was skating in circles around the ice. Why would it? 

After my skate, I was in the locker room removing my skates. I sat next to a woman. She was taking off her skates. 

Anyway, I discovered that she worked for the newspaper. I introduced myself, handed her my card and told her about my book. She said she could interview me in February. 
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Voila. Happenstance in a nut-shell. Fallen Dominos littering the ice surface. My Muse with a Cheshire grin. 

​Where was my planning? What domino knocked that one down? I did have business cards made. That was planning and logical.
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My point is, in many instances, I plan better when I’m not planning. Does that make sense? No? That’s the point.

​Okay, I’ll call it organic planning.
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“Instead of a stable truth, I choose unstable possibilities.”
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                       Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatory
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Trying to Walk Down the Laneway
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. 
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Wanting Inside
And thus goeth my life in the Land of Happenstance. Not a bad place to live as long as I carry a bit of logic in my brain’s wallet. But not too much, because if I do, my Muse gets haemorrhoids. Bless him.
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0 Comments

Stories

19/11/2024

1 Comment

 
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My Newest Book of Short Stories
“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 


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A. Creature Never Seen Before
One of the advantages of living in the Cape Breton Highlands is that I have space to think in. Maybe the beautiful and spacious surroundings are even allowing my ‘Third Eye’ to take a gander at the events that happen around me.
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Sue's Memorial Bench in Cape Breton Highlands
Third Eye can be defined as “a point on the forehead corresponding to one of the chakras in yoga, often depicted as an eye and associated with enlightenment or mystical insight.” 

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The third eye, supposedly, can over-ride our dualistic thinking, that many, including myself, see as the messenger of all things correct. You know, the two sides viewpoint. Conservative or liberal, right or wrong, black or white, God or no God, spirits exist or spirits don’t exist, vaccinate or don’t vaccinate.
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“We must teach not in the way philosophy is taught, but in the way that the Spirit teaches. We must teach spiritual things spiritually.
                           1 Corinthians 2:13

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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.
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Marking Trail to Bench
The next day, I decided to stop feeding the birds. You see, the seeds attract the squirrels and chipmunks. It was a sad decision to make.

​Well, the following day, while splitting fire wood, a chickadee landed on a branch near-by. I knew damn well what he was telling me. Where’s the bird food?
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Geese in Cemetery Where my Parents Are Buried
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.
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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. 

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When I was in Ontario, I went to a Tim Hortons. It was the day before I was to leave for home. There I was, sitting in the corner, with my cup of hot tea.
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My Daughter Natalie and Me
An elderly man and woman entered. The man was being kind and sweet. It didn’t take me long to realize that his wife probably had dementia. I felt sad. Sad for the man, sad for the woman and sad because they reminded me of Sue’s dementia. 

​The woman sat down on a chair. The counter faced the parking lot. Her back was to me. The man went and ordered and then returned with two coffees and two sandwiches which he placed onto the counter. 
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Then he said, “How many Tim bits should we buy?”

I could see that he was involving his wife in the decision. 


I didn’t hear her reply. 


​He then walked to the counter to order. I sat and watched the woman pick up a coffee and then set it down. Fiddle with the sandwiches. Pick one up and investigate it. Set it down. Pick up a coffee cup and set it down. It was as if I was watching Sue.

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I became more sad. So many memories.

Suddenly, she stood up, bent down and picked a dime up off the floor.

​Wow! Another dime event. 

I have found so many dimes since Sue died. I keep them in a half-rose shaped glass container. They are dimes that appear at times when I need the dime communication. 


​It’s all in the perception, folks.
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Scary Halloween Monster
But, did she find the dime or did she drop the dime? How would I find out? Maybe I could do some research? Watch videos to see when the dime got there? Question the staff?
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Her husband returned. He helped her adjust her coat. He then picked up the coffees and the sandwiches from the counter. His hands were full. 

​As they walked toward the door, the husband in the lead, the woman said to the man, “I found a dime.”

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Hiking to Bench
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.

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A Photo of my Daughter With Some of her Friends
1 Comment

Wasps Two

20/10/2024

2 Comments

 
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 “Tell all truth but tell it slant.”
                            Emily Dickinson
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A friend of mine was unable to find a suitable selection from a book, so she used AI. She simply punched a few words into an app and it artificially created a story. 

​It made me wonder. Will AI ever be able to write a story with genuine soul? Will it be able to write with a slant? Can AI deal with paradox? Can we?
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Hunting
I will have to do plenty more thinking about AI.

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

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And I also wonder, what slant ie this blog? What’s the angle? Eight imperfect degrees? Ten imperfect degrees? One hundred perfect degrees with not a slant in sight? 
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From Blueberry Mountain
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Anyway, as I mentioned in my last blog, I made a peace pact with the local wasps. However, I never realized that this year there would be so many. 
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It was sad visiting places where I saw wasps drowning in bowls of water or caught in other death traps. I understand why. Us humans pick the creatures that we want around and some people are allergic to wasps. Heck, I’m allergic to some people. Both wasps and people can sting like they know what they’re doing.
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And, this summer, the wasps, also called yellow jackets, swarmed my hummingbird feeder restaurant like a bus load of tourists. However, the hummingbirds were able to beak-handle in and out. Nature has solutions.
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We hear a lot about the declining honey bee population. That’s alarming. Bees are great pollinators. To the rescue. Wasps are pollinators. 
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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.”

​
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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?

​
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Red Point
And getting into the gender thing, only the female wasp has a stinger. They are a modified egg laying organ. 

So, how does the poor male get rid of his hostility or protect himself? 


​Did you know that a wasp can recognize each individual wasp? They can pick out discrete facial patterns. So, they must be able to make friends and enemies, just like us. 

​
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Seal
I think that signing a peace pact with the wasps was a smart decision. 

​And this might be hard to believe, but the paper that the wasps and I signed the peace pact on, was made by a wasp. I have no idea who. 
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Amazing!

​What angle of slant do you think this blog is? What would Emily say? Is this blog askew? Awry? Flawless? Hiding a paradox?
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Susan and Buster Memorial Garden
2 Comments

Wasp Truce

15/9/2024

2 Comments

 
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“My religion is kindness.”
                 The Dalai Lama
​
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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?!
​
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I mean, when does settling in the remaining wild areas stop being called encroachment and instead be called trespassing?

​So, I wrote that blog, after I discovered that wasps had built a nest underneath the eves of my woodshed. That nest is now in my little office. The wasps vacated long ago.
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Anyway, I know how scary wasps can be, especially when there are a lot of them. Even more especially if you are allergic to them. I’m not. Luckily. 

​So, I got thinking, I’ll do an experiment. I will leave these wasps and their home alone. Even though they are right around the corner from where I sit in my woodshed when I’m eating or drinking.
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Foggy Field
And, you know what? Hardly a wasp bothered me. Not a sting. I then thought, maybe they follow that old adage about not crapping on your own porch. And, even though the wasps are plentiful this year, and have landed on my beard, my nose, my arms, lots of bodily parts, I haven’t been stung.
​
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You see, after I wrote the blog, and completed the experiment, I made a pact with the wasps. I would not shoo them away, drown them, flatten them or do anything to them. One condition only. If they begin to find a way into my house, then I may have to change my approach.
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Taken From Blueberry Mountain
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.

​
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 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.
​
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Maybe it’s the loss of Sue that has made me even more empathetic to the pain that people and animals experience. However, I have always felt close to non-human critters.
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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.
​
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A few days ago, I was planning on putting the rest of my softwood into the woodshed. I picked up some wood and discovered a little nest. Up to now, the nests have always been unattended, but this time, the nest began to move and pulse. I was sad and surprised to see two little blind baby chipmunks or squirrels attempting to find their way back into their secure nest. I picked them up, returned them to their home and re-covered them with the protective wood. I plan to let them stay rent free for a while yet.
​
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I remember an Indigenous friend and me shopping at a big food store. She almost went into the shakes, when she saw dead fish, which were for sale, laid out on crushed ice. She teared up and wanted to run out of the store. I never quite got why, but I still don’t really understand why I got so emotional about the mouse. Or how upset I got when I removed squirrels from their homes and transported them to some other place, rather than killing them. I mean, some people use these small creatures, such as squirrels, for target practice. 
​
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Maybe we should stop seeing ourselves as spiritually, intellectually and emotionally superior and separate from the rest of the world. 
​
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But then again, we can only have so much empathy. So, like so many things in this life, we need nuance, contemplation and the understanding that we are all guilty. So, we must, at times, sin boldly, because every creature harms and kills other creatures. Humans are just so much more proficient at it. 
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Please note. I would have included a photo of wasps, but part of the agreement was no photos. Who's going to argue with a nest of wasps. 
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2 Comments

Fiscal Responsibility

1/8/2024

2 Comments

 
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Last week, I drove to a second hand store. I wanted to donate some items, one being a toaster oven. A friend had made  me a lunch, and then after the delicious meal, had given me a basket of blue berries, a hot dog bun and a newer toaster oven than the one I’d been using to burn my toast.
​
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Beach Mask
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. 

​
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However, I did have a ten dollar bill. Which I pulled out of my wallet and clutched in my hand. My hand cocked and ready to donate.

​Then I got thinking, maybe she’d also like the oven. I’ll give her the ten dollar bill and the toaster oven. What a nice guy.
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“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.”

​
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I didn't give the bill to her, but instead, self righteously stuffed it back into my pant’s pocket. After I donated the items and was walking to another store, I got to thinking. I thought of the election down south. I thought of some rich people who live on the backs of the poor. Some of them as immoral as a crooked huckster. 
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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.
​
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Sue/Buster Memorial Garden a Work in Progress
“Would you like a hug?” she asked.

“I’m okay today.” 


Now that was a crazy thing to say. Also, it might have been just as charitable for me to have accepted the hug. Everyone needs a hug. 
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Wise Man on Hill
Later on, I met her again. She was sitting on the steps of a storefront. She told me that she was trying to decide what to do with the ten dollar bill.
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Disappearing Into the Forest
I’m glad I gave her the ten dollar bill. However, maybe it wasn’t all good, as my ten dollar bill may have pushed her into a place where she had to worry about fiscal responsibilities and priorities. 

​When I jumped into my truck and drove away, she was still sitting on the steps calculating and prioritizing. Who knows, maybe she went to the bank and invested her ten dollar bill in a secure investment portfolio.   
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Salmon Pool's Water Dog
2 Comments

Tongue Waggling

17/7/2024

0 Comments

 
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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.
​
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Misty Acadian Trail
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. 
​
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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. 
​
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Cyclops on the Beach
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.
​
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I Do Miss the Cool and So Does Dominic
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. 
​
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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. 
​
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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.
​
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Trail Faces
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.
​
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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.
​
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Son and Family on Salmon Pools trail
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. 
​
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Enchanted
 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. 
​
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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
​
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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.
​
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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.”
​
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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.
​
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Wooden Moose Head
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Little Buffalo on Rock
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Authenticity

8/6/2024

1 Comment

 
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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. 
​
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Cross In Eskasoni
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. 
​
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Little Church in Valley
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.
​
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Fog Band
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. 
​
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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.
​
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Forest Cathedral
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.
​
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Creature Unique to Cape Breton
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. 
​
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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.
​
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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.”
​
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Hiking Cape Smokey
It was her.

​I have to admit, my shirt was very bold, and covered in pictures of horses.
​
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Franey Trail
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.”
​
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I responded by saying, “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve received in a long time.”
​
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Morning Walking Trail
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.
​
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River Critter
More surprising, is that this mystery, when being experienced, is understandable and feels reasonable to my innermost self. 
​
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“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
​
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1 Comment

Coincidentally, it Might Not be Chance

16/4/2024

2 Comments

 
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“Unless we can measure something, science won’t concede it exists, which is why science refuses to deal with such “nonthings” as the emotions, the mind, the soul, or the spirit.”
                Candice Pert, Ph.D., Molecules of Emotion


     My opinion is that most weird and surprising occurrences which happen in my life are mostly coincidences. However, there have been, I think, some instances where, if I were to be open-minded, I might claim them to be more than chance. 
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Dinosaur Ice
Years ago, a girl-friend of mine died from sepsis. Some time after the funeral, I decided to drive to her gravesite. I was, at the time, renting an attic apartment. My bedroom window had an amazing view of a huge, illuminated, Toyota dealership sign. So, as you can see, I was not flush with cash, and her gravesite was a few hundred miles away. Anyway, I headed to the cemetery, hoping I wouldn’t have to spend much money on gas. 
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I was happy that I went. I was able to spend a quiet time at her grave, but on the way back, my gas gauge warned me that I was going to have to buy some gas. So, I pumped some gas into my truck and then went inside to pay.

​Well, gosh darn it. Their debit machine broke down and they couldn't get the stubborn thing to work. So, they told me I didn't have to pay.
​Quite a coincidence. Thank-you Lynn.


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Eclipse at Skyline Trail
“Any coincidence is worth noting. You can throw it away later if it is only a coincidence.”
                Agatha Christie
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Clouds Ready to Pounce
Last Thursday, I had to have my snow tires taken off the rims and my summer tires put on those rims. The summer tires were good for another year. 
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However, I had the usual worry about all the different bills coming at me. I hate to dip into my savings, because I’m always trying to save some money for that mysterious rainy day.

​I have a system. I pay myself two pay cheques a month, just as if I were back at work. Well, I didn’t think that I was going to be able to financially squeak by this first half of April. I could cover the tire job, but the trips to Sydney and Port Hawkesbury and a bike payment and groceries, were going to leak into my make-believe pay cheque time.
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However, after about an hour of waiting while they worked on my tire changing job, I was surprised when the mechanic told me that they were putting my snow tires back on.

​“What now?” I thought. I already had a bad feeling about the day.
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Exercise Program
The mechanic rolled out one of my summer tires. He pointed to two big slashes in the side of the tire. Oh no!

“You won’t have to pay for a new tire, we will. You’ll have to come back when we get the new tire.”


​While I absorbed this piece of news, the mechanic came back with a second summer tire and showed me the slash in its side.
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Rabbit Spirit
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Wolf In Fog
“I guess we’ll have to shell out about five hundred dollars for two new tires,” he said.

You see, the machine that takes the tires off their rims, had cut up two of my summer tires. 

​My initial reaction was strange. The day was not going according to plan, and I couldn’t get my head to see through the fog that had settled inside my mind when I got out of bed. I couldn’t see the positive. 
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Rainy Window
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View Through Rainy Window
However, on the way to town, the good fortune pierced my negative brain fog. 

​I didn’t have to pay for the tire change until later on next week, and that freed up some money. Plus, I was getting two brand new tires for free. That would save me future expenses.
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Skyline Trail
So, off I went to town, where I used some of my freed up cash to have lunch with two friends. Then I headed to Sydney to pick up my bike.

​I had to admit that this event was a strange kind of coincidence. So I said, “Thank-you Sue,” because I just can’t be too close-minded.
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And what a good thing that I did save money. Because, at the end of the day, when I picked up my mail, I saw the brown envelope with the scary Canadian tax logo. Not another love letter. I opened the envelope and saw that though the government was passionately in love with me, she also wanted me to give her some more money.

What a coincidence.

​Thank-you Canadian Government.
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