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My dog is 'CLEANER THAN MANY A FILTHY PERSON' that is 'ALLOWED' in establishments!
For the fourth time this month, I have been told by store or restaurant employees, that my dog is 'Not allowed in their place of business!
It 'INFURIATES ME SO!' They will allow 'ANY' pathetically filthy homeless drunk or drug addict (who is far more likely to be carrying a contagion) in their restaurants, and other places of business, where we are 'FAR MORE LIKELY' to catch disease from another person, than any dog!
In France, they welcome our pets in all of their businesses, and France is not a 'backward country!
It makes it very 'Difficult' for pet owners to enjoy a 'pleasant day' out with their pets! It is an 'IGNORANT' tradition here in America... and 'NOW' would be a 'GREAT' time to 'CHANGE' it, with so many Americans, truly beginning to 'APPRECIATE' their pets more than at any time in recorded history.
I have, like most of us, dogs and cats! I do not make them stay outdoors, because I have a kitchen! Neither does anyone else! It is 'LUDICROUS!
Furthermore, if a person has a dog or cat with fleas or ticks, that person will be 'flea and tick infested' as well. Fleas and ticks will stay on people, hiding in their hair and clothing.
Today, with our 'INCREDIBLY' effective flea and tick products, none of my animals are ever bothered by these parasites!
If all of us 'START SHOWING OUR ANGER AT THESE BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENTS' they will 'BACK OFF' from their 'SPECIEST' ways!
ANIMAL PEOPLE OUT THERE! I FOR ONE, HAVE HAD IT WITH THIS 'STUPIDITY, AND I AM SURE THAT I AM 'NOT ALONE! (I WILL NEVER LEAVE MY DOG IN MY CAR ALONE) SO SHE MUST OFTEN STAY AT HOME, FOR ANOTHER UNEVENTFUL DAY!
SO LETS 'BOYCOTT' THESE BUSINESSES IF THEY PERSIST IN THIS RIDICULOUS PREJUDICE, STARTING NOW!
Shaunasea
Slip Sliding Away
I come back to Mindsay because fellow bloggers say "I miss your blog posts Glen". I start to post again, and hardly any of the past bloggers stop by or leave a comment. *sigh*
Personal Demons
This is an original work by Duncan Morley, please don't fuck with it.
Personal Demons
In a single sight you may see a man, sleeping with his eyes open, but a man nonetheless. You can never see him for all that he is while he is there. He will never even see you for anything. He is a man obsessed. He is no longer a human; he is but a man gone mad.
He is lying alone in the woods of eastern Ontario. The bugs know not to leave him be, but the mammals and birds would rather devour their own offspring than take a step in his direction.
His body has been all but stripped to its bones. All around him the aroma of pus is prevalent. His breath is rapid and rattling. His mouth is dry, and his body is absorbed with open sores. The maggots and worms are already ravaging him. He is a man embracing Death, but Death will not take him.
He is a man who has stuck himself in time.
He lived in a small tight-knit community near the provincial town of Cobalt. He was a man whom some respected for his duties and tasks about the community, but most regarded him as a stranger to them, even though he has lived in the same spot for upwards of twenty years.
He was a reclusive man: he kept to himself. He would never have dreamt of leaving his home if it were not for his job or if food were not a necessity to him.
He worked as a wilderness guide in the Canadian forests; more commonly, a canoeing guide for the few local tourists. Sometimes he would leave with a client, or even all alone, for weeks at a time. He knew he was never at peace with the fresh waters and thus, he had an uncommon dread of his profession.
When he would eventually come back, he would go unseen. He would ride the river all the way to his cottage, and contrary to a welcome after up to a month alone, he would go unnoticed by the townspeople.
On one occasion he returned by the route straight through the village center. Although not many people were out, and when most saw him they did not know who he was, the ones that did were at a loss for words at his sudden appearance. He was a strong sight. He was carrying more than his share of food, but alone still.
It wasn’t a terribly uncommon sight to see him alone. The ones who knew his name figured he simply went out on a solo trip as opposed to business.
Once he was just out of earshot of the town a barely audible mumble was heard to arise from his boat:
“This… This makes no sense...”
With this he promptly disappeared to his home.
When he exited his boat and hung it upon his formal rack, as opposed to flipped next to his cottage. Despite the early time of 4:15 P.M., he hurried into his bed and soon fell asleep.
During the night, he dreamt a nightmare. He saw a body rising into the air. It rose so high the height was beyond recognition. The body began to glow a demonic green, and a river of the same mist flowed from its body. With no warning it burst into an inferno of grey flame.
He woke the next morning to remember nothing of the night before. Contrary to his normal routine, he showed himself at the town’s only diner. It was more of a chip-stand than anything else, but it served coffee. It served its purpose.
He ordered the drink, but never moved even once to so much as smell it. He let it sit until it was as cold as the air around him.
At about noontime, he was still motionless. A fellow townsman who sat down next to him, staring directly at him, greeted him. The townsman, Matthew Fraser, then waited half an hour himself before saying anything:
“Why have you come back?” He asked in a serious tone. “You know as well as I do that the people who know you here want you out.”
His first words in hours were spoken:
“But I have nowhere else to go,” he replied with a grin.
“ We don’t care about those things here, soon you too will realize that.”
“You really are the only one here who cares about me. You really are my only friend.”
With a smile, Matthew was gone.
The waitress, Leona Smith, then came over for an inquiry to what Mr. Fraser wanted. He told her it was just an innocent exchange of words. She asked him if he would be paying for the coffee that was drunk. With a puzzled glance at his now empty coffee mug he said:
“Yes.”
With this he paid the young lady, leaving a generous tip, and left her for his home once more.
A few days passed with no sight of him, but on the third day he was spotted once more at the diner. He once again ordered coffee, and he once again paid and left for his home.
He would never return to the diner, or for that matter, the village.
He laid down for sleep and entered yet another nightmare, from this one he would never wake.
It showed him living in a world not unlike the world in which he actually lived.
There was a small village near which a cottage sprung forth. The area was abundant in wildlife and had a moderate amount of people living in the town. But every living thing that was exposed to him in the dream would begin to decay. Some would bloat and host themselves to hideous parasites, while others would gain sunken features and seemingly wilt.
There was a constant glow of twilight around the town and along the river, it could be evaded nowhere in the dream.
The scene changed: it was now a portrait of the river that ran through the village. The river was not as he remembered it, instead of the crisp, cool blue he was used to, it was a cold and deep shade of black.
He knew what was to happen next.
In an instant the river went a pale white with a line of crimson waters flowing through it. With this he saw a spectral hand flowing through it. He only saw it briefly but he knew exactly what it was.
He cried out in horror. With this he woke the dead.
The body of Zachary Smith, recognizable only to him: the child he took on the prior trip, burst forth.
A completely different entity than the naïve young boy who set out weeks before, the thing that stood before him was a demon. A demon conjured from all the evil thoughts surrounding the boy’s death.
In a single swift motion, the demon brutally maimed him. The demon was to devour him.
It rose up into the sky. With a flash of remembrance he exclaimed:
“ At six miles up you will explode, I have seen it all!”
The demon replied:
“No one listens to the damned.”
But this man was not damned. He was an innocent, never taking more than he needed. It was an accident that the boy died. Leona knew this, Matthew knew this, but he did not.
The demon rose, to a total of what was now six miles, and burst apart in an inferno of grey flame.
With a moments hesitation he exclaimed for joy, for he thought he had defeated the demon.
Little Zachary began to form once again out of the ash. The man wept when he saw the boy again, but he knew it would not last. The boy began to grow wings, horns, black skin, and demonic eyes. He knew it was done.
A moment before the demon pierced his heart, it all ceased. There was a flash of absolute nothingness, followed by an eternal repetition of the agonizing horrors he experienced.
After two months since his last appearance the knowledgeable village people began to grow an uncertain concern. There was a buzz about the town of how he had fled without any reasons, or that the Ontario Provincial Police had found him living off the grid and taken him away.
Mr. Fraser knew that none of these rumors could be true. He set out for the man’s cottage that very evening.
After some ragged rapping upon a locked door, Mr. Fraser battered it down.
He arrived inside the house and immediately smelled the foul stench of rotting flesh. He moved into the bedroom and saw the body of his friend. It showed glassy eyes staring into nothing, it showed a split mouth, with dried blood all over his face. But what it didn’t show would be the question to haunt Matthew. It didn’t show the guilt of a man. It didn’t show the key to immortality to being eternal repentance. It didn't show the insanity of a man who would confine himself to damnation for an innocent crime.
Mr. Fraser simply closed his eyes and turned to leave: he could no longer save this man.
Personal Demons
In a single sight you may see a man, sleeping with his eyes open, but a man nonetheless. You can never see him for all that he is while he is there. He will never even see you for anything. He is a man obsessed. He is no longer a human; he is but a man gone mad.
He is lying alone in the woods of eastern Ontario. The bugs know not to leave him be, but the mammals and birds would rather devour their own offspring than take a step in his direction.
His body has been all but stripped to its bones. All around him the aroma of pus is prevalent. His breath is rapid and rattling. His mouth is dry, and his body is absorbed with open sores. The maggots and worms are already ravaging him. He is a man embracing Death, but Death will not take him.
He is a man who has stuck himself in time.
He lived in a small tight-knit community near the provincial town of Cobalt. He was a man whom some respected for his duties and tasks about the community, but most regarded him as a stranger to them, even though he has lived in the same spot for upwards of twenty years.
He was a reclusive man: he kept to himself. He would never have dreamt of leaving his home if it were not for his job or if food were not a necessity to him.
He worked as a wilderness guide in the Canadian forests; more commonly, a canoeing guide for the few local tourists. Sometimes he would leave with a client, or even all alone, for weeks at a time. He knew he was never at peace with the fresh waters and thus, he had an uncommon dread of his profession.
When he would eventually come back, he would go unseen. He would ride the river all the way to his cottage, and contrary to a welcome after up to a month alone, he would go unnoticed by the townspeople.
On one occasion he returned by the route straight through the village center. Although not many people were out, and when most saw him they did not know who he was, the ones that did were at a loss for words at his sudden appearance. He was a strong sight. He was carrying more than his share of food, but alone still.
It wasn’t a terribly uncommon sight to see him alone. The ones who knew his name figured he simply went out on a solo trip as opposed to business.
Once he was just out of earshot of the town a barely audible mumble was heard to arise from his boat:
“This… This makes no sense...”
With this he promptly disappeared to his home.
When he exited his boat and hung it upon his formal rack, as opposed to flipped next to his cottage. Despite the early time of 4:15 P.M., he hurried into his bed and soon fell asleep.
During the night, he dreamt a nightmare. He saw a body rising into the air. It rose so high the height was beyond recognition. The body began to glow a demonic green, and a river of the same mist flowed from its body. With no warning it burst into an inferno of grey flame.
He woke the next morning to remember nothing of the night before. Contrary to his normal routine, he showed himself at the town’s only diner. It was more of a chip-stand than anything else, but it served coffee. It served its purpose.
He ordered the drink, but never moved even once to so much as smell it. He let it sit until it was as cold as the air around him.
At about noontime, he was still motionless. A fellow townsman who sat down next to him, staring directly at him, greeted him. The townsman, Matthew Fraser, then waited half an hour himself before saying anything:
“Why have you come back?” He asked in a serious tone. “You know as well as I do that the people who know you here want you out.”
His first words in hours were spoken:
“But I have nowhere else to go,” he replied with a grin.
“ We don’t care about those things here, soon you too will realize that.”
“You really are the only one here who cares about me. You really are my only friend.”
With a smile, Matthew was gone.
The waitress, Leona Smith, then came over for an inquiry to what Mr. Fraser wanted. He told her it was just an innocent exchange of words. She asked him if he would be paying for the coffee that was drunk. With a puzzled glance at his now empty coffee mug he said:
“Yes.”
With this he paid the young lady, leaving a generous tip, and left her for his home once more.
A few days passed with no sight of him, but on the third day he was spotted once more at the diner. He once again ordered coffee, and he once again paid and left for his home.
He would never return to the diner, or for that matter, the village.
He laid down for sleep and entered yet another nightmare, from this one he would never wake.
It showed him living in a world not unlike the world in which he actually lived.
There was a small village near which a cottage sprung forth. The area was abundant in wildlife and had a moderate amount of people living in the town. But every living thing that was exposed to him in the dream would begin to decay. Some would bloat and host themselves to hideous parasites, while others would gain sunken features and seemingly wilt.
There was a constant glow of twilight around the town and along the river, it could be evaded nowhere in the dream.
The scene changed: it was now a portrait of the river that ran through the village. The river was not as he remembered it, instead of the crisp, cool blue he was used to, it was a cold and deep shade of black.
He knew what was to happen next.
In an instant the river went a pale white with a line of crimson waters flowing through it. With this he saw a spectral hand flowing through it. He only saw it briefly but he knew exactly what it was.
He cried out in horror. With this he woke the dead.
The body of Zachary Smith, recognizable only to him: the child he took on the prior trip, burst forth.
A completely different entity than the naïve young boy who set out weeks before, the thing that stood before him was a demon. A demon conjured from all the evil thoughts surrounding the boy’s death.
In a single swift motion, the demon brutally maimed him. The demon was to devour him.
It rose up into the sky. With a flash of remembrance he exclaimed:
“ At six miles up you will explode, I have seen it all!”
The demon replied:
“No one listens to the damned.”
But this man was not damned. He was an innocent, never taking more than he needed. It was an accident that the boy died. Leona knew this, Matthew knew this, but he did not.
The demon rose, to a total of what was now six miles, and burst apart in an inferno of grey flame.
With a moments hesitation he exclaimed for joy, for he thought he had defeated the demon.
Little Zachary began to form once again out of the ash. The man wept when he saw the boy again, but he knew it would not last. The boy began to grow wings, horns, black skin, and demonic eyes. He knew it was done.
A moment before the demon pierced his heart, it all ceased. There was a flash of absolute nothingness, followed by an eternal repetition of the agonizing horrors he experienced.
After two months since his last appearance the knowledgeable village people began to grow an uncertain concern. There was a buzz about the town of how he had fled without any reasons, or that the Ontario Provincial Police had found him living off the grid and taken him away.
Mr. Fraser knew that none of these rumors could be true. He set out for the man’s cottage that very evening.
After some ragged rapping upon a locked door, Mr. Fraser battered it down.
He arrived inside the house and immediately smelled the foul stench of rotting flesh. He moved into the bedroom and saw the body of his friend. It showed glassy eyes staring into nothing, it showed a split mouth, with dried blood all over his face. But what it didn’t show would be the question to haunt Matthew. It didn’t show the guilt of a man. It didn’t show the key to immortality to being eternal repentance. It didn't show the insanity of a man who would confine himself to damnation for an innocent crime.
Mr. Fraser simply closed his eyes and turned to leave: he could no longer save this man.
Getting to Know You
Thinking about connections today.
Or something like that. The connections between people. At Camp, we're all deeply connected. This is your-friends-know-you connected. This is in-your-face-love connected. You can't be antisocial, it's just not going to happen.
Back at FCC, they break up. We don't seek to connect with the other people anymore. We don't make as much eye contact, we don't search people's faces, 'cept for the other staff. We want to be left alone. I hear about all the bad things that can happen, and suddenly going for a run at night through the city isn't fun and relaxing, me-and-God-time in the dark, it's a chance for someone to get hurt. Where I'd laugh off the random propositions I get thrown downtown, now they're a little scarier.
And I don't want to be scared of people. They're people. People matter. Really. Of all the stuff God's made, people are something different. People - you can hear a person's story, and hear it again, and hear it again, and they'll tell you different parts of it, different perspectives, every time. And you can watch their eyes, and the way they move their hands when they talk, and listen to the points that they highlight, and figure out what matters to them. And you still don't know them. Not really.
Signscout knows me deeper than anybody else. K knows me not as deep, but in some weird dimension, like deeper across a broader area than anyone else. Santas has known me longest ('cept my parents). Think about that one. I've known Santas for two decades, and I still don't know all of her. She's an adventure unfolding. So's Signscout. And man, I can't even think about what an adventure K is, because I was looking forward to having that adventure for the rest of my life.
And we get hung up on what the houses look like. Seriously?
Last night I was getting my books out of my band locker, and around the corner I could hear a guy talking to someone else about a girl. And every line from him just hurt a little somewhere. He was praising her, but it wasn't her he was praising - it was the house. It was that she wasn't too skinny, but she had the right curves, and she did this amazing thing with her eyeliner, and he kept talking. He wasn't saying anything bad about her, or even that crude - but he didn't say anything about who she was. It was all about what her house looked like.
That's all it is. The body's just the soul-house. If the house gets wrecked, it's not like anything bad happens to me, I just move out. We admire houses for their architecture, or how pretty they are, etc., but my favorite houses to hang out in are the ones where my friends are. I like Miller's house because the gang's all there. I like lilr's house because I get to play with the baby and see my friend and share time with her (okay, and we make pretzels). I love coming in here because you're here.
I appreciate the house more because you're in it. But whatever house you lived in, no matter what it looked like, that's the house where I wanna be. There was a guy that I wanted to marry, and I told my girlfriends (if not him) that I'd marry him if he were a quadriplegic. It wasn't that what he looked like didn't matter - it was that the real value was who was there. Same way you can appreciate a pretty house - I can appreciate that my guy's physically attractive, but the real value of the physical is that it's containing him.
And now he's getting fussed because he's losing his hair. So not listening. :) Although, it must be noted, we're no longer looking at getting married.
The real value of the house is who lives there. The real value of the body is what's inside it. That's you. Your value is beyond financial estimate. There's an awful lot of money in this world, but there's only one you. There's nothing I could trade to get a you - just no comparison value. You're so far beyond anything else out there. And I want to hear your story. And I want to get to know you.
Though, from what I've seen, that could take the next twenty years. :)
Or something like that. The connections between people. At Camp, we're all deeply connected. This is your-friends-know-you connected. This is in-your-face-love connected. You can't be antisocial, it's just not going to happen.
Back at FCC, they break up. We don't seek to connect with the other people anymore. We don't make as much eye contact, we don't search people's faces, 'cept for the other staff. We want to be left alone. I hear about all the bad things that can happen, and suddenly going for a run at night through the city isn't fun and relaxing, me-and-God-time in the dark, it's a chance for someone to get hurt. Where I'd laugh off the random propositions I get thrown downtown, now they're a little scarier.
And I don't want to be scared of people. They're people. People matter. Really. Of all the stuff God's made, people are something different. People - you can hear a person's story, and hear it again, and hear it again, and they'll tell you different parts of it, different perspectives, every time. And you can watch their eyes, and the way they move their hands when they talk, and listen to the points that they highlight, and figure out what matters to them. And you still don't know them. Not really.
Signscout knows me deeper than anybody else. K knows me not as deep, but in some weird dimension, like deeper across a broader area than anyone else. Santas has known me longest ('cept my parents). Think about that one. I've known Santas for two decades, and I still don't know all of her. She's an adventure unfolding. So's Signscout. And man, I can't even think about what an adventure K is, because I was looking forward to having that adventure for the rest of my life.
And we get hung up on what the houses look like. Seriously?
Last night I was getting my books out of my band locker, and around the corner I could hear a guy talking to someone else about a girl. And every line from him just hurt a little somewhere. He was praising her, but it wasn't her he was praising - it was the house. It was that she wasn't too skinny, but she had the right curves, and she did this amazing thing with her eyeliner, and he kept talking. He wasn't saying anything bad about her, or even that crude - but he didn't say anything about who she was. It was all about what her house looked like.
That's all it is. The body's just the soul-house. If the house gets wrecked, it's not like anything bad happens to me, I just move out. We admire houses for their architecture, or how pretty they are, etc., but my favorite houses to hang out in are the ones where my friends are. I like Miller's house because the gang's all there. I like lilr's house because I get to play with the baby and see my friend and share time with her (okay, and we make pretzels). I love coming in here because you're here.
I appreciate the house more because you're in it. But whatever house you lived in, no matter what it looked like, that's the house where I wanna be. There was a guy that I wanted to marry, and I told my girlfriends (if not him) that I'd marry him if he were a quadriplegic. It wasn't that what he looked like didn't matter - it was that the real value was who was there. Same way you can appreciate a pretty house - I can appreciate that my guy's physically attractive, but the real value of the physical is that it's containing him.
And now he's getting fussed because he's losing his hair. So not listening. :) Although, it must be noted, we're no longer looking at getting married.
The real value of the house is who lives there. The real value of the body is what's inside it. That's you. Your value is beyond financial estimate. There's an awful lot of money in this world, but there's only one you. There's nothing I could trade to get a you - just no comparison value. You're so far beyond anything else out there. And I want to hear your story. And I want to get to know you.
Though, from what I've seen, that could take the next twenty years. :)
I'm still awkward around people
even after years and years of knowing people, I feel like I'm a terrible friend... it's just that every response I feel like I could have said something better.
plus I barely ever contact people... blehhhhhhhh
does anyone even read this?
if so, my apologies. checkout this neat band called Bowerbirds on a neat website called The Hype Machine.
much love dear children,
JaDV
plus I barely ever contact people... blehhhhhhhh
does anyone even read this?
if so, my apologies. checkout this neat band called Bowerbirds on a neat website called The Hype Machine.
much love dear children,
JaDV
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