A Report On The NSRBA

Those of you not in the Bingo circuit may not know of the importance of Bingo revenues and the migraines of Bingo administration amongst small to mid-sized non-profit organizations. Suffice to say:
we often depend on Bingos;
Bingos give us headaches.

It was my pleasure to serve the needs of one such organization last night at one of Edmonton's oldest and yet most secret Bingo Halls:
The North Saskatchewan River Bingo Association.

My colleagues and I gathered on the banks of the river directly underneath the High Level Bridge as the Sun was rising somewhen about 1 AM. For those of you of a more southerly disposition let me assure you that it is quite common for the sun to rise at 1 AM in these Northern climes. For those of you not familiar with Edmonton architecture, the High Level Bridge has some historical significance to our city - nothing significant to this report though. The High Level Bridge is best described as high and level. Also, it is black. A souvenir type Electric Train runs across it in the summer months. It also has a waterfall. It may sound like I'm describing some hobbyist's basement model train project, but I assure you that the High Level Bridge does exist and it is just as I described it. And around about where the water falls
into the North Saskatchewan River
from the high and level bridge
there is a port-a-potty.

About 8 metres east of the bridge and about 15 metres south of the north shore there is a port-a-potty in the midst of the river. Well not in the midst... it rests above the water level. And this port-a-potty is the only entrance into the North Saskatchewan River Bingo Hall. I would have appreciated being told this prior to my arrival. But I am not
(as you know)
not a grumbler am I.
This is the lot that has been chosen for me by the Great Caller in the sky so into the river I go... but first I'm going to see how Leah and Garret make out. They've found some rocks and abandoned concrete to jump out
into
the river on.
They've got nice shoes those two and they don't want to wetten them. Unfortunately the last concrete pillar is just out of leaping range from the entrance to the bingo hall and the last word on their attempt is
"splash". My comrades are soaked, then so
must I be soaked as well. I can almost see the waters
quelching between my toes and
pouring down my underpants
as I run into the river to join my Bingo friends. Floating outside the port-a-potty that sits calmly above the water I was struck by two observations.

Firstly, once you are in it, the river
(which is often referred to colloquially locally as
the North Saskatchewan Sewer)
is actually much cleaner than it appears from above. There's a slight cloudiness to it from either algae or fish eggs but otherwise it is very clear. I didn't dare myself to drink the water but I felt quite refreshed after submersing myself. I would also like to add that the river seems much wider once you're in it, and that I was surprised at how non-existent the current was.

Secondly,
... that port-a-potty.
"Don't you think that it's kind of odd that this bingo hall would have an outhouse for an entrance?"remarked Sophie
who had appeared floatingly while I was under the water. I had to agree. It was odd. But, you know me. I'm not one to question
the way things are.
They are the way they are for a reason.
However, what I was struck by was the indifferent face of the port-a-potty. It reminded me
of the monolith from "2001: A Space Odyssey",
or the phone booth from "Doctor Who".
Except this wasn't a movie or a tv show... this was real life.

Well, others had joined us by now and had climbed out of the water, up to the port-a-potty, and had disappeared behind its door. Ever the gentlemen, I allowed all others to precede me. As I was opening the door I realized the disgusting situation that I was in. A port-a-potty has but one function. (Well, two functions if you want to be nitpicky.) A port-a-potty is not a portal between worlds; it is not called a "portal potty"; it is called a port-a-potty: a transPORTable convenience. So when one tries to combine the function of a human waste disposal unit with the needs of a portal between two worlds... well... it's not pleasant. I will spare you the details except to say,
it wasn't as bad as you would have expected.
I was actually quite impressed with the engineering of it all and very much appreciated every attempt to make the experience as comfortable, clean, and fun as possible. However, in the end, I still wish that I had been told about this earlier so that I could have dressed more appropriately.
Those were my best pair of pants
and I'll never wear them again. So, after I got off the slide that takes you from river level to the submarine level, I took a look around.

This was by far the most low down, criminal, seedy, keep-your-back-against-the-wall-or-you'll-get-a-knife-in-it, don't-make-eye-contact-with-the-patrons-or-you'll-get-a-knife-in-it, end-of-the-line Bingo hall I've ever been in and I (as you know) have been in quite a few in my time. This place smelled of murder
(and urine). The whole place was quite pissy actually. It's yellow cast made it seem like the fluorescent light tubes had been filled
with pee. And you know that gentle thud that bingo daubers make in every other bingo hall in the world?... when the next number rolls into the screen and a chorus of sponge cushions touch the table tops... sometimes accented by a ukrainian women's voice urging
"n42, n42, n42".
That sound is not heard at the North Saskatchewan River Bingo Association. No. Oh no. Firstly, the bingo daubers are filled with draft beer and when they make contact with the bingo sheet they kind of...
fart. I'm serious. And they're stinky farts.
And there are no babushkas to be seen in this windowless submarine bingo world... they are all sailors and they swear like sailors because that is what they are... bingo addicted seamen. And they swear in every language but none so prolificly and harshly as the table of Greek sailors. They don't curse under their breath, they cram their profanity in your ear like straight razors into dry pumpernickle. Furthermore, its the smallest bingo hall I've ever seen. Smaller than I've ever imagined.
Which makes the payouts
and payoffs
ridiculously
small. Furthermore, the players will haggle over the price of the bingo cards which means you spend
more time negotiating and
less time selling.The Russians are inclined to just take the cards from the ushers and not pay for them. (They keep their money in front of them on cutting boards and you are expected to try and take the money while they try to fend your fingers off with steak knives. The upside to this modified five finger monty is that you are never bored and if you're fast enough and they're drunk enough you can make some pretty good coin. The question is:
is your pinky finger worth twenty rubles to your theatre company?)

So to conclude and summarize. The North Saskatchewan River Bingo Association and its hall: filthy, not lucractive, dangerous, smelly, inconvenient.
As a fundraising activity: not recommended at all.
Keep your club at Caesar's Bingo or Flamingo Bingo or Ringo Bingo or collect cans and bottles from the ditch and
count your blessings along with your nickles... and your knuckles.

However,
for the adventurous minded soul who wants to experience
the underground secrets of our River City,
this is a destination that must be on your
not to be missed list.
I survived with only a few knicks on my thumb and a loss of some fine trousers that I will miss dearly, and if I can live through that, then so can you.

Reporting from the Bingo Satellite,
Spirot.

Book Love

"There is nothing sexier than a woman reading", said the bald guy with the styrofoam coffee cup. He claimed to have lost his hair in a bookstore.

"One for each volume", he said. Hair bookmarks. Red Herringss in Harry Potter.

"Years after we married, I found one of his hairs in Lovesigns ", reported his widow even many years after that August night when she found one of his long curly reddish brown follicles peeking out from the bookshelf. "The weird thing was that I received that book from an ex-boyfriend as a one month anniversay present many many many years before I ever met my husband. I often wonder if it was some kind of voodoo trick he pulled on me."

He had a strand in the binding of every library in town. Used bookstores were perfumed with his dander. That is why I am chiseling on his tombstone: "Women Reading: Turns Me On. Bookstores are erogenous zones."

He fell in love with her as she read books.
She used her hair as bookmarks.
He drank coffee. She read books.
In bookstores.
She used her hair as bookmarks
He drank styrofoam coffee
and fell in love
in bookstores
she used her hair as bookmarks
and he fell in love with bookworms

jumping

Jumping (Tezuka)
Uploaded by Tubulamarok

Waters

It was the World Series and I have never seen Yankee Stadium so full
and how could you not
could you possibly not be impressed

this sporting complex
doubled overnight
in height
in depth
in colour

they have turned out their pork pie hats
this intergalactic circus comes to town but once a year,
the crowd is electric and eclectic.

in the right field corner a special seating area has been created for the children of giants
the giants themselves watch their children and the game from outside the stadium...
they have grown and
they lean upon the tin roof that cradles home plate
their leaning causes the infield bleachers to groan

.

anticipation

this final of all finals features the ALLSTARS of ALLTIME
Reggie Jackson, Mickey Mantle, Ty Cobb, Pete Rose, Lou Gehrig, Buggaloo Bill
ALLTIME ALLSTARS

NOW...
baseball isn't really my thing.
I like to play ball but watching it... not so much. But we're watching it from the best seats in the house which just also happens to be
the dugout
and that can only mean one thing...

we
you and i
are playing in the World Series
against the ALLSTAR team of ALLTIME.

It's a tense game that isn't decided until the last pitch of the ninth inning... of course

We lose. Which is not too much of a heartbreaker because we aren't professional baseball players, yet still you would think that some of the sportswriters, at least one of them, would want to ask how our team came so far against such incredible odds. But no. Everybody ignores us as they rush to fete the winners. Nobody remembers second place they say and they say it enough they start to believe it they say they say so they say.

I feel a little desolate inside except that...

... it's my birthday and I'm in DisneyCanada and I have scores of friends and family to celebrate that with me... at least for a couple hours before the long drive home.

My favourite thing about DisneyCanada is the Long Canal.
It winds, corners, dips and bends seemingly forever
and you and I choose to navigate it by Koosh Kayak
which is just like a regular two person kayak
except that the oar ends aren't paddled... they're more like mop heads.

The Long Canal is essentially a conduit between all of the water attractions at DisneyCanada most of which are like little tidal pools for the indulgent. Hot springs after mud pit after rock cave after aqua yoga after whirlpool all of which are tributaries of the Long Canal. Sometimes these little nooks are hidden at the end of a set of secret rapids or behind an innocuous water fall. Finding and sharing these little nooks and the people in them is one of the things I love about The Long Canal.

Unfortunately though, the Koosh Kayaks are not allowed into most of these outlets. The Kayak has to be left at the inlet points like a dog outside a grocery store. And often when you emerge from one of these little water niches it's not obvious whether you have emerged upstream or downstream of your entry point OR if you have switched streams entirely.

And that is why we got separated. You went to go retrieve the Kayak one way and I went the other. I ended up finding a Kayak but I'm not sure that it was ours. In any case, I am Kayaked and looking for you but I don't know where to look. And as is my want, I look for you at a slower pace, making sure to look under the broad large leafy foliage that hangs over the canal banks.

Later I was to find out that you took a different tack and floated quickly downstream in the hopes of catching up with me when in fact it was me that should have been catching up with you. The distance between us increased and any hope of us reconnecting was less than hopeful.

Time passed and the sun set and the maintenance boats started their end-of-day pass. I was the last of the stragglers that they nudged towards the end of the Long Canal.

Where... finally we find each other... in the empty parking lot. We change out of our swimsuits and wonder where the rest of my birthday party went... ?

Someone appears with a cellphone with lots of flashing lights on it.

I call my brother-in-law. He is back at the President's House and he is trying to collect all the stuff that got left behind... my birthday presents, our baseball cleats, socks, underwear... and it's a little difficult for him because he's not sure whose stuff is whose and which stuff is important. I inform him that if the underwear is nice underwear then it's probably yours and should be treated as a nicety.

You smile at this. You have changed out of your swimsuit into your street clothes but you still have the towel wrapped around you.

My brother-in-law then tells me that my parents have left which is a bit of a problem for me because I was expecting to get a ride home with them and it is a long way home... half a continent. However, I am not stressed about this because I will just walk if I have to... it might take a month or more but in the end there are far worse fates than having your parents leave you at Disneyland so I'm not complaining.

It then occurs to me that I don't know how you are going to get home and, while I am not your guardian and you can surely take care of yourself, it does cause me some consternation but that's when you reveal that you have
The Coolest Car Ever
and you offer me a ride. This is satisfactory to both of us because not only do I not have to walk all the way from someplace in Ontario to Edmonton, but you don't have to drive alone
and you have someone to show off your incredible taste in music to. We have hours of talking time ahead of us. Yay!

So we're going to find my brother-in-law to help him clean up the after party confusion...
but when we find him
things get confusing. We can no longer get into the President's House because the security system is activated when the streetlights come on. We're sure that we could break in and my brother-in-law is more than willing and able to do so. But breaking in is not the problem. Breaking out is. It would require mountain climbing equipment and we don't have any.

Then my parents show up. Turns out they didn't give up on me. They just know what I'm like and knew that I would be the last person out of the park
just like always.
So they had gone to pick up my nephew and neice Khai and Kheira (key-air-ah).

Keeeeaaaara likes you because she wants to be a princess and she thinks you are what she wants to be
that is to say...
a princess.
Now, I don't know if whether or not her perception of you is true but you don't tell her any differently
so everybody assumes that you are a princess
and that Key-E-Ra's princessdar is accurate
as always.

My dilemma now
is how
do I tell my parents
that I have another ride home without hurting their feelings?

how?
how?

how?

But as these things do, they get resolved because...
because...
because of marvelous Distraction.
DISTRACTION DISTRACTION
BECAUSE
if you ARE a princess
and this IS DisneyCanada then...

Well then we don't have anything to worry about.

Ever.

!

So we go to Swampland. You are holding my niece's hand as she drags you through the camoflauge mesh curtain that surrounds Swampland. I am carrying my nephew. My brother-in-law reluctantly follows my sister and I say reluctantly not because he doesn't adore my sister - he does adore her. He's only reluctant because he was so looking forward to using his many skills and tools in the activity of break and enter and hopefully exit. My parents are always there because they are always where their grandchildren are. We are all looking into the little pools of water that constitute Swampland and we are delighted to find that Swampland isn't really swampy... it's more like a rough draft of a Japanese Water Garden. There are no mosquitoes or alligators or moonshine stills. There are many shallow irregluar ponds most of which have smooth dry stepping stones and all of which have some kind of animal swimming in them. Frogs. Fish. Salamanders. Grebes. Little Tiny Turtles. THEN through a sudden conflaguration of 5 year-old in my arms, I discover that my nephew Khai is simultaneously fascinated and terrified by turtles. He is hypnotized by them and cannot look away from them even though they throw him into a violent spastic panic. I only now wonder if perhaps this was triggered by some past life experience in which he was perhaps eaten by a turtle when my nephew Khai was not a little boy but was perhaps a catfish swimming on the bottom of some slow moving stream in New Hampshire.

So I'm holding Khai above my head as he squirms and screams (and this isn't easy because he's not as little as he once was) and I'm trying to get him out of Swampland where I can reassure him with my calm Uncling ways... and then my Dad says ... and I must say he's being no help whatsoever..

"Look, Khai. A snake."

And we all look.

And sure enough, there is a snake.

And then my dad takes a step back and says...
"HOLY CRAP!"
because this gentle moving whitesnake
which is kind of floating through existence
like one of Buddha's Allegories of Calm
it hovers
lifts its head in a controlled ascent straight up into the air heeding the call of an unseen snake charmer
turns itself rolls itself slowly banks to its starboard side over it slowly goes
and reveals itself
this quiet hypnotic representation of primal knowledge
to be
bigfastmean rattlesnake with a broad diamond head and pissed off eyes
and
it's heading straight for me
like an axe head through wood

So I hold Khai over my head and for some reason he's scared of little round tiny turtles but he is not scared of poisonous snakes but he is scared of turtles but not snakes... but turtles... go figure...

And I'm trying to run away from the rattler but it's difficult because I'm running through water
while the snake is skimming over it.

So I try to kick it away with my protective boots
but
I don't have protective boots
I'm barefoot.

So it bites me.

Which sucks.

So I'm sitting in the parking lot wondering
"Who is going to help me?
Where did everybody go?"

And it turns out that everybody went to go get help.

Though I must say that nobody seemed to be in any kind of hurry! Not to complain or whine or anything but I DID GET BITTEN BY A RATTLESNAKE.

But...

I take some solace in the lackadaisical manner in which you all sauntered off to vaguely find some assistance for me...
because the last thing
you want to do
when you get bitten
by a rattler
is
to
panic. This will increase the heart rate and speed the flow of poison to the rest of your body. One must remain calm.
Like The Buddha.
So I appreciate
that all y'all are
taking your time
though it would have been nice
if just one of you had stayed
so that I wouldn't have to suck the poison out myself. The rattler bit me on the ankle and I'm no contortionist. Sucking the poison out of there is not easy as it requires literally sticking my foot in my mouth.

I can taste something kind of foul but for all I know that's what my foot tastes like... especially after it's been slightly marinated in Swampland. I can't even tell if this is working or not. You see, I don't know what Rattlesnake Venom tastes like.

So I'm going to give up on the sucking and the spitting.
I'm just going to lie down here in the parking lot.
Maybe I'll die. Perhaps. It is not for me to decide. If it is my time and if this is the way, then so be it.
And I'm thinking... that was weird. A rattlesnake in water? I didn't think there was such a thing as a marine rattlesnake.
Maybe it wasnt's a rattlesnake. Maybe it was a cottonmouth... I don't know... I'm no snake expert...
maybe a cottonmouth is a rattle snake. So.
I'm just lying here... looking out my window... grabbing a pillow... jamming it under my head... I'm contemplating snakes... cottonmouths... marine snakes... DisneyCanada... I'm lying here contemplating... i've been contemplating it for like an hour
now... and I can't get back to sleep because my mind is racing
so
i'm going to get up
and type this all out

I. Think. I

Eyes open.

"Do you want to know?"

Handbill.
There is a handbill. In a hand. It says:

"Do you want to know"

Who's hand is that?
Is that my hand?
Who's handbill is that?
Bill's? Hand. Bill.

Who is Bill?

"Do you want to know"
Do you want to know
THE TRUTH
Do you want to know
THE TRUTH
Do you -

Who are you? Who am I? Where is this?
What?

She was standing on the sidewalk. With a handbill. In her hand.

"One might wonder if the Minutemen first met in such a room."

Who said that? Bill? Bill. Hand.

Door. On the sidewalk was a door. And there was
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

And that was the handbill in her hand. And then there was the door.
She opened it. Who is she?
With her hand. Who am I?

"Hi, my name is Bill."

Bill. Handbill. Handrail. Stairs.
Did you fall down the stairs?
Why are you lying here on the ground?

You are lying on the ground, girl.

If you down the stairs you fell did you find yourself with a handbill in your hand?

"Do you want to know THE TRUTH?"

Did you fall for it?

She opened a door. Then what? She was walking down the stairs.
She was standing at the bottom. There was a man. His name was Bill.


"I see you have one of my handbills."

"Yes, I do," she said with a handbill in her hand that said,
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"
Do. You. D.O.U.
Who is U? D.O.U.
D.O.U.G.H. Dough. Nut.

"Do you want a doughnut?"

You were standing in a room near a table full of doughnuts. Doughnuts full of handbills.

"One might wonder if the Minutemen first met in such a room,"
said the man by the door. "Hi my name is Bill. Do you want to
know the truth? I see you have one of my handbills." "Yes, I do,"
you said. He offered you a doughnut. "Do you want a doughnut?"

With a doughnut in his hand. A cream filled doughnut. A doughnut filled hand.
There is a handbill in your hand.

"And your name is?"

She answered his question. His name is Bill. Her name is? He knows her name now;
she told him.
What did she tell him? There is a handbill in her. Hand. Rail.
Hand. Bill. She is at the door. By the table. Full of doughnuts. Full of
handbills. In the room. In the room there was a table with a...

What is my name?
You answered his question. What did you say?

Oh. There's that table. Not the table full of doughnuts full of handbills. The other table full of machines. A slide projector and a reel-to-reel-to-reel audiotape machine. A table full of machines.

And the doughnut on the floor. And this ugly carpet. Stinks. Ugly old carpet on the floor.
And the handbill. And the hand. On the floor. And the tattoo. That's my tattoo.

"Hey, tattoo!"

My swastika tattoo. I did that myself. With a needle. And a pen.

"I like your tattoo, sister."

In the room. By the table. Full of machines. There was a chair full of a man he was a Brush Cut Man. Before the handbill on the street on the sidewalk she was standing on the sidewalk on the street and there was a Brush Cut Man. He said, "I like your tattoo, sister." He gave her a handbill. There was a handbill in her hand.
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

My head hurts. Must be hungover. Where's my head? Where was I last night?

You were standing on the sidewalk. There was a door. Stairs. Bill. Handbill.
Table full of doughnuts full of handbills full of machines.
There was a handbill in your hand that said "Do you want to know THE TRUTH?"
It was photocopied and folded. There was a graphic on the front.

There is half a handbill in your hand. Torn in two. It says "Do you want to"

There was a Brush Cut Man.

"Thanks for coming, sister. Take a seat. He'll start soon."

She was a tough girl sitting in a room next to a table full of machines.
Projector. Screen. Table. Sitting with a doughnut in her hand. There was a
handbill in her hand.
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

Are you where are you where are?

Where the fuck am I?

Sitting in a chair by a table he was a Brush Cut Man.
Standing on the street
with a handful of handbills
he was a Brush Cut Man.

He wants her to know THE TRUTH, the thick-soled black lace-up truth, the camouflage truth, the tight t-truth, the clean-shaven truth. Pectoral bicep truth. The handsome Aryan Brother truth. Serious concern. Serious. There is a handbill in his hand he is a Brush Cut Man. He said. "Thanks for coming, sister. Take a seat. He'll start soon. Only the two of us,
sister. We're two in a million."

There were two of us. And Bill. The Brush Cut Man and me. In those chairs next to the table full of machines.

He called me "sister".
Is he my brother? Do I have a brother?
Just the two of us. Two in a million. And Bill. Two and a Bill at the bottom of the stairs
in a basement full of tables
near a man full of doughnuts,
a Brush Cut Man, and you.

Come on, Gloria. Stay awake. Focus.
Where am I?
"Do you want to know" in my hand on the ground on this ugly carpet who am I?

On the street there was a girl talking to a Brush Cut Man. He said, "He knows a lot. He has seen, he has learned the secrets of the world. Just take a handbill, sister. It's free. What have you got to lose?"

And the man full of doughnuts spoke about THE TRUTH. It's a free speech. It's a free doughnut. And the Brush Cut Man sat. Next to her he sat. Deceptions? Elections? Projections! There were projections. Project the illusions that we accept as truth but in fact are lies,
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?
and the man full of doughnuts, doughnuts full of handbills full of doughnuts asked do you want to know THE TRUTH? Bill?
Bill?

Bill, no. Please, Bill, no.

"Do you want to" in my hand. On the floor. On the carpet. On the stinky carpet.

Between projector and projection. In a chair full of. You have swallowed half
his doughnut in the chairs between. Between projector and projected. Between
Bill and you something is going on between Bill and you. You are tearing at the
handbill in your handbill in your hand. Bill in your hand in hand in Bill in
your hand.

"The currents of our history"

The Brush Cut Man said,
"The currents of our history have been guided by a secret
and the secret is projected. On to you.
The Jews manipulate the machinery behind the curtain
they have done this thing forever
since 1862.
Emancipation.
Proclamation."

In the chairs between the walls of the room beneath the surface, you are sitting in the darkness with half a doughnut in your mouth and half a handbill in your hand and Bill's hand is in your...

"lights out"
Bill said,
"Lights out."

My head hurts.
Aspirin? I should get up and go buy some. To the store on the corner.

"I wouldn't go in there. It's owned by foreigners.

She was standing on the sidewalk.

She was weak for his moustache she was dreaming of his daughter
she would be his mute apostle
if he only asked
she would be his Mary Maggie Mother Mary May I
stay this way forever? Since 1862?

Is it 1862? Think, Gloria, think. I. I think. No. No. They did not have fluorescent light bulbs in 1862. I think.

"Lights out," said Bill.

"This is the slideshow I was telling you about, sister," said Brush Cut Man.

He called her "sister", her Brother-In-Aryans calling her ME "sister". He was
ogling me ME Brush Cut MY breasts Brush Cut MY tattoo putting his handbill in my
hand. "It's free. What have you got to lose?" I was standing on the sidewalk. I
was opening the door. I was eating his doughnut. He is my brother. I always
wanted a brother. I am an only child.

"Do you want to know"
With a half a handbill in my hand.
"Do you want to know"
Where? Where is the rest of it? Where is
"THE TRUTH?"
The handbill. The doughnut full of handbills? The truth is in the doughnut.
The table full of doughnuts the table full of machines.

From that table of machines in the room full of darkness came the slide show of
THE TRUTH.
I must have. Dozed off.

"This is my wife and I. We are waiting for the elevator that will take us to the." Said Bill.
"CLICK" said the slide projector.

Maybe the slide projected we are already lovers.

"This is the 27th. CLICK"

Maybe Bill is your secret father and the Brush Cut is your brother and you are a family hunker bunkered with a table full of doughnuts but not like helter skelter and in your hand is half a handbill asking "Do you want to" and you want to whisper softly "call me Eva, yes I want to, call me Eva, that will do".

"This is the ped. CLICK"

The slide projector is staring at you.

"This is an interior corridor in the. CLICK"

Don't make eye contact with the projector. It is ogling you from the posterior view. It is ogling your tattoos and your tits.

"This is a double door on the 27th floor of the. CLICK"

The Brush Cut Man imagines a life in the mountains after the fall of society.
Himself and you but you are Bill's woman now and nothing can change that not
even history. Bill and you. Whatever your name is. What is your name? Do you
have one? You have to have a name!

"Do you Bill, take Gloria to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Yes. That is true. I have to have a name. Yes. There's no denying that. I must
have one. Now close your eyes and remember Bill Bill Bill Bill Bill and...?

"This is that same door opened and this is the. CLICK"

In the shadows of the. What's the word? You just said it. Procession?
Protection? Projection! Projection in the shadow Bill is projected in the shadows of the projection I can see
that I love him. Bill and. What's my name?

"This is The Assembly. CLICK"

I must have a name. Or did I give it to him. Does Bill have my name now? Is it
on the other half of the handbill? He should give it back. It's my name.

"Who is The Assembly?" asked the Brush Cut Man.

I think. I.

Trouble. Where am I? In a room in a room. What is this what is he? My name is. Tired. Why am I so tired? Close your eyes, Gloria, just close your eyes. Why am I lying on the floor? This carpet smells ugly. Whose floor is this? You need an aspirin? Who is You?

"An excellent question," answered Bill. "The Assembly is the third inner circle of. Their power within is. But they are without exception extremely wealthy and tend to be."

Is this a revelation? Is this is not normal.

"Isn't that?" asks Brush Cut.

"Yes, it is. It should not surprise you that the man behind him works in pharmaceuticals. The men in the pink pyjamas are all. The ones in stripes constitute one-half of."

One-half of what?

Who put this
"Do you want to"
in my hand? Do I want to what?

"Why are they?" asks the Brush Cut Man.

Who am I?

"I don't know. It's just what they do. CLICK"

Do I want to what? Sleep? Who's doughnut is this my doughnut this is my
doughnut. Mine.

I. I. Think. I. I think. I think. I think I am in trouble. Pay attention, Gloria.

There's the projection screen.

"This is my attempt to warn my. CLICK This is their dismissal of my. CLICK This.
CLICK This is the. From. That have arrived at the. To thank the. For their. And
for all. They have. Done for. This is the nation of. CLICK"

I was standing on the street. My name is. I was. I am in?

"This is me. CLICK"

It is Tuesday. Tuesday. My name is Gloria. Yes! Gloria!
"Do you want to know"

Yes yes I want to know it, me! I want to hear it, Bill, I want to find THE TRUTH. I want to, that's what I want to do. Eternal. Sleep and. And TRUTH. Such machines such glorious and capable machines of innovation and wonder wonder how it did that?

"This is the sound of glory. CLICK"

Glorious games and distant explosions. Glory. Glory.

"CLICK This is my wife and I. CLICK"

Bill and Glory. My name is Glory.
My name is Glory. It is Tuesday.
I am standing on the street. I have a handbill in my hand.
I am naked down the sidewalk by the door down the stairs.

"This is me naked. This is fornication in a supposedly secret place. CLICK"

My eyes are swollen. Must be hungover bad.
The stairs. Something about the stairs about the handbill.
Naked Bill and his moustache. Is Bill my husband? Have we lied? Have I lain naked before
Bill? Bill is. Naked.

Another place. Something about handbills? Interest? Emotion. Hands. There is a
handbill in my hand.
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

I will keep my eyes open for THE TRUTH.
"Do you want to know"
There is no ring on my finger. My finger is naked. Which finger is it that makes
you married? Hands something about hands?

"This is the city with no secrets. CLICK"

Handbills. THE TRUTH

"This is it. CLICK"

Door. Stairs. Let me.

"This is your life. CLICK"

Let me know. Handbills. Hand rails.

"This is. CLICK"

This is what it sounds like when doves cry.

By the door down the stairs I laid down and wept. How can you just leave me standing. Alone in a world so cold. The reel-to-reel projector. The table doughnuts and Bill. Handbill. Handrail. Hand. Rail. Handrail. The stairs. Where am I? I think I might be in trouble. I think I might have fallen. Out of my clothes. I'm naked. I think I might have hit my head. Who am I?

"This is my. CLICK. In the parking lot. CLICK"

Was he talking about me? What was he talking about? To me? Still tired. Just five more minutes. Wish I was in my own bed. Or just a bed period. Whose floor am I crashing on this time? My name is Gloria. I was on the street. I had a handbill in my hand. It is Tuesday. I am fine. I have hit my head, but I am just fine. That is my doughnut. This is my handbill. I am here to find THE TRUTH.

"CLICK"

THE TRUTH.

"The power outages. CLICK The memory crashes. CLICK"

THE TRUTH will set me free.

"THE TRUTH. CLICK"

THE TRUTH is.

"This is an empty building. CLICK An empty room.
CLICK
CLICK
CLICK
CLICK
SWITCH
This is quiet. CLICK"

Eyes open.
Lights on.
Empty.
Room.

I think. If my daddy was here, he would take me to the hospital.
I think I should go to the hospital.
I think I should say something.

"And that is my presentation. Do you have any questions?" said Bill.

Is there anybody else here? Do you have any aspirin. Oh, my head feels like The Brush Cut Man had questions, lots of questions. Strategy and organization and literature. I had no questions. I saw the shape of things as they are in the words that he used. I doughnut need to have it explained to me further. I read between the lines, I saw the man the moustache
the big picture the brush strokes the Brush Cut. Why am I so tired? I think I should. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

"I like your tattoo, Sister."

I like your moustache, brother.

"Do you have others?"

Oh my god.

I am pulling down my shirt. I am showing him my tattoos my naked breast my swastika. My head is swirling he is my Brush Cut Man. I am kissing his moustache. I am eating his doughnut. One of them is my husband. One of them is my brother. I want to know THE TRUTH.

"Suck it"

"Suck it"he said and she did and her knees burned on the ugly carpet.

This is an ugly carpet. Whose carpet is it? Whose table?
Whose fluorescent lights? Whose chairs and tables and
machines. And her. Who is she? She looks like me. What
is her name this girl this girl in the mirror? I want to know
if she lives here in my city and where she and what her
and if maybe she and I might be music and movies and
travelling to Austria and how did she get here in this room
with her shirt around her and her mouth around his and
her hand around the other and half a handbill in her hand.
And why is she lying on the floor?
And what's around her eyes?
And what's around her mouth?
And where did she get those tattoos?

She's looking at you. She's been beaten. Look away. Don't stare. Close your eyes.

Those tattoos.

It doesn't matter. What matters is that THE TRUTH is I am his sister.

"The secret shape of things. The greater reality.
The bigger picture. The pride."

She wants to leave. He won't let her. With Bill in her hand and his doughnut in
her. She wants to vomit and I. I. I think. I think. I. I.
Vomit. On the ugly carpet.


Mine?

I wanted to vomit and I could only be. I. I think I am in trouble. I think I. I vomited.

"Yeah, sister, yeah."

And then I. I. I think. I. I did.

"What the fuck? That's disgusting."

He has a thick-soled boot.

"Bitch!"

Lights out. Eyes closed.

the Dream that never was

This may turn into random musings or it may not but I shall begin by telling you the story of
the Dream that never was
and from there
we
shall
see.

A few nights ago, or perhaps a week ago,
or maybe an hundred hundred years ago I found myself in an odd situation.
Or maybe it was an awed situation.

Without regard for homonyms I press on with my story in which I was in a situation that seemed "not quite right". The details of this irregular situation are not important. I might have been flying or there might have been some pig speaking English to me
or some other uncommon, rare, or supposedly impossible thing was happening
some peculiar thing that provoked my sensibilities to mutter...
"hmmmm, perhaps this is a dream".

Have I told you of the technique to acquire lucidity in dream state?

Have I told you this technicque for lucid dreaming told to me by a person who shall remain unremembered?
in the case that I have not told you of this prior to this moment, then I am now going to instruct you of a technique passed on to me by a forgotten source on the ways and means of encouraging
the lucid state of dreaming.

It is this:
Train yourself to ask the question 25 times a day: "Is this a dream?"
Train yourself to consider and to honestly answer the question each time you ask it. "Hmmm.... No. No, it is not."
And then carry on with your day.

Eventually you will start to ask yourself the question in your dreams. And though you have answered the question in the negative 25 times a day, if you have honestly been thinking about the question, you will eventually answer the question
"Hmmmm.... Yes. Yes this is a dream"
while you dream.
This act will give you an awareness of your dreaming state
that is the first step
towards mastering dreaming consciousness
in a sense to become a god in your dreams.

What you do with this lucid state is up to you, but I caution you to not underestimate the power of your subconscious mind. It is much like that damn monkey claw. Consider carefully what you wish for. Tred lightly. Even gods have nightmares and such nightmares they have that would make a Bronte sister mad.

* And beware the DreamPoliz. *

Does that cautionary note make you tremble?
Do you dare continue on with this story after this tangential interjection?
Why have I begun opaquely with theories on lucidity?
Will I ever return to my original story of an odd awed situation?

As soon as I suspected that this situation might be a dream I did as I have said. I asked the question.
"Is this a dream?"
And then before I could answer the question I discovered I was actually asking it of somebody else.
"Is this a dream?" I asked myself, but unfortunately, I did not actually ask the question of myself. I asked it of some... I dunno who. Some Guy? Gal? Monkey? Somebody who was there. Somebody who appeared as soon as I asked the question.
And I asked over and over and over and over and over and receieved no answer. It might even have been you, but I cannot remember and that is my ultimate point.... I CANNOT REMEMBER.

You see, there's the power of the subconscious. The subconscious has spies everywhere.
And the most nefarious of them work for
The DreamPoliz

Whenever you pierce the veil of memory between this world and that,

between the wolf and the scorpion,

Whenever you open your jaws to swallow the moon,

or shout so loud to wake the sleeping clown

The DreamPoliz are there.





Memory. Why is it so hard to remember our dreams? It is hard enough to remember the little details of waking life but... remembering dreams...some force wipes our memories daily of the adventures we have at night. Who is doing the wiping?
The DreamPoliz.

Why can we not remember what happens when we go over the rainbow?
The DreamPoliz.

The giant peaches that chase us - Forgotten.
The erotic performers that we become. The blood of the bull in the pit of the hills - There are no memories of these.
The secret language of electricity that defines us - Invisible.

These are not small things. They are large and momentous. Would you forget that in your waking time you ascended Mt. Fuji? Will you forget knowing that you had the strength and ability to conquer it? I think not. You will not ever forget that walk up the mountain.
But do you remember that
last night you
were swallowed
by a flame from
the hat of night emerged unburnt
from the tip of your ears to
the tip of your roostery tail?

No, you do not remember that.

And a thousand thousand other moments equally momentous have been forgotten by you alone. And you were alone. And if you can't remember what happened last night while your eyes were closed, then all these memories will be lost in time like tears in rain
(if i may borrow an image from Blade Runner).

Why can we not remember the other universe that we live in? Have I met you in my dreams? Have we shared adventures? Were you the screaming banshee that prevented me from planting my flagpole in the top of the world? I am sure that you have guest starred in an episode or two (just as I am sure Anson Williams appeared in an episode of The Love Boat) but I cannot recall. Perhaps I have even told you of a time that you appeared in a dream of mine but still... I have no memory of it.

Why?

The DreamPoliz.

A secret surreal intelligence organization who's function is to keep Dreamworld a secret. I have recognized their operatives twice. Once they appeared in the form of a Keystones Cop like chase scene. I had just discovered that I was in Dreamland and was intent on using this opportunity to fly when instantaneously I was being chased by a riotous squad of cops who were intent on stopping me from exerting control over my dreams.

The second time was a few nights ago. Or perhaps last week. Or perhaps a hundred hundred years ago. I had just asked the question of myself
"Is this a dream?"
Before I could answer it, a Dreampolice operative appeared at a table reading a newspaper. She had appeared so as to distract me from answering my own question.
I asked her instead
"Is this a dream?"
She didn't answer.
I asked twenty five times. I implored. I instructed.
No reply. Because I received no answer to my question, the veil that I had pierced was able to mend
and the window onto that other universe was closed to me
and I cannot remember what I saw there.

And that Dream never was.

What would I have done had I gained control over the dreaming, if I had earned my Godhood? The last time I found myself in that situation I was prepared. I had told myself and others for years that if I was ever in a lucid dream state that I would use that opportunity to fly and that is what I did and I have probably posted the written record of that adventure in a story entitled "Tybalt On Running".

This time I was not prepared though. I do not know what I would have done but I am sure that it would have been sexual in nature. "Sexual in nature"... what a silly phrase. A polite way of saying I would strive for a fucktakular event worthy of the lust thirsting audience of Rome's Colliseum. There are many fleshy adventures I would like to undertake with a select roster of fiendish females... however, I should thank the DreamPoliz for stepping in when they did because if I had gained lucidity and gone forth with my half formed horny notions, I am sure it would have been absolutely disastrous. I have already had dream sex with Margaret Thatcher once, thank you very much, and once is enough. I must plan this out. Determine the details. The costumes the setting. The music. The story. The conflict. The colours. The characters. All this must be done before the first day of rehearsal. So that when that lucid state comes again, I am ready to take advantage of it and so that The DreamPoliz do not take advantage of me.

Spinzia B

It occurs to her this recurring

this vervant plastic bag that dances and twirls in the sky and spins and most importantly

she flies this common white plastic bag not unlike a trillion other bags available at Terry Van's General Store

is a superstar in the Superstore parking lot
spinning up the airways to the great blue.

The plastic bag says "wheeeeeeeeee, look at meeeeeeee, I'm an artist!"
and the West Wind says "No, you're not. You're a film of plastic trapped in the current, captured on magnetic tape."
The West Wind punches the bag in its gut
Bag gut Punch. Bag gut Punch. Bag gut Punch.
in a tremendous volley of blows. The wind knocked the wind from the bag.

Then sprung from out of that plastic dancing thing the gentlest tornado.

Her name is Spinzia B and laps she runs round the squarish parking lot
lifting up the rusty dust and carries it away

She spun the cars in their stalls.

She cleaned that place up a little.



Nobody died by whirlwind that afternoon.

A Visit To Dr. Sticks

He was about six feet two. Orange hair. Rectangular framed glasses. A kind of out of focus kinda guy. Didn't hate his job. Didn't love it. It was just what he did. He was my doctor.

He instructed me to get up on the... whattya call it. Bed? Bench? Paper covered examination table with cushion?

"Well, we might as well give you a physical. When's the last time you had one?"

"I've never had one, Doctor Sticks."

"Well then, we might as well give you one."

He vaguely rolled his hands about six inches in front of my heart, and he mumbled, "Exercise". Then he had me lay down on the examining table and asked me to roll up my shirt. He placed his index fingers on the left side of my abdomen and drummed. The same placement of fingers on my right side would have been directly over my liver but on my left side... ? I don't know. I didn't ask. He didn't tell.

Then he took those two fingers and placed them over his own right eye and drummed again. "Do you know what this is? By palpatating the eyes we can determine resistance. How pliable the lens and jelly of the eyes have become. We should find similar resistance all the way down your body from your eyes to your belly to your toes."

And that was it. No goodbyes, no explanations, no instructions. Not even a platitude about apples or laughter.

And that, I think, demonstrates the problem with specialists and our culture of specialization. Now, I suppose that if you reading this are a doctor or some other practioner of a specialized form of diagnostic medicine, then you probably know exactly what Dr. Sticks was talking about. I, however, am not a medecin. (I am a dreamer which isn't much of a specialty because everybody does it. I'm just better at it than most.)

I do not have the tools to decipher his ways, but why should I have to. It is my body and his observations and manipulations should be obvious to me. The true specialists - doctors, lawyers, clergymen - hold on to their secret ways to the detriment of communication, expression of true knowledge, and the benefit of us all.