Acid Flashback No. 55

The Blur

Deer Creek Golf & Banquet Facility, Ajax

I'm going to warn you up front that this blog will offer little of value. You won't find much focus here. I don't have any fantastic takeaways. I don't have any solutions. I sit here between the polar forces of optimism and rage, trying to reach for one while shielding from the other. Part of me wants to retreat from conversation entirely, to escape the culture and to settle down in a castle and sit on a throne and put on headphones and just wait it all out.

The culture I'm talking about is geek culture. Nerd culture. Pop culture.

Really, our entire culture, because our entire culture is pop culture these days. Geek culture is dominant. News is entertainment. Nobody wants to smell a fart, but they want to hear about it. Wow....

I'm looking out the window. Taking time to contemplate the existence of free writing at The Ontario Writers' Conference workshop begins to conjure deep thoughts. My thoughts are heavy, but my head isn't in space. I'm not going to meet Bowie. My mind is focused on metallic minerals and I'm thinking about the richness of music, a goldmine of sound deafens my existence. The music of Metallica causes a headache within, but I don't have Advil in my pocket and I can't steal the pain reliever from the person beside me. Thrashing my head from side to side looks silly, but now Anthrax and AC/DC are penetrating a heavier beat in my head and it feels so fucking good. I take a sigh of relief that would make the makers of Advil jealous.

I'm thinking to myself how faith requires an irrational belief.

Jesus Jim, the weakness overcomes my mind and soul as the music stops, I'm not finding strength from Monday or looking outside at the pretty golf and country landscape. I need to resurrect my creative thoughts from ancient times. The workshop is over and I'm being told to leave. I'm being told to get out.

I'm opening the door and it leads outside into the wilderness. I'm in the middle of nowhere and trucking home might take two hours if I drive above the speed limit. I'm sitting in the parking lot imagining my failure. 

Exiting Ajax, Ontario

Driving home, I put the pedal to the metal. I'm going faster and faster and my mind is tripping higher and higher thinking Beyond the Blue Kite. My latest reader had a couple of thoughts and told me to take it with a "grain of salt" because he mainly reads mysteries for enjoyment. 

"Good use of language to convey emotion. I would guess that you have an academic background because of your phraseology and the quality of writing."

I can almost hear the stranger's voice after he read my novel.

"In general I felt it was well written. The last quarter of the book was brimming with excitement -- well worth the read."

But it's never enough. Talking Heads greet me in the driveway.

"And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself: 'Well.. how did I get here?'"

"I don't know," I tell the empty mailbox and open the door. The spirit world welcomes me home. I'm terrified about rejection from my first manuscript from the literary world, but there's Voodoo or Nirvana or The Doors. But I slam the door and go to the bathroom. At the very least, let this be a call to do better. Burn the rejections, toss them in the toilet, rain my piss upon their parasitic heads, and say bye-bye as I flush the bowl with clean water once more.

TOILET BOWL BLUES

The scene is a crowning glory

From the roof to the toilet,

I'm sorry I can't show you

Since it ends with a story.

From the bowels of my soul

To die of a massive coronary

Without even knowing it, 

Shit, to the toilet bowl --

I hear Mozart, my good dog:

"Pay no attention to whatever,

To anybody's praise or blame."

I mostly enjoyed a modest log. 

It'll send your heart reeling

If you follow a true feeling.

Old Study: Insects Are The Great Survivors

A fucking big Dragonfly

Giant insects ruled the great prehistoric skies during periods when small and ancient Earth's atmosphere was rich in oxygen. Then birds came on Earth. Then after the evolution of birds and humans... dragons ruled with dinosaurs. Insects reached their greatest sizes about 300 million years ago, during the late Carboniferous and early Permian periods. This was the reign of the predatory griffin-flies, giant dragonfly-like insects with wingspans of up to 28 inches (70 centimeters)... and the flying insects got bigger and bigger! They got so motherfuckin' big that the bloody insects took over my mind. I envied insects and wanted to be like one.

DRAGON FLY

At night, I'm a dragon that breathes smoke,

At daybreak, I’ll sleepwalk with human folk.

I saw Mr. Charles Darwin at an orphanage,

Over institutions of my fen-raged dreams,

Off coast-lands of weedy-soaked serpents,

The sea flows from sorrow of storage.

An attic within a cave conceals me for a while.

Then I arise, alone of scales, spikes of style,

I rage with madness at my seventh horn.

As my three eyes weep at unseeing dark,

Nightfall of stone-blind infectious sharks,

Swimming with ailing evil, I’m reborn.

I snarl and gnarl at a trapdoor of rocky bars

As a fire-breathing monster bleeding scars,

Craving for a sea nymph to set me free;

Sharing darkness with an immortal breeze

I breathe flames with venomous steam,

I kill a Raven and eat her in the sea.

These cages kill the memory of a stranger,

Of sunshine and days loving Amy Granger;

When daylight struck my brow for sight,

Though here I dwell as a disfigured reptile

Hurting with hunger to walk as a human,

But I’m lizard-like, slithering with fright.

There beaming in the horizon gleams her,

Beckoning for me to drown in slumber,

To nap with wet dreams of a heavenly sky,

To forsake burning desire of unholy fire

And to end nibbles of dog-hearted fancy;

In place of evolving, as a creature I’ll fly.

Photo courtesy of The Legendary Moonlight Sculptor

What Are 11 Types Of Writer's Block?

Writer's block is a creative slowdown. It's just about the least fun part of being a bloody good writer, and one of the greatest stumbling blocks a lot of big businesses face with content marketing.

Refer to me simply. 

Who's Your Captain?

What you probably don't realize is that writer's block is a great subject that I am going to tackle in a great way. I'm going to steer you through the various forms and overcome the obstruction reminding you that writer's block can happen anywhere, especially when you're on vacation in Cuba. Why did I go far, far away to the island? Because the dead of winter in Canada is best celebrated in the Caribbean.

A BROKEN RECORD

The voices spin and spin

Like a tired, old record 

Within

And within I'm full of sin. 
I carry my broken memories

Within.

Where once I would grin and grin,

Playing a repetitive song

From a soundtrack within,

But now I drink rum, vodka or gin

While too happy to sleep

To sing a song within

From the Caribbean.

Cayo Santa Maria

Sometimes poetry is the best way to deal with writer's block in a serious way when I'm finding it impossible to go beyond the rum diary. The flight home from Cuba would have been better if we circled the moon while listening to the Lionheart Network. Now I'm back home and I'm plagued by the cold and 11 types of writer's block.

1. Cuban withdrawal syndrome
2. Swimmer's ear
3. Lack of ideas
4. A lack of language
5. A bold beginning with multiple endings
6. Emotional block
7. Separation block
8. Erratic over-editing
9. Procrastination
10. Flat World
11. Leaking Lionheart Leaks is a novel idea about struggling employees working at a failing company, but I need to continue working at a job that's not failing because getting pissed won't help to get back to Cuba.

Cayo Santa Maria

Traffic History Month

Check out blogs happening around you for Traffic History Month!

February is Black History Month, but few know that we also recognize Traffic History Month. The traffic remains black and white for young adult motorists. The evolution of traffic lights, high-tech cameras and enforcement make good roads safer. The issue of safe driving needs more energy to strike a chord in the hearts and minds of sober drivers whenever taking to the open road. How Is The Traffic On Brant Street? And why is it important to preserve the highest values of road safety? It's important because following the rules of the road can save lives and getting daily updates on road conditions can keep you informed. What if traffic means many different things to many different people. That's alright. There literally is good traffic and bad traffic, but don't judge and keep Truckin' on.

traf·fic

ˈtrafik/

noun

1. 1.

   vehicles moving on a road or public highway.

   "a stream of heavy traffic"

   synonyms:

   vehicles; More

   • 
     

     
     
   • 
     

     
     
   • 
     

     
     
   • 
     

     
     
2. 2.

   the action of dealing or trading in something illegal.

   "the traffic in stolen cattle"

   synonyms:

   trade, trading, trafficking, dealing, commerce, business,  buying and selling; More

3. 
   

verb

1. 1.

   deal or trade in something illegal.

   "the government will vigorously pursue individuals who traffic in drugs"

   synonyms:

   trade (in), deal (in), do business in, buy and sell; More.

Traffic History Month includes celebrating road construction. Without new work to roads, there would be potholes everywhere. The month wouldn't be complete without recognizing your local traffic channel and traffic man or traffic woman delivering the goods. The Midnight Traffic Report could really actually happen in theory, so just be grateful you're not stuck delivering traffic at some ungodly hour of the night or early morning. There's a new short story connecting you to the industry and the world of traffic:

1. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 1 introduces Wyatt McReynolds after he's been hired by The Traffic Channel. The traffic reporter reflects on his childhood.
2. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 2 observes Wyatt as he's growing up and working at a community channel and debating whether he should learn how to read.
3. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 3 tracks Wyatt in a local bar reading as he becomes obsessed with a poem. He hates old Wheelerville and he expects bigger and better things.
4. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 4 as Wyatt never again returns to his hometown and immigrates to Saskatoon, the traffic man is done reflecting and returns to the reality of his ginormous office at The Traffic Channel. Traffic will never again be the same.

Happy Traffic History Month. Please drive safely.

Wish your mechanic a Happy Traffic History Month.

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 4

Never again returning to Wheelerville, Wyatt never feared failure or losing traffic.

The bus driver drove fast and furious. Wyatt read and whistled a tune about Saskatoon while midnight passed. The bus would truck on, driving straight down highways through the Great Plains. When the traffic man gazed out the back-of-the-bus window, he observed the endless road and a little house on the prairie. There was no TV on the bus, only memories he had spent with his mom watching the old show starring Michael Landon, a television legend that graced the cover of TV Guide 22 times.

“Halleluiah! I’m on a highway to heaven.” Staring out of the window at the open, flat land from his seat inside the bus, Wyatt was free for the first time. He was free, not worried about the end of traffic.

The bus stopped at the border. There was a wait time for entry into Canada. Wyatt would appear nervous as the menacing, stiffly uniformed guards at Canada Customs lined up the bus passengers to interrogate them. When asked what he had to declare, Wyatt declared the poem by Alfred Noyes and read The Highwayman to the Customs officer. Customs had no idea how to react to this kind of character, but the bus driver helped the handsome young man. She turned to him, would give him a stern stare and shouted, “Wyatt, mind yourself. We ain’t in Texas anymore. No more reading. Ever!”  

“All the world’s a stage.” Wyatt nodded to her slightly after standing up tall.

           

She ignored him. “We got nothing to declare.” She helped sort out the issue between him and the officer and explained that Wyatt only had two carry-on bags and nothing of value to declare. Wyatt sat back down and listened to his Walkman playing country music. The bus took off, only to speed off out of sight. The bus and all of its passengers made it across the border into Canada. The woman driver rode down the highway faster and more furious. She continued north and told the passengers, “It sure ain’t Texas. Y’all better be good Saskatchewaners. Next stop, Saskatoon. Make sure y'all buckle up.”

The Greyhound arrived in Saskatoon. There was a small-town feeling, big-town pulse. When the driver let out her passengers, Wyatt was last to leave the empty bus. The driver tipped him about a new television station.

“There’s a new station here in town. The Traffic Channel is hiring. Thank you for riding, riding, riding.”

He looked at her intently and gave her a strange response. “Tlot-tlot.”

“Wyatt, I know you lost your horse. I’ve seen you on TV,” she said. “You deserve better.” There was a tear in her eye. The emotional journey had gotten the best of him. He flared his nostrils.

“Never rode a better horse.” The man had taken the ride to the end of the road and found a new place to call home.

The driver nodded and winked at him. She had dark curly hair and chocolate brown eyes. She wore tight black jeans and a red leather jacket, covering her sumptuous curves. "The name is Bonny."  

She would kiss the charming traffic man on the cheek. Wyatt winked at her and then smiled to express his gratitude.

“Thank you, my sweetheart. Watch for me,” Wyatt said “I’ll be checking the traffic for you before you roll out to start your next route.” Taking off his trucker's hat and putting on a cowboy hat, he was ready to tackle the world. There was nothing stopping him from the dream job that he always wanted.

“I’ll watch for you by moonlight,” she said after noticing a twinkle in his eye.

Mr. McReynolds stepped out of the bus onto a deserted road. He stepped out into the crisp night-time air near a cozy and quaint Prairie Inn along the gravel road, where he expected nothing less than a good meal and a warm bed. There was a chill in the air, but he looked up and down the road with confidence, knowing this was his time to shine. With a big wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth, spitting on the side of the road, nodding his approval, he started walking one mile north. He knew that he was in a lovely Canadian province, where he would settle down in a Prairie Inn and begin a new life. He'd learned a lot over the years, but he never forgot his roots. Similar to the mad enthusiasm of earlier years, Wyatt showed up at The Traffic Channel the very next day and showed the Canadian company how a talented traffic reporter should act. Similar to successful years earlier in his life, he was hired immediately.

***

Wyatt returned to the silence of his large office and slightly lowered his head like he was ready to sleep. He had seen some fine days, he thought to himself weary, before raising his head again. After agreeing with himself, he said, “And that’s the way it was.” Wyatt worked hard and lived happily ever after in a place he believed was a little piece of heaven. He loved Saskatoon and he was passionate about traffic. And he loved Bonny, a pretty wonderful woman and bus driver who had brought him to a place where dreams really do come true. He smiled before taking out his new dentures. Many people's strengths were the rugged land and happy home that made them proud. Grabbing a tissue from a small Kleenex box on his desk, he released a giant booger before wiping away happy tears from his eyes.

  

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 3

It was mid-afternoon and Wyatt would walk to a cool conservative saloon on Ronald Reagan Way. Nancy’s Bar and Grill was one of his usual pit stops after a long day at work. The air conditioning was cranked and the young man almost felt cold sitting alone. 

He sat in a corner booth with his new book and a bottle of local beer. If he thought the book was only forty pages long, the naive traffic man would've been wrong. Flipping through hundreds of pages, he appeared stunned, but found one long poem. It was the most that he had ever read. Wyatt slowly started to read The Highwayman and the nice poem struck a chord with the young and lonesome reporter. It was like there was a love knot between Wyatt and the poem. It was like Wyatt understood the “Highwayman.” Following that day, he would read the poem in the morning, after work and always before going to bed. Sometimes he acted out scenes while alone in his spare time just for fun.

After he exhausted himself reading the same poem obsessively, he was desperate to integrate the poem into his wildly informative highway traffic report performances. Wyatt transformed into the highwayman, and he vowed to ride off into the sunset. One day he would go riding, riding, and ride north on a long highway heading all the way to Canada. After changing out of his cowboy uniform for a final time, Wyatt dressed into jeans and a red shirt before his report. “Howdy folks! There’s a traffic bottleneck southbound.”

A producer whispered in his ear. “Where’s the cowboy uniform?”

“I hate my work uniform. This town is nothing but boots and spurs.”        

The short-haired woman yelled, “No.” She was visibly mad. “Shut the hell up! We’re throwing to a commercial.” She cursed under her breath.   

Wyatt would start to speak Canadian with his camerawoman. “Turn off the camera, eh. You need some bacon. Go play hockey with Guy LaFleur.”

“Okay, Wyatt.” She responded uninterested in any of Wyatt’s nonsense.

“Eh, don’t you understand the Canadian language?” He spit on the floor.

“I don’t give a damn. I don’t want to work with you.” She was repulsed.

“I’m gonna throw away the old cowboy uniform for a winter coat made of Saskatchewan sealskin. I’m putting on a red trucker’s hat and going riding, riding off into the sunset.” Wyatt smiled like he had just won a prize fight.

The angry manager of the community channel walked into the studio. He was overweight and sweating. The middle-aged man was wearing a small cowboy hat and chewing tobacco. “What the hell is going on around here?”

“I’m going to go riding, riding, riding!” Wyatt said.

“Well have fun riding, riding, riding. And don’t come back.” The manager knew that the kid had talent, but his focus was off and dead air would have been better than broadcasting mad traffic rants. 

“I don’t need Wheelerville. I’m going riding, riding on a bus northbound to Canada.”Wyatt was ready to pack his bags. “Oh, I do so know how my camerawoman will miss me; but I must go riding, riding.” Revealing a half-smile, he clenched a bus ticket, looking nervous but insanely happy. The bus ticket had been sent in from a fan of the channel. It was a free ride out.

Before exiting the old studio, Wyatt exclaimed “The highway is for riding, riding, riding. And now, I’m off to where the wind is a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. And this has been Wyatt McReynolds reporting.”

He would finish a tirade and storm out of the studio, tossing Bessie out on the sidewalk in anger. He wasn’t going to need his lucky lasso anymore. His bags were packed and he stood at the bus stop waiting and flipping through pages from his big book of classic poems. A Greyhound bus stopped for the patient traffic man. He boarded the bus. The driver smiled at Wyatt, closed the bus doors and put her foot down on the gas pedal; and rode off into the sunset down a long lonesome highway paved with goodwill, good intentions and good dreams.

Greyhound bus headed for Saskatoon from Wheelerville.

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 2

The teenage years slipped away from Wyatt. He had barely finished high school, but would never miss a traffic jam at the community channel. His hard work paid off as he would report some of the finest traffic collisions in Texas history. 

One day, he was riding into work, but when he went to dismount and strut into the community channel building, his manager came flying around the corner. "Whoa," he hollered. Absentmindedly driving in to start his day at work, the manager hopped a curb and crashed into Bobby Joe, causing major internal injuries. Wyatt lost his prize-winning horse and went on to do the traffic, but cried at work that day. His camerawoman and manager laughed at him for being a big baby. The traffic man was left with a bitter taste in his mouth. It was never the same.

Wyatt continued his traffic reporting career; but his heart wasn’t in Wheelerville, and he never followed directions from his TV producer. Sometimes he could be heard sulking in the corner of the studio, whistling a depressed country tune.

It was a hot and humid summer afternoon in Wheelerville and Wyatt had finished reporting for the day. “And that’s the traffic in your neck of the woods. I’m going to Marilyn’s Mercantile.”

The stout woman quickly turned off the camera. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Have a good day,” he said and walked away with proud confidence.

The blue-eyed wrangler took off his cowboy hat. He sighed, brushed his gorgeous blonde locks and admired his hair and tight abdominal muscles. His stunningly handsome good looks were the trademark of traffic in Wheelerville. All he could do was admire his lean and well-toned body in one of many mirrors around the modest studio with historical appeal.

The 21-year-old would enjoy talking to himself, “What are you gonna do?” His mom was concerned about his attitude and she encouraged him to take up hobbies or try reading more. After the shoot was over, he feverishly talked to himself, “I’m gonna have myself a tuna fish sandwich and buy me my first book.” It was all about him and he loved to admire his fine acting chops.

Wyatt looked very hungry. He walked out of the studio room and proceeded out the back door of the friendly building. Slowly walking towards Marilyn’s Mercantile, there was drool coming out the side of his mouth, but he didn't know and couldn't wipe it away to save face. There were beaded lights shining on the shop entry doors that greeted him every day. After ordering his usual tuna fish sandwich, he browsed up and down the aisles of the half-empty shop. There were so many books. There were so many fashion magazines. Wyatt was very familiar with magazines. He loved to flip through the pictures of attractive women in advertisements of hip fashion magazines. Gazing at the top shelf, he looked at a book of poetry by Robert Frost. His eyes widened, undoubtedly remembering that being read to him in seventh grade. “I’ve taken that road before.” His mind was preoccupied.

A middle-aged woman turned around, looked at him and took note of the young man. The lonesome traffic reporter read the title to a book singing to him out of the blue. The book was called Forty Singing Seamen And Other Poems and the book almost cried out to him. He grabbed the book by Alfred Noyes and stood in the checkout line, but he was uncertain it would keep his interest and he wondered if this was the first book he would read. Giving up the internal debate, he bought the book and walked out of the store. He was desperate to give the book a good home.

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 1

Winter road reports on The Traffic Channel saved lives in the flourishing town of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. The Traffic Channel was a major employer. 

Wyatt A. McReynolds was hired in the Fall of 2001, after signing a handsome contract. Soon the traffic reports were a staple of very early morning satellite television spreading across the Canadian Prairies. Traffic was kind of a big deal in the wild west. The station needed endless hours of live programming to fill time slots and they needed voices to track miles of endless roads.

Wyatt enjoyed three square meals a day. His breakfasts included cereal and a banana in the morning. He savored a nice tuna fish sandwich for lunch. Wyatt loved a good hot dog for dinner and indulged his sweet tooth with a Mr. Big chocolate bar when nobody was looking. The talented, keen traffic reporter aged gracefully. A better than average man in his late fifties with no grey hair, he had ambition and a boyish smile. His mother’s genes played a part in his youthful appearance. As he reclined in the chair of his office on the eleventh floor of The Traffic Channel building, the dead silence from his 500-square-foot office was an eerie silence that would cause any man to reflect on his life.

***

First reporting traffic at the age of eleven in the small room of his beloved mother’s tiny apartment in Wheelerville, Texas, Wyatt found his call of duty. His mother was a Czech immigrant. He spoke fluent English, but sometimes he spoke Canadian or a little Czechoslovakian in his spare time. Looking out the small window, he whimsically called out the traffic moving through the city, building excitement as rush hour rattled on. Soon after, Wyatt took his reporting to a community channel; and even though he was just a kid, a manager saw his talent at calling traffic almost before it happened. He would always report the early morning traffic wearing a cowboy hat, red vest, blue jeans, a big belt buckle, red boots and spurs. He even carried his lucky lasso, named it Bessie, and kept it lashed on tight to his waistband, while reporting traffic across northern Texas. The man had a few gigs and non-paying cameo appearances in rodeo reports on the community channel, but his strength was the road. The youthful traffic reporter could be heard in a hysterical fit of laughter. “Yee-haw, it's another fine day to giddy-up and go driving!” At a young age, his passion for working early mornings was contagious. Sometimes after laughing on camera, he was heard deep into the night. “And now let’s look at the exit ramp.” The sound of his cackling carried on beyond midnight.

Wheelerville’s community channel was located in the downtown core of the town. The small red brick building was situated between two huge high-rise buildings and dozens of shop houses running along Ronald Reagan Way, a busy street and a major commuter artery.

Most of his breaks from work would be spent at Marilyn’s Mercantile. The small, quaint department store with a pop stand and historical feel could be found beside the small community channel building. It was just one of many shop houses along the bustling street. The young man also spent some of his time at a local horse ranch at the edge of town. Bobby Joe was his black mare and best friend. 

Bobby Joe