I Want To Be Your Halloween Man-Witch

Boo! Did I scare you? Flying kites multiplying and taking over the dark sky not terrifying. But be afraid, I write dark fiction not horror. Stephen King got his big break from writing horror. I won’t be getting a big break from The Great Beyond.

If I had a broom, adjusting the broom between my legs, I'd fly away as your man-witch from hell. My destination would be Oz or Wonderland or maybe the shadows of heaven. It would make the perfect story and it would become crystal clear that some of the best witches are men or women or transvestites. A love affair between me and the dark side of fiction -- it's not that I want to fly into Oz and fall on another witch after she takes a liking to my storytelling. I'm sitting here, beyond acid flashbacks or nervous breakdowns, thinking more about talking truth on writing dialogue or the discipline of writing daily with French Press Bookworks Author Roundtable.

I was going to write about witches and ghosts and goblins, but then I didn’t.

I was going to write about fantastic fantasy, but then I didn’t.

I was going to write about mystery, but I’m already writing it.

Organization is the key to unlocking the mystery of how to write more. Find a way to organize your writing, then write more, one step at a time. The discipline of writing daily comes from deep within the pure or impure soul. It usually starts slow or fast, but it has to start somewhere. Six pages into Chapter 10 of Lionheart Leaks, but then I stop and hit a wall. Twitter takes over. I’m out of control and I’m tweeting like a mental patient with WiFi privileges. I’m starting to get more ideas from the craziness, and imagination is spewing from every time of the day. What if Lionheart Leaks alternative title is The Death Of Terrestrial Radio (in endless parts). What is Terrestrial radio? In broadcasting, it’s any electronic device designed to receive, demodulate, and amplify radio signals from sound stations. It only gets harder.

WIFE: Stephen King schedules time to write every day and writes six pages a day. You need to write daily as a discipline.

ME: I hate Stephen King.

WIFE: Just write.

ME: Alright, alright, alright.

Drink good. A great big blast from the past, feverishly writing pages of poetry and I’m not sleeping on the couch in front of the laptop, but I’m writing, drinking and sleeping before writing and drinking more. I rely on the ageless life tip of staying hydrated as the best writing tip and advice. Something like this:

NORTH OF NAVAJO

Speaking English

on Indian Lake Beach

sounds foreign

and loud.

Stripping naked

misunderstood --

on a dark beach

under the moon,

hearing heavy metal

sound fluent and rich.

NORTHEAST OF NAVAJO

Heavy metal is made here,

where we’re under a rock

from a cave

somewhere,

but nowhere I can reveal.

I can only make you hear.

Put a blanket on my bed

and drape it over my head.

If you don’t know what I’ve said,

It’s because I’m speaking a dialect of Navajo.

King of the foreign tongue

lost in translation

from illusions

of delusions

of darkness.

MADNESS (11th Chorus)

Madness deepens and overwhelms

a deeper desire of hate.

Only profound sadness

and inner voices

screams words

nobody hears.

Headaches fill the dark hours

raging only in my mind.

You can’t smell my onion-stained breath,

since not speaking

or shouting a word.

I try to resist madness,

only to hear nothing --

beyond belief

to cry

from sadness.

Hail

a tissue from my face

wiping tears,

wiping fear.

I want to write 

to the mighty

mouse.

Where The Hell Do We Go When We Die?

Nazi Germany? Or St. Petersburg, Russia? Or Syberia? Probably not. We’ll go somewhere where there's no pain. It’s somewhere greater than The Great Beyond. There’ll be truth. Trust me. And real fiction from wonderful worlds of make-believe brings us new characters and imagination.

His name is really Peter Cannonball and he died performing a cannonball onto cement. We regret to inform you that poor Peter missed the pool. Let’s say Peter wasn’t Christian and practiced Atheism with his loving family. Does Peter still go to Heaven or Purgatory or Hell?

Probably Heaven not Purgatory nor Hell and the after-world is a mystery. Jesus Christ kinda freaks me out, because he wanted to die (maybe he believed in suicide). Or Jesus God, I believe in it all.

I don’t want to be experiencing Acid Flashback No. 67 in the end. I don’t want the coroner to report bad make-up causing my creepy inevitable death. I don’t want to be dressed in a clown costume. I don't want my final meal to be a plate of the freshest mushrooms from the grocery store. Suddenly I'm imagining myself choking on the biggest, juiciest mushroom.

Shrooms? Aliens? Spaceships? Is that a fucking UFO? I’m coughing badly, sick from this blog and I can hear strange noises coming from outside. I’m looking away from the computer screen and out the window, and now up into the sky. No, it's the giant fucking Moon. And it’s getting bigger, man. It’s a bright, giant Moon, but there’s also darkness. I’m trapped in self-sorrow, self-pity, tripping out -- and there’s a world of wonder to share. Then I mess up my hair and a nose hair is out of place. Then everything just stops -- and everything just freezes slow and beautiful and crazy ugly.

I don’t want anybody to mistake me to be the second cousin of Rob Ford in the end. There will be no mistake about it, everything goes to the Queen when I perish from this brown, ugly world. I’m giving everything I own to Her Majesty. It’s my choice. I don’t have all the answers, but this is not a friendly, vibrant green world. It’s a confusion of colours closer to brown (and the colour of the ugliest sweater in the ugliness of a white winter stuck in the depths of February somewhere in the Yukon). 

A YUKON POEM

From Canada to Cold-FX.

From America to a giant germ,

Genital herpes, a cold sore of the heart

Beyond Skyping your politics

Of Thanksgiving in October

Or Thanksgiving in November

And feeding your bloated head

Like Alice stuck in Wonderland.

Nevermind Nirvana

Never played in the Yukon

Or for sexy teen robots

Now dead

In HTML.

If this is totally off the wall,

Just imagine cold death

From Jefferson Airplane

To Jefferson Starship

Building cities

Of robots in the Yukon

With Courtney Love

Dancing madly

As a GIF.

Is death like sex with a hot robot? Imagine getting stuck in a wire and screwed forever. But maybe there’s something magical about death, like listening to insanely sick beats infused with thrash metal from Anthrax to Megadeth.

Celebrate life before and after death. Celebrate somebody who just changed their last name to October. Imagining Gary October as the creepiest jazz musician playing hits from his unleashed rare version of Autumn Cravings would be cool. Now imagine Gary October playing your funeral ceremony. A month when we least expect it, everything will come to an end. Who knows when we’ll go, but wouldn’t you want to go out to Gary October playing his jazz in a beautiful garden where the flowers never die? Some might call it heavenly, others might think it’s crazy, but have you planned your end? The Doors have their version of The End. Sometimes a show ends or sometimes a course or career or life ends. Sometimes it happens later and not sooner or vice versa. Right now, I’m imagining the sounds of Gary October and it sounds new like nothing I’ve ever heard before, and that’s how I’m imagining death. Death is something new like you’ve never heard and force yourself to hear. It’s nothing to fear, and it’s something you might find cool and play over and over again, because it’s always new and something magical. Death is stupid, but it might be far, far better. Trust me. I’m writing this for The Great Beyond.

Peace.

Reality Lies Far Beyond Space And Closer To Womankind

My mother sent me to psychiatrists since the age of four because she didn't think little boys should be sad. When my brother was born, I stared out the window for days. Can you imagine that?

~ Andy Kaufman  

It Might Be Argued men are from Earth and women are from Venus, but don't be afraid because we're all in this together. I used to hate everything about Man on the Moon, not from fear, but from loathing Andy Kaufman's death as breaking news.

Suicide prevention getting mainstream attention makes me wonder two things. Why don't we create better underground funding to help troubled youth and how did Bob Hope live to be 100 years old? Does his estate still get kickbacks from military bases in South Korea? NBC, CBC, RTTV or YouTube? I don't know, but give hope a chance. 

Bob Hope via NBC

Poetry, Audible/Narrative Short Stories

Beyond The Rum Diary writing blogs on my website again is a quiet reminder it's never over unless you like serials. My experimentation with writing a serial is over. NO more Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes or Raisin Bran unless you go to Wattpad. I'll let you know, and there's no doubt, Lionheart Leaks completes itself in the distant future beyond my wildest reality-based dreams. 

Movies? Boogie Nights or A Few Good Men. Both are the stupidest good movies I'll never watch again. I can handle the truth. Reality is perceived any way you choose, but there is only one universal truth: Love. So if love is the truth, then what are two evils plaguing mankind? It's very simple.

1. Women
2. Disrespect

My advice is avoid lust. If you want to write a sonnet, that's perfectly fine. But don't write a sonnet about the fisherwoman from your dreams. Example:

A SEXY FISHERWOMAN

I'm a codpiece of flesh, lost in a swamp or marsh,

Never touching a woman with pseudo-esteem

Alone on a boat with pirates crude and harsh.

For seven years she's been waiting for a dream,

While I hope to be caught in her infectious net --

On three nights with minnows and three guys

While I'm on land dreaming of her naked wet,

Wondering if she'll be a vision, envisioned wise;

Roughly, I've gazed at the sea once every year,

As I'm dizzy-eyed or mangled with every notion

That she'll never land, over a whale-shaped tear,

As we cling to happiness in a magical potion.

One day, I'll touch her as a supernatural fish

And find a way to say she's my only wish.

Yeah, I'm reading Naked Lunch. Yeah, I'm on YouTube, burrowing through crap because of the faulty programming in my subconscious mind. Junk is art and it makes for great literary fiction, but addiction and drug abuse are huge problems. The Beat Generation influences American counter-culture, expanding awareness, but teaching some of the wrong messages, while using some of the floweriest viral language. These are the harsh realities. I had to dig through the CBC archives before having a nervous breakdown.

Fuck around however you choose, but choose your sources carefully. Lead from example and Lionheart Inc.™ core values, because mistakes are made. If you want to go live-on-location from Puerto Rico, that's fine, but Jesus Christ (Second Coming believers might want to hear me use Jim Morrison's name in vain) learn from example. Recline in your armchair, sit back, and pretend you're on the loudest beach in the world with your feet in the dirtiest sand.

These EXAMPLES might one day "save" mankind. I just believe the most valuable advice growing up is simply to choose a smart woman and don't let her go (unless you're stupid, or unless she wants you to let her go, and then take a hike and maybe find a pristine beach with dirty sand and a sexier dude with a dirtier mind). But I think growing up without help is a mistake and any good guidance counselor in the world will tell you dirty deeds are done dirt cheap.

I didn't know what I wanted when growing up. Rich and famous ideals got in the way; but without womankind, I must confess, I wanted to be a locksmith and write Very Bad Deeds.

What Belongs In A Bad Library?

What is The Great Beyond? It's anything your heart desires. Watching Sausage Party on the big screen at a Drive-In, there was nothing funny about the movie, instead a reminder that summer is almost over and my mind won't be wandering while watching another movie because I want to make more time for writing. The Great Beyond is where you'll find something different to digest. Something to think about.

The party is over and now my eyes are staring into bright cancerous rays beaming from the computer monitor. Native rights are staring me straight in the face. Google-searching Aboriginal tells me it's a collective name for the original peoples of North America. I remember the first time watching Dances With Wolves and it basically glamorized the destruction of native tribes and ancient civilizations. A sad story, but bad people can't be stereotyped as the bitter Indigenous people. There's bad in every ethnicity, race or creed, and there's bad in every broken family. There's choices and consequences. We can learn from history to avoid stupid lifelong regrets.

But What Is Bad?

Sometimes -- it's not that bad. This means it's still bad, but there are degrees of badness. Going to the University of Wawa is bad, but it's not as bad as Mohawk College. My diploma would probably compare somewhere the same as a degree from Central Michigan University (if we're speaking Navajo or Media Communications which is comparable in my demented mind, tormented from years watching John Wayne movies). Today, there are courses online where you can learn the definition of bad with one click of the fucking mouse:

bad

bad/

adjective

1. 1.

   of poor quality; inferior or defective.

   "a bad diet"

   • 
     

     
     
2. 2.

   not such as to be hoped for or desired; unpleasant or unwelcome.

   "bad weather"
3. 
   

Mental illness is bad and it's not good to joke about mental illness unless you've listened to Michael Jackson's Bad from beginning to end or you've got solutions on ways to improve mental health in the world. STOP and take a look around. 

Here's 11 Things You Shouldn't Do If You've Got Bad Mental Health Issues:

1. Try to make your issues a headline in issues of local newspapers.
2. Try illegal drugs.
3. Work at not finding a job.
4. Discover crime.
5. Do not listen to health care professionals.
6. Discover new ways to re-invent bad.
7. Not listen to family.
8. Spend money foolishly.
9. Try to become the next Michael Jackson.
10. Miss health care appointments.
11. Watch CNN all day and night.

The Untold Story Of The Most Hated Work In Progress

Eleven? Not really. Now what? Here's an excerpt from a novel to forever remain unpublished before it's locked on the shelf and buried in dust.

David And Destiny: Chapter 3

“Come closer,” David whispered, nudging Destiny’s arm gently. The cool air blew against them and shook the leaves on the trees, falling from above, but it was quiet. It was very quiet in the forest. It was pure autumn and the colors were spectacular. Shades of brown and red and orange scattered the muddy ground. The leaves were up to their ankles. A squirrel raced up the incline of the steep hill.

He unzipped her coat with one quick motion, and guided it off her shoulders, one-by-one revealing her ample cleavage underneath her white button-down shirt and white lace bra. She looked down at his massive crotch.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said with a cold stare. “I love you. I want to be with you, but we shouldn’t be doing this.” She leaned in and almost kissed him. Wiping away a lonely leaf from his wavy blonde hair, he grabbed her tight ass and squeezed it hard. It was a sweet ass. She started to smile “Shhh. Pretend it’s just the two of us.” And it was just the two of them; alone with nature in The Enchanted Forest, where they were pressed up against each other, against the uncomfortable bark of a tree refusing to die. He touched her firm breasts. David never touched a girl’s breasts before, unless you count the time he leaned up against his mom in the kitchen and embarrassingly touched her. “There’s nobody around,” he stopped for a second, giggled then moved in. They kissed passionately, then he pulled away with a jolt. But noticing she wanted more, he moved in closer.

His fingers followed along the strap of her revealing white-laced bra and grazed the outside of her breast; then he reached in and grabbed her sweet chest. Awkwardly at first, but soon he was feeling her, breathing heavily and grabbing blindly. “Do you remember when we first met?” She wondered. “You told me that I had the body of Eve before she was ruined by Adam. You told me that I had an Egyptian handmaid's heavenly smile.” She looked at him innocently. A quick nod and he shrugged, as she stared deeper into his piercing blue eyes. David met Destiny at the beginning of summer school, so it had only been over seven weeks. They were getting to know each other in a special way and she thought that they were meant for each other. “It’s like I’ve always known you.” He nodded slightly, rubbing her chest gently and hungrily touching her skin. He softly kissed the tiny freckles below her neck. She took deep breaths and sighed, then he stopped for a moment like he was recreating the Book of Genesis.

“I was high and I told you that I was on a cloud in the sky,” he sniffed, “and everything that I said was true.” He stepped back slightly and then crouched down and unzipped her blue jeans. Lowering his arms, his hands slipped inside her jeans. Her panties were wet. She was tingling with excitement, breathing heavily and excitedly staring at him. They had never experienced true love before and now it was all happening.

“We were meant for each other. We’re perfect together."

“I want you here and now.” He was growing impatient.

“Is this heaven?” She looked up higher and the trees blocked the light. They were under the cover of darkness and she was re-living a fantasy she'd only experienced in her wildest dreams.

“It’s The Enchanted Forest. The closest we’ve come.”

“Fuck me hard,” she moaned. “I want to feel you.”

“It’s about time.” He reached up and grabbed both her wrists and pressed them back against the tree until they were sticky. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his monstrous cock. She gasped. He carefully fitted it inside her and she moaned. There was just stillness in the forest.

“It’s so big.”

“I know.” David was Jewish, but he had never been circumcised. He was one of the biggest boys in ninth grade at Holy Cross, but he was a hidden talent and was still naïve as a boy. Some secrets needed to stay in dark places, like under the shade of the trees in The Enchanted Forest, and not in the classroom. The daytime air was fresh. As he stared at her, the smile on his face grew with confidence. She admired his size. His arm stretched out for her hair and his fingers gripped her streaks of blonde hair. He cupped her breast with the other hand and thrust back and forth with his pelvis, sticking it deeper and deeper inside her. They were half naked, pressed up against the bark of a tree and he was fucking her with a wide grin on his face. There was nobody around, but there could’ve been, and that was all part of the emotional energy and thrilling excitement.

The wind blew softly against parts of their bare flesh. Tall trees surrounded them and there was a trail not very far in the distance, up a steep hill. They'd been to the same spot before, but they had just kissed, nothing more, and they were just friends before. It started getting serious after she smoked weed for the first time with him and his brothers. She actually had a crush on Samuel, but he was too old, and David was the cute younger brother, around her age. She would swear he was right beside her in some of her old baby pictures. She was convinced they were separated at birth and her mom just never told her. They thought the same way, liked the same food and shared the same feelings. They were both skinny and about the same height -- almost six feet -- without a care in the world. It sounded crazy, but it was true. It was almost eleven on a Friday morning, around the same time Mrs. White would’ve been teaching them experiments in science class. Since discovering The Enchanted Forest, they were learning more about biology and chemistry. This was where they were hidden away from talking heads and stupid friends that didn’t really get human nature. The small forest was in the Green Belt, just outside of the city. It was about a forty-minute walk from the hustle and bustle of the village and downtown Holy Cross.

David was not like the other boys. He stuck his tongue out, softly licking across her chest as she leaned back and enjoyed the ride. His warm saliva tickled Destiny. She giggled and nibbled around his neck. They were embracing; her legs were wrapped around him. There was nothing better in his life than Destiny. Penetrating her felt so good. Overdosing on candy and M&M's when he was growing up with his brothers was pretty good at the time, but he could only compare sex to a good buzz from drinking, or his first toke of marijuana. His grin got bigger and bigger, and he felt like he was ready to explode. He had masturbated before, and coming felt good, but this was really good and beyond compare to anything.

Her head was tilted up against the tree, her green eyes bulged and he was close to eruption. His breathing got heavier and heavier, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He pumped her harder and felt the ecstasy inside of her tight pussy and moaned louder. Not wanting to make a mess inside of her, pulled out, and emptied his load on her thigh, it was the relief from staying erect for what seemed like forever in paradise. She lowered her hand, scooped the mess off her blue jeans, and rubbed it against the bark. “What do we do now?” She looked at him intently with loving eyes. She wanted to hug him, but he was already kneeling down and ripping open his muddy backpack. He was wiping away leaves and reaching in.

“Gin and juice.” He pulled out two plastic cups, and a tall bottle of Hendrick’s Gin and smiled at her.

“So good.” She kneeled down beside him as he started pouring for two. “Why do you call this The Enchanted Forest?” She wondered.

“Because enchanted things happen here,” he zipped up the fly on his brown cords and stared at her. “Once I was higher than a kite and talked to a tree for hours. It was magical and I learned a lot from the tree.” She looked a little stunned. “It’s hard to explain,” he said and passed her a red solo cup.

“No, it all makes sense now.”

“Yeah,” he looked up and around at the trees, “it’s beautiful here.”

"Then why do you believe in Goliath?"

On The Shelf 

Treat Me Like A Joke And I'll Leave You Like It's Funny

Whether joking or not, sometimes shit happens and I can't say shit about it. But now, I'm showing my cards to everyone... (and toning it down for the general public). Recent events transpiring made me want to jump as high as the moon, listening to radio at its highest frequency and singing the most intoxicating, foul version of The Dark Side of the Moon when it was over. But I need to start at the beginning. I tightly grasp Naked Lunch with one hand, struggling with plot development, I'm not loving its flatness, but the fine character revelation is something I'm feeling chemistry with. I let go of the book. The buzz fades and it's twisting into a massive headache, as I stand hunched over my suitcase in our room at Hotel Chelsea in historic New York. The epic night of comedy was awesome and there was no time to read. I finish unpacking everything because there wasn't time when we first got to our hotel room two nights ago. Happier than hell after happy hour, I look at the book and then look at my stolen Gotham shot glass. I smile and reflect.

A stream of talented and untalented comedians took the stage at Gotham Comedy Club. One of the comedians was a comedy writer and sucked. My tip to him would be to write a novel people might enjoy reading. Dive deeper than a mixture of Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland and Jack's On The Road. Concoct four climaxes and create a story more exhilarating than sex with a big-titted, tight-assed French prostitute who just landed in Canada after realizing she wanted to save herself and didn't want to lose her virginity in Amsterdam (there's nothing like a prostitute who just passed the immigration process). But it was a good night. I didn't read the night away, but I did learn the process of downing tequila shots at Gotham:

Lick it (salt)

Slam it (tequila)

Suck it (lemon or lime)

There was a wait before the special guest comedian took to the stage. I wasn't praying to Jesus, but I was listening to Kenny Loggins (close enough) when I started ordering a beer. Then the music faded low and I was listening to a beautiful female voice. Juice Newton's Queen of Hearts played and I was swaying my head back and forth and slamming down another bottle of Sam Adams. I needed to keep quiet and keep a low profile and it was almost like my wife needed to wear a Muslim veil to protect her identity. I realized I didn't want to shout the lyrics to "Queen of Hearts" and embarrass myself and draw attention to my Cougars T-shirt. My face turned bright red, but I was confident I wouldn't draw attention to myself. After all, I was nobody and I was still the same nobody looking for nothing in the nothingness of time.

To make a long story short (because I'm not getting paid shit to write this blog), T.J. Miller performed the final act at Gotham Comedy Club, strung out on Manhattan bottled water, he emphasized morality is relative, while I thought time is relative -- and morality just plays a smaller corner piece in the puzzle. I kept my mouth shut and absorbed true comedy realizing I didn't want to be the next Man on the Moon like Andy Kaufman. I wouldn't have to resort to the depths of depravity, because I wasn't starved for attention, and I'd already had a taste of the best of New York (especially after fine dining at Ristorante Rafele and Giovanni Rana Pastificio & Cucina). 

Wait Just A Cotton Pickin' Minute Here

The Function of Reading

Frog Legs -- as you digest my free musing mood, wondering what monstrous scientific experiment is about to be performed next -- stop, read and know time is how you live life through the acute awareness of the here and now. Frog Legs is actually a track from Cakewalk. Reminiscing a recent summer night, sitting back with a margarita in my hand, listening to Voodoo Walters magically fill the air with the sound of blues rhythm, I’m mesmerized again. I want to yell “Play it again,” and rage like a mad Blue Jays fan who doesn’t remember the Yankees dynasty or when I was a weary lover unable to express feelings in prose (and I'm still pretty pissed off about that). I get up and walk away.

WEARY LOVER

Over time I've been

Hiding behind a naked maple tree,

A silly disguise, sliding down 

A steep hill to where it would lie.

Finding it every time without telling a soul,

Hoping you would discover me.

The birds would fly to southern skies

And you behind a branch or two,

So beautiful like a flower that faded before

As I arrange an array of roses,

Flowers in my heart where I silently cry;

The wood ages after years

But still I go looking not wearing my mask.

And I would find this place,

Running after dreams

That I would chase.

Chasing flowers turned into demons in my head, I stop everything. I just fucking stop, wondering, if time is how you live life, then why do I own a useless collection of cheap imported watches. A stop sign. I stop my idle constipated procrastination, looking in all directions before crossing the street, I move my old feet and walk through Kensington Market with a drunken swagger. With a heart of darkness, I'm finding myself deeper in the heart of Toronto. Buzzing about On The Road, it's a hot topic of discussion among sweaty locals. On The Road Again was a hit country song. I would review the book and talk about the Beat Generation, but I want to dig deeper and finish reading Naked Lunch and Mexico City Blues. Naked Lunch is staring in front of me. I open the book and I'm slowly reading. I sober up, but now intoxicating words are dancing in my head. As I order another water, it's so fucking hot and I'm uncomfortable reading about the bastard doctor in the book. I want to read on because the words are like music and medicine. Blues or country or anything with a heartbeat is pretty much on my playlist since I’m motivated to do nothing, other than read or drive on the Q.E.W. and imagine it’s the L.A. Freeway and I’m in the Hollywood of my mind. I would love to sign a book deal, knowing I’m too old to narrate the teen protagonist in Beyond The Blue Kite, I'm wondering if anybody would want to listen to the audiobook.