To Not Be Spoiled

Rummaging through my room up here in Canada, im finding forgotten effects of mine that seem to arrive from the depths of the sea, rather than recent experience.

A piece of wood -carved from a branch camping last summer- sits on a shelf and i stare at it asking "why?"

I always fight two oddly converging movements in my will

1. to have tidiness (which allows me to relax and enjoy a space, or work in it)

2. to hold on to stupid crap.

Since i first ventured overseas years back and witnessed poverty and personally lived on an extreme few possessions, i've held a commitment to regulating how much i own.

i'm only an owner of so many shirts and so many pants, etc.

needless to say that i could go on for hours about how i got to that place,

but walking into my little palace on Saskatchewan Street in Saskatchewan, i think i've found myself a betrayer, maybe even a deserter of my high-ideals.

so now its the Sally Ann and the Junkyard for most of this pile; possessions fighting to rob me of my freedom, heart for people, and life in what really matters.

where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

your heart chases what you put your money into, as money chases what you put your heart into.

i've treasured a lot of worthless crap in my day, and i need an annual release from the materials of mayhem that even the most innocent object can become.

So far, i've only seen 6% of the earth

Kingsnake

Little known fact about Paul Creech (my brother and the king of the free world).

he'd sign his name and follow it with his own bestowed title... "Kingsnake"

We all had little Alter-Ego nicknames we'd use of ourselves in our private writings and drawings...if you want to call what 11-14 year-olds write "writings" 

Herbie would draw "H C Cool" on stuff

i was, as always, an unimaginative follower, and used "T C Cool"

if find anymore i'll dish them out, you must understand that they were an extremely important part of our growing up.

Lord of the Fly

Flies, pff. Flies.

flies suck. i hate flies like Taco Bell hates MacDonalds- ( a LOT)

i hate flies like Warren G hates listening to the latest Snoop Dog record.

i hate them like a bloated pirate hates a wench kicking him in the belly

here it is :

yesterday i sit down to the desk of glory to write, or do homework, or taste the rainbow or something, 

and a Fly - out of nowhere-  lands on my arm. He jumps a foot back, and all those Fly-lands-on-you feelings start racing up my skin.  he lands on me again like a Fat girl on the small guy at the party, and I'm swatting and twitching like I'm in an insane asylum. 

the little bits of my own hair that touch my face start to morph into flies attacking me, and i constantly rub odd parts of my skin that sense suspicious  vibrations.

i am instantly aware that i have a fly in the room, and i won't get squat done until that little skin terrorist is dead.

i grab a paper and he disappears like a beat child. i am ok with this, except for his landing on my legs and feet when i try to type again and i start to shake and Jump like a Pentecostal at the Azuza Street Revival.

i went and cried and rocked back and forth on the sofa.

today he showed up again, but lingered just a TAD too long on some mail from West America Bank, and i dropped him like a Japanese Bomb on Pearl Harbor.

the fly is dead.

but still the hair on my body shifts and i can feel invisible bugs landing on me and moving around on  my skin.

life rules.

i need a hammer i can squash into my face.