From the mind of a mild mannered maniac

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Can you write a truly good story without living it?


That is a question that plagued me for many years. You see, it occurs to me that the human mind is capable of some wondrous and extraordinary bouts of creativity. Here’s the thing though, must we stir it into action, through dazzling feats of adventure, or is our mind capable of manufacturing its own supply?

We have, each and every one of us, been collecting virtual scrapbooks of sights, sounds, and or sensations in our mighty brains since we drew our first breaths, and no two of us can possibly interpret what we see, hear , touch, smell, and taste in exactly the same way.

That is what spawns creativity of infinite variety
It is through this interaction, with different types of media and with each other, that we learn to accumulate and catalogue our own vision of the world.

A good example of this? Hmmm… Okay Let’s assume that seven eyewitnesses of the same purse snatching, are individually interviewed , shortly, after the event. Each one is perfectly confident in their ability to accurately describe the perpetrator, to a sketch artist.

Although all seven had an unobstructed, view, and possesses a very clear image of the crime and criminal in their mind’s eye chances are pretty good, that no two sketches will be exactly alike.

Why is that? Well experts say that most of us create and store a sort of stylized , or artists concept of reality in our mind. As opposed to a photographic rendering. Of course, with the kind of sample size, in the above example, there would probably be enough similarities, to enable the police, to stitch together a fairly accurate depiction, but there have been cases where testimony has been stricken from court records because witness accounts have varied too greatly. Of course, in this tech-crazy era, someone was bound to have captured the whole thing on their smartphone and broadcasted to the Internet, right? … But I digress. My. point is this

Our minds-eye view of the world, is out of necessity, a subjective one as opposed to an objective one. We are, by and large, a race of inventors and creators.

If we were imprisoned from birth inside some sort of pod or cocoon, a place devoid of sensual stimuli of any kind, Would our amazing minds have the ability to conjure up imagination? I guess its possible.
Did Ray Bradbury explore the dark reaches of outer space before he wrote his novels?
Did Tolkien venture into inner earth and interview Hobbits? No, they simply possess vivid imaginations.

Great Masters of the craft have confined themselves to dingy little offices, while plumbing the depths of their very souls to bring us far flung adventures and outlandish faux realities , and yet, I can sit staring at a blank word processor screen, some days and marvel at my inability to write, a single phrase, but that’s a story for another day. Has anyone got some spare creativity they’re not using? ūüėČ


Hello yesterday, what’s on your mind

what do you mean, “The years aint been ¬†kind”?

You’re history pal, you’re just the past,

A reminder that time is passing so fast

yes, i cling to you, far, far more than I should,

but my memories of you are not always good.

you’ve caused me much hardship, anguish and pain,

and made me relive you again and again!

Sure, there’s nostalgia, ¬†your greatest bouquet

Were things really better, back in the day,

or photoshopped images, with your own special spin

Whose varnished veneer is beginning to thin.

Why you intrigue me, so much, i don’t know

its time to move on, still i don’t want to go

I can’t just disgard you, after all, ¬†you’re my past,

but tomorrow is beckoning me, at long last.


Lonely Road

imageDriving late, on a lonely road

Just roaming, lost and weary

I think about us, well, the used-to-be us.

and our new past, so damned dreary!

Landmarks along this grainy lane

Pass by my gaze unbidden

I can’t change the channel, can’t look away

The images won’t stay hidden.

Sign posts scream out silently

Hazzards ahead, don’t go there

I can’t turn back though, I never can.

There’s a new path out of here, somewhere.

But there never is, just our tainted past

and the hurt that won’t ever heal.

So, I’m driving late, on this lonely road,

a ghost behind the wheel.

Winter in Vancouver

Happy New Year, everyone!

I hope 2015 finds you all happy and healthy.


2015 has swept in with a crisp newness that matches the brisk, coldness of this Arctic inspired chill.

Southern BC is typically mild and wet, at the onset of winter, our best friends, a sturdy umbrella, and a dependable pair of waterproof boots. This sudden cold-snap comes, therefore, as somewhat of a surprise.

Change is good, though, It’s really, not half bad, walking out on an icy winter’s day, when the skies are blue and the sun is beaming down on the sparkly, ground.

It’s fresh, it’s new, and a far-cry from the incessant downpours, dowdy, grey, rain clouds, and the ominous threat of nearby rivers, over flowing their banks.

I love the crunch, underfoot, the smattering of snow that adorns the rooftops and hearty, old, evergreens like glistening tinsel, garlands. It’s so refreshing and invigorating.

When it snows a little, many Vancouverites, fly into a panic, flocking, in droves, to their local winter tire retailers. Other’s make do, many careening their traction-less rides, off of trees, traffic poles etc., enroute to ditches and snowdrifts.
Our hardy, better-aclimatized, Cousins, in Northern BC, and Central U.S and Canada, who deal handily and routinely with far harsher conditions, laugh heartily at our ineptness. Still, I’m glad we give them something to smile about.

Well, I just saw a weather update. Apparently this cold-snap is coming to an end soon. I honestly think I am going to miss it.

Happy New Year!


– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

And the winner is……

The Submissions

Drawing a blank

Despite the fact that I had been searching high, low and everywhere in between. I couldn't, for the life of me, find the sweater vest I was looking for in the Gentlemen's clothing store. I studied the advertisement for the umpteenth time, but the sale item was nowhere to be seen.

Aside from myself, the store was devoid of customers, and the only sales clerk was preoccupied with a phone call. As I approached the sales desk, it became obvious from his expression and body language, that the conversation was of a deeply personal nature.

Not wanting to eavesdrop, I waited a respectable distance away, but just near enough that it should have been clear enough, to anyone, that I required assistance.

The salesman briefly looked up at me, but despite knowing, that he now had a customer to attend to, his ear remained firmly glued to the receiver.

Long minutes ticked by and my patience wore thinner, and thinner still. It wasn't even as i he was on the line with a client.

"Excuse me…" I began. He raised his hand, palm out, to silence me.

I glared at him, spluttered something about rudeness and customer courtesy, but essentially, words failed me.

I tossed the flyer on the floor. The uncouth clerk, looked at it, grunted something like, "Whatever," shrugged and went back to his phone conversation.

I stormed out the door, but couldn't get the blasted thing to slam shut.

It wasn't until later, while seated in a coffee shop with a steaming mug in front of me, that the words returned. Firstly I had a number of choice suggestions as to where he might stick his phone, none that are printable here however. Then a better comeback occurred to me.

I went back to the store, looked him right in the eye and said.

"My employer sent me down here to arrange an appointment. He wishes to be fitted for a dozen hand tailored, double-breasted suits, ten shirts, and six silk ties."

The clerk's eyes gleamed as he was quite clearly calculating his commission on such a sale. Then I added,

" Unfortunately, since you were too busy to help me, with it, I was forced to take my business elsewhere!"

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