Archive for the ‘Ugh’ Category

Saxon’s Paper Route

In Is what it is *shrug*, Ugh on January 8, 2013 at 11:58 pm


“I need someone to take-over my paper route while I’m away at summer camp,” said Saxon, his urgency rather obvious.

This had been going on for weeks. Everyone at the dinner table, grew silent and looked at their plates. Like they had done every time he had made this request.

She didn’t. She never did. She always listened to him.

She looked at the boys, “Well…? No one? Really?” she asked.

“Huh… I’ll do it, Saxon.”

“You will?!”

“Of course I will. You can’t go if I don’t, right?”

The worker at the group home that night let into the boys.

“You’re letting Smiley do it?! Nice. You’re Saxon’s friends?”


“It’s okay, Dougie… I want to.”

She did. She loved Saxon. He reminded her of a tall Alfalfa from Little Rascals. Cow-licked hair sporting horn-rimmed glasses askew with one arm taped on. He was as beautiful as he was gentle and kind.

He had a mental handicap. What it was she wasn’t sure. But he seemed far superior to many she’d met. Far. He was smart and, boy, was he funny!

He was also an orphan. No one had adopted him. That’s how he’d come to be there. No one was sending him to camp, neither. He’d paid for it with the money he’d earned on his paper route. No one had ever given Saxon anything in life. Yet he wasn’t bitter. He was beautiful, sweet.

The sweetest thing.


• • •

She’d spent three months prior as a transient. Sofa-surfing at party houses. She’d lived in the group home before. But they kept sending her “home” because she wasn’t any trouble. She’d live there 3 months. They’d send her home. Things would go sideways and she’d be back. She wasn’t really the cause of the problems at home, although she was blamed. She was just a kid, after all. At the time she really believed it was all her fault.

She’d knocked on the group home door late one night. Told them she had nowhere to go, was hungry, could she please stay the night? They took her in and made official arrangements in the morning for her to stay.

You can see how the group home and Saxon’s Love and kindness were of great worth to the girl.

Great worth.

• • •

She committed to delivering the papers for two weeks. She kept encountering this boy, Randy. He was cute. REALLY cute. He started showing up everyday on his bicycle to talk with her while she delivered the papers. He was sweet on her, hey?

Although she much preferred men to boys, she had a lot of experience and genuinely believed it to be a kindness to help the boys figure out some of the more delicate mysteries of physical Love. She really did. It’s what friends do. Even though she wasn’t in Love with them she DID Love them. She Loves everyone. She didn’t have much except a generous spirit and this is what she felt she could give. It made her happy. She had no real Love of her own. So she made it. Made Love.

He invited her to a party. A “when the cats are away the mice will play party”. The boy hosting the party was nice. She liked him a lot. Always friendly with a ready smile. She’d go. Even if they were only boys…

• • •

Randy took her up to the boy’s room. She could tell he was nervous and thought it sweet, endearing even. She thought she’d give him her special thing. She thought she was being kind, generous.

She let him take off her shirt… his cheeks flushed…

How sweet.

“I’ll be right back,” he said abruptly.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

But she got a sinking feeling as he left the room.

She waited. Waited. She decided she should leave. Where’s her shirt?

He’d taken her shirt…?!

The sinking feeling got worse. She sat on the edge of the bed in disbelief, her head in her hands. Wha…?

Then… the door opened.

She looked up. She was expecting Randy.

It was two black guys.

She was sitting there topless and two black guys walked in. They moved for her. She said “no thank you”. They said if she didn’t they’d hurt her, make her.

*Shit. Really? Fuck, man.*


So… she closed her eyes and she did. She acquiesced. Did her best.

She sucked-up into her mind. Imagined it was the boy she Loved. Not Randy. Another, older boy. Rabbit. She Loved him. She just did. She had demonstrated that Love for him once, as well, in a BIG meaningful way, the BIGGEST way she knew how.

It went on and on. She did her very best. Her very, VERY best. She could feel them trading off. On and on it went. On. And. On. She had lost all sense of Time.

Then he whispered in her ear, “Open your eyes.”


“Open your eyes.”


“Please. I won’t hurt you. Look at me. Please? Please look at me?”

She opened her eyes.

No… No. No.


Oh, no!


It was Rabbit.

This is when she gasped. All the air left her body as she recoiled and slid out from under him on her back and right up the wall like a spider. Defying gravity she clung there with her back against the wall. Shaking.


And in that moment, suspended in Time, she heard her own heart break.


And then she saw.

She saw.

She saw all of them. ALL of them. Was it nine? Or eleven?

“I’m done! Done! You said you’d give me my clothes back if I did you. So? I held up my end…? My clothes…? Now… Now!”

They taunted her.

“You’re a slut! We HATE sluts!”

“Hey. You said you’d hurt me if I didn’t. So I did. Wasn’t it good enough? Wasn’t I a good girl? If I’m so awful — if you hate me SO much — why did you make me fuck you? You liked it. I know you did. If I’m SO awful… why? Huh?”

“Give me my clothes.”

“Give. Me. My. Clothes. Now… Please.”

She sat down. Naked on the floor in the middle of the room. Obstinate. They’d stopped taunting her. She’d shut that down. What could they say? She was right.

“Okay… So…? I’ll count to three and if I don’t see my clothes I’m going to start screaming… Well…? Okay… 1… 2… 3…”

And she started screaming. SCREAMING! Most were paralysed. A few were laughing derisively. Two of the boys were in tears. They realised the enormity of the offence they had inflicted upon her, how special she was.

Then the host walked in on the scene going on in his very own bedroom.

He looked stricken, like he was going to throw-up.

“What’s going on?! What?! Is?! Going?! On?!”

She told him. He was a nice boy. He believed her.

“Give her her fucking clothes back! Right now!”

They froze.

“NOW!!! NOW!!!”

They sheepishly offered the Hero her clothes. He snatched them, ripped them from their hands, turned to her and said, “I’m sorry, Smiley. Here’s your clothes.”

As they watched in silence as she stood naked in the middle of that room and dressed for them, defiantly. Her host, her hero standing guard at her side, staring the boys down. Daring them to speak, to interfere… to anything.

And… she left.

Walked out into the night.

She never saw her hero again. She never returned. He’s still her hero. She Loves him like a brother to this day.

To. This. Day.

• • •

Why would Rabbit do that to her? Why? She SO Loved him. She did.

She thinks he told his friends what she’d done for him. That they didn’t believe him? Were jealous even? They’d convinced him that she was trash, a slut and should, would or be forced to fuck them all?

She doesn’t know why?

She’ll never know.

Sometimes it still keeps her up at night all these years later…?

• • •

She was fifteen.

She never told anyone.

She could barely walk for two whole days afterward.

She didn’t deserve to be treated like that.

No one does.

Especially when she was so generous with her Love, when it was all she had to give and she gave it so freely to a world full of people without Love. People. People just like her.

She was just a kid. That was her solution. Her answer. Her contribution.

Someone should have been looking out for her. They weren’t. No one ever was.



In Abuse, Amanda Todd, Bullying, Dark, Death, Suicide, Ugh on October 17, 2012 at 12:26 am

I don’t have a problem with suicide. I have a problem with a society that drives people to despair.


Hard Candy

In Abuse, Dark, Drug Addiction, Fear, Indifference, Life, Loss, Madness, People, Poetry, Poverty, Sex, Ugh, Very Bad Poetry, Violence, Weird on October 9, 2012 at 8:52 pm

Camilla d’Errico, Cotton Candy Curly Cue

Candy gave sold the Man-child what no girl ever really had

Sold it

Took it

Is what she did


She took her requital

Again and again

Then she took some more

More and more

Days become years

Candy took and took

She took what he had

She took what she took

She put it in her arm

When that wasn’t enough

She started doing him harm

Grave harm

Failed to make her

Go away

Just leave

Him alone



She came

It wasn’t her problem

But, hey, all the same

It had to be someone’s

Should have been



The kitchen

Candy’s throat

A blade

A glint

A sharper look stabs her eyes

Take a hint

“You’ve got one last chance, bitch

Grab what you can

Run for your life

You come back again

I’m not thinking twice

Gladly do Time

To see you go ‘bye.”

Right on the edge

Girl made the dive

Scored a 10 and 4 nines

Her very first try

Candy booked it

Right outta sight


Until now it would seem

Candy’s sweet meet

She dictates the plays

Basks in her fame

To beat


At her own game

Save him

Someone had to

Had to



to that

Black pool

I fear

For Girl

Cannot swim


Girl is my friend. Candy is Girl’s ancient history ex’s ex. Man-child is his brother.

Drop the Puck!

In Hockey, Hockey Poetry, Love, NHL, Poetry, Silly, Ugh, Very Bad Poetry, Whimsy, Winter on September 21, 2012 at 10:29 pm


I say, c’mon, already!

What the fuck?

Chop chop!

Let’s drop the puck!



Could we just drop the puck already?

Related links: • CBS SportsThe Washington PostThe Province


In Ad Astra per Ardua, Apartheid, Loss, Music, Peter Gabriel, Politics, Protest Songs, Steve Biko, Tributes, Ugh on September 12, 2012 at 12:41 am

Bantu Stephen Biko (18 December 1946 – 12 September 1977)

Graphic: Creative Corner


The man is dead. The man is dead.

Stephen Biko, political activist and ideological leader of the Black Consciousness Movement (BCM), was only thirty years old when he died in detention under mysterious circumstances on 12 September, 1977. His political career was brief, but had a profound impact on the liberation struggle. He espoused the philosophy of black consciousness, linking identity politics and social action.

Biko first became involved in liberation politics through the National Union of South African Students (NUSAS) while attending medical school. His views on black identity and pride led to the formation and expansion of the South African Students’ Organisation (SASO) in the late 1960s. Biko served as both the president and publicity secretary for this body, which served as the nucleus of the BCM. He founded the Black People’s Convention (BPC) and was banned by the South African State in 1973. This new movement empowered a generation of young black South Africans, fuelling revolutionary events, including the 16 June 1976 Soweto Uprising.

Biko’s prolific writings, political lobbying, and his community activism drew the attention of the Security Police, and he was detained on numerous occasions. His life was adversely affected in many ways, including expulsion from the University of Natal in 1972, his first banning in 1973, and, ultimately, his death in detention on 12 September, 1977. He is regarded as a martyr of the liberation struggle. His 18 August 1977 detainment included severe torture at the hands of security police. He was interrogated for twenty two hours, and beaten until he suffered brain damage. He was chained to a window grille and denied medical attention for his injuries. His injuries did not improve, but it was only on 11 September that he was taken to Pretoria for medical attention, but he died shortly after his arrival.

J.T. Kruger, then-Minister of Justice, denied that police had abused their internationally renowned detainee, arguing that his death was the result of hunger strike. An autopsy conducted by the late pathologist Jonathan Gluckman at the request of Biko’s family found that he had died of brain damage as a result of blows inflicted upon him during his detention. Gluckman’s report led to an inquest: no policemen were charged, but Biko’s family eventually received a settlement from the state. The cover-up of Biko’s death in detention was exposed by then-journalist Helen Zille in the Rand Daily Mail, edited by Allister Sparks. Zille had received evidence from Biko’s doctors, including Gluckman. Biko’s death sent shockwaves around the world, and his funeral, attended by ten thousand, resulted in nationwide incidents of social unrest. During the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) proceedings, four of the surviving policemen involved in Biko’s death were refused amnesty.


Mourners gather to pay their last respects at Steve Biko’s funeral in King William’s Town, 25 September 1977. Well over 10, 000 people attended — thousands more were prevented from attending by police roadblocks.

“The most potent weapon of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.”

~ Steve Biko

1987’s Cry Freedom, a Richard Attenborough film


Ad Astra per Ardua




In 9.11, Ad Astra per Ardua, Cats, Death, Loss, Love, Photography, The Disappeared, Ugh on September 11, 2012 at 12:32 am

Photo: National Geographic

“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful.

But not knowing which to do

is the worse kind of suffering.”

~ Paulo Coelho

Homeward Bound

In 9.11, Ad Astra per Ardua, Death, Loss, Love, Music, Poetry, Simon and Garfunkle, The Disappeared, Tributes, Ugh, Very Bad Poetry on September 11, 2012 at 12:32 am


This one’s going out
To the disappeared
To the Love
Who never returned
Home where their thoughts escapin’
We learn the fates of some
While others…
Still, their Love lies
Waiting silently…
It must be understood
That wait they will
Until they know for sure
They will search high and low
They will hope against hope
Unable to eat
They will dream of you
In stolen moments of sleep
Even though they know
You’re nevermore
They will will you to walk
Through the door
Just once more
Please, just… once more
Then they’d hold fast
To your star
And never let go


So… Here’s two of my very, very best boys for you with Homeward Bound


Ad Astra per Ardua



When the Levee Breaks

In Indifference, Led Zepplin, Music, New Orleans, Places, Politics, Rock, Ugh on August 29, 2012 at 7:07 pm

Sending this one out to the good folks of New Orleans. Here we go again. ’Round and ’round. Spin it.

Seven years to the day, New Orleans is under water again and we’re not engaged in some cyclical insanity? This never should have happened. There should be infrastructure in place by now. And if it were inevitable then might it be a good time to consider abandoning ship? Moving to higher ground? I dunno?


When the Levee Breaks is a blues song written and first recorded by husband and wife Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie in 1929. The song is in reaction to the upheaval caused by the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 (Shucks, another flood? Who knew?). It was famously re-worked by English rock group Led Zeppelin as the last song on their fourth album, released in 1971. The lyrics in Led Zeppelin’s version were partially based on the original recording. Many other artists have also recorded versions of the song or played it live. While the Led Zeppelin version is still under copyright by the band, the original song by Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie is currently in the public domain.

How Hard Can it Be?

In Peace, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Syria, Ugh, War on August 27, 2012 at 4:23 pm

How hard can it be

Why fight and disagree

When I hurt you

It hurts me

And vice versa

Can’t you see

It’s not that hard


We could turn the world around

You and me

If we really wanted to

It should be that easy



In Indifference, Life, Love, Madness, Music, Peace, Philosophy, Places, Politics, Syria, The Beatles, Ugh, War on August 27, 2012 at 4:23 pm

Demonstrations in Idlib. These are the people being slaughtered.


I don’t think you’re going to like this but it needs saying…

Sorry. But I’m genuinely choked.

• • •

I know I’m a ‘grown-up’ and I should be able to wrap my head around things such as war, political unrest, poverty, inequities…


But, I can’t. I won’t. I don’t understand. I refuse to accept that this is just the way things are, have to be.

I don’t have anything to say except: Why?

Why? Why? Why?




Just when I thought Syria could not possibly get any worse? It has descended into complete, total, utter madness and chaos. I mean, you have got to be kidding me, right? What gives? This isn’t really going on is it? And no one is doing anything? Humanity is letting itself down again. Selling itself short. Again? Yeah. Just like we let down Rwanda and Roméo Dallaire. Darfur

Do you see a pattern emerging?

We keep failing ourselves, each other.


When I was teenager I worked at the mall. One of the shopkeepers was Syrian. He confided in me stories of the horrors of a dark, shadowy land in the clutches of oppression. He said that he missed it, the land. It was his home. But, he was very grateful to be free of the oppression. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes when he told me Syria was a very bad place. I believed him then. I believe him now. The evidence has become irrefutable. These things don’t just happen overnight. They simmer under the surface before they boil over. And this one had been stewing in a crockpot forever. I’m surprised it hasn’t just evaporated the heat has been on so long.


This has been going on for a long time, people. Decades. Fifty years. It just wasn’t newsworthy. I’m not blaming the ‘liberal’ media here, there are many other factors at play. It’s been blown wide-open now. Those in the ‘know’ saw this one coming and chose to look away. Chose to do nothing while they dazzled and distracted us with stories of WMD and the like. You know, the usual muddled hodgepodge of obfuscations that would keep us from the issues of the day, the glaring inequities with which we should really concern ourselves.

“If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.”

~ Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow


We’ve been asking the wrong questions. We’ve been fooled, are fools.

There’s cataclysmic suffering being endured on a grand scale. Grand. It’s not just Syria, either. It’s global. Universal. It’s in our towns and cities, too, this suffering. These great divides, chasms that prevent us from attaining utopia, Universal Bliss.

We keep telling each other we’re wrong. We keep arguing and warring over what? What?!? That one’s world view should take precedence over another’s? There’s room. There’s plenty of room. Room for us all. For all our perspectives.

• • •

According to the Law of Physics no two people may physically occupy the exact same Space at the exact same Time. Every event that has been ever been witnessed in the entire history of Time and Space, the Universe, has as many versions as spectators present. Because to have an identical perspective would mean you would have to see it from identical physical locations with an identical set of ‘controls’ which we know is impossible. Right, cats and kittens? Even though we may share similar beliefs, ideas, opinions, etc. they are never exactly the same. We have arrived by different paths, means, circumstances. It’s all relative.

• • •

So how can we all adhere to one doctrine, world view, then? We can’t. It’s not going to happen. We’ve got to let go. Stop trying to control one another. It’s not working. It’s not. You know it. You do. And if you don’t, please, take a step back and consider what I propose here today.

“The most important trip you may take in life is meeting someone halfway.”

~ Henry Boye, Publisher


I’ve been watching the world turn my whole life. At this juncture it would seem the species has done the same things over and over again engaged in a some cyclical insanity anticipating a different outcome? At what point do we say “enough” and try something different? Or, at least stop what we are doing until we figure out how to do it right?

How hard can it be?

Live and let live not Live and Let Die. I don’t wanna give the other fellow hell. I want to Love him, gift him the Heavens. That’s what I wanna do. Please, join me? Let’s gift each other the the Heavens, hey?


September 11th is the 35th anniversary of the murder of South African anti-apartheid opponent Stephen Biko while in police custody. (But you only know about the other September 11, right? Right.) Pussy Riot has been charged wth hooliganism and detained in Russia? Really? A bunch of girls in a band? And Wikileaks? C’mon. They’re going to kill the messenger? The messenger? Really? Arab Springs across a continent and it’s the Syrian people who must endure the retribution?

Dissent is not disloyalty. Massacring civilians is.

Dissenters are being silenced with impunity and civilians are being massacred while the planet watches from the sidelines. The game, the locations, keep changing but it’s the same story Time and again. The very definition of insanity from where I stand.

In 2012? Tsk.

Nothing ever changes? I swear they’d revisit the Spanish Inquisition if they could and burn the lot of us at the stake — or, at least, me.

I’m discouraged. Disillusioned. I need a Revolution. WE need a Revolution. It has to be us. There’s no one else. It’s our problem. Our’s. Not someone else’s. If we don’t stand for the Syrians, the downtrodden, who will stand when they come for us?

Stand and be counted. Please? Please?



My ‘Dads’ will tell you how it is. Revolution. 1968. It’s still relevant today.

It’s gonna be alright, isn’t it? Please, tell me it will?

Or, might there be an underlying $inister human element at work in all of this — undermining our prospects for peace in the name of power and profit — of which we’re all blissfully unaware? Just sayin’ is all.

Related: The Great Song of Indifference