Sinspiration

I've been reading about psychic poison lately in science fiction. It's an interesting concept whereby a trained assassin plants a mental suggestion in the subject that breaches the victim's internal fortifications to seek out and destroy any willingness to resist a nasty end (check out Frank Herbert's "Dune Messiah" for the discussion in Chapter One). The funny thing about all of this was that I realized it had happened to me already... and it started when I was four.

Listen, Sunday School teachers once had me believing that the Holy Ghost talks through people by filling us with warmth and upliftment when we do what is right or hear what is true. I thought that this was the most amazing thing I had ever heard, having felt the warmth and upliftment on many occasions at church during hymn singing. So, if the Holy Ghost was talking through me and acting as God's intermediary then the feeling I got inside was actually God talking to me. Right on, proof that God exists, I thought...that's bitchin'. It got so that I could talk to the Holy Ghost pretty much whenever I wanted while doing different things. '

Warmth and upliftment used to fill me until tear ducts spilled the excess whenever Dad told me a good story. The Holy Ghost used to come around for a chat every time I put my hand down my pants. I told my mom about that one and she spanked me so I learned to keep those conversations to myself. But I was just a kid and didn't understand the difference between fact and metaphor...I actually thought the feeling I was getting was the Holy Ghost speaking inside of me. I actually thought that I was doing right and hearing truth all over the place.

I started having my doubts at around seven. The first time I ever saw a naked woman, I told the friend who showed me that the Holy Ghost was saying this gash was right and true by filling my dingle with warmth and upliftment. Buddy pissed himself laughing. Honest, his mom sent me home so that she could change him. And it started me wondering why my Sunday School teachers never picked me to offer an example of the Spirit speaking to me after the time I told them that God loved Theoden, King of Rohan.


Why else, I advocated, would the speech he made to the Rohirrim before charging on Peleanor Field affect me so if not for the Holy Ghost communicating God's approval? They told me I was wrong. See, without knowing it, I had already realized that any number of unholy things could make me feel the same way as the "Holy Ghost" speaking to me. I was a sinner. What a fucking nightmare for the son of a father who stood true to the faith despite constant testing and daily trials. I'd also fallen for the line that I would die and come before God whose recording angels would have offered up an account of my life entire. All of my sins would be presented to the Lord of Hosts via Betamax and all of my dead relatives would be watching. The Holy Ghost began whispering God's shame and guilt every time He caught me tucked away with Tolkien and a meat sandwich. Masturbation was actually the Devil using my idle hands despite the warmth and upliftment. It was all too much for a kid to deal with. No wonder I left the straight and narrow way to cavort on the wide road down to Hell.


That was years ago - too many to admit and I stopped believing in Hell before I started getting laid. Nowadays I sit around wondering how I could have ever fed in to that whole line of shit and think about psychic poison. I've since built my life on a foundation of understanding that people can be inspired to do pretty much anything they damn well want and make others believe it's right and true. Look at Hitler and the Heaven's Gate - see how many people have tasted poison for one man's being inspired with warmth and upliftment. I doubt that it was the Holy Ghost goading Hitler and his psyched out minions to attempted genocide and I don't think God would have wanted Marshall Applewhite and his crew of martian loving misfits in Heaven with Him anyway. And the boy I was in Sunday School would hardly recognize the man I am today for all of the psychic poison he'd been fed about voices in his belly and the warmth and upliftment brought by God.

I wish that I could meet that kid I was...really and truly. Maybe then I could get to him before he realized the lies he was being fed would hurt him bad in the long run. I could tell him that the warmth and upliftment he feels when something rings true is body chemistry and nothing to do with a Father in Heaven. I could tell him to jerk it as much as he wants and that no one will get hurt so long as he does it in private. I could tell him that being inspired by what Dad calls sins is okay and that people will appreciate him for it some day (hint hint). I'd tell him to talk to someone about the despair he experienced every time something "bad" made him feel good and that contemplating suicide was nothing an eight year old should ever have to think about.

But I probably wouldn't have believed myself, that's just the kind of kid I was. Maybe it's better that I discovered the truth behind sinspiration all by myself. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to sit here and tell you all about it. But then maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing either. Meh...I'll always have Tolkein, meat sandwiches and masturbation.

Parents Strongly Cautioned

The only reason I took the plunge into French Immersion was for the trip to Quebec City in Grade Eight. Every year like clockwork Monsieur Arsenault would pack his students into a bus and pilot them eastward Joseph Conrad style - right into the heart of darkness. The stories from years past were the stuff of legends with plenty of deflowering by nubile Quebec girls and illicit drinking binges. Yes, for that kind of opportunity I would suffer to learn French.

I never got to go because we couldn't afford it. Instead I spent the week at my elementary Alma-matre helping Mamselle "Flat Chest" Farrell mercilessly beating her nose pickers at Zut! and other classic French class blackboard games. Reports filtered back from up the river that everyone was doing fine and enjoying the local culture - blatant propaganda as ever there was. The truth was much more sinister.


Sure, I can remember a few of them (mostly prissy girls who spent too much time holding on to Teacher's dick) coming back to civilization with airy tales of Old Quebec's cobblestoned streets and loading muskets on The Plains of Abraham. They made sure to rub that one in harder than a masochistic Thai masseuse when they saw me listening but my interest was only peripheral. See, the boys brought back something far more valuable, far more exotic than pretty spoken tales of a far-off land. The boys brought back music we'd never heard before, songs that could only be purchased in multi-cultural cities with links to vast trading partners around the world. And who knows, the music might have been decent but we were only interested in the tape case which held a notice that read: "EXPLICIT LYRICS: parents strongly cautioned."

Say what? Explicit lyrics? Whassat? Crack 'em open and let's have a listen. Oh, NWA's "Fuck the Police"...yeah that's explicit. Ice-T and Too Live Crew...pussies and drugs and me so horny...yup my parents should be cautioned about this. Hell, my mom would stroke out if she heard "Fuck Martinez" played at full volume. Where had these been all my life? Gimme more bad words and driving beats. Gimme the chance to live a little before a lifetime of religious service. Hell yeah...gimme explicit lyrics and caution my parents to stay out of my way, 'cause this boy's found his muse and it ain't got nuthin' to do glory, lauds and honour so much as surrender, slander and shame. more...More...MORE!!!

Now that I'm older and a tad wiser (no comments from the peanut gallery, please) I can safely say that I scraped through those years rather well. I never got anything pregnant, I never had any trouble with the cops (with one exception) and I did eventually beat my teen age alcoholism. I've also learned what not to do if I ever have children of my own...never let them out of my sight or else chaperon trips away from home. A little freedom goes a long way and can sometimes take a child all the way to the heart of darkness. Heck, I never even left the province and I still got into trouble...just ask Mamselle Farrell.

Tell her that her "petit chou" sent you...she'll remember.

The Khan of Khans

Good Arghun, tarry yet awhile.
I’ve plucked you from the rank and file
To take a place in history.
(Your songs of battle make me smile.)
The council’s done, our course is set,
That now, good Arghun, hearken yet,
It’s time to carve my legacy
In flesh with bloody ecstasy.

Before the west was pacified
I fought against a mighty tide
Of faithless fools and jealousy
That forced my hand to fratricide.
And since those days of living rough,
I’ve taken pains to take enough.
My sole regret was having none
To sing the work my blade had done.

When acts of vengeance made my name,
The seed for all my present fame,
I wanted men to bear its fruit
So flew my flag and many came.
They, daily, dwell in muck and mud
And sing my skill for shedding blood.
I’ve bled them too, they love me still,
By right their mouths are mine to fill.

Ambitions make me more than man.
I loot and burn because I can.
No mortared stone or timber wall
Has yet protected foes who ran.
Gone soft in shelter, safe and warm,
They shake before the coming storm
And soon the world will call me Lord
Or fall beneath my motley horde.

The afterglow of rout is sweet
As honeyed wine. Each tribe we greet
With steel is offered certain death
Or pledge my flag with no deceit.
With deep salaams and prayers of thanks
Mohammedans have swelled our ranks.
Betrayals meet with swift dispatch,
A smartly severed head to catch.

As nature bids me stand erect
The captured women genuflect
For all my earthly gifts are great.
They bare themselves to show respect.
But needs demand our next contempt
Of humankind for so I’ve dreamt.
We’ll turn towards the rising day
And boldly conquer gold Cathay.

I see the doubt behind your eyes
But fear no more, your Khan is wise,
We strike because the time is ripe.
Let yellow scholars criticize
We fighting men enduring pain
While non-combatants cast disdain.
But take some consolation thus:
Their livelihoods depend on us.

So long as men are ruled by kings
They’ll bend to breed distasteful things
Pretending everything is fine
And knowing why the caged bird sings.
My acts will likely touch a nerve.
It’s better far to rule than serve
Unless the folk you’re shitting on
Have sense enough to see the con.

"Gloria"

The title's in quotes to let you know that "Gloria" is a song title and does not name anyone from my past (although in this case I really wish I could name names). And to be clear, I'll be referring to Laura Branigan version as it's the only one I ever heard. In fact, if you don't know it then you might want to take a moment to find it and take a listen. You can hear it free online (via google) or if you've got a copy of "Grand Theft Auto: Vice City Stories" it plays on FLASH FM regularly - just don't start mowing down hookers willy-nilly while you do. I'll wait...


Good...not a bad song eh? It was recorded in 1982 so I would have been seven years old but I didn't hear it for the first time until I was ten. See, Mom had traded me and my brother to a fat guy in Eganville in exchange for a week of peace and quiet. Ostensibly, we were there to keep his three young niece's company but I think back and remember some strain around Dad's eyes and maybe there was some deeper current moving underneath. Regardless, the fat guy managed an holistic retreat in the wilds around Eganville and the girls were going stir crazy so he came with his brother-in-law to pick us up and take us in to meet them.

There were three of them...I don't remember their names but the oldest and youngest were sisters and the middle one was a cousin. I don't think they thought too much of us at first. My brother and I were devout Mormon boys and these girls were straight out of Babylon - we had no idea what to expect from each other. Anyway...we were left completely unsupervised for long periods of time in the main lodge with a big screen satellite TV and stereo system. The girls had a tape of 80's hits and "Gloria" was the first track on the A side. I'll tell you that what happened next changed my life forever.

See, they wanted to dance for us and said so with many giggles and sideways glances. (Apparently, this is something that girls do when they're together and feeling wicked...they dance.) They kept asking us if we liked dancing and if we'd ever seen girls dance for just us. For shit's sake, these were the first girls we had ever met outside of school and the prim confines of Church besides our sisters...we were ten and nine. I was totally in the fucking dark. But when I tried to ask my brother if it was OK he didn't even look at me...he kept his eyes on the oldest and nodded - completely stunned.

So they put the tape in and "Gloria" starts pouring out the speakers. Immediately the girls start light stomping to the beat and moving their hips. They must have danced to this song together before because they had a routine down. In fact, if you google videos for this song you'll find a Much More Music's Retro Video Dance party version of the song. Look it up and watch the lovely Miss Laura Branigan dance...that's what the girls were doing. They lip synced the song as well...at least the oldest did and whenever she sang along to the "and you really don't remember...was it something that he said...or the voices in your head calling Gloria" lines she'd do a little shirt lift and rub at her hair which (for some unknown reason) had me feeling pretty fine in my pants. Of course the supposedly stoic Mormon boys pretended not to like it but I, at least, refused to get up off the couch for a while after they had stopped. And when I finally managed (at the insistence of the oldest) it was only to accompany her out to the spring house for some exploring (wink wink, nudge nudge, how's your father).

I write this not as a brag but as a plea for help. See, I've always wondered what happened to those girls from that summer 25 years ago and I'm sort of ashamed that I can't remember their names. There's a hope burning in me somewhere near my pants that one of them will read this some day and remember the boys they met that week at Uncle Bob and Aunt Betty-Anne's place. Maybe then I could apologize to the middle one for going out to the spring house with her cousin and tell her that the quiet game of trivial pursuit we played under the pool table remains one of the strongest sense impressions of my life. Maybe all I'll ever have to remember of them is "Gloria."

But I hope not.

The Dungeon Master

He was the fat kid whose clothes never fit and whose skin never tanned. He had long greasy hair and a bumper crop of acne in the furrows on his forehead. No one but his younger brother would sit next to him on the school bus and a year of that was enough. There was one girl - a pretty little gamine with green eyes - who thought he was mute until the first day he was left to sit alone. But by then his backpack had become so stuffed with rule books, notes and miscellaneous magic that he needed the seat next to him. She asked what was in the bag and he told her in a way that had her bemused from Pet to the Broke and then asked why he wouldn't look at her. He said that mortals were forbidden to look upon perfection and she turned her countenance away - typical goddess behaviour.

There were always two or three guys to meet him when he got to school - sometimes as many as six. Times had been they'd be waiting to prey on him sure as wolves shit sheep only now he was their king and the keeper of secrets. He was their Dungeon Master. This fat loser would mediate disputes, settle accounts, offer advice gleaned from too much science fiction and too much time alone, basking in their attention where before he was shunned. Their tributes had filled his pack to bursting and they all carried a complete set of dice in either draw string leatherette bags or carved wooden boxes. They were ten in all with names like Merit Goodgrass, Slim Picker, Dirk Blackmoor and Siriadin Urktenuct and they saved his life with their adoration so he served as their God.

He worked harder at creating their afternoon adventures than at most of his subjects and would never advance past 11th grade math but he could add sums in his head as fast as he could roll the bones. There were hand drawn maps and painted figurines that earned him praise from his group and the art teacher. Adventure stories that earned him a trip to the Principal's office made for grim fun behind the Island of Pines by lunchtime. Weekends would see them all gathered at an ambivalent parent's house, huddled in the basement with pizza and soft drinks while they overthrew dragon ruled empires and spelunked into dank monster lousy dungeons. Buckets of blood and barrels of booty awaited the boys brave enough to endure the Dungeon Master's Company...

Until they discovered women and booze mixed together in a more compelling manner. And that was the end of the grand adventure. The Dungeon Master crawled into a bottle for lack of anything better to do. The Unwritten Laws of Primitive Teenage Society contained articles on fallen idols and lost glory. It didn't matter if you were jock or a nerd, a bad ass or a boy scout; the fall from grace is complete and absolute. You're lucky if you don't get beat up every day and ranked out by teachers. The best you can hope for is a quiet corner to eat lunch in and a nod in the hallway.

This was me.

And now they want me back. Not those same guys from school, no, they've all grown up and got jobs or kids - sometimes a bit of both. No, this is a new group still shifting and sliding to find their fit in the foundations of a new Company. They're single or still engaged with no kids but furry quadrupeds and one of them is a woman - an actual woman with breasts and everything. Yes, I wouldn't mind introducing them to Razkale Blackgob and Porcine Thunder or the Fey Knights of Thinwhistle Moore but I have also developed some self-respect over the years. My clothes fit better and I wash my hair daily, most of the acne's gone. I've brought women to bed and been taken...the game's gotten better. All that I have to do is forget all I've learned in the years since high school and I could be a Dungeon Master again.

We'll see...

Where There's Smoke...

There's a picture of me playing with fire when I was a year old. I know because it was taken at my first birthday party - the single candle told me so. In it I'm in a high chair, wide eyed and fascinated with a single pointing pink digit straining to touch the flame lit to celebrate successful completion of my first year of life. I say straining because the picture also shows a piece of my father holding me from being burned by a taut handful of my overalls. Whenever it's shown to my immediate family the inevitable "I told you so" looks and "We should have knowns" get passed around like joints at a Hip concert- freely and without consideration of offending. Or so I'm told after the fact. I'm always too captured by the glimpse back at true and perfect open wonder to notice.

So, I can be completely confident in my assertion that I have always been fascinated by fire. I can remember the first book of matches I found under the slide in the park behind the house before my sister was born and being caught with burned fingertips. Then there was a Sunday School class about Samson tying several pairs of foxes to a torch each and sending them pell mell through Philistine cornfields - I had a taste of what heaven's savour is rumored to be like that morning. (In fact, your Bible's chock full of bonerific burning imagery and it's a wonder that there aren't more devout Christian firebugs.) No sooner were we home from Church that day then I was out the back gate with a pilfered bic to spend the afternoon raining brimstone on sinning ants. Again, I was betrayed by burnt fingers and the blue plastic lighter was confiscated. Keeping fire away from me only fuelled my desire for more and I learned from my mistakes.

Lighting fires became a secret thing to be shared only with close confidences who would be in as much trouble as me if caught - mostly my brother. It was his idea to keep the fires small and us out of trouble and I complied in his presence. But I would argue that only containment was key to not being discovered and one day he relented. We filled a garbage can full of birch bark, set a match to it and didn't account for the wind. The rest of that day stays locked away in a sealed juvenile record. Two years later we were both in cubscouts where the same man who held me back from my first birthday candle and tanned my ass after court initiated me into the Art of the One-Match Fire. Soon I was performing in front of crowds and providing a service at the same time - like masturbating for a sterile posterity or nose picking to feed the homeless.

See, I've got a fire to look forward to. It's been raining for the past two days which means that there can be one out at the cottage this weekend. I can lay it, light it, feed it and kill it at my leisure - for my pleasure. I'll play the dutiful scout and be safe about it but the wide eyed, apple cheeked one-year old in me is always reaching for more. Only now there's no one to hold me back by my overalls and I'll be drinking enough to maybe let myself loose as well. Maybe I'll smoke a joint too many and imagine that fires get the munchies too. Let's just hope that I don't feed it the world.