The Glow off Giants Head

Hitchhiking is a truly beautiful thing. This past couple of weeks I've done a whole lot of it because I don't have a car up here, but I have to say that I haven't once not been picked up. I wouldn't so much reccomend it down in the city though. Up here there's a great small-town-feel (kindof like new car smell) where most people are pretty friendly and it's also pretty safe so you don't have to lock your doors on your house or car or anything. Also it's pretty safe for hitchhikers and for people picking up hitchhikers... which is the way it should be because it is quickly becoming a lost art. The other day an awesome burnt out old hippy dude picked me up. he was totally white bearded and white pony-tailed and had his two dogs, Peanut Butter and something else in the back of his car, a great experience. You meet interesting people when you hitchhike. Actually, come to think of it, you meet interesting people anytime you choose to open yourself up and put yourself in a position of vulnerability. I guess that's pretty much me though, I wear my heart on my sleeve for perfect strangers, but it's hard for me to open up to people know. Wow... self discovery in a public forum... that was profound. Whatever, here's The Ballad of Miss Weatherby (she sang it in my dream (not the exact words (except the I was a Canadian and I was dying bit)) when she was on a riverboat (the story's the story from my dream)).

I was a Canadian
I was a Canadian
and I was dying

I came down from the mountain
to the valley of the shadow
where I made my home
but I really should have known
I really should have known

I was a Canadian
I was a Canadian
and I was dying

In time I taught their children
about the mountain and the sky
thought they understood
now I think I was just blind

I was a Canadian
I was a Canadian
and I was dying

In the night the cloud came down
while everybody turned their eyes
and my blood was shed
on their sacrificial knives

I was a Canadian
I was a Canadian
and I was dying

now I'm on a riverboat
and I'm telling you my story
and a bird sings hallelujah
so I couldn't say I'm sorry

Zen Master

3 Haiku

3 deep and meaningful haiku I wrote in Tim Hortons yesterday morning. Haiku is a beautiful way of expressing oneself and does a lot for your writing/poetry skills. All these ones are pretty intricately linked and should be read together, though I'm sure they could be read seperately as well. Trust me, they actually make sense in context. Unfortunately I'm not going to give you the context until you take a good guess at what they mean because then I can laugh at you. "you" being whoever the crap reads this. I could get into a rant about the nature of blogs, bloggers, and anonymous readers, but I gotta go so I won't.

bitter morning air
cold, wet pavement to walk on
it's good to be here

snake trail water line
whispers in the tree branches
whitetail on the move

smiling down at me
fifteen perfect people frown
am I one of them

pipe smoking professor

The House on Happy Valley

So I was going to upload this filmed tour of The House on Happy Valley (an obscure reference to classic radio-drama (I am a nerd)), but then Aarons computer doesn't accept my SD card and I don't have a cord for my camera. A typed tour will have to suffice. Our fictional character, discovering this house for the first time, will be Greg.
Greg walks up steps and enters through front screen door. He takes off his shoes in the ante-chamber (whatever that thing is called) and enters through the duct tape sealed second front door. A toasty warm house greets him because Sam has been busy making a blazing fire in the wood furnace. Crossing to the fridge Greg opens it to find there is very little in it, Greg is dissapointed. There isn't even any decent snack food in the cupboards because it doesn't last very long in this house. Moving past the Bob bar and into the living room, Greg notices the stark lack of furniture in the house. This is because Sam and Will recently moved most of the awesome stuff into the basement. All that's left is a pair of couches and a pretty decent lying-on carpet (a carpet for lying on and spacing out). He takes a quick glance into the far room, observing how tidy it is and then makes his way into the three-pronged hallway/open space. The first door to the left contains emptiness and a desk in the corner, cluttered with papers and a laptop, this room is evidently Sam's office/The Theater (hence the laptop). Moving on, Greg steps into the poorly lit bathroom, but upon noticing the awesomeness of the medivel light fixtures, he changes his mind and decides it is well lit. The next room, it appears, has been ransacked, with papers and books lying everywhere, boxes full of clothes and assorted crap taking up at least half of the room, an unmade bed, a pile of dirty laundry a computer and acessories sitting on boxes in the corner with the closet. Also the chair is broken and wont hold you up unless you sit at the back of it. It's pretty craptacular. Moving out of the hallway, Greg encounters a random door and decides to open it. It's dark inside so he hits the lightswitch and to his surprise his path is outlined in an unearthly green light. Taking the set of stairs downwards he encounters a weird yellowish light and an awesome red one as he emerges into the basement. Sitting on a shelf is a wierd pulsing lava lamp, nearly hypnotising Greg. Fortunately he pulls away at the last second and moves on into the next room, switching on the light to reveal a foosball table in thge center of the room, flanked by a record player with piles of records and a sound system on one side and a skukum electric guitar and amp on the other side (which Will bought for $120 from Classic Guitars in Penticton (it's an epic tale)).
That's pretty much the whole house and I have to go because we're heading off to the Blind Angler for dinner in Peachland. Miss you guys.
Will