Blister: A Poem of Love

This poem was created based on 5 words I received using a random word generator online. The word generator gave me lift, aroma, submarine, holiday and blister. After lots of thought, and wanting to explore the realm of poetry, I came up with this (I could have done without blister...)

"Lift me" she said when she wanted to dance elegantly by candle light.

"Lift me" he said when he was struggling and needed a hand so badly.

"Lift me" she said when she longed to be held and caressed just so.

"Lift me" he said when his spirits were low and only her smile could help.

The aroma of the soup they had made filled them with hope and warmth.

The aroma of the crackling fire filled them with happy memories of the past.

The aroma of the brewing coffee filled them with energy as the clock turned midnight.

The aroma of the perfume and cologne filled them with love and playfulness.

She lovingly and softly sang "Yellow Submarine" to wake him on a lazy Sunday morning.

He layered meats, cheeses and veggies for her constructing her favourite submarine sandwich.

She laughed and celebrated as she won the game of battleships when she sunk his final submarine.

He often pretended that he was a submarine stealthily invading her waters when they watched TV.

While on holiday, they youthfully swam and played in the ocean as if they were dolphins.
While on holiday, they ate juicy and sweet exotic fruit with reckless abandon.
While on holiday, they slept till noon enjoying the cool breeze of the wind on their faces.
While on holiday, they grew closer and even more in love as if under a spell.

She rubs ointment on his blister while reciting romantic poetry to complete the mood.
He sings "Blister in the Sun" at the top of his lungs which always makes her so happy.
She runs and runs after him for hours; never wanting to stop even when a blister forms.
He tells her stories about their future together, a love for all time, hoping their blister will never pop.

Opinions?!?! I've Got Opinions!

I have lots and lots of opinions - not sure why, but I am trying not to question myself as there is a queue. And, I guess the word has gotten around that I have some thoughts and feelings and ideas about a wide variety of things and what has started happening recently is that people are often stopping me in the street or while shopping and are asking me my opinion on things. I am happy to share. This is the first in a series of my opinions on a variety of topics that I have been asked about recently. I hope you find this educational, instructive and definitive, and if you do not, then please consider lowering your standards.

Here is my take on...

...superfoods: So, I have been told that there are these foods that are labelled "super" as they are really good for you. I don't have a problem with that per se, except that it seems like a very exclusive group, or club that is really hard to join and I just happen to have a thing against those kind of clubs. You know the ones I'm talking about - those ones where if you don't have the right clothes, or car or annoying accent, you can't get in. And now some genius thought up one for foods?!?!? Sounds unnecessarily elitist to me - who did those foods (or the more human members of its fan club) have to pay off to get in? And if it was the foods themselves doing the paying off, then "how" is my next question. By now, we all know the members of this clique: the "unblemished" blueberries, the "incandescent" kale, "accented" acai berries, the "bedazzling" broccoli, the "king kong"quinoa. If I was one of those previously-thought-highly-of foods that didn't receive an invite, I'd be fairly annoyed. "Like what is so wrong with me?" I'd think "Just yesterday we were all pals in the garden or the grocery store and now today you are walking around like you own the place. And another thing, how and when did you start walking?!?!" I just don't know if creating a manufactured divide amongst foods is the way to go - anyone remember the caste system? Another thought is once you are a member of this club, can you leave? Are you always super? Do they get time off to just be a regular veggie and visit the relatives? If not, it is more of a prison and less of a club. I want to come out right now and say that I am staunchly against imprisoning food! There is no way that is a good use of my tax dollars. The "super" part also seems to be wildly misleading. It makes it sound, to someone like me who goes out of his way to be as literal and easily misled as possible, that the foods are not only good for me but that they also have powers. I would love for my food to have powers, although it may make me contemplate eating them for their nutritional value or only using them for their powers. And when I say "using", I don't want it to sound like I would be a malevolent master and the food my lowly slave - do I look like I could be that evil and have a slave? Don't answer that! That day, last week, when you saw me I didn't have any beauty time in the morning - doesn't mean I am pro-food-slavery. Also, I may be "way out there" and considered a little "off" and "one to keep an eye on" (only when you aren't in the middle of a two-eye activity - I don't mind you watching, just don't get hurt. Safety first!) but I am way above being an evil master or even a good master to some food. I'm not that weird. Or I guess I should say not that weird anymore. Thank you Doctor Evans and the wonderful Nurse Peters!

...gravel: In one sense gravel is just a field of small rocks and if that is how you see them that is all well and good. Honestly, I don't know how you can sleep at night. Uh huh? Oh really? You put your pillow over there and your alarm clock too? Well, now I know - thanks for sharing! With those images in my head, I don't think I'll be sleeping much for a few nights now. Back to the gravel. Don't you see that if seen very close up gravel is essentially the same as a bunch of big, scary rocks seen from quite a distance? And, if that doesn't freak you out, the next time you walk by a field of gravel, I challenge you to get down on your knees or, better yet, get off your high horse (word to the wise: that ridiculously large horse you prance around on looks out of place and makes you appear aristocratic and hard to approach. If those were your goals all along, kudos to you) lay down and get yourself a bit dirty and what will you observe? Those tiny, completely-innocent looking pieces of gravel look like big old, grown-up rocks and boulders from your new perspective. Either way you look at it, don't underestimate these pebbles we are "using" to cheaply cover our elementary school playgrounds with- they are not just small, less powerful and intimidating rocks (I mean they are that, just not only that). I believe they hold within them the ability to be so much more and if we sit back and relax and incessantly sip our iced tea as our elected officials insist (all-the-while denying us enough requisite sugar to make the drink at all palatable - I don't know about you, but I voted for those officials as I believed they would be a whole lot more liberal in the dispensing of sweeteners) then those pieces of gravel may have the last laugh (or one of the last laughs if I happen to be in a particularly laughing mood that day). It also bothers me that no one holds gravel in high regard or has even attempted to hold it in high regard or any level of regard. It is the least we can do and sometimes it is important to do our least except when there is a potential for free kittens or when there is a potential gas leak and then we should always do our most or at least appear to do our most before fleeing the scene. During elementary school, many a day was spent running up and down the school gravel field kicking balls (or having a series of balls kicked at me repeatedly of which I only partially deserved) both real and imaginary. So much of my youth was spent on or in the vicinity of gravel and though I stood there on many occasions breathing through my mouth (I had yet to learn to nose breath), inhaling in copious amounts of dust and then sneezing and wheezing for hours afterwards, I never blamed the gravel or the men and women from the gravel manufacturing plant or those who made the decision that a grass field was either too aesthetically pleasing or too expensive, no, I blamed my cousin from Philadelphia. What a piece of work that guy is - let me tell you! I'm pretty sure he hates gravel as well.

...glossy photographs: I need to set the record straight, I'm not against glossy photographs at all. I am just not a big fan because, as an already glossily-foreheaded person, glossy photographs just accentuate my already way-too-shiny features making me look more surreal than I can handle. And I have quite the surreal threshold in the first place. I can see how a matte finish is helpful for some of you with a "cloudy" complexion who are looking to appear more exciting in photo albums your descendants may be forced to look at when visiting their grandparents, but for those of us who have no problem with sheen, gloss just seems redundant and quite wasteful and I, for one, am thinking of the little children at home all alone while their parents are slaving away working overtime at the glossy photo paper finishing plant just so little Bobby and Susie can have sturgeon caviar on their blinis or the newest video game where a team of Navy Seals slaughter surprisingly sentient killer whales who are determined to enslave all of our sturgeon and put a moratorium on all blini and other pancake production thus driving up worldwide production of waffles and french toast just after they purchased all breakfast diners. I am sorry if I think it is more important for those kids to have parental supervision so they can't eat all of the frosting or at least spread out the consumption of the frosting over a week or just spread it out on some cake to at least reduce the sheer amount of frosting in any one sitting. I just think allowing too much frosting isn't sending the right message to the youth of today, just like too much gloss is sending the wrong message to whom or whatever beings find remnants of our photographs sometime in the far future. The great-grandchildren of our great-grandchildren will hope that the alien oppressors, who are pretty nice considering they are in the world-taking-over-enslaving-great-grandchildren racket, are impressed with the pictures they find and don't just toss them into the proverbial fire or any actual fire as I often do if I happen to have extra photos stuffed in my pocket when I happen to walk past a dwindling fire that needs something, anything, to keep going. True story: I often stuff my pockets with paper and photographs in an ill-advised, poorly-thought-through attempt at cheap insulation - instead of making me warmer, it makes me just wish I had purchased both the discounted high-powered shredder and the matching leg-warmer/sweater combo that I turned down as I really wanted to impress my friend who is quite against sweaters for reasons that are either beyond me or ones I haven't quite got to yet on this long highway called life.

...reigns of terror: Now don't get me wrong, I hate terror. Actually, that's not strong enough, I abhor terror in all of its forms. Even the word terror makes it sound scary  -good job whomever named it, but bad job whomever came up with the concept and then sold it to the highest bidder. Reigns, on the other hand, aren't all that bad. There can be good reigns, but for some reason they are usually associated with things we don't like: terror, fear, overt politeness. As far as established reigns go, reigns of terror are definitely in my bottom 5 and have next to no chance of moving up unless some of the other slightly more popular reigns take a turn for the worse and drop in popularity (I'm looking at you reigns of maniacal iron workers, bacterial growth, and sweet pickles and their bastardized cousin, relish). One reign that is good are reigns of rain as that is good for the crops. I try to always consider the crops and the farmers who reap them. Although, reign implies that it goes on for a long time and that it is both unwanted and forced on us. I don't love rain, but it is okay. However, if all of a sudden rain took a turn to the darkside and went on for a very long time, stayed when it was no longer wanted and forced itself on us even when we were screaming and crying for enough then I would have to contemplate changing my opinion of it. I'm directly implying that rain would have to be aware of its own reign and I have no evidence that that is at all possible, but I'm not ruling it out either. I have learned the hard way not to rule things out (I actually threw away all of my rulers and straight edges in hopes to avoid this). Anyways, reigns of terror really suck - they make life much less enjoyable (unless you are in charge, but then you have no real friends) and they make it very hard to keep dentist appointments and trips to the florist.Taking a historical perspective, reigns of terror started out on a relatively good note. They were initially very useful in keeping otherwise peaceful, well-behaved agrarian societies from causing too many problems, which they were prone to do - must have been the way they looked at everyone sideways. The reigns of terror came in and they helped create great monuments and other important civic structures by tearing the ridiculously lazy townsfolk away from their kilns, hearths and doll shops and putting them to work with the only known con being lots and lots of sweat and the occasional owie. Now, this was all well and good until reigns of terror were taken over by some really not so great people who took all of the amazingly great things about them and added in all of the killing and the blood. They claimed they were putting the capital T in terror and that before the terror should have really had quotation marks around it, which was quite a novel suggestion as it was at least two centuries before that really caught on as a way of speaking sarcastically. Once lives were lost, reigns of terror lost any chance at being remembered fondly or remembered at all, what with the death and all  -aside from the really amazing clothes and sense of style the rulers had. I'm not sure why there is often a direct correlation between megalomania and power and a knack for choosing the correct scarf/sweater combination. Imagine if they had had better childhoods and were hugged more often - they could have been the leaders of the fashion world and been loved and adored by men and women and been the life of the biggest parties in Paris, Milan, Tokyo and New York. But no, they got just a little too carried away with power and trying to crush everyone. "We didn't want to crush you when we were kids, we only wanted to win the soccer game and take the pretty girl to the dance" we'd say to them if we had a chance  -talk about being misunderstood and having them get a tad bit too angry at a fairly easy to solve communication issue. Luckily, they are fewer and far between these days since we are all so civil and mature compared to our ancestors. They were so uncivil and so grayish brown in the photos that have survived. I'm not saying being grayish brown would make you less refined, but it wouldn't help. But, they aren't all gone - there still are some really really bad dudes in power today subjecting their people to horrors and I wouldn't wish reigns of terror upon anyone except for my second cousin, twice removed. He knows what he's done.

...contemporary dance: I guess it was just a matter of time before we had to either phase out or close the door on the era of ancient dance which gave me the energy to get through some tough days growing up. I may understand this natural progression but I just can't say that I am huge fan of this wave of popularity about all things contemporary, especially dance. I may be alone in remembering the glory days of dance gone by, ones that those ultra-modernist culturally snooty elite that we all see around town these days with a scarily, rapidly increasing frequency would like us to conveniently forget. I made a promise to my great aunts-in-law (or to one of my great aunts-in-law as there is a good chance one had a previous engagement as I left the invites to the very last minute. It just slipped my mind as many activities with my great aunts-in-law do- that is the way it is with planning events involving relatively obscure relations) to curtail the amount of information I conveniently forget as it was growing to proportions that could have been troublesome if my troublesome category wasn't full at the moment with a three month wait list. All items/people/objects/metaphysical constructs that appeared to my receptionist (an alphabetical rotation of stuffed animals with size occasional trumping name based completely on the stuffed animals proximity to me which is, in turn, based completely on my dexterity of the moment which is, in turn, based on a random number generator I accidently stumbled upon when I accidently stumbled on my way to the dry pantry for some late-night crackers. My family has quite a intricate history with random numbers that is equal parts incredulous, annoying and demanding-an-amazing-soundtrack-opening-up-multiple-options-for-off-off-broadway-production-if/when-my-obviously-empty-threats-of-an-endless-stream-of-emails-containing-cryptic-codes-of-numbers-that-are-in-fact-generated-randomly-from-a-great-website-I-stumble-upon-from-time-to-time-usually-when-hungry-with-a-hunger-that-only-crackers-stored-dryly-can-come-close-to-satisfying (they do)). But some of you may wonder "what is your issue with contemporary dancing really, or are you just enjoying a few moments in the spotlight?" To which I answer (after hours practicing in said spotlight which drove up my electricity bill to previously unforeseen heights that make me briefly question if a limelight would have been more cost-effective) it is highly possible that my "issue" (to use your word, and I am trying as often as I can to use other people's words when talking instead of my previous practice of using their numbers which almost always caused them to raise a red flag which was a problem at first because no one had one, but that was quickly solved as it had given me a great idea for birthday presents and allowed me to clear the spare bedroom of all of those extra red flags I was keeping on hand "just in case") with contemporary dates back to my youth when my father, a contemporary dancer's contemporary dancer, was shunned and isolated by a clique of popular, mean contemporary dancers - they wouldn't even give him the time of day! And while it is true that neither them nor he really understood what that meant, it hurt him as did many other abstract expressions when used verbally by dancers and other artists towards him. I was too young at the time to do anything about it, but I remember him coming home, dejected and spending hours gracefully and beautifully moving about the house to somber, yet uplifting music usually featuring the piano, and feeling his pain and anguish and I remember vowing to bring down contemporary dance from the outside as I have always avoided being inside on sunny days.

I Am Trying To Laugh Like a Hyena

I am debating letting the cat out of the bag, as the public outcry seems to be growing exponentially and I just can't deal with the negativity right now. I'm just warning you that once that cat is out, I can't be held responsible for what happens next. If it were me released from a bag, I'd be fairly unhappy. Don't take that as a threat, more just a statement of fact. On a side note, if you have any other animals you'd like bagged, I will have a newly vacated bag fairly soon and lots of free time.

For years now I've heard the rumour that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Well, after a long time of blindly accepting that statement as fact, I decided to find out for myself. Step 1: find an old dog. Well, after many a lonely Friday night driving up and down the lanes - check! Step 2: learn some new tricks. I dedicated Saturday mornings for a month, practicing and practicing until finally I mastered a wide array of new tricks all the while having to hear the moaning and whimpering of that old dog in the next room - check! Step 3 (the easy one): teach said dog the new-found tricks. Initially, to my surprise, this was very challenging both because of his obvious lack of interest and energy and my being saddled with my unrealistic expectations. Plus I had already printed and distributed posters around the neighbourhood announcing our triumphant debut show. Failure was not an option - or else I'd always be known as that guy who bragged to everyone about his old-dog-trick-teaching ability and couldn't even teach the dog one single, simple trick - while that would be true, it is just far too long and cumbersome a name to be known by and I would have never been able to show my face in certain circles again (not sure which ones or where they are located, but just knowing it would make me unhappy and always on edge). I'll be honest, there were many times I considered just scrapping the plans and either finding a new dog (especially one who seemed to have a certain proclivity for tricks) or reverting back to some old, tried and true tricks or leaving town on the next train (do people still escape that way?). To make a long story short, tricks were learned and life was never quite the same afterwards.

People are worried that I'm like a wolf in sheep's clothing and I'm not sure how to take that. I will admit that in many ways I am quite wolf-like, what with the sharp claws, the insatiable appetite, the conniving and cunning approach to life, and my love of howling and all howling related activities. And I will also come clean about my love for clothing made out of sheep's wool - it is dazzlingly white, fluffy and comfy beyond belief, a big step-up from the old clothes I used to slum around in back in the day. Those sheep's clothes make me feel like a part of an elite, sheep-clothing-wearing club that dominates the social scene and is the talk of the town. I am told it is wrong for some reason to be wolf-life and to wear the clothing I love, and if others continue to talk about me behind my back in this way, I will be forced to sneak up on them all innocent like and then potentially maul them. I mean if I am being called a wolf I may as well play the part. They've been warned.

When I was young my mother used to tell me to count sheep to fall asleep. Many a night, I lay there in my bed trying to settle down and sleep and those mindlessly jumping sheep were there to help. Sometimes, in my waking and more lucid hours, I would wonder why the sheep were continuously jumping over the same fence. Where were they coming from and where were they going to? Did they enjoy jumping or would they have been equally satisfied walking around the fence if they could have located the gate? Did they feel a certain safety in numbers, as there seemed to be a lot of sheep going to the same unknown destination or did they just have a hard time limiting the guest list and leaving certain sheep out? And why were they always smiling while they jumped rhythmically - did they just love a great tune, really enjoy the exercise as it did wonders for their abs, or, as I suspected as a child, did they know a secret they just weren't sharing? Almost like "we know where we are going and why we are jumping and why we are smiling, but we aren't telling you, little boy. So just head off to sleep already, so we can stop smiling and jumping and head off to the adult sheep party we have planned." I know my mother was aware of my concerns when she her me mutter my wish before blowing out my candles on my 9th birthday - "just once I want to be invited to a private sheep function", which, even for me, was a fairly odd thing to say.

I am often told that I am as blind as a bat. Me as blind as a bat? I wish! Those bats are so cool and fresh and now. They are all like some birds who got done amped up with their funk to scary levels no one has eva seen. Bats dart this way and that way all about their crib and they take nothing from nobody. Are they blind? True dat. Do they care? What do you think sucker? They are taking the blind train to awesome town and you can't even afford a ticket! You hear that? That's what I thought. Bats don't care and they gots styles.They are far too busy flying around, eating fruit and stuff and are taking names (and occasionally napping). Youse best be steering clear of those blind, majestic kings and queens of the caves or if you can't, at least duck as they can't see where they are going and they will probably scratch you something good. But don't feel sorry for them, they ain't watching that show. And neither am I! Why am I told that I am blind as a bat? Not totally sure, haven't given it much thought, to tell you the truth....(actually just did some research and I found out that bats aren't blind at all...that's right they did that too.)

I am trying to laugh like a hyena. I am also trying to walk like a hyena, hunt for food like a hyena, socialize like a hyena and scavenge like a hyena. Essentially, I am trying to be as hyena like as possible. I promised my father I would, and no matter how many times he tried to talk me out of it, I am a man (until the transformation is complete) of my word.

"Oh bee's knees!" my grandmother used to exclaim about nothing in particular. She was like that, if you know what I mean. When dinner turned out great, it was the bee's knees. When a movie had a great twist at the end, it was the bee's knees. If she slipped and fell she'd say bee's knees. When she carefully dissected a large number of actual bees attempting to find the knees, she was sadly disappointed and not even my Charlie Chaplin-esque humour could cheer her up.

I often escape to this place inside where I am the messenger who has been given the important task of sending the life-or-death message to the king. I race against time on horseback through the overgrown forest. Upon my arrival a hush falls upon the castle and I approach the king and queen cautiously. I unfurl my scroll and take a deep breath knowing that so many lives depend not only on the message itself, but also on the eloquence of my delivery. I wet my lips, clear my throat and I squeal like a pig. After a moment's silence, the gathered crowd cheers riotously.

I've decided to come out of the closet. Not that closet! (at least not today -the sliding doors are stuck) No, the other one. I will admit that I've enjoyed my two day holiday in the closet. It was a bit dark and fairly cramped, but at the same time very invigorating. Anyways, I am coming out to let the awaiting public know that it is true- I aspire to be a monkey's uncle. After almost no thought at all, here is what I think I need to do. Book the next flight out of here and head straight to the Democratic Republic of Congo or the Republic of Congo (if I can handle the lack of any democracy or the sole reliance on a pure republic for a few weeks). Once there, spend some time eating the food, becoming one with the people and soaking up the sun. After some time, rent a jeep and take a drive out to the jungle and find a pack of monkeys who seem amenable to my presence. Watch from a far for a week and then slowly and incrementally start participating in monkey rites and rituals and cultural events. Now the next part I'm a little unsure, but I am hoping that one particular female monkey will stand out and catch my eye. If not, I'll have to take a sizable leap of faith and pick one randomly. The key aspect is that she has a brother or sister with a child as I've put in all of this time and effort, not to speak of the multitude of diseases and skin ailments I've subjected myself too, just to be a monkey's uncle. And keep in mind I am only needing to marry a monkey, nothing too weird sicko, and marry her I will. It will be a fairly extravagant wedding, at least from the monkey community's point-of-view. Afterward we return from our honeymoon, I will begin the challenging task of earning my new niece or nephew's trust and love. If not, I'll just fly home and continue my life's work: sketching pictures of cute kittens wearing adorable mittens.

I only cry crocodile tears. Especially when you make me so sad. Why you need to do it, I'll never know. Possibly it is your deep-found respect for crocodiles.

My friends are always referring to me as a dinosaur. Well, initially that got my back up and made me pretty annoyed and pissed off. A dinosaur?!?! Like I'm that old and obsolete? And some of them are older and arguably more obsolete than I am! But then I started to think, maybe being called a dinosaur isn't so bad. Yeah, maybe dinosaurs worked hard everyday to put food on the table (rock? ground?) for their family, and maybe dinosaurs were caring and sensitive "modern" animals who eschewed outdated gender stereotypes and maybe dinosaurs loved spending their free time exercising both their minds and their bodies constantly attempting to better themselves. Well then maybe, just maybe, I am a dinosaur. And proud of it. And if those friends keep calling me that then I'll either eat them (if I am a carnivore) or squash them (if I am a herbivore) or play with them (if I need a friend).

I have been told for years now that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Despite my many attempts, I have no idea at all what this means! When will I ever have a bird in my hand? I mean, unless it is dead and then what sort of weirdo am I? Killing birds only to walk around with their decaying carcasses in my hand!?!? Am I trying to become significantly more unpopular and smelly? Okay, so let's say I could obtain or procure said bird and let's just say, for argument's sake, that the bird is still alive and came to rest on my hand on its own volition. How? Well...maybe I developed a new, irresistible bird seed that birds from far and wide flock to. What? It's possible. You have no idea if I have been revising a bird seed formula for years now or not. Anyways - I now have the bird in my hand and we are parading around town. In my dreams, this is a truly majestic bird with amazingly colourful feathers and it draws the high regard of all passersby. But somehow, this bird in my hand is worth two in a bush? What?!?!? How is that possible? There is just no way a bird that I somehow "convinced" to be in my hand is equivalent in value to two random birds in a bush! I mean what are the birds doing in the bush that is making anyone else's life demonstratively better in any way?!?! Sure they may be attractive and make lovely cheeps and chirps for me to wake up to on spring mornings, but unless those birds are able to complete all of my yard work in a timely fashion and pick little bugs out of my hair without making my scalp bloody it sounds like a wash to me at best.  

When I was 21 I was nearly badgered to death. Even telling this story now brings me close to tears. I was camping alone in the woods and came across a friendly clan of badgers. I'm not sure how it happened, but after a short while, we learned to communicate with each other and soon afterwards, truly understood each other's hopes and wishes and feelings. The two weeks I spent with those badgers were one of the highlights of my life -  a time I really felt loved and a truly accepted part of a group. Things couldn't have been better and if I wasn't due back at university for the start of the next semester I could have seen myself staying. On the final day, all of us were growing emotional and sensing the impact of my leaving. I'm not sure exactly why - maybe it was my emotional state or possibly the exhaustion I felt after having not slept well getting used to their nocturnal schedule or maybe it was because I was starving - whatever the reason,  I raided our group's huge collection of earthworms, insects and grubs that were being saved for the winter. Suffice to say this was not a hugely popular move and after being attacked and beaten by this small collection of short-legged, weasel-like creatures, I gathered my belongings and walked 10 metres to my car and drove home.

Stallions race wildly on the beach kicking up huge clouds of sand. A mother bird feeds her babies in their precariously balanced nest. A lonely buffalo wanders aimlessly wondering where his friends have gone. The father penguin warms his baby boy while his wife braves the icy water in search of food. A team of termites hollow out an old tree trunk. And through it all there is whisper on the wind that only one who is truly listening can hear. The voice softly calls out "How now brown cow?"

I am a not a night owl. I am more like an late evening owl or sometimes a daytime owl. Well, not actually a daytime owl, probably closer to an early to middle afternoon owl although sometimes that can stretch into the early evening depending on what I had for lunch. Somedays I jump out of bed and could pass for a morning owl, except there are no morning owls, so I usually go to the gym and try to delay the olwing until at least the late morning or early to middle lunchtime. I agree that a night owl makes more sense, but I'm just to worn out from the day to make it happen. So, ideally middle to late lunch or early to mid afternoon and occasionally something around dinner time are my favourite times. If you are needing an owl impersonator or someone to do some owl-type chores or just to sit around looking wise, you know when is best for me. If you really are in need of a night owl, I hear Joe is good for that.

The early bird catches the worm, or so I've been told since I was a child. To test that theory, I woke up at the crack of dawn for two straight weeks and crouched ready to spring in my backyard. The result? Aside from witnessing a few beautiful sunrises and enjoying many sprinklings of fresh dew, I now have a collection of an array of "early birds". Enjoy your freedom worms!

There is more than one way to skin a cat, but only one way that meets the standard of the ICSA (the International Cat Skinning Association) an association I find abhorrent, yet whose agenda is oddly compelling when one of my cats won't stop meowing and scratching at the door at 3am.

You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. Well maybe the horse just isn't thirsty have you thought about that, smart guy? Nope! You are just sitting there what with your horn-rimmed glasses and your goatee just assuming that all horses must be thirsty and that they would appreciate your gift of some water. Well, let me tell you, your water ain't all that. First - it's lukewarm - I know because I got down on my hands and knees all horse-like and tried some. Yuck! Either put some ice in it or don't expect any one to be drinking it. Second - it's got strands of hay in it. Let me tell you something - horses like hay and they like cold water, but they don't like them mixed together! It would be like me mixing in some of your peanut butter and jam sandwich with your milk. Do you want that? Well, I tried some (that's why there was a bite from your sandwich and your glass looked used) and it wasn't that great - soggy sandwich and muddy milk. Third, maybe the horses want things to be switched up from time to time - like maybe some green tea for digestion? Or some pomegranate juice for all of the antioxidants? Or maybe some espresso  -mostly because that would be so muh fun for us to watch. So, that's right - you can do all of the horse-to-water leading you want, but just don't expect to get the result you are looking for.

I, like most people, enjoy a good wild goose chase. For many years people had domesticated goose chases, which were boring and hard to sell tickets for and almost definitely fixed. I am glad those sad, sorry days are behind us.

I am sly like a fox. Shhhh.

5 Little Words: My Cousin

*Author's note: A random word generator gave me cousin, satire, umbrella, medicine, and shadow. I am challenging myself to write short, creative pieces using the five words given to me.

I left the house early on a Saturday morning. Today was going to be a good day, or at least I was hoping that could be possible for a change. I have experienced quite a run of mediocre ones, which, while fun at first, had become a bit mundane. I stood on the corner of my block and remembered that I had initially planned on making my day into a satire akin to Gulliver's Travels or A Charlie Brown Christmas, but I had needed the sleep after staying up all night knitting myself decorative leg warmers. Satires involve a lot of front-end planning and some biting humour is necessary as well. I was amazingly proficient at biting and was named "Most Likely to Be Humourous (or at least provide humour for others often in embarrassing or accidental circumstances)" by the yearbook staff back in grade 12. Regardless of all of my efforts, I was never able to put the two together. Once I came close - I made my cousin, Helen, very uncomfortable when I gave a 25 minute speech at her engagement party comparing her pact with Dietrich to the Visigoths sacking of Rome in 410. I stood there feeling triumphant, the crowd was stunned (most likely because I had just followed her mother who wept uncontrollably for 5 minutes and then broke into an incredible rendition of the national anthem and a rare uncle who had a talking parrot that was able to read fortunes but only of fellow parrots), Dietrich clapped a little too vigorously (I later learned that he hated ancient Rome) and Helen, poor cousin Helen, how I had wanted to treat her with some appropriate satire at her engagement party as she had requested of me. I had failed once again.

While I was remembering Helen it started to sprinkle with rain and I wished I had brought my umbrella. Often my umbrella seemed to provide me with much more then just shelter - I would be whisked away to a fantasy land full of fairies and elves where candy grew on the trees and big barking dogs tried to chase me until I gave them the dog food I was hiding in my trousers. Sometimes I looked up at the rainbow of colours on my umbrella and I imagined that each was a little less colourful - I sort of felt inadequate while seen with my umbrella, as others seemed a little more interested in what it had to add to the occasion. I subconsciously tried to add colour and flare and roundness to my life, but was totally unable to do this. After years of searching for a reason why it hit me when I experienced a wave of deja vu during the extraction of my wisdom tooth. I remember sitting in my room as a ten-year old watching in horror as my older brother dressed as a particularly friendly clown painted over everything that was colourful making them different shades of brown - my walls, my bed, my toys, my heart. The smell of the paint mixed with the popcorn my parents had made downstairs led me to draw pictures of stick people that had very proper relationships with each other. I decided to retrieve my umbrella before the rain ruined my new perm.

It hit me - I knew what I had to do today! Umbrella in hand, Helen on my mind and satire coursing through my veins (my arteries were coursing with newly oxygenated blood as usual) I went to my pharmacy to retrieve some medicine for my horrible and amazingly hairy back. I often felt that I was predestined to be covered with hair and one day possibly look like a dog show contestant or some sort of extra terrestrial looking to unload some hair samples. In a moment of reckless abandonment after a particularly successful game of Yahtzee, I had accidentally mixed up my protein shake for my roommates' natural scalp elixir (not surprisingly his elixir tasted far better than my drink, but then again I am a big fan of the flavour of castor oil). My hair was plentiful! The first signs of change were seen on my head where my afro dropped towards the ground as a result of gravity and now looked less like a hairdo and more like an auburn artificial putting green. Then it spread to my back and I was worried as I was planning on going speed dating that evening and I fairly certain that the last hairy guy snatched up the only woman who preferred her men to have a touch of Sasquatch in them. My doctor said he had an experimental medicine that he wanted to try and if that failed he had some industrial strength tar and a huge bag of feathers. I was intrigued and excited by those, but had no clue how that would help with my hairiness except to distract others from it.

While walking to the doctor for my medicine, the rain stopped and the sun came out. I became focused on my shadow. Taller than me and walking ahead almost as if it was flaunting its ability to exist in two-dimensions. Dark and mysterious, I became quite impressed with my shadow - sort of like how a father or a trainer of homing pigeons must feel. I felt a twang of guilt as I remember how I crossed the line with my first girlfriend insisting on interacting with her solely as a shadow projection on the wall. She had asked me and pleaded with me to stop while vividly remembering how she had experienced multiple traumatic events involving shadows as a child raised by the two top sock puppet artists this side of the Mississippi ("they insisted on shining a spotlight on the wall of my bedroom 24 hours a day even when I had nose bleeds"). I stopped outside the doctor's office and leaned against the wall of the building gazing up at the sky. A particularly wispy cloud momentarily passed in front of the sun lightly covering me and the surrounding area with a shadow. I wished the shadow was like a large comfortable duvet that could cover me and keep me warm in these nefarious times in which I live.

The door was locked.