Tag Archives: Scream

Everyday Decisions

There’s an election on now in Ontario.

Or there was (by the time you read this the election will have occurred and outcome decided).

The choices, such as they are (or were):

  1. Person who’s not been very much liked for quite a while and now, it seems, has lost the ability to inspire much trust, or failing that, much faith in their leadership prowess and (therefore) their party’s efficacy;
  2. Person who has ridden the pony express to political provincial power via an all too familiar path of self-aggrandizement on behalf of an amorphous and ill-defined “people,” whose uncouth charisma in these lacklustre times (a heady mix of perceived business acumen, feigned compassion and calculated aggression) seems very much to compensate for their lack of a party platform and experience as leader of anything;
  3. Person who’s been a presence in Ontario politics for a good while, a good long while, but who has always seemed to come off more as an acquaintance seen from across a crowded room rather than a viable candidate for premier, whose party gives off the impression of the last person standing after cooler heads have prevailed, good intentions be damned.

Not exactly what you would call a bumper crop of candidates. Not all that much to fill the streets or scream from hilltops. A lot to lose, perhaps, but not all that much to gain. It reminds me of something…

Wag the dog, but if a dog chases its tail for long enough, will it die of exhaustion?

What’s inevitable and what just isn’t?

There will be no winner, not after the votes are tallied and the results declared. There are no winners here, no sense of solid victory or sound accomplishment. Simply the sense of having lost a little less than what could have been, democracy, in the end, having been processed, one way or another.





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Filed under Politics, Ritual, Routines, THE FUTURE, THE PAST

The Giant Fleshball of Mysterious

And we dug (digging being a huge component of the job, sometimes even the job itself). There were trenches and units all over the site (that’s were we work, a site) and as we continued to dig, as we dug, as we kept up digging, suddenly, shattering the rhythmic clanks and scrapings and pounds and scratches of the metal on dirt, of metal on rock , of metal on metal, a dull *THUD*, palpable, and a scream, human.



There! Right at the bottom at the end of a unit, exposed from the impact of the shovel, remarkably precise, debris collapsing around it like the dust of fallout, deeper than apparently possible, evidently impossible.

A near-perfect sphere.

Warty, fleshlike. Gigantic, and unambiguously, almost unapologetically staring up at us like a goddamn dare.

A giant fleshball of mysterious.

It began to pulsate, subtly. A Thing most certainly alive.

We edged around it, wondered briefly if it could be worked around, somehow, as if by the sheer will of communal defiance we could banish it from the here and now, repressing its discovery back under the surface of our minds as if it were something doctors’ tests would later confirm as benign the whole time anyway.

But of course we couldn’t do that, just ignore it, this fleshy alien intruder, and especially not after it began to extend something, something – began to extend this something out and up and toward and into the musky late afternoon air, sunlight throwing its various lumps and divots into terrible relief.

An appendage, jointed in two, folding out like the arm of a satellite, jerking and sputtering like a jalopy in its death throes.

An arm! No, wait! A Leg!

Toes? Toad’s? Toad’s toes!

Proof, as only crappy, out-of-focus photography can do it.

The Daring Fleshball.

A Toad.

An honest-to-goodness goddamn fucking live toad now only buried head first, so a little less like toad than ostrich. After still more self-conscious hesitation, I finally reached down pulled it forever away from its hibernation home. It was just small enough to almost fit in my hand, where it rested a little then defecated uncontrollably.[1] It tried to blink, but failed.

You should have seen it! Its expression, the utter stupefaction etched on the poor bastard’s ectothermic face, his eyes squinting at completely different angles, his mouth slightly agape, a tiny forearm grasping at the nothing of the empty space in front of it.

Jesus. I can’t imagine that, how it must have felt, to be torn so violently away from its great subterranean slumber just under the comfortable safety of the frost line. And with winter coming; it must have knew.

But I can venture a good, solid guess on what its last thoughts must have been.

What the fuck?


[1] Can you blame it?


Filed under Animals, Jobs