Midnight Jolt Run

It was such an inconvenience. To kiss.
Oh, what of my breath? Oh, but I just ate!
My gum, my lozenge, the Colgate!?
So we made easy fair of simpler things.

Holding hands and warm, endless hugs
We regulate. Much easier. Much safer.
Brief touches, smiling glances, gentle advances
even what the Eskimos are said to do with noses

But I must admit, I still long
for that inconvenient sweet.
That salted, half-bitter mocha is what I yearn for
the pressure of your lips, and the hunt for your tongue
Silky and pebbly, and coated with the memories
of what may have beat me to your mouth first
but what I intend to make you forget

And the danger of kissing too deeply, or not deeply enough,
wisely and chastely, passionately and with the intent
to rob the very breath we both must seek, but both must deny to give back
in gasps and laughs and sighs and promises of more…yet more…
I can think of no greater thrill than the hunt of the kiss.

I miss kissing you. Like I miss hairpin turns a little too fast
a mad dash braking before breaking, or a wall an inch too close…
close calls with sharp-toothed bites and rabid eyes and snarls abundant
and saving, savoury, angel dances at the edge of a flight of steps
half a heartbeat before down into the oblivion we all must fall…

Ignorant of garlic or spice. Mint, oil, acid, sweet, or the tang
of sharp wisdom, warm whispers and shivering whimpers
I’ll gladly taste it all. False or true. Great or small.
So long as it comes from the mouth of you.

Yes. I must admit. I still long for that
inconvenient sweet.

I’m not a very green person.

I am not an eco-terrorist, certified locally-grown vegan, climate alarmist, nor a tree huger. I eat too much meat, consume too many resources, and gladly support a dozen industries that are doing their honest best to convert our planet into money without caring how they do it. I am a human being and I am flawed, greedy and selfish, as much so as many others. But I am also hopeful and optimistic that I can learn, that others can learn, and we can all make a difference in changing the path we have charted into oblivion.

I firmly believe that our sustainable future includes gasoline engines, diesel generators, bonfires and burning things. I just don’t believe that has to be the norm anymore. I believe that environmentally destructive practices could become the rare luxury – a nostalgic reenactment – instead of day-to-day commutes, energy use and consumption. I believe there are better ways to live, and that a combination of law and public perception can make them real in a short enough time frame to make a real and measurable difference.

But those are beliefs. What I KNOW is more substantial. That the science is sound, the evidence is solid, and that, while the systems of climate and environment are still being learned and discovered, we know enough to act with purpose and positive result. I know the reasoning, my senses, and logic that humanity is accelerating Climate Change beyond what any species on Earth has ever had to adapt to. I believe that, even if we do adapt to it in time, the cost will be beyond our wildest predictions. Yes, this is a belief. But the evidence supports it.

I believe, instead, that we can become good shepherds of our world. That the damage we have caused can be reversed if we act soon, and that the longer we resist action, the greater the cost and pain we will inflict upon ourselves and the many species and wonders we share this planet with.

I know there is a conjoined effort to discredit this way of thinking. A conspiracy not born of fantasy, but admitted reality, where the very players of fossil fuel industries funded the very first studies into the environmental impacts of their wares, and discarded it due to the cost and difficulty involved. I also know that the industries growing in the green revolution will never make as much money, hold as much power, nor have as loud of a voice as their equivalents, and any conspiracy theory to say otherwise is blatantly false.

I believe that the shame of knowing we are doing this to ourselves blinds some people into thinking we cannot do anything, or that it is beyond our control. And I know this is false.

I know we should act now, within this lifetime, and that we have the capability, ingenuity and imagination to ensure success.

I know we can act. And I believe we should. I also believe the time should be now, for we are dangerously close to being forced to act instead of having the luxury of choice in the matter, and that by acting now, we still will see our sins broadcast into the biosphere for decades to come. But, a lifetime from now, if we act now, we can see a change. Perhaps not in our children’s lifetimes, but in our grandchildren’s.

If only we act.

Now.

Dadmageddon.
By Christopher Brummet

“Well, Joe, I’ve got some good news. And I’ve got some bad news.”

“Seems like news always does that,” Joe McDunn said, not daring to look down at the folded newspaper. Even as he handed over his dollar-twenty-five for the special weekend edition, he could see the titular headline announcing that the votes were in. “It’s decided then.”

“Sure is,” the newsstand owner nodded back in the dim morning night. “Everyone will know in an hour or so. You’re probably the first who has a copy in their hands.”

“Thanks, I’d better head back,” Joe said, looking towards his home instead of the headlines. “Think I’ll read it in front of the family. They deserve to know when I do.” It sounded noble when he said it like that, anyway.

“Here,” the owner said, handing him a rolled up poster. “For the resistance,” he winked. “Just in case.”

Joe nodded, then began walking, newspaper tucked under one arm, poster in the other. He wondered what his wife and daughters would say. Good or bad, at least they would have the news at last.

Almost a year ago, June 20th, 2021 “The Event” happened. It had been a beautiful summer Sunday in Newfoundland, Canada, and families everywhere were celebrating Father’s Day. Dads, Granddads, Uncles, Mentors, Father-Figures and all manner of household patriarchs were being honoured for their quintessential Dad-ness as had been tradition for decades. The Event occurred quite by accident, though. A large percentage of Dads started telling jokes at around the same time.

The wave of Dadjokes crept across Canada as the Earth rotated. Quips, bad word-play, silly innuendo…all was showcased in this amazing moment of Fatherly Synergy all across the nation. But, as their collective punchlines, puns and verbal punishment all culminated to fruition in the span of a single heartbeat, a collective groan roared across the province. Moms, Kids, Partners, and all manner of family and friends promptly reacted to the Greatest Dadjoke Wave ever, and produced a power far more destructive than even the worst Dadjoke on its own.

“The Event” had begun in the East. Read the rest of this entry »

I took a walk through this beautiful world
Felt the cool rain on my shoulders
I took a walk through this beautiful world
I felt the rain getting colder

It became a ritual for me. Every weekend I would head to the liquor store, obtain a bottle of Jack Daniels, and set my torrent program to seek out the bytes needed to assemble the latest episode of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown.

I would drink deeply and with abandon as I traveled to a new place to experience the peoples, the cultures, the food and the art of that particular location. Sometimes it would be in an exotic endangered green pocket of a rain forest, or the war-torn streets of civilization’s raggedy edge. Maybe the heights of Russian hospitality, or the street food of Hong-Kong or the urban gardens of Chicago. I would wake up hung over and sad that my little ritual was over, but rarely did I forget the journey, even if I wondered once in a while where my pants were.  I cried a few times, cheered often, and found myself daydreaming endlessly of putting knobby tyres on my motorcycle, cashing out of the rat-race, and finding and endless trail of little pit-stops as I zipped to and fro across the world.

Anthony Bourdain took thousands of us with him as he travelled, as he learned, as he became family and friends with a host of peoples most of us could only remember as Wikipedia articles or headlines in the news. I’d like to think we were light luggage, as evident with the obvious joy and (sometimes gallows) humour he shared with us. He was a storyteller of the highest calibre, fuelled by curiosity in what seemed a perfect combination.

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The Wall

“Mother, why do you believe in magic?”

I remember, while growing up, thinking how silly it seemed that mother would place a saucer bowl out for the pixies, and whisper a prayer thrice while tossing a pinch of salt over her shoulder whenever she needed some extra luck.  Ours was an age and a kingdom of reason, though superstitions seemed to be growing every year and an acceptance of magic became almost commonplace.  Finally at the age where my curiosity and frustration could no longer be held in check by mere politeness, I asked her outright.

She blushed deeply, turning her normally rosy pink cheeks a more crimson shade as she did.  “The Wall, honey.  Everyone believes in magic since the Wall appeared.”

“What wall?” I huffed.  I had heard of this ‘wall‘ whispered of before, but every time I asked for clarity, I was met with blushes and giggles and all manner of infuriating silence.  More often than not, I heard the words my mother then said to me:

“I’ll tell you when you’re older, honey.”

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The Impossible Hunt

Drone Commander Aima of the great Patchu War-Beetle lay conscious in his nesting pillows, unable to obtain regeneration-rest for several moons now. Voices that were not his own began to creep into his conscious thoughts. Shadows that were cast by inert objects suddenly became…human-shaped…in his fevered mind’s eye. Still, he tried to rest, until he startled back to full alertness, gasping and wheezing with the imagined cold steel of a human blade at his nerve-stem.

“I hate this world…” he murmured to himself.

Twisting his eye-stalks to the viewing porthole by his nest, he saw the great blue-and-white sphere they orbited. The native species…humans…had called the world Earth. He hated Earth. Commander Aima hated the Earth more than anything…except for That Human.

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The last three people I murdered each thanked me.

I used to like being thanked by those who had made their peace with it all. They seemed to get why my office is more like an office and less like a prison cell. Made me feel like I was performing a mercy when we talked. Not everyone thanked me, but the anomalous streak of late has made me sick just thinking about it.

A knock at the door. It normally startles me, but I suppose I’m beyond caring now. Some lingering sense of professional pride forces me to hide the bottle of whiskey I have been sipping at for breakfast, and when I key in the codes and open the door I try to breathe shallow to hide my vice. Two armed guards and the warden are standing behind the door, flanking a man gagged and bound to a wheelchair.

“Good morning, Doctor Crane,” the warden says firmly, offering me the briefest of shamed glances and a clip-board to sign. “Prisoner Dennis Newton shall now be transferred into your possession to carry out his sentence for the murder of three peace officers.” Read the rest of this entry »

I learned a lot about myself in Fort McMurray.

Around two decades ago, I lived in the boom/bust oilsands town during the awkward formative years of smart-assed kid and post-puberty cringe-meltdown. I got to see alcohol and drugs claim a lot of lives and sanity there, and near the end of my time in the city I suppose I had formed an association between a kind of salvation and getting the hell out…something many of my friends had discovered as well.

Up until about a week ago, before wildfires tore through the town, forced the total evacuation of eighty-or-so-thousand residents, and devoured hundred of buildings…my biggest regret would have been not to have been the one to light the shithole on fire myself.

But reality has this way of calling you out on your bullshit.

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There’s a romantic notion put forth by television and movies that the roar of a waterfall or a dammed river provides a kind of meditative quality when our protagonists witness it.

Perhaps they’ll spend a moment to meditate under the crashing whitewater, becoming as still and as permanent as one of the riverbed stones it normally dashes upon; or that after stepping through, or travelling alongside, the audio guy fixes for the noise and you hear the passing and bubbling of a trillion buckets of sweet-water as a calming hum or hiss. But to anyone who has stood next to such a calamity, I suspect this illusion is a distant fantasy as the roar digs into your brain and pulls reason from your skull.

We like to romanticize these forces of nature, as if we had some kind of supernatural authority over them in post-editing. Maybe we do, to an extent, even in our own memories. The ringing of church bells stings like a wasp should you stand too close, but the sting turns sweet upon reflection. The concert you wish you brought ear-plugs to, the roar of engines unleashed on a proper bit of tarmac, or the whoosh of the jet sitting outside your window as you climb into the great beyond: all of these seem like lesser, prettier versions of themselves when you look back.

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Monotone bugs me. Like nails on a chalkboard or fillings on tin foil, I can’t handle the idea that tradition has to be recited with one, rambling tone.

I remember growing up with the occasional Remembrance Day assembly in class, depending if the 11th fell upon a school day or weekend there was a great variety in the level of participation required of us. The day would usually go something like this:

We would all shuffle into the gymnasium with our bright red (and green…at the time) poppies stabbed into our shirts and someone would fire-up the coal-electric overhead projector with a sheet containing the lyrics to “Flanders Fields” (I swear every Canadian child has heard of John McCrae) and as one semi-mumbling blob, would recite the words, then try our best not to incur the wrath of our teachers by standing still and silent for a minute once the 11th occurred.

It would be silly to assume we didn’t understand the gravitas of the day, but it always bugged me that, for the most part, it was more about poppies and poems, silence and sombreness, reciting and reading…but very few of us had anything to remember. Read the rest of this entry »