Babble On

"Do a doodle," they said...

“Do a doodle,” they said…

‘Goose pimples

What an idiotic idiom; who makes that connection? Who spends their time ruminating on the relationship between the skins of some plucked poultry and these things blooming all over my body in epidermal effervescence? It doesn’t even make sense. Pfft, pimples. Can you pop ’em? What about those bumps around your nipples? This broad I used to know said she got goop to come out of one once. Probably lying, though. They’re glands, aren’t they? Those don’t have goop in them-I think. I’ll look it up later. She was kinda cute actually-I’ll look her up, too. Fuck, forget it, way off track; I’m covered in these wannabe pimples or nipples and I don’t really give a nun’s clit what they’re all about. I just want this done. This is the worst part of my job, the waiting. I’m a punctual person, and that’s pretty rare in this profession. So I end up waiting. A lot.

-Um, what’s the time?

“Quarter past.”

Shit. How is he so chill? Maybe that’s not the right word. More like composed, or tranquilized; damn near comatose. I’m the chilled one. I should’ve anticipated the wait and worn more than this home-knit sweater. Or, better yet, just told Grandma to get her shit together and knit a decent article of clothing. This is Canada. What in the hell was she thinking?

-Dude, he’s late. Again.

My partner grunts. I bow my head and scour the rubber mat under my feet for a flash of salvation-like some new age, post-relative-morality, existential prostration: a perverse form of prayer, not that they aren’t all warped and distorted ways of wishing upon some long since extinguished star. Oh Sin, deliver me from god. I’m rewarded for tipping my cap to the fallen angels with a bent, slightly torn cigarette: this can work if I pinch it just so. I’m craving something stronger but that would be a bad move at the moment.

-We look pretty bait… Maybe we should take a trip around the block, or something.


The engine sputters to life from its slip into hypothermic oblivion. The ghost in the machine is just as worn out and frigid as I am. It’s January, and we’re in Canada… Did I mention that yet? Well, it bears repeating: because it’s cold here. Like, capital ‘c’ Cold. The maybe/maybe-not goop-filled bumps on my nipples are harder than debating autonomous-agency vs. material-determinism with a plebeian vegetable case on life support.

They said I’d get used to this weather, eventually. I didn’t. Been here thirteen years now and it’s still as wretched as ever. Shitty thing is, I’ve lost my once-upon-a-time, so-called ‘adorable’ accent and picked up most of the colloquialisms of this country (except that I still use words such as ‘wretched’), so I don’t even have an excuse for not snowboarding, or liking hockey, or whatever. I fucking hate snow-magical my ass. Sure, it’s all glittery, sparkling, pastel-like-pixels at first when it’s falling: not so much white as just every hue in the spectrum coalesced into one, the saturation jacked like it was on steroids-no shading. So, I guess it has its infinitesimally momentous, momentary, aesthetic appeal: it’s born beautiful, congratulations snow. But how many of these unique specks do we actually see as singular? How many individual flakes do we fully appreciate before they’re crunch-consolidated into the tapestry under our tires? I don’t think I can recall any particular piece of snow, just the broader concept of it… People here just assume I’m Canadian too, which I guess I am: but not Canadian like them. It’s supposed to be a melting pot, right? But I think the burner under my part of the pot is defective; I’m always either frozen solid, or boiling over: never temperate, never bubbling away happily with the rest of the bland, pastiche, smorgasbord of a soup they conceitedly call their cultural collage.

I absent-mindedly pick at a scab on my arm as we hit the curb and take a right, merging with traffic. Public areas are the best option for these sorts of encounters. They ensure a mutual level of safety; or, at least, a mutually assured destruction. This element of comfort doesn’t detract from the fact that I’m packing a jack-knife in my pocket and a straight razor tucked into my boot.

My fingers quiver-it isn’t a shiver due to the cold, more like a twitchy case of the jitters-they shouldn’t, not after the forty milligrams of oxy up my nose. Granted, there’s also half a gram of the only snow I can stand in there, keeping the opiates company and shoving me down the well-lubed slip’n’slide tube of coke-psychosis into a surrealistic, super-spatial/-sensory, synaesthetic soliloquy of solipsistic, symbolism-questioning semantics. Not to mention the two smiley-face tabs gradually decomposing under my tongue, sabotaging any semblance of sanity I could cling to in this sinking ship of a ‘soul’ I’m captaining. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to go gravely awry. Of course, that could just be paranoia, which is entirely understandable given the concentration of illegal, alien alkaloids coursing through my nervous system.

“I think I see him. It’s go time, bud.”

Nod in agreement. If I open my mouth it might spew puke.

“Rippers after this?”

I grant another silent inclination of my mind (or, at least, my head). He knows I get anxious before these meetings. An unspoken bond exists between us. I turn off my personal phone, and my business phone. Then I check another phone: I only use it once a week, but no messages. That’s a relief; this guy’s impatient, despite the fact he’s always late.

“It’s gonna be fun bro, amateur night.”


We pull back through the parking lot and drive to a spot equidistant between the two functioning lamps. The only luminescent beams I perceive though are coming from phosphene dreams illuminating the illustrations on the insides of my eyelids. He’s waiting for us. We pop the trunk in anticipation before getting out and walking the ten paces to a little, rusted out, two-door, four-seat, shitbox sedan. I recognize the little guy in the passenger seat, but not the big, pockmarked guy driving. No matter, it’s the little guy I care about. The window rolls down. It’s not even electric.

“Yo, sup. Your shit’s in the trunk. On the left.”

My partner, ‘Chud’ (so named for several reasons), passes him a computer case jammed with forty-six thousand, nine hundred and fifty dollars denoted in multi-coloured pieces of plasticky paper, and I pick up one of the hockey bags from the trunk-careful not to slam the door down when closing it. He cares about that, for some reason. Chud and I nod at each other, near imperceptibly, and then at him. Following this practiced, ersatz kowtow, I drop the bag in our trunk and slide back in the car to my seat. Driver/Goon turns the key in his ignition, dims the headlights, and they leave first. We follow after two minutes. We do this every Tuesday and know the routine by now.

Getting back to Chud’s place feels like navigating the Mekong Delta, circa 1967; just with more acid, less rape, and the fact that we voluntarily do this-oh, and it’s cold. Expecting Charlie to pop out of every manhole, I envision my impending demise in an epic firefight; or worse, being taken prisoner. But I won’t let them get me. I’ll go down swinging that straight razor for all I’m worth. I’ll take a few of those mustachioed bastard-fucks with me.

Call it ‘being in the zone’-athletes pull off heroically inhuman acts of strength and skill; we drive a few blocks without looking suspicious.

My reverie is unceremoniously interrupted through a combination of rapidly subsiding effects of cocaine, and parking abruptly. We tread like fairytale mice at Christmas up the four flights of stairs, past the other apartments, and into Chud’s room.

My head feels strange: empty. That can’t be right. My head has shit in it, I know that much for sure. It’s just that I’ve realized not a word has passed between us since the encounter, which lasted all of a minute, if that. I fleetingly wax metaphysical. I wonder if actually exist; is there a Me aside from in my interactions with others? What language would I think in if I’d never learned one? Am I just a confluence of external stimuli processed through a biological, Von Neumann or PDP based, binary-logic assembly machine composed of neural switches? I don’t think there’s any sort of over-arching meta-Self that I could actually identify with. I have as many different selves as I know people, one for each of them… Wait, what the fuck am I talking about? Am I speaking to myself? Is this out loud? Can he hear me? No. I don’t think so… Am I willing I into being-self-awareness?-in the absence of interactions with another algorithm analysis program?

Click. The door shuts behind us and I toss the bag on the couch, collapsing beside it like a psychotropic body pillow. Chud turns on the vape while he packs a bowl. We’re always careful to exhale through dryer sheets stuffed into an empty toilet-paper roll: it turns the telltale aroma of weed into a perfumed plume, indistinguishable from potpourri to your average ganja-ignoramus. Vapourizers don’t smell as much as bongs but we still don’t take any risks, in this respect. He takes a few hauls, though it’s not really cooking yet. Instead, we open up the bag and begin splitting the contents while we wait. It’ll take a few hours to weigh everything; first to make sure we didn’t get shorted on the order, then to divide it equally.

Inside, we find our leather bound book full of LSD (codenamed ‘liquid soluble divinity’), with an otherworldly, hypnotically designed cartoon character’s face on each sheet; a ki of decent cocaine (purportedly Peruvian, but who knows); ten vacuum-sealed pounds of pot (five each of indica and sativa strains of varying qualities-there’s something here for everyone); a brick of MDMA, straight from the chemistry team; five pounds of BC gold caps; an ounce of K; a gram of DMT (or ‘dreams made tangible’), for personal purposes; and fifty capsules of 2-Ci.

It’s not the same every week. We do inventory checks on Saturday nights and place the order before we hit the bars. The runners can’t always move everything we’ve got on hand. It’s simple supply and demand really. This is an average sized delivery.

It’s all there; I can finally exhale the stubborn, bottom bit of breath I’ve been holding in for the last few hours. I hate the idea of having to call that guy to tell him he’s short. He always bitches about it and blames someone else. Bullshit, he’s the CEO; he should accept responsibility for his lackeys the same way we do.

Chud lovingly places his share in one of his safes. We go back to my place and I do the same before we can head out for a night on the town. It’s eleven pm.


We get frisked at the door to the club and the security guard finds the jack-knife in my pocket, but lets it pass. He knows who I am. Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s got a nasty habit of his own and he owes someone a few grand… He ushers us in and I choose not to remind him. That’s my runner’s problem for giving credit to a fucking junky.

Taking our seats right up in front of the stage, I place an order for tequila with beer chasers. I recognize the girl on stage: she works at the local Wal-Mart. She looks better with clothes on. By the scar on her abdomen I’d say she has a kid, either that or she was a cutter once upon a time. The fuck do I care? As long as she keeps shaking her bleached rosebud in my face, I’m happy. When we pay for our drinks, I note the waitress’s eyes. I forgot about the state of my wallet-it looks like it has thyroid problems. She’s got a bad poker face. A bad face in general, really, which could be why she’s slinging sauce instead of slurping it. Maybe she just has dignity-or, more likely (given that she’s still, ultimately, working here), hubris. Fuck knows where she got that. She scuttles off to the professionals working the crowd and next thing I know I’m talking to some Russian, Twiggy-look-alike about prices for a dance. She’s as fresh off the boat as a barnacle and I’m not sure if she’s using her strong accent as a ploy to help her haggle, or if she legitimately just can’t hold a conversation. Either way, she reminds me of my ex and she’s wearing lingerie; I’m four shots and two beers in-so, she has the upper hand.

She gives up trying to sell me on it, grabs my hand, puts it on her tit, and I find myself following her to the backroom. I glance over to where Chud’s winking at me like an epileptic staring at a coronal eclipse, a grin on his lips that would petrify Medusa. This man has evil thoughts-but I love him, for lack of a better word. It’s not everyone that I can be myself with. As my father always told me, “Good friends help you move, great friends help you move bodies.” This guy would not only help me move them, he’d make them. He grants wishes like a demented Kuklinski/Genie hybrid. And he does it out of love-again, for lack of a better word.

In the private lounge the Russian skeleton sits me down on a pleather couch. I hope they Lysol this shit. She drapes a bandana over my crotch, and then starts rubbing that general region with her entire body; writhing like she’s in pain, which she probably is; but, as long as it’s not from anything visible, I’m not gonna call an ambulance. Deciding to test my luck, I slip my hand between her legs…

“No touchy, mister.”

-Sure thing.

The speakers are blasting some top-forty, ventriloquist dummy, make-believe rapper who rhymes poorly about drugs, guns, and hoes. Hey, at least he’s making a living off the kids that actually believe him and buy this shit. Power to him, I say. I can’t exactly talk.

The dance ends and the girl asks if I want another one. Tough call: variety is the spice of life; but this is the best-looking broad I’ve seen in a week. I agree to one more dance and make a face like I’m doing her a favour. She wants to settle up on the last one before she starts. I get it. There are tricks to every trade, especially tricking. I nonchalantly flash the wad in my wallet as I whip out a twenty for her. It curls a little into a tube, like muscle memory. The next song starts and she’s made a quantum leap, suddenly pulling out all the stops.

She must want a third dance; I’m not sure if I do yet. I decide to test my luck again, now that I’m the one with the upper hand; it comes easy to a dealer. I start my fingertips behind her kneecap and work my way up. She doesn’t object this time. A fat clit and a loose cunt: not surprising really. Nobody’s perfect; at least she’s smooth, though I suppose that’s a job requirement. I slip my thumb in her asshole like I’m hitching a ride to horn-dog heaven and she takes this as a cue to whip off the bandana. I hear a zipping sound through the bass speakers.

Svetlana (as I’ve now decided to call her, that being one of the few Russian names I know) waits until I flop out and harden up enough to fill her hand with lackluster libido-as firm as whatever flimsy ideology she follows on her days off-then she starts the bargaining again, all the while languorously working me like she’s making bread from scratch. I’m not precisely a Herculean Pillar of wonder with women after excessive narcotic abuse, especially since I can tell she’s enjoying this as much as stewing borscht. Her technique needs improvement but she’s playing the Bambi-eyes card like only an anorexic Russian can. I’m almost tempted to quote Master Splinter at her: “Young woman, we have something most important to discuss.” Then, “Practice harder!” I sagely decide not to imperil my cock. I do still wanna cum after all. Fuck, she’s persistent… What do I say? No? I’m not weak willed but I’m still a heterosexual man with liquor in his system.

“One hundred! Plus dance.”

-Only if you get the job done before the end of the next song. Deal?

“Sound like challenge.”

I guess her accent is kind of cute-and I’m fascinated by her resemblance to a kid I saw on a charity infomercial a few days ago. I hope I heard the price right. Oh well, I’m not paying her till afterwards anyway-she probably won’t even be up to the task in hand-and who’s she going to complain to? The bouncer that let me in? Ha! That guy can’t even look me in the eye, let alone throw me out.

Fuck. She’s really good at this. Where’d this come from? Who cares? Fuck it. Fuck-it. Fuckit. This is far, far better than I was expec-uhh, uh, uhhh…

My sahasrara swells and convulses in a nebulaic seizure of infinite ecstasy. Everything everywhere is white light that only I can see and smell and touch and taste and hear and SHIT SHIT SHIT: visible in a sense, but less than invisible to the senses.

She doesn’t miss a beat, or even bat a Bambi eyelid, swallowing everything like it was Maxwell House. Holy Fuck, this bitch just siphoned the last shred of sobriety out of me. She deserves more than a tip.

I get up, pay her through my post-orgasmic haze, and she leads me back to my seat before hitting up the next sucker. I manage to glimpse Chud heading to a different backroom from the one I just left with a tall, curvy girl wearing absurd stilettos and a Mrs.Mia Wallace wig. She stumbles a few times. He doesn’t bother to help her up. He’s cackling away instead and grabbing her ass. He must’ve had a few more shots during my dances’ absence. Usually, he’s a bit shy with women.

I’ve had people ask me how I live with myself. What kind of question is that? What else am I supposed to do with my ‘self’? Not live? Not experience all that I can possibly experience? I don’t see the point in living if all you’re looking at is the shadows on the wall. In fact, I tend to answer these people’s questions with my own: what can you do? What changes can you effect when nothing you ever see needs changing? What do you do? Not that I’m out to save the world myself, or anything else as uppity-persnickety-as that. Shit, I just paid some underage stripper a hundred bucks to rent her digestive system. But at least I’m comfortable with myself, and my place in the world I’m in. See, my partner and I, we’re not bad people. We just do ‘bad’ things particularly well. Whatever the fuck ‘bad’ means in the first place. Nietzsche would be dying of maniacal laughter right now, if he hadn’t already.

I revert my attentions to the new girl on stage. Amateur night has its ups and downs… This is a down moment. I order more drinks. She’s eyeing me but she’s still wearing pants so I’m not about to get up there with her and make a donation. I just came anyway. I like to choose my moments wisely, and my charities. The song ends and she morosely steps down. Nobody tipped her. Can’t blame ’em.

Really starting to feel the booze now. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom where I bust out a line on the lid of the toilet, making sure to lock the door first. Even in a seedy environment like this, the management doesn’t exactly approve of you doing blow in the open. I crush the rocks, chop it into a fine powder with playing cards (a jack and an ace-I don’t really know why), roll up a hundred-dollar bill-because I like feeling like a big man-and I relish in the sting as it hits my sinuses: it’s good. Good coke always smells like romaine lettuce to me… Then again, maybe I’m just fucked up. By the time I’m back at my seat I can’t feel my front teeth and I’m clenching my jaw. This is really, really good-much better stuff than last time.

Even though I just sat down, the next amateur is far from inspiring-so I decide to go for a stroll. I pass the bouncer on the way out and try to make eye contact. He used to buy off the owner of the club, like one of the girls; but then his intake surpassed his income. In order to keep his job-and likely other, more vital titles (like ‘mister’)-he started digging a debt with my boy. I don’t like his chances for once he hits bedrock-bottom. He studies his discount black leather shoes and pretends to pick something off his tie, which is immaculate already. I open the door with a self-satisfied flourish and beeline for the circle of professional girls who are also indulging their relatively benign addictions. I pretend not to have a lighter in order to spark up conversation. They pass me a strike-anywhere, but are uninterested in what I have to say, and unwilling to entertain my feigned interest in their formulaic, lackadaisical lives. So I go and lean against the wall, spitting occasionally, and making a game of trying to start a puddle. The door opens and the girls go in without a sideward glance. Yeah, fuck you too: you syphilitic, sycophantic, subhuman sluts. The door opens again and Chud comes out.

“You good?”

-Yeah. Good to drive?

“Won’t kill anyone.”

We hop in the car and pump some Ludwig Van out of the radio, as much to fuck with people’s minds at two in the morning as because it’s a beautiful sonata. I’m lulled, despite the volume, to the lethargic, purgatorial cusp of sleep… Then something shocks me out of my stupor-somehow, I have the momentary impression that my pants are full of bees. Gradually, reason reaches my unsettled psyche and I realize it’s just my phone. Customers; it’s a small chop, but a chop nonetheless. And we pass by this house on the way home anyhow.

-Dude, um…uh… Right! Hey, can we make a quick stop?

“Cool. Who?”

-Fucking wasps, man. Fuckin’ wasps…

“Huh? You fryin’ or somethin’?”

-Like chicken, bro… Special, secret blend. Herbs. Spices. Shh…


The room oozes bad karma and worse habits – I’m drawn to it like a fawn to the salt stains of the highway before being smote by hallucinogen addled teenagers on an intergalactic voyage at warp speed inside of a fetus coloured Pontiac Sunfire.

I push the door open to be met by shit-faced grins, gawking at me through the topsy-turvy, swirling, curling, opalescent eddies of cyanic, sterling silver-pearl smoke. Tangy traces of tequila tickle my nostrils, mixed with the citrus elements of a sativa dominant strain of cannabis… This is the smell dreams are made of.

Assuming a position on the couch between a dread-locked trust-fund artist and a pro-bono nude model watching pornography blooper videos, I rummage in my pocket for a second before extricating a baggie full of little baggies full of these people’s main nutrient source: drugs. Fuckloads of drugs.

To tell the truth, these people sicken me. These little encounters give me the heeby-jeebies. They represent everything I stand against; they are everything I oppose-like a mirror image inverted. These sheep in wolves’ clothing though are my bread and butter. Pseudo-intellectual sorts that discuss the comparative merits of Kierkegaard and de Beauvoir while puffing on hookahs and sipping Chimay, in between bouts of snorting cocaine cut with baby laxatives. I bet they’ve never even heard of Levinas.

-That’ll be $250.

Dreadlocks passes me two hundred-dollar bills and a fifty. The thought of this kid in patched jeans and a threadbare sweater owning a bank account seems odd, until I remember what he told me last time I was here:

“Yeah, my dad’s one of the top criminal defence lawyers in Toronto.”


I relish the idea of Dreadlocks, Pro-bono, and the rest of them shoving expensive baby laxatives up their noses. I complete the transaction and ready myself to leave.

-Enjoy your shit.


Finally home, I try to pass out for about half an hour but the coke’s still got me buzzing, so I go back downstairs and turn on the TV. There’s nothing good on; not surprising at this hour. I go to my safe, open it up, and grab a sheet of acid. I carefully cut out five tabs and pop them under my tongue, letting nostalgia overwhelm me as I reminisce with myself, led by the bitter, metallic taste of this liquid soluble divinity. I go back to the TV and pop in a DVD:

Apocalypse Now.


World Gone Postal



We got a note on our door today saying that we won’t be able to get our mail delivered for awhile… Apparently, one of the trees down the street has a wasp nest in it. This worried the post office so much that they’ve stopped delivery to the seven houses at the end of the cul-de-sac after the ‘infested zone’ (aka, a tree–natural domain of the mighty wasp). We managed to catch the mailman and asked him about the issue: as he explained his stance, there began a whisper–a buzz, if you will. It grew louder, his face reflecting the rise and fall of the breeze as it carried the busy sounds of drones to our conversation. 

Sweat-beads burst forth from his brow–seemingly as porous as a porpoise’s–while I watched with delicious anticipation: “Keep your cool, Postie. These workers’ barbs sting.”

No. Natural instinct, it seems, is lost upon the noble mailman. “Well, I’m sorry but this just really isn’t a safe work environment. I could’ve been seriously hurt if I was allergic to wasps! I’m afraid you’ll have to take this up with the city if you want to keep receiving your mail.”

Like a solitary oboe note that Mozart wrote as the prelude to an aneurysm, a muffled chuckle signalled to our protagonist the presence of an audience–yes, indeed, our exchange was being watched.

At first, perhaps embarrassed for us, their entertainment, they giggled to their gloves. Eventually, though, a raucous revelry in hilarious, absurd abandon prevailed:

“Fuck right off!”

Retreating from this street of horrors, the little man in blue shorts, neon sunglasses, a silly hat, and a stack of undelivered mail looks up. He sees past the leaves, past the wasp nest, past the wasps, past the blisters, cuts, and bruises, past the missing fingers, past the wasp stings, exhaustion, and determination born of necessity, and, finally, he even sees past the disgust in the thin gaze of the arborist (with eyes crinkled against the intense sun) and he sees that which he has been seeking all of his life: pity.

Hopefully, there will be mail tomorrow.


Connected in disconnection.

Connected in disconnection. 

~2014/10/13: Posted by ANOTHERLIFE in General, Love, Journal–2:27pm

I love this girl

I love her. I love her. I love her…

I fell into it—like a daydream, or a fever: like a life, or a life drawn to the light…

I love everything about her. I can’t even remember existence before her. I don’t want to. I don’t want to imagine it. I never used to understand how old married couples always seem to die within months of each other. I studied a bit of biology in university so I couldn’t reconcile the reality of those stories with reason. But love—true love—I now know that has no reason; it’s a force, beholden to no higher power than itself. Love is beyond the trivial capacity of human reasoning to understand.

It’s like, you know how geniuses are always described as ‘eccentric’, and a lot of them are thought of as insane in their own lifetimes? It’s not that they’re crazy—they just think beyond the bounds of convention, of which normal people can’t even fathom, let alone cross. And (bear with me here), if God is omnipotent and omniscient, then how mad must Its ways seem to mere mortals? Well, this woman—my girl—she’s divine. And the love that she conjures in me is absolutely psychotic.

There’s no logic in the frantic, frenetic, furious frenzy of it: the passion, the overwhelming intensity of longing when she’s gone, the insane jubilation when she returns…even the willfully assumed pain that I glory in—a masochistic token of our unified soul’s harmony. It’s not just that I feel sympathy when I can tell she’s down; I feel empathy. I don’t even have to know what the source of her sadness is—it doesn’t matter where you start; what matters is where you end up, and how you get there. I can feel everything she feels, because we’re headed to the same place and we’re getting there the same way—together, as one.


                                                                Leave a comment…

• October 13th, 2014 at 3:45pm, golgothan said:
lol QWEER. how can u b so disparate about sum bich?!? post a pic of her shes so hot. ill fuk her if ur 2 puss 2 lolol

• October 13th, 2014 at 8:03pm, rafe said:
Yea, seek not the fool for the fool will present himself in due course. Haha, golgothan, you wouldn’t need a picture of his girlfriend if you could articulate (or have) original thoughts. Maybe then your dating profile wouldn’t be a barren cyber-wasteland. On the other hand, anotherlife, it’s cool that you’re in love and everything…just don’t go crazy over it. Congratulations and all; but, never think that anyone’s perfect.

• October 14th, 2014 at 1:22am, psyche said:
Hey anotherlife, she sounds like quite a girl!! And I love the way you write. I feel like I’m right there with you… I wish I were as lucky as you in that respect…*sigh* Also, golgothan, I hope you have a box of tissues handy for your nightly emissions of loneliness…aka tears. Lmao!

• October 14th, 2014 at 10:58am, anotherlife said:
Ahahaha. Wow, harsh… Well done though. And thank you. I’m sure you’ll find someone. The world has a way of working out, if you work with it    =)

• October 14th, 2014 at 11:21am, psyche said:
😉 Well put, sir.


~2014/10/15: Posted by ANOTHERLIFE in General, Love, Journal–1:55pm

Lessons in love language

I love her in every way it’s possible to love someone. A while ago, I read the Ancient Greek’s definitions of the types of love. And they’re all there…

Philia: She’s my best friend. I really believe that I could talk to her forever and never be bored (even if we weren’t together!) She doesn’t have to speak; just seeing her brings me comfort. She likes the same books that I do; she likes the same movies; she even shares my taste in breakfast cereal! This is crazy!

Storge: I saw her for the first time not even a month ago but I feel like she’s been there my whole life. I’ve always loved her. I just didn’t know she existed… The past few weeks have been amazing! I don’t even get irritated when she stays up late with the music on, or when her alarm wakes me up in the morning…they’re all just reminders that she’s here—that she’s not just a dream. Sometimes, I don’t even think of her as the opposite sex—as in, just another person I could satisfy my bodily and psychological needs with—I think of her as someone I can be a child with (sorry if that’s strange). The twin I never had. Someone to share innocent joys with: someone to grow up with, that I’ll always share more than just a past with.

Eros: She is my muse and my entire mind. She owns me. I want her to use me as she sees fit, to whatever ends she needs met.

Agape: She is my own, personal God. She permeates everything in this little world of mine and infuses it all with ineffable beauty: beyond just physical beauty, or the beauty of knowing something is true and good and right; she is beauty without borders. Infinite. I would do anything for her, even if I could only ever love her from afar in order to preserve her happiness. I know she deserves better than me. What she deserves is impossible though; only once could the universe, or even a multiverse of eternal recurrence, create something so miraculously perfect—she’s the only being that deserves to be with her. She’s too good for the base qualities and desires of anyone else. But, somehow, she’s here—in my life. I simply can’t express how much I love her. I just love her. That’s it.

Thanks for reading! Sorry if I’m kind of gushing…


                                                                Leave a comment…

• October 15th, 2014 at 2:24pm, psyche said:
Don’t apologize at all! That was sooo sweet! If people don’t want to be reading about this, they don’t have to. I do want to read about this, so keep writing =) Even if I become your only follower, lol.

• October 15th, 2014 at 2:26pm, rafe said:
Those are some pretty intense feelings to have for anyone, let alone a girl you’ve only known for a month. Be careful. Don’t let your heart beat louder than your head speaks.


~2014/10/15: Posted by ANOTHERLIFE in General, Love, Journal, Poetry–2:23pm

Because I’m a cheeseball

So, right after I wrote that last post, I went out on my balcony to savour the waning summer. The weather’s glorious today; the sun is incredibly fierce (even through the quickly chilling breeze) and its brilliance conquers and consumes the sky. Even the windows of my complex are too bright to look at directly.

I was a bit dazed, and shading my eyes, when a thin, cream-coloured veil of clouds drifted with predestined determination, perfectly into place. I didn’t have to shift my focus at all: one second my vision was full of reflected sunlight from the sliding door, the next it was full of something far more powerful, more vital to life, and absolutely all encompassing. The sun may sear spots in your sight if you stare but my girl will be branded into your very being with one instantaneous flare. And I can’t turn my gaze elsewhere.

She was asleep, the sheets pleated by a Godsend of happenstance to caress and cascade across her body, like the life-giving swells of the sea. Watching her eyelids flicker open and blink, slowly, like they were breathing the beauty of this transcendent, immediate moment; that was exhilarating. There was a thick, warm glow all around her, sweet to my sight—she’s like a queen bee, bathed in honey that could quench a King Midas hunger. I’m enamoured by her every gesture. Even the way her laugh lines crinkle as she rolls out of bed and checks her phone is worthy only of description as Art. I wish I could paint, purely to paint her. But if I tried it’d probably end up looking more like golgothan than Gaia… (HA!) All I’ve really got to work with are words, so I’ll try to paint a portrait of this precise point in time with those (and sorry if it’s not amazing—I just needed to do this: no person, living or lost, could possibly do justice in capturing Paradise).



Fluid as stained

glass         flakes

                feeding a flame—

        a dreamer awakes

        as art flees 

        from its frame; 


        a painter awaits

        as a dream 

                plays its games;


        though the painter, with patience, renders 



        tamed. He is bold as he moulds her,

                                        she is told to behave;

                                        but she lets him control her,

                                        in servitude craved.


Who is slave, and who master? Are both masterless slaves?


        He bleeds with each brushstroke,

        yet engraves her 

with his name—


but this peace, this is priceless, this is not sold:                         it is saved.




                        Behold, She is wholly

                otherworldly                       and lonely, a halo

                                                                held closely,

                                                        the sheen of which shows me


                                                        there is in-

                                            deed Heaven

                                           in life                if you look:


                                                                it is living itself,

                                                                                it knows time

                                                                                                is afoot.



                                                        Leave a comment…

• October 15th, 2014 at 2:31pm, rafe said:
Hey man, nice work. Does it have a title? I don’t really get all of the spacing choices but I’m guessing this is a first draft? Some of the rhythm seems a bit off… Awesome building blocks though!

• October 15th, 2014 at 2:34pm, anotherlife said:
Thanks. Yeah, it’s definitely not what I’d call ‘done’, or even ready to be abandoned yet. I want to make it absolutely perfect before I muster the courage to show it to her. This would be embarrassing in its current state. =p

• October 15th, 2014 at 2:31pm, psyche said:
Whoa. That was gorgeous… I’m speechless. Amazing =D

• October 15th, 2014 at 2:36pm, anotherlife said:
Thanks again! I’m glad someone liked it. I don’t know if it’ll ever reach its intended audience though…

• October 17th, 2014 at 9:49pm, psyche said:
Well, even if it doesn’t, it made me incredibly happy—and sad, but in a happy kind of way, if that makes sense… Thank you =) PS. Hope you’re alright!!

∫ 2014/10/15: PSYCHE sent a message to ANOTHERLIFE–2:42pm

Hiya =)

Hey!! Sorry if this is kind of weird but I wanted to tell you that I am really LOVING reading your blog. You seem like a really cool person and, well, I just felt like I should say ‘hi’ and let you know that you’re appreciated. Soooo…hi!! Lol =P

~2014/10/21: Posted by ANOTHERLIFE in General, Love, Journal–4:58am

No rest for the wicked

Sorry I haven’t posted anything in a while. I haven’t seen much of my girl lately, and she is my muse. I don’t feel like I can write without her to inspire me. Whenever she’s been home in the last few days, she has people over—but she still seems morose and distant; or, if she’s alone, she just goes straight to bed. I’m kind of worried about her but I don’t know what to do…help?


                                                                Leave a comment…

• October 21st, 2014 at 5:12am, psyche said:
I’m sorry to hear that =( Maybe she needs space? Have you talked to her about it? I’d like to help if I can!!! =)


∫ 2014/10/21: ANOTHERLIFE sent a message to PSYCHE–5:25am

Re: Hiya =)

Hey psyche, I apologize for taking so long to get back to you. Thanks for liking my stuff…I just don’t really feel like writing much right now though. And I haven’t spoken to her about it; I can’t bring myself to. I don’t have anyone that I can speak to about this either. Nobody knows her. Nobody knows me. Thanks for offering help but I don’t know what you could do. Sorry again…


∫ 2014/10/21: PSYCHE sent a message to ANOTHERLIFE–5:28am

Re: Hiya =)

No worries about the delay! I completely understand!! And I’m really, really sorry that you don’t feel like writing…I adore your posts, they make me believe in love… Seriously, if there’s anything I can do to help? You could talk to me maybe? I know how it is to feel alone…I moved to the city recently and don’t really have anyone. I could talk to her?? What’s her email? Feel better!! =)


~2014/10/31: Posted by ANOTHERLIFE in General, Love, Journal–3:46am

The end…

I came home a bit early from work tonight, just in time to regret it. I was in the courtyard and I looked up to see if she still had the lights on. She was on the balcony having a cigarette, the smoke from her lips mixing with vapour from her lungs as it hit the ghostly-cold air around us, diffusing into the vacuum of the dry, dying night. The moon hung on her head like a crown, its sterling ray threads seeping down through her gown, around shoulders and hips, creating a silhouette of a spirit I would dare not wish to kiss—for fear she would, like the smoke, simply merge with the mist and be gone… She was so terrifyingly beautiful.

Then I saw a shadow behind her. The heart she’d stolen from me ceased beating, frozen in light of that phantom betrayed by moonbeam.

I couldn’t go upstairs. I waited in the courtyard for an hour before I saw him come out the door. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to torture him. I wanted him to know who I was. I wanted him to watch my eyes as I watched his try to stretch out the last horror filled moment of his miserable fucking life. I wanted to use him as practice.

But I couldn’t…

I’m sitting outside the lobby now. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I will do. I have to do something. I wish that had been me on the balcony with her, holding her. She’s so small. I could lift her effortlessly. We could spend eternity together, entwined in an embrace with no borders…

We would land right where I’m sitting.


                                                                Leave a comment…

• October 31st, 2014 at 4:08am, psyche said:
HEY! Please, please email me before you do anything. Is she there with you now?? Please tell me you haven’t done anything…

• October 31st, 2014 at 4:23am, psyche said:
Why aren’t you answering my emails?? Come on! Talk to me, please!! This is really important!!!!!

• November 5th, 2014 at 5:42pm, rafe said:
Dude. I hope you’re ok… That can be pretty rough, I know. Move on though, man. Plenty of fish to fry out there. She’s not worth the worry. Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t beat her up either… I’m looking forward to reading some more stuff soon! Cheer up!

∫ 2014/10/31: PSYCHE sent a message to ANOTHERLIFE–4:11am

Re: Hey =)

Hey, I know this is weird and awkward and fucked up and everything…I have no right to be interfering in your life…but PLEASE don’t do anything you’ll regret. You’re a great guy!! There are plenty of girls out there who would love someone like you. Don’t do something stupid just because of an immature girl who doesn’t know what she’s got right in front of her!!! Here, this is my number, text me as soon as you get this… 121-5225 I’m Chris…


∫ 2014/10/31: PSYCHE sent a message to ANOTHERLIFE–4:19am

Re: Hey =)

I need to know that you’re not going to do anything. I can help you!! Please just talk to me…


§ 4:22am MSG RECEIVED: 913-4514

Chris, it’s anotherlife, thanks for caring but I really don’t want to talk. I’m going to do this. Please don’t try to dissuade me. She’s already done the worst she could to me, and now it’s my turn.

§ 4:23am MSG RECEIVED: 121-5225

You’re actually doing this? Are you fucking insane?!? Is she there with you? Just leave. Go for a walk. Clear your head!!

§ 4:25am MSG RECEIVED: 121-5225

Hello?!?! Where are you? What are you doing??

§ 4:26am MSG RECEIVED: 913-4514

I have to. There’s a thin line between love and hate, like life and death, or Heaven and Hell. They’re different ends of a current, or just two sides of a magnet. You can’t have one without the other. They’re the same thing…it’s all just a matter of perspective. I’m going to make her see from a new angle.

§ 4:26am MSG RECEIVED: 913-4514

She was my muse, she moved my heart and my hands to create—but creation is a kind of destruction. She just inspired a new act of creation: my last and most lasting. Now she’s more than a muse…she’s my canvas.

§ 4:26am MSG RECEIVED: 121-5225

Where are you? I can come see you. I need to see you. I need to be with you and keep you safe: from her and yourself. It doesn’t have to end like this!!!! You can change your mind. I can change your mind…

§ 4:29am MSG RECEIVED: 913-4514

It’s too late. There’s no stopping fate. I’m going to do this. I’m so sorry but there’s no other option… It’ll be over soon—everything. She’s still awake. I feel so alive in this manic nightmare. I need to share it with her. I need her to experience this moment with me, this orgasm of comedic tragedy. Our lives will become our life, for one final forever.

§ 4:29am MSG RECEIVED: 121-5225

Wait!!!!! Please, God, wait!!! Tell me where I can find you. I’m coming right now!!!! Hold on, please.

§ 4:30am MSG RECEIVED: 913-4514

I’m sorry. I can’t. I can hear her through her door… It’s our time. Goodbye, Chris.

Match This, Mirror!



I watch myself a lot. I mean, in the mirror—and videos, yeah…yeah, videos. And, like, I listen to my own music. Is that vain? No. No, I don’t think so… Also, I read my written shit: over and over and over and—I try to perfect it, that’s all. That’s what I’m trying to do. I want to make it perfect! You see, I’m just trying to relate to reality. I’m coming at things sideways all the time…. I want a perpendicular inversion. I want belonging. And I want belonging to want me. I study myself like a subject I could connect with because the teacher was cool. I seek out patterns, like how many steps ahead of the rest equates to acing the next big test, or how much time at a desk makes me a teacher’s pet? I’d grow myself a fucking apple orchard if I thought my approval could be bought with sweet taste and tough texture; and I’d stew a sea of cider if they turned out sour—but I’m not a generous drunk. When I spin my perspective like a lucky penny flipped to make a quick, split-second, permanent decision, I just criticize myself creatively. So it’s back to beating my ‘self’ into being the Me in some abstract, paranoid-paralysis, parallax-refracted, machine-minded, mask of sanity.

But, you know…it’s all for the love of poetry: my rosary bead on a never-ending rotary-phone-repeat trying to place a call to the sanatorium orderly. A deformity. A malady my ancestry and aggressive assault of tactical-psychonautic artillery has encoded me with… And I live with it because I love my masochistic-mystic side: it mystifies me with its solipsist’s, sadistic, evil eye.

Now, I’m pretty notorious for never going out without a notebook and a back-up pen in my pocket. I sit in stereotypical settings, like Starbucks or subway seats, and beat out little, chicken-scratch scribbles on sheets of sterile sketch-paper (because I like the thickness and the way it soaks up calligraphy ink). People often ask me about the sorts of stuff I write: Is it fiction? A play-script? Is it a song? Is it funny, or sad? Have you been doing this long? Just a journal for you? Or, is it meant to be read? I hope it’s not poetry…’cause, you know, everything you can think has been said and poetry’s dead. I tend to stumble a bit at this point, gather my wits about me, maybe breathe deeply once or twice–just so I can respond coherently—then proceed with the most vehemently ferocious frenzy of subliminally-offensive, intellectual-archery ever to grace the cob-wed laced caverns of these insipid, sub-simian, tiny-tyrannosaur-trivium craniums.

You may hear a poem; but do you feel it?

You might let this language leak with listless laziness along your cerebellum’s symbolic hot spots, seeking solely sexual stimuli in the sound of it; but do you feel the contours of a letter? Does it tickle your timid, typically off limit, nether-regions like a feather painting pleasure-purpose-private-parts and neural-paths with pain inducing chili peppers? Get you whether it’s in leather or wearing silk and making soothing, moving, pre-human, pelvic-grooving gestures? Let the phonetics stick themselves, for better or worse, within your sacred centre and vibrate there forever like sub-atomic strings charged by the power of, “In the beginning was the Word,”?

I usually lose them somewhere soon after the second sentence—but that’s the sickness involved in this psychotically-obsessive, solitary, second-sentence: I MUST NOT FAIL! I MUST NOT FAIL! I MUST NOT FAIL! I MUST NOT FAIL! I MUST NOT FAIL! I—