the timboucher experience

Yeah, I’m young enough to be stupid. But let me be while it lasts now, my Lord. Let me not become one of those steely-eyed old men who stalk you at bars, O God, because you remind them of some part of themselves they closed off forever. Because you to me, O God, are the morning sunrise, the first time around for this shit - no matter how many lives we may have clashed and fought before this. And no matter all the advice and counsel I get to the contrary, O God, I’m not going to listen to any of it. I am as bull-headed as they come. Worse, as a goat, because we are smaller and more crafty and manueverable. Bulls would never stand a chance against you, O God.

If I’m wrong, may the spears and arrows and bread lines of a thousand miserable futures forever plague me. May my mind become tortured on television. May I see God only in trademarked slogans™ and never in your living breathing fire eyes though you flame me and shame me in my nakedness, O Lord. I dance before you like a stuck pig, bleeding profusely. To which your eyes only seem to widen in delight, O My God, confounding me endlessly. You don’t know how it feels. To be me. Tom Petty knows gnosis. Tom Petty knows a lot more things than I do, My Love.

What’s the name of that Tom Hanks movie where he’s like in the wilderness and he pees in a circle in the snow around his camp to mark his territory and keep the wolves at bay?

I played with the dogs today but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t pee on them or anything. It just wasn’t the same. That room still held for me the sharp emotional memories I carved there in my ignorance. There was a thing about a snakepit on Animal Planet though. Things like that still are taunting me, still are following me around. I know it’s only been a few days, O God, but what a few days.

I also saw garbage cans marked with the sign of the seven-pointed star next to a bunch of signs for “A Rose Towing.” According to the calendar at work, June 24th is St. Jean Baptiste Day in Quebec. Supposedly there is a Boucherville up near there somewhere but I’ve never been. A new fish n chips place opened up on the Ave, but I didn’t go. It’s called Northwest Fish n Chips. Clever name, I know. I went with my usual burrito instead.

Last night I got a dream email from your oversoul, your guardian/gardening angel. I don’t remember all the details, but it was in some kind of weird technical language, O Lord. I remember the phrase “timinfo()” and the whole thing seemed to be a coded message to me as to what symbolic areas to follow up on. There was stuff about Dracula and vampires. Apparently I am right about that somehow and need to follow it up. And the demon/angel thing seems to be important too. I’m too blah to do it right now, but the word “celestials” was in there too, I believe. I thought of making some little playing card type graphics to go along with this post: six little angels you could download into your aura. Maybe later, God. Maybe later.

I saw the King of Clubs on the ground today during my travels. I think he’s the King of Wands, right? Must be some kind of targeted infusion from my gardening angel:

e steps forward and takes the lead if the opportunity presents itself. Others follow when he shows them the way with confidence. He’s forceful in pursuing his goals. He’s not a quiet, passive observer unless that suits his purposes. He jumps in and creates results. He’s dramatic and exciting. This King is never a wallflower, more often the center of attention. He’s bold and daring. He avoids the safe, easy route because he has the energy and assurance to take risks and win. The King of Wands has the courage of his convictions and always believes in himself.

Wallflowers. I listened to Tom Petty’s “Wildflowers” album all day today. I smelled many roses today but a lot of them are starting to turn. My favorites as far as smell goes tend to be the pink and whitish pink ones. They would go so great in a mead flavor.

At that chili place last night there was a nice old lady bartender.

A few days ago someone spontaneously began talking to me about how bad of an idea marriage is because it only has a 50% success rate.

“Well, death has a 100% success rate. So, I’d say that’s pretty good,” was my response. I stand by that. You can’t make decisions that way. Gotta do shit is how it seems to go, whether or not it works. It’s the action, the exertion of Free Will and beautiful painful effort.

I found out today that my deodorant has hops in it, O God, for “improved odor control.” I wonder if that means I smell like a beer now. Or still like an elk? I scribbled four pages of angry notes in my little book last night at the bus stop. I’m glad I can’t really read them anymore today. Doesn’t pay to hang onto that sort of thing.

This new robo voice thing I installed onto this site is so weird. Makes it sound like somebody else wrote all this stuff. Maybe they did. Maybe I am just a robot, acting out the stories someone else is writing somewhere in the darkness. One day they will perfect this plugin so that it sounds like it is really me reading it. They will just cut up phonemes out of samples of my recorded speech and noone will be the wiser. It will be handy then, O Lord, to have someone else living my life for me. Last night at the bar there was a hand-lettered sign that said “Welcome to the drama vortex.” I should have stopped with the g&t’s then.

At the chili place they sold a “big ass bowl” for $9.50. That seemed like a lot even if it was totally extra big ass. I started thinking last night about how when you smell a flower, you should also make them smell you. I wonder if they would like it. Maybe if I smelled like hops they would…

Somebody was holding a wombat on that Crikey guy’s show on animal planet. I felt like I’d seen it all before, God. People kept getting bitten by lizards too. Blood was everywhere. Why do you let this shit go on?

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