I was attracted by her beauty.

Even read the things she wrote.

In her diary of private thoughts.

She said I wouldn’t get her vote.

I feel no guilt or shaming.

Even if somehow I got caught.

Don’t care about your feelings.

Because I know you can be bought.

There’s a quiver in the ether.

A faint hint of rich fresh air.

I will use this little breather.

Just to plan and scheme and stare.

You said you wanted feelings.

With a longing for deep truth.

You said you wanted Superman.

He’s on a cellphone by the booth.

He said he doesn’t like you.

He’s not into girls no more.

We are living in a brand new world.

And I’m by the exit door.

I was broke at the beginning.

In the middle was just bent.

On the horizon is the ending.

And the kid was heaven sent.

All tallied, I owe nothing.

There are demons at the door.

And I sleep with peace descending.

No regrets or want for more.

Les McElroy told me just before hanging up the phone, “Mind your own business!”

This is the best advice I have ever been given.

Later, the addendum was, “And get to know what your business is…”

Your circle can get small when you mind your own business. You stop trying to save the world. You become smaller to right sized.

I watch these justice warriors today and wonder whether they will ever be told or how long their careers will be, and then I remember…

It’s none of my business.

They are all here…

In Parkdale, the melting pot.

Represent!

Music is everywhere. Especially in the cars. Jamaica Caribbean fills the air this weekend…

Egypt cuts my hair.

1997 runner up Miss Taiwan is drunk in the alley.

Chilean Russian Ivan is back from the cottage.

Phillipines sells me rice and pork and asks me if I’m Irish…

“Irish Scottish Canadian Celtic mix,” I say.

Tibet is everywhere here.

Vietnam shines, too.

My daughter is 1% native. I am not.

“You can’t say Indian Dad!”

I called the Dutchman for advice yesterday.

I tried to be a humanist.

I just never found that groove.

All that whining at the get-go.

Had to bounce and bust a move.

I tried things less than spiritual.

More like carnal, some call lust.

Perhaps a search, a thing called love.

I just couldn’t find the trust.

All this searching has a fortune.

Maybe one that’s hard to see.

Down a path I wouldn’t recommend.

Some things you can’t unsee.

I used to say there are 7 types of people.

Those who can.

Those who can’t.

Those that will.

Those that won’t.

Those who do.

Those who don’t…

And those that don’t give a fuck…

However, now I think that there are 2 types of people.

Land lovers and water people.

I have been land locked most of my life.

I think I want to live the rest of my life on a boat, preferably on the Bra D’or Lakes.  I will not own a car. I will let my license expire. I will be a fisherman.

If you want to see me, you will have to come to Washabuck and look for a boat.

There’s this feeling that’s just so nearly…

Like the battered and the bruised.

I wonder if I heard clearly.

Deep down, I’m just confused.

There’s a man who’s screaming something.

In the face of that sad clown.

There’s a juggler in the spotlight.

That didn’t use the right pronoun.

The siamese twins grow tired.

Two heads can not agree.

Cooperation is required.

No discernments they can see.

The wives they seem so angry.

The husbands have that look.

Doesn’t much matter which way I go.

Either way, I’m on the hook.

And the men

Wicked Wanda’s telling stories and none of them are true.

She has her Heroes riled up and they’re coming for me and you.

Now I can’t say I’m worried because I’ve dealt with this before.

You see I knew her older sister and her Mother I adore.

But for you I’d make provisions, set affairs and say goodbyes.

When Wanda’s on the war path, there’s no running from those lies.

There was no prior warning.

There is no beauty here to show.

It is darkness in the morning.

Here in deep Alaska snow.

I listened to your snoring.

In deep sleep so far below.

I’m not begging just imploring.

That cold wind is going to blow.

Went out walking in the distance.

There was nothing left to know.

Just some inner voice insistence.

About somewhere we’ve got to go.

There was no prior warning.

There is no beauty here to show.

It’s just more darkness in the morning.

Here in deep Alaska snow.

Quite often, people say “the tip of the Iceberg.” When they want emphasize that the events are far greater than what meets the eyes.

I generally wonder when I hear this…

“Are you sure?”

Now, I’m saying it out loud because it’s been my personal experience as well as my observational opinion that humans are  prone to extreme exaggerations when trying to convey that their experience is the universal norm.

Let me give examples for this possibility:

1 Alcoholics make up 10% of the population.

2 Psychopaths make up 1%

3 Sociopaths 4%

4 Narcissists 0.5% or 1 in 200.

Not accounting for overlap, of which there certainly is, this loud opinionated motley crew would make no more than 15.5% of the population. Which means that their experiences are vastly different than the rest, about 84.5%.

Now, if and when you supply this very vocal opinionated 1 in 6 minority with the internet ; their opinions really might be only the ‘Tip of the Iceberg’. With the rest of the iceberg right where it should be.