I recognized my nature.

Not much was steeped in good.

There was this strange sensation.

Like maybe I just should.

Forget it all and start a new.

Take the narrow view to wide.

Take my head out from my ass.

And maybe look outside.

Not all is gain or glory.

Not all is pain and strife.

The road the path the choices made.

It’s a wild ride this life.

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.

Few are wrapped as tight as Frothy.

No awareness to calm down.

Got stranded on the mainline.

On his way to meet up town.

There were words with the conductor.

Who had clearly had enough.

The Conductor is on the evening news.

He’s been traumatized and stuff.

Transit commission they are hiring.

The trees are forming buds.

And Frothy is in recovery.

Plotting pay back, blowing suds.

I watched her rise and fall over our sleepy little town. That dead rock in the sky, that shines over us all… Who knows the secrets here? Where? Where everyone pretends that nothing happens.

The warm salt waters of the Gulf Stream flow north from Mexico, along the eastern continental shelf, passed Cape Breton and beyond. Cold arctic air sweeps down over frozen tundra and bristles raised hairs on hunched backs, along Labrador and into the Northumberland Strait. Where these 2 meet is a spit of land that rises out of the Atlantic, just north of New York City, and is formerly known as New Scotland. It’s because of this; the north winds and the south currents that the conversations here are usually always about the weather…

To an outsider, it would appear as if nothing else goes on here but the weather. However, appearances are deceiving. Nothing is as it seems…

Reminds me of the old joke… A man from the city asks a fisherman, “What do you do around here for excitement.”

The fisherman smiles, ” In the summertime we fish and we fuck. In the winter, we don’t fish. “

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.

The north coast of Nova Scotia is somewhere between the middle of nowhere and God’s country.

Somehow, I was still there when I was 18, and she’d been dead for 7 years. I would still look for her whenever I was in a crowd of people. Straining searching. Imagining that she had faked her death to get away from me. My mother. By the fall of 1977, I guess I figured she was really dead. All of this I kept to myself. Winding wrapped tight. In my tiny bedroom on a twin bed in a mobile trailer on an acre of land at the edge of Deception River is where the nightmare began…

I ripped out the window screen at the foot of the bed one night and the screen at the head of the bed the next. Screaming some nonsensical rage about “I’ll get you! You motherfuckers!” The next morning the fingernails were torn and bloodied from ripping out screens. Both windows smashed.

I could hear the breathing coming from something somewhere. I held my breath and lay still on my bed, making sure it wasn’t me. I looked under the bed and under the trailer. Nothing. I was alone… except for whatever was breathing. It felt like it was coming from inside me. I had never been so terrified. I forgot to pray. I forgot God.

After a few days and nights of this, I realized that I had to leave that bed, that bedroom,that trailer, that acre, that river.

I left and never returned…

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’ve been listening to the masses.

They be trying to bring me down.

I’ve been taking master classes.

Ever since the blues dropped into town.

They are talking about oppression.

Like, it’s shiny and brand new.

So much horror in that lesson.

That ironic cake to chew.

They are raging, eyes are blurry.

Tears they fall like April rain.

Going nowhere in such a hurry.

Like they just discovered pain.

I’ve been looking for a chorus. That won’t break us into songs. Maybe something just to bore us. Take our rights back from the wrongs…

I remembered everything dramatic until I didn’t. I let that shit go, which is a monumental gift.

However, I  remember certain individuals from my childhood who, at the time, I thought were unreasonably cruel. Now I realize they were just human. Nothing more or less. So, to those people that I criticized on the eastcoast!,

“All Apologies!”

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.