A contemplative - The art of Freedom

A man by the name of Will Durant said a civilization isn't a civilization unless creativity and the arts are not only tolerated but encouraged.  The people need to be relaxed, free to think about things. School, in my opinion, inhibits this behaviour. Especially when its the useless parts of school. Things that aren't educational. I can finally start to think in this way again. I was writing a lot around the time I started writing for Jerk Out Month, in other projects, but my school marks suffered. So, as you can see, I've won back more time to write a third entry in a week's time. 

I have time to think about lots of things! Even the difference between different alcohols. For example, I wrote this when I was fairly drunk:

Rum. That cursed device. The drunk times you and your friends have had are no match for rum. Rum will destroy you. I can look back at all the times I've drank rum. Oh those times. A different drunk. A dank drunk, a quiet drunk. But still drunk. Its not like whiskey. A light taste, a similar drunk, but not the same. Whiskey does one of two things to you, brings out your happy drunk emotions, or your violent drunk emotions. I'm a fairly happy drunk. But the rum. The rum puts me in a slumber. I lose motor skills alongside my stoned state. Its a tired drunk. Like being a little bit stoned. Slow, sloth-like. This is the rum drunk from my perspective. Hunter S. Thompson seemed to like rum. A quart of rum was always included in his drug collection. I don't see the correlation of rum drunk to his personality, with the exception of his mumbling. However his overall personality type seemed to differ from his rum drunk. This I may never know the source. I'm going to save this, as I'm writing this rum drunk. Perhaps I will add to this or learn something about my drunk self later on. Good night.

I have come to the conclusion that my favourite distilled alcohol is whiskey. I enjoy gin after that. I'm a bit of a wino. White wine first. Red. Brandy is always good, as is Cognac. Sake is okay, but I put Rum above that. But a rum and coke is always good.

Wow! I made a list. I'd never have time doing that if I had to write a two page essay explaining what a primary resource is.

In any case, I have one more exam tomorrow, and I can inhale pot into my lungs or snort some k or whatever I wanna do. I have no cares. I could write here every hour on the hour if I wanted. I can think up a hundred ways to climb up to my roof, or sleep overnight in the park. Whatever. The. Fuck. I. Want. 

Its a delicate art, the art of Freedom - and I just need to learn to master it.

Mind Hive

I was in the fucking heart of a bureaucratic nightmare. Forms and taxes were being thrown in the air like paper airplanes. "These people are savages!" I think to myself - contradicting the orderly atmosphere of the neat desks and protocols, and all the waiting...the waiting. "What did I do last year?" I couldn't remember. The terrible memories of attempting to navigate the endless halls and offices on mescaline. I had a good hour or so to go. But I was wrong, terribly wrong. Mescaline wasn't as good as in the days of Hunter Thompson. So I barely got my money into the hands of the greedy little accountants at the cashier before I started noticing the intense contrast of the Blue lettering against the snow white wall. I could see 5, maybe 6 shades of these fucking colours! 

"Sir....Sir.......Mr. Brown!"

"What?" I asked sincerely. "Oh yes, here's 35.09" I handed my hard earned cash over. In return I received a blue piece of paper. My busking license. And here I was, one year later in the same place. I forgot the rest of my experience from that long ago day. The people seemed a lot more rude this year. They pronounced my name wrong on the loud-speaker. 

"Cooper Bro-In to number six" Echoed the loud speaker. Then I waited for no one. She came. A fat, stout Italian-looking women. In her 30's.

"I need a road allowance permit for busking" I said. She began inquiring after a few pieces of information.

"Oh, by the way I had one last year...if that helps?" I mention, smiling

"OH! Well then just pay at the cashier" She responds in a bitingly annoyed voice, as if unnecessarily entering two pieces of information had cost her her Friday night.

"You know it doesn't cost you money to smile right?" She flashed me a cold stare.

"Boogely boogely boogely!" I exclaim.

 I walked away. After paying my dues to an equally rude cashier, I headed outside, lit up a cigarette and waited for my bus. I looked over toward the Hospital across the street. I had gone in there earlier to use their ATM. Hospitals always depressed me. The sick and dying, however this one seemed rather tame. I waltzed in there in my white dress shirt, aviators and youthful health. I obviously attracted due attention, but made up when I made conversation with a veteran waiting for the ATM alongside me in his wheel chair. He seemed to appreciate this very much and this lift of spirits got me through the Mind Hive that is any formal government building. (Aside from most Environment Ministries/Department) I  took my long  subway ride home and got halfway through "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly". What an amazing piece of literature. If only I spoke fluent french to read the original translation. I wish to learn french and spanish later on in life. I wish I could take it in School, but there is a fucked up school system to blame for that. That I will get into another day. But Today, I went to the centre of hell, and made it back with another 35 dollar piece of paper. God help me.

p.s. For those interested in further reading into why the north american school system fails - I recommend  This article in "An Amazing Mind".

A triumphant return - C. Brown in A Destructive Lumber Yard

The mere sight of a Lumber Yard with the sky seemingly snowing the seeds of dandelions in balmy, sticky sweat. It was the hottest few days in Toronto I had felt in long time - if ever. To breath was a chore. My adventure begins with Contractors. The  filth of the earth - the most greediest bunch of cocksuckers to walk the planet.

"I want 1000 more dollars for the extra electrical!" Says the British Guyanese Contractor

"The contract says ALL Electrical!" I reply

What has this world come to? When all is gone, money, wealth the feeling of more is always there with us. We always want more! MORE MORE MORE! 

While these bootshits started their job, I end up in the North of the Province. A delightful guys weekend, a drunken smoke filled room. Happiness at last. If it wasn't for a stronghold of civilization I would have never got those cigars. Into the depths of a pothead filled corner store. A smoke shop by trade. I stood behind a very crusty, weathered man yelling at the asian employee.  After he finished his blathering, I asked to see the Cigars - when I realize the smokes are hidden. I think back to a corner store experience the day before, a mission to get cold soda - they had their smokes hidden too. What in gods name? She leads me over.

"Tomorrow you can't see them." She says in her Oriental accent.

"Why?" I inquire

"Government! They tell to put tobacco away! You use catalogue." She states.

"Jesus." I mutter.

Monte Cristos and Romeo and Juliets. I didn't want to spend a fortune. Then I got Jack Daniel's and Red Stripe beer. After a drive, it was freedom. How could I have missed this delight before? I haven't lived here very long. That is the answer. 

It wasn't until work set me astray from school, that I felt the cold grasp of depression on my testicles again. It was a work of art - me avoiding it. But I can handle it better now. I got relief with another Friday and then - a peaceful meditation with my two platonic girlfriends. What a night. Sober nonetheless. How ever, I chose to pick up some Grass. There was a party going on in the Ravine that evening, after a particular concert. I worked toward the place. A place filled with drunken, stoned memories. I left behind my girlfriends for a time. I went by myself, my cash in hand, I walked through the uncut grass, past a group of kids drinking something along the lines of Heineken.  As I was about to go down, I found a Black Motorolla Razer, I would not want to be the owner of this! I picked it up and descended down into the pit. Down, down, until I was spotted and greeted. 

"Greetings." I exclaimed. 

I went up to fat, surly fellow who thinks he looks good who I knew was dealing.

"May I buy some Marijuana?" I investigated in an English Accent.

His pale complexion looked contrasting to his red cheeks and his heavily dilated pupils. He nods. I end up talking to these older fellows who show me a picture of a bon fire. I got the grass, and after showing the phone and find its owner, I joined my girls for a fine night.

The next day was an odd waiting game. A concert of the fine Indie bands Stars and Death Cab for Cutie. I won't give too much detail, but I was connected with a particular member of Young Galaxy who was opening. After this, my anxiety to smoke overcame and my Jewish friend and I came home and smoked half the grass. I was overcome with joy and ate and fell asleep. It wasn't till the morning, in my groggy voice I found myself in a world of insanity, my friend went on a date while I met this other young girl for a project and met with a teacher - all the while the piece of shit contractors antagonized my life.

And finally I found myself in the Lumber Yard of a Rona. The hot sweat on my back and forehead, the bright sun casting dangerous rays down. I was wearing a dress shirt - and Aviators. It appeared to be snowing. And the world seemed unreal for that day, and then it thunder stormed, casting aside the steaming hot life for another time and place.

We will meet again you dirty bastard.