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bluewpc 12-31-2017 09:47 AM

Il y a plus de choses dans le ciel et la terre, Horatio,
Que sont rvs dans votre philosophie.

Now as I was a young lad having scarcely oped the third decade of my life I was temporarily, for some years prior and ensuing, and as you can imagine at that present, lapsed deep into a lethargy I believe afforded the intelligentsia too much and to their detriment.

At the time in question I maintained employment at L- but the monotony of physical labor, several years of which I believe is the proper foundation of higher learning, had lost its charm and I found myself yearning for something beyond the bawdy company of my fellow porters. As fate would have it a good friend of a mathematical bent whom I had acquainted in primaries suffered a sudden paroxsysm of the soul, the result of imbibing too freely the tale of Cervantes' ingenius gentlemen and so maddened bethought himself to see the world.

I confess now that though I have the aptitude of a brawler I have to my great shame the parallel nature of an attendant when it comes to intellectual pursuits and the territories of the spirit and it would be my friend's invitation that would water the explorer in me. Perhaps mitigating this fault, or perhaps an overcompensation, is an impetuousness to leap into whatever novelty presents itself an option and so at the end of a long night of binging in the recesses of Madam Yorko's Tepid Tavern (tended even now I believe by the Iracsible Harry despite his stroke) I eagerly accepted his invitation to accompany him to the afar (and then barely settled region) of Ontario.

I never know how to prepare for a thing and so my preparations for almost anything I have never done before is to pack a bag of clothes and strap on my wrist a watch that does not work. Necessarily this barebones approach is totally insufficient but as the wise author of Ecclesiastes notes wisdom is a defense and money is a defense, and armed amply with the latter I prepared to learn painfully (for all lessons cost money) the necessities of such an undertaking.

In this particular case I did acquire one other item without which the whole attempt have been futile. A passport namely. I wont go into the details, the bribes, the fraud, the vials of ox blood decanted into squibs and set off outside the post-office for the statute of limitations has not yet expired. But suffice to say I acquired the means of international travel through no little difficulty and the help of several of my friends from L-.

The logistical respects of the voyage (For I had not the slightest inkling of the locality of this Ontario, and fortunate for me that it was not some Siberian hellscape at the nadir of winter or some crocodile prowled Sahara) I left totally to my journeymate. The purchasing of tickets, the selection of routes, the gathering of supplies, water, food etc.

Upon the day of our departure we met at the Amtrak station in C-. We were in good spirits. I felt myself greatly relieved to find that my friend had not taken on too much baggage more than myself and I counted myself prematurely wise in the realm of travel. Nevertheless we drank to the journey (to the unwarranted disconcertion of the conductor) and boarding the train and stowing our luggage awaited the jerk of iron couplings that would announce us on our way.

Before we get irrevocably deep into this peregrination (yes I know I took a train but it sounds so much better) I feel I would be remiss if I didnt spare a few words describing the typical work day at L- in which I had for so long been swaddled and an introduction or two of my compatriots whom as it would turn I would be leaving forever.

Work at L- began at 5:45 with the obligatory offering of quarters into the upright altar of the fickle gods of vending who under their own perverse logic would grant or withhold their confections. We had not yet discovered the proper means of appeasing these jovial heavendwelling hucksters and their chief minister was never to be found.

Fed or no we would then proceed down to the unheated docks where a truck or two would be waiting. The neon pink or green truck locks would be bolt cut and the rollerdeck pulled up and the work of unloading would begin. This consisted of me with box cutter opening the boxes and sending them down the rollerdeck. I kept with me always my music and in the autistic cold and dark of the trailer I always had that to warm me.

The shift manager was a muffin bubbly black half my height, twice my age and who went by the name of Cathy. She had a biting wit. A way of arranging brow and lip to imply a confused disbelief, that yet was known and fully understood in the slight eyeroll and underlaid with the faintest accusation and pout. I was very fond of her. Her ever lament was Eric, what are you doing in my docks? Years later I would meet her double in Anna, a Ukrainian babushka in training who managed a hostel in Odessa who once put the question to me: Eric why do you bring all these random sluts to my hostel? But Im getting ahead of myself.

Cathy's second in command, that is the only other person who had full time was Al. Al broke both his arms within six weeks of each other and was being investigated by HR. He was eventually cleared but Ive always had my suspicions. He was an aging frail Saxon and had a bushy caterpillar of a mustache that really was too dignified for him as he was quite ugly. Nevertheless a good feller. Sometimes we had to replace light bulbs around L- and we would go about with a long pole with a suction cup at the end and unscrwew the bulbs and replace them.

Once I was having some difficulties and he remarked. Yeah you take ten minutes to get in there.

To which I replied. At least I can still get it up.

There were several others but I feel I shold end this vignette with another Al. Al Bundy. Who had four children, two wives, and described his mistress Sandy (a harlot different from the wives) as always being down for a schlob. He was a man totally divested of every vanity. A friend of mine John asked him a morning what his plans were.

For life, he said. In general. Where do you see yourself in ten years?

Al's way of answering was to reach into his backpocket and take out a cold prewrapped hotdog, take a long bite out of it, put it back, and walk away.

That man reached zen, John said.

I wasnt so sure.

My friend, Conan, whom I was tripping up to Canada with, when he heard this and other stories said: Those guys are fucking retards.

brianpatrick 12-31-2017 10:36 AM

This just Something that popped out, or another novel? Maybe a longish short story? Anyway, it was enjoyable to read. Reminds me a little of a Nabakov(ish) narrative. It’s funny.

I was talking to another writer here about switching a story to first person narrative. Primarily because his native language isn’t English and I thought maybe some of his quirkiness (not the right word really) would sit better in that POV. So, this is a really good example of how someone’s quirkiness (again, not the right word, really) works in a first person narrative.

bluewpc 01-01-2018 09:33 PM

Autobiography actually :D Suppose this should go into nonfiction. Hah! Lets hope its a longish story :D I really hadnt planned on doing this but Luciaphile asked a question and it just kinda grew from there. I know the scope of it. Itd basically run from January 2014 to January 2018 with little detours in me life. God how vain is that? Well its like a journal I guess.

I think the word is idiosyncrasy.

brianpatrick 01-01-2018 09:49 PM

Yeah, or eccentricities.

Dunno, maybe we should invent another word. None of these seem right.

I would definitely keep reading this autobiography. Prodigalson also wrote an autobiography. I hope he gets it published because it was one of the most interesting tales Id ever read. But... hes a good writer. And sometimes good writers can make boring shit sound interesting. Ha ha. Im sure he lied a lot. Like Mark Twain.

So... make with the lies bro!

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bluewpc 01-13-2018 04:45 PM

sorry about the late update some jackass banned me.
@brian nooo this is all true :D god help me

A final tarry, a pause, a last intake of air ere our northern procession. As I was on a train I feel a word musts be spared for those noble machines, those silvern heralds of civilization. There is perhaps no better mode of transport than the train, certainly on land, and because they have not yet invented rails that can float upon the seas. Trains are depending, clunking, shuttling, telescoping, crowded tubes that oft offend the olfactories, are uncomfortable, glacial, thunderous as hurricanes and fitted with brakes that can reach pitches higher than the lusty breeding of caterwauls. And I do love them. For such cries are alarums that someone as arrived. But all of it I love. For who resents dependability? Who would speak ill of a well kept time schedule? And who hasnt been warmed by the cough of heat pipes on a winter night? If their fuselages are crowded well what of it? All transports are crowded atimes and so it is not an unique fault and any smell too is really the fault of man and not his invention.

Are there other overland modes? Verily. Can any compare to the beast? No. A bus will reach any destination it is true but what a controlled environment. An intercity bus? Why thats not time enough to get lost in yourself. Sit here, sleep, abandon all congress and if youre lucky you can roll down the windows. Still a dice throw better true than being on an airplane for woe to the man who forgets his altitude and attempts to let in some fresh air. That will secure him a train ride! But look at how fast the wonder has gone from that invention. I feel it to be a crime against the soul that any man should be forced to suppress the oldest desire, that for fresh air, which even the lowliest cur is entitled to, and that the best that can be hoped for is the monotonously unpleasant breath of another stale and recycled and that none aboard have come from a country where the cuisine is fabled to be spicy. True it is with great loathing that I board any flight, although the greatest detraction may not be from the flight itself but the preceding two or three hours of being corralled and manhandled in the name of my security.

But on a train oh you may stretch out to sleep. You may dine at your leisure and even atimes take a late night perambulation while the distant lights of villages whisk by. The window of a train is always the framing for a picture. True theyre not as exciting as a marshutka which against the stacked odds of poor maintenance, shoddy roads, unsober drivers without too much tether to this mortal coil will for the daredevils or misers among us get us to the destination but I would advise anyone to bring their articles of faith or even take up religion for the duration of the trip. In all I would not reccommend to too often risk your life. But a train. A plane can be held up by as much as a poodle or some wayward mujahadeen but whenever was it told of a train hijacked and redirected to some desloate patch of the Sahara?

But a train. All transport has a melancholic element in their wheels but in trains is this sorrow most pronounced. Perhaps it is that even if you are returning home you feel yourself embarked upon an adventure. And embarked. For as land dwindles aftward so does the station disappear into the urban blur and the destination, perhaps days away, is no where in sight.

brianpatrick 01-13-2018 06:31 PM


Originally Posted by bluewpc (Post 740639)
sorry about the late update some jackass banned me.
@brian nooo this is all true :D god help me.

You gotta get better at the handjobs😀

Keep rubbing until the eruption. Simple really, unless youre a hard-head.

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bluewpc 01-13-2018 06:44 PM

My head is veritably calcified.

brianpatrick 01-13-2018 06:53 PM


Originally Posted by bluewpc (Post 740641)
My head is veritably calcified.

U prolly fuck*d den.

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bluewpc 01-13-2018 07:07 PM

'S mo laoch, mo Ghile Mear
'S mo Chaesar, Ghile Mear
Suan n san n bhfuaireas fin
chuaigh I gcin mo Ghile Mear

Oh cry the fallen Gaelics from their dais in the foggy dew, lamenting from afar the peanut buttered pickle of a balding Leninist

brianpatrick 01-13-2018 07:14 PM

Yer speaks Gaelic?

Mo aught t like that.


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bluewpc 01-13-2018 07:23 PM

Speaketh I not the language of the favored raping grounds of the English but I can lime those lyrics if I imbibe fishbowls enough of the paddy's cure.

brianpatrick 01-13-2018 07:27 PM


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bluewpc 01-13-2018 07:34 PM


Nick Pierce 01-14-2018 05:47 PM


the paddy's cure


Right, then.

bluewpc 01-14-2018 09:53 PM

Dont mind me Im a drunken fiend who never figured out how to use a comma

Beesauce 01-18-2018 04:40 PM

Il y a plus de choses dans le ciel et la terre, Horatio,
Que sont rvs dans votre philosophie.

--- Hamlet (strikeout) not hamlet, but.. maybe?

not that I know, had to search engine 'datshit (SETS) mahaha.. heard here only-live from the beehive-- ahem -- Woe is Denmark

But it reminded me of the country of that lady I once m.et.
Long dinostory. So, Blue. How's about you proper quote the Shake'spear .. and translate??

daes13 01-27-2018 02:12 PM

If you want to keep with this style, and I would love to read a steampunk or horror story from you, choose your words carefully. Diction, alliteration, assonance etc. Would greatly benefit you. There is more to this style than airy writing, it is borderline poetic prose. Edit carefully and make your words beautiful to all not just a few prescriptivists.

Luciaphile 01-27-2018 02:33 PM

Blue, I don't remember what question I asked, but I like the result. I hope you keep writing. I like what daes13 has said, too. I think you have done this with Mere Tide, but could work a little here, too. My familly's a big train family from Depression times when my grandparents worked on the SP and my mom, as a teen, had a job at the old Sparks SP warehouse, which is still a mighty thing to see though it molders beside the casinos (if it hasn't been torn down). Last time I traveled on a train, I had my own handicapped room with bed, a toilet right next to my table, etc. But no pillows or comfort, really didn't enjoy it.

bluewpc 01-28-2018 05:17 PM

Sorry for the late reply I hadnt noticed the last three.

@beesauce aye tis Hamlet but Shakespeare why not in French? ;)

@daes Thank you for the kind words and worry not I edit.

Before we get irrevocably deep into this peregrination (yes I know I took a train but it sounds so much better) I feel I would be remiss if I didnt spare a few words describing the typical work day at L- in which I had for so long been swaddled and an introduction or two of my compatriots whom as it would turn I would be leaving forever.

Ere delving irrevocably deeper into this peregrination (aye I know a train I took but it rings thus much better) I feel I would be remiss in not sparing words generally describing the typical progression of work at L- in which I had long been swaddled and some of those personalities whom as events would prove I would be leaving forever.

I dont usually post my edits in fact I try to keep from it as much as possible. If youre interested in a more refined example of my work you might look into The Mere Tide which can be found here And a far more polished example than that in my book Things Fall Apart which I confess is shameless promotion but there you have it.

@luciaphile You asked how I had received my eye wound in my poetry section and Im glad you like this response to it and you can be satisfied that you have set me on another project that will last the better part of two or three years. So congrats :D

Luciaphile 01-29-2018 10:59 AM

Oh, you are so very welcome...

Beesauce 02-08-2018 08:13 AM

Wow. so. Just had a deja vu moment and i thought "Hey Blue! Don't die over it."

Parry that. I've been hiding out, the first book I ever started writing included a train ride. Magic happens on these trains. Hope you're writing lots, can't wait to read more of that word art you do

bluewpc 02-09-2018 08:56 PM

Another week and MT updates shall resume. In the meanwhile a small update to Ontario.
@bee I once maybe did some bating on a train? No. Thats not true :D

It may be prudent before the next episode, to mitigate as much as possible future outrage among the readership, to explanate a particular idiosyncrasy of mine by way of admitting that the first leg of my journey was in fact not on a train but a bus (those silver tubed Grayhounds if my recall is correct totally unremarkable-and after all what bus is remarkable?) though a train I did ride in later on. By virtue of a nature the storyteller is always tempted to sacrifice factual truth for abstracted truth. Essence as opposed to sidewalk. Nevertheless as I review and discover that this or this event did not happen here or then or to me I feel it is best to be upfront about it and at at the soonest opportunity admit the mistake so that like Montaigne I profess the worst I aught be charged with is a faulty memory.

Ah interiority alters all. Of a man sitting in a chair all we may be able to factually say about him is that he is sitting in a chair. We may go on to describe his surroundings, the chair he sits in, his company, what if any a beverage stands chilled or steaming before him, but if he is a disciplined gendarme, journeyman to the stoics, we pedestrians in the margins of his seeing blindness might never realize a whole universe may be collapsing or erecting in his brains. Thats the factual versus the real, the speculative real.

And here was the truth. My ticket had a bus' logo stamped aside its watermark but my spirit (though at the time I had never even ridden a train) was guided by those slender seething rails and the spirit in six or seven hours (no omnipresence here) ferreted me to New York.

Beesauce 03-06-2018 12:48 PM


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