tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152410952024-03-07T00:22:51.168-07:00LiverquestThe law of rubble and ditchSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.comBlogger354125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-55913037468111167852014-06-13T21:08:00.003-06:002014-06-13T21:08:47.704-06:00Awake?I just wanted this to stay alive and keep me too.
That's it, really.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFHne1fscvRDFuCZgE2RD19TfZMfHSdjUi0b-0Thhf43dYWNPx0dsNLsnkDvA5VPO4OegdfeiTpgVjiuptEqDZwjOwrTT7CWItY0-HNvXAsSpVBaVc421xrQbvCz54UNZkqqI_g/s1600/dopple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFHne1fscvRDFuCZgE2RD19TfZMfHSdjUi0b-0Thhf43dYWNPx0dsNLsnkDvA5VPO4OegdfeiTpgVjiuptEqDZwjOwrTT7CWItY0-HNvXAsSpVBaVc421xrQbvCz54UNZkqqI_g/s320/dopple.jpg" /></a></div>Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-82463862025239804472011-08-13T12:18:00.001-06:002011-08-13T13:09:21.364-06:00"It was all Pac-Man and board games"<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pxH1zEWpQAY/Tka_pGm-9gI/AAAAAAAAAa4/pplAXvc24xM/s1600/mayor+haggar+n+friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pxH1zEWpQAY/Tka_pGm-9gI/AAAAAAAAAa4/pplAXvc24xM/s200/mayor+haggar+n+friends.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;"></span><br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange; font-size: xx-small;"><i><a href="http://www.toronto.com/article/695134--blame-games-for-riots-and-everything-else">My latest at toronto.com</a></i></span></div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">As of this writing, things seem to be calming down over in England after days of rioting; eventually, a point is reached where folks are just kind of done with smashing and burning, you know? Now comes the fun part: blame. And amid all the rhetoric, I've encountered only one person who's got it right, an unnamed cop who dares to acknowledge to power of video games:</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“When I was young it was all <i>Pac-Man </i>and board games,” the officer told the <i>Evening Standard</i>. “Now they're playing <i>Grand Theft Auto</i>and want to live it for themselves.” A columnist for the <i>Telegraph</i>agreed, saying “The riots were like a video game that had kicked its way out of the Xbox.”</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If you detect a tone of bemused, kids-these-days headshaking, they come by it honestly. Today's rioters have it easy, with photorealistic virtual worlds and instant online communication to inform and inspire their depredations. Back in the early Thatcher Days, though, young thugs looking to get stoked for a night's looting really had to apply their imaginations to the era's blocky mazes and bleep-blorp sound effects.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What do you think they had to be inspired by when they ripped Brixton apart in '81? <i>Pac-Man</i> — and its explicitly extralegal knockoff, <i>Lock N' Chase</i> — excellently modelled the tactics of darting down narrow alleys, gobbling drugs and occasionally turning the tables on the coppers, but games at the time were more concerned with outer space than the inner city. <i>Berzerk</i>and <i>Kaboom!</i> had to suffice, mostly by their titles alone.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Our nostalgic lawman does miss the mark a little, though, in naming <i>Grand Theft Auto</i> the culprit. Sure, the <i>GTA</i> games are a little rampage-y — and <i>GTA IV </i>protagonist Nico does use text messaging! — but their antisocial romps are exactly that: antisocial. Solitary, single-player sprees, without looting, amid indestructible buildings! Surely, the hoodie squad must be getting their inspiration elsewhere.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I can imagine only one scenario: there is in England an underground of would-be rioters passing around bootleg copies of 2002 riot simulator <i>State of Emergency</i>. That game's got it all: huge crowds of screaming humans-turned-animals, karate-versus-cops action, and a sickly veneer of “anarchist” justification. Disaffected, violent youth congregate in dingy “bedsits,” hunched over chugging old PlayStation 2s, working themselves into mob mentality through the most efficient means: their thumbs.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It's sad, really, that a few bad apples have been inspired by a 10-year-old bargain-bin title. It paints such a skewed view of their community as a whole. Every day, people in these neighbourhoods go about their lives under the influence of honest, work-positive video games. These places aren't just rat's nests filled with thugs who play <i>State of Emergency</i>; they're communities filled with people who live decent lives inspired by games like <i>Cooking Mama</i>, <i>Bus Driver</i> and, yes, even <i>Police Quest.</i></div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Troublingly, authorities ignore the simple fact that, as well as inspiring antisocial violence, the mind-controlling properties of video games can empower civilized society's response. Mayor of London Boris Johnson broke off a vacation to return to the city and ... make some statements? What a missed opportunity! He should instead have been whisked to the nearest Super Nintendo and made to play a couple hours of <i>Final Fight</i>, the street-fighting simulator featuring pro-wrestler-turned-mayor Mike Haggar.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If violent video games could inspire a few thousand wannabe toughs to riot, imagine the effect <i>Final Fight</i> would have on an actual, real-life mayor! A few rounds in the role of the shirtless Haggar, cleaning up his town with nothing but a lead pipe and a single suspender-strap, and the game's irresistible mesmeric power could have turned Johnson into a living weapon, worked up to the point where he was ready to clear the riot zones singlehandedly. Or, at least, alongside a friendly karate expert.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #474747; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 23px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I wish I could do something videogame-inspired to help. I could go and be inspired by <i>Vigilante</i>, say — except plane tickets are expensive and I unfortunately never got inspired by <i>Airline Tycoon</i>. No, all I can do is sit here, inspired by <i>Reader Rabbit</i>, following the story on the news sites before finally allowing myself to be inspired by <i>Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing</i> to comment upon a world that seems everywhere inspired less by <i>LittleBigPlanet</i> than by <i>Run Like Hell.</i></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-74731354703880050972011-06-06T12:39:00.003-06:002011-06-16T22:01:23.594-06:00"When work is done and drink is beer..."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8D9Ik5laNfcbziF8XOcHJX6dKlU1vZA38o23fSXBlX6uSPzMk8C7VHV4000I_q5bA-foS98Dh6rrMw1RJbBrjKTMS8yVKN1-rYLjdtI9sL3wQSFTtOhaTyUa6VacQEU4-RpsaQ/s1600/bigsur1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8D9Ik5laNfcbziF8XOcHJX6dKlU1vZA38o23fSXBlX6uSPzMk8C7VHV4000I_q5bA-foS98Dh6rrMw1RJbBrjKTMS8yVKN1-rYLjdtI9sL3wQSFTtOhaTyUa6VacQEU4-RpsaQ/s320/bigsur1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615178511549441330" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />With Lover Boy loud all afternoon and the sun was even out all day.<br /><br />Beer in hand and accomplished, these Hemingway sips.<br /><br />Fucking hell if we didn’t meet challenges today<br /><br />And overcome without overwhelming<br /><br />And sail without sails, or a fucking rudder, for what and all that I know.<br /><br />Whew. I love it when the tide does that.<br /><br />Sid.<br /><br />xoxoxoSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-84698875654180847982011-06-06T12:20:00.003-06:002011-06-06T12:22:11.678-06:00I have an oddity.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuFpsmlocd_DK2sNZBtHRn4fGcTnDkKwRuoIzD3rvXRPd4tAOnp-2q9inl0qUUfBUFqXwsARN0NBo0uj4VQIc3sy6klgGejdo7KX-ime2CrHSbhxO0Yc_fJ1tig1OaWyOhhZZuw/s1600/mr.roger.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuFpsmlocd_DK2sNZBtHRn4fGcTnDkKwRuoIzD3rvXRPd4tAOnp-2q9inl0qUUfBUFqXwsARN0NBo0uj4VQIc3sy6klgGejdo7KX-ime2CrHSbhxO0Yc_fJ1tig1OaWyOhhZZuw/s320/mr.roger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615173530996960994" /></a><br /><br /><br />I have Mr. Rogers shoes.<br /><br />I mean I have the whole fucking thing down solid and it just happened.<br /><br />I come home and switch my postal uniform for my home uniform. I even swap shoes. Shirt and Jacket for a Montreal Canadiens sweater.<br /><br />Slacks for plaid cotton pyjamas;<br /><br />head for heart.<br /><br />Man I am changing it out like that.<br /><br />And fucking shoes, Mr. Rogers shoes.<br /><br />I am a neighbourhood father.<br /><br />And drunk.<br /><br />-SidSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-43559792346195263012011-06-06T12:17:00.003-06:002011-06-06T12:18:57.921-06:00Eckhart Tolle, you fucking mentally-meandering dullard, Beauty arises from movement.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRLkXHDW43IS1IP74RG3fr-Uiyer1UW-PHDUHVPqMzki5m32kFdKKhaUtoXefd_ZirUbVVsFc6Flv-kAgmoqlYKxXw8C8MidgiQa9UxWiPjQwqRNVzWPNp903y5vs2CgoeSlP7w/s1600/eckhart-tolle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRLkXHDW43IS1IP74RG3fr-Uiyer1UW-PHDUHVPqMzki5m32kFdKKhaUtoXefd_ZirUbVVsFc6Flv-kAgmoqlYKxXw8C8MidgiQa9UxWiPjQwqRNVzWPNp903y5vs2CgoeSlP7w/s320/eckhart-tolle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615172700006192978" /></a><br /><br /><br />The comets speed faster than anything we have ever even seen ever.<br /><br />From a good and solid fucking, a human is made in 270 days.<br /><br />Love is born in less time.<br /><br />Cancer eats everything always at all times eventhough it means that Cancer will die, too. That’s fucked up. And it happens very, very fast.<br /><br />Where is the stillness in that you fucking be-doted twat?<br /><br />And how dare you hide behind the Dalai Lama. As who is he, Diaspora?<br /><br />I am a Quebecois in Alberta; you are a German in Canada. We are all Diasporai.<br /><br />The Dalai Lama knows nothing for you to hide behind, my man. He has never known drunken poverty or hated heart-break for a lover.<br /><br />How can you be a man and never know the Herculean gut-punch of love?<br /><br />The sick of a Sunday, 5 p.m. still drunk and fuck tomorrow’s going to suck.<br /><br />All these things happen in spite of stillness.<br /><br />These things are learned on the balls of the feet.<br /><br />Do you think Cheetahs are made to be still to find their own beauty?<br /><br />Let’s move, my man, let’s go.<br /><br />-Sid<br /><br />xoxoxSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-76965129710332813032011-06-06T12:15:00.001-06:002011-06-06T12:17:03.396-06:00Sometimes it would be better to work in the mines.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw07BcRPZLb1glhjsPn9IL6YrQ8PNaRPH6g8sjKAtdKMO3XT3yNobWpY2ozB0U_RmUHLXmBVa-KEplP04n6h25Vk7-5fE76U1dMlY2ALd12_G0okNbpKoirufSkFj66h16Me7aJw/s1600/Ukrainian-miners-001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw07BcRPZLb1glhjsPn9IL6YrQ8PNaRPH6g8sjKAtdKMO3XT3yNobWpY2ozB0U_RmUHLXmBVa-KEplP04n6h25Vk7-5fE76U1dMlY2ALd12_G0okNbpKoirufSkFj66h16Me7aJw/s320/Ukrainian-miners-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615172364846854690" /></a><br /><br />Sometimes it would have been better to have been Elvis Presley, fat and stoned and finally dead.<br /><br />Sometimes it would be better to be a lawnmower and at least useful twice a month; in the summer.<br /><br />Sometimes.<br /><br />After a few I am always ready to try the things that would sometimes be better sometimes.<br /><br />But I get up and go to it again.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-12901456858302439252011-06-06T12:12:00.002-06:002011-06-06T12:14:36.600-06:00"Who doesn’t want a frog that says, “digum”?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-X-Tk0uH6ghHzHB89uudKryfYm5VL3xG4fkvOgYKWPhkAVbPjnuv8f3n-fUvaNtolLtlCvjT0YJ83ldyvwhQZogpnKsOTwYhFzxSPiUgcgf89CskTRM3vXoUPbfkgIGb3yhfwg/s1600/digemfrog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-X-Tk0uH6ghHzHB89uudKryfYm5VL3xG4fkvOgYKWPhkAVbPjnuv8f3n-fUvaNtolLtlCvjT0YJ83ldyvwhQZogpnKsOTwYhFzxSPiUgcgf89CskTRM3vXoUPbfkgIGb3yhfwg/s320/digemfrog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615171704381488658" /></a><br /><br /><br />I used to love it all and walked like that for that exact reason.<br /><br />I seem to have found it and really I mean really I never want to do that shit again.<br /><br />Thank you, lovers, for sifting the shit and spitting me into the right pile.<br /><br />Especially you, Sugar Smacks.<br /><br />Thanks for being the cereal I could never have as a child but as a man and out of rebellion and misguided freedom bought a box and ate it all in one night.<br /><br />There was a reason I never had it when I was young.<br /><br />It’s only as a man that I can see that through free-action I am better off heeding wisdom than scuttling will-power.<br /><br />-SidSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-78402874206266303922011-04-09T00:10:00.001-06:002011-04-09T00:12:06.783-06:00Priests wear blue collars.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUJvGFHyBJpB-Zp8Wl3XszusBi6psGGL96Y7esi-_dzqZXW3EimngHBIxbT_zCJz6HbRq6M3FSjEHzxj5PtIUpDwYiTT0oetEa-qS1f1FHj-EpMO2Cw221xS3RcxyiV4rvTUefg/s1600/taxi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUJvGFHyBJpB-Zp8Wl3XszusBi6psGGL96Y7esi-_dzqZXW3EimngHBIxbT_zCJz6HbRq6M3FSjEHzxj5PtIUpDwYiTT0oetEa-qS1f1FHj-EpMO2Cw221xS3RcxyiV4rvTUefg/s320/taxi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593462699579727090" /></a><br />I work on the set of Taxi.<br /><br />There is the short fat balding one,<br /><br />there is the funny crazy one; the wacky guy. So zany.<br /><br />There is that mouthy cunt, what’s-her-name.<br /><br />And the accent-guy, fucking foreigners.<br /><br />There is that one guy we can all relate to because he is us, detached and cool.<br /><br />There is that vehicle in which we always envision ourselves. Like a soul.<br /><br />It never says a thing because it is the last thing and sometimes the never thing that we ever think about eventhough the show brags it’s name: the taxi.<br /><br />That quiet little cab just sits there and waits to carry these fools. It never says a thing.<br /><br />It never moves a man to cry; but I do.<br /><br />I weep for that little yellow taxi in that Taxi shop.<br /><br />Surrounded by idiots and failures.<br /><br />I work on the set of Taxi.<br /><br />There is that mouthy cunt and there is the joker and there is the boss and there is the cool-jerk.<br /><br />And here is the cab.<br /><br />-Sid<br /><br />xoxoxoxoxooxoxSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-89657474403663438462011-01-15T20:05:00.002-07:002011-01-15T20:06:07.069-07:00Discovering other paths ought to make us wander further into the woods, yes?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOAi-6HOrdh3NoDZpbpAWoMinyy2fVncq_JG1hiGGCX3ME3xuLiTawitGBPkgOqYqrGdEWTB_xl6PLaEnBFIrfxa5vy4-nzAdMyj7U8Tifv5ZogSiVFlUV0T4GmilkVLUTRSlIA/s1600/vapour.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOAi-6HOrdh3NoDZpbpAWoMinyy2fVncq_JG1hiGGCX3ME3xuLiTawitGBPkgOqYqrGdEWTB_xl6PLaEnBFIrfxa5vy4-nzAdMyj7U8Tifv5ZogSiVFlUV0T4GmilkVLUTRSlIA/s320/vapour.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562614605303116754" /></a><br /><br /><br />What if our souls, after so many, many flights, never return to our bodies?<br /><br />What if I never really got off that plane in 2008 from Tokyo?<br /><br />What if I never left that ferry to Gibraltar?<br /><br />What if I never stepped drunk from that train into the Serbian night in 1994 and never got turned back?<br /><br />What would I know? Who would I be?<br /><br />What if you never met me in Vancouver in September?<br /><br />So much of everything would be different.<br /><br />But you did; and I did all of those things, too.<br /><br />I love vapour trails and looking up and thinking about the origin and destination of those planes and the passengers; all headed somewhere they were needed or even loved.<br /><br />I wonder if they have had dinner yet or are wondering outside their view? Who is watching them fly past?<br /><br />I am, on those clear Alberta skies.<br /><br />And blowing kisses, too.<br /><br />Because landing is the best thing ever.<br /><br />-Love Sid.<br /><br />xoxoxoxoxoSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-35411461451893435212011-01-07T01:44:00.002-07:002011-01-07T01:48:08.172-07:00“The pine tree seems to listen, the fir tree to wait: and both without impatience — they give no thought to the little people beneath them, devoured."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigTBy8FazfVj1f6ex9O1nMoI56vbbqNp0ASpkk63lLgidiei_KxdWwjnui-9NuW3WTE1JPVc4u2SZkGyOzbbprcuntawc6QbROUuTi7oqtTuSBzxeXC3bQ94MmSkzLE8qloeMQtg/s1600/pine_trees_against_a_red_sky-400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigTBy8FazfVj1f6ex9O1nMoI56vbbqNp0ASpkk63lLgidiei_KxdWwjnui-9NuW3WTE1JPVc4u2SZkGyOzbbprcuntawc6QbROUuTi7oqtTuSBzxeXC3bQ94MmSkzLE8qloeMQtg/s320/pine_trees_against_a_red_sky-400.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559362440932579234" /></a><br /><br />What is it about a pine that makes me feel better all the time with those soft arms out and reaching for a sap-filled hug?<br /><br />What is it about a pine tree that makes me wander like that and hold you tight forever with a hug, my soft arms; boughs tight and sap-filled.<br /><br />What is it about this existence that makes us all weep at the thought of it all and again the next night for the same reasons.<br /><br />What is it all?<br /><br />What is it about a woman? What is it that fucking drives me like a Wartsila-Sulzer RTA96-C turbocharged two-stroke diesel engine; 108,920 hp.<br /><br />Fuel.<br /><br />Fuel drives it all, be it love or sunshine or oil.<br /><br />Hello, fuel.<br /><br />-Love Sid<br /><br />xoxoxoSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-83189639136351760042011-01-07T01:43:00.002-07:002011-01-07T01:44:38.264-07:00“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxnVKvYayqBpCzPOXb5VxHQUF-O1XBajSuNrv72IFcF5hLXs9YZJMpaHHZr2KimliMhiuY4hNzm-z3kkORJ9N_lLYZNyE3XRuxDmyUelu_82YymPF_EYFryIBr7Yli1Bm531-6Q/s1600/blooming_tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxnVKvYayqBpCzPOXb5VxHQUF-O1XBajSuNrv72IFcF5hLXs9YZJMpaHHZr2KimliMhiuY4hNzm-z3kkORJ9N_lLYZNyE3XRuxDmyUelu_82YymPF_EYFryIBr7Yli1Bm531-6Q/s320/blooming_tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559362060909534146" /></a><br /><br />I don’t think that flowers blooming make any noise or sound even.<br /><br />I know for sure that fallen leaves crunch underfoot in retreat on October afternoons in Alberta.<br /><br />I know that from chasing your scared soul across provinces, GMC Sierra in high gear over mountains; cigarette in clenched hand as you read maps and they all lead here all at once.<br /><br />You are all the cherry blossoms all at once drifting down and snowing my earthed path.<br /><br />You are my path.<br /><br />I love you, Starfish.<br /><br />-Love Sid<br /><br />xoxoxoxoSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-36515621073600711132010-12-07T00:14:00.003-07:002010-12-07T01:10:27.113-07:00The Nellie, she was a cruising yawl...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTNBzr_AdmMDBPgE1UZX4Y04EsGwchKKxVigFzWEyc_2kBFVncGwENd20_GxU7SyD3qBa1kTON6OLklM3aeHevFBnoXJXpMffLc2gXs7W2P06bfT4YXkpT-Ved2D6XutsWna11bQ/s1600/vietnam_20soldier.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTNBzr_AdmMDBPgE1UZX4Y04EsGwchKKxVigFzWEyc_2kBFVncGwENd20_GxU7SyD3qBa1kTON6OLklM3aeHevFBnoXJXpMffLc2gXs7W2P06bfT4YXkpT-Ved2D6XutsWna11bQ/s320/vietnam_20soldier.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547838425921946690" /></a><br />Your eyes, man. Your eyes are filled with all the death and hate and sadness with missing girls and lost homes and distant parents and even siblings of any man with eyes like that.<br />And a rifle.<br />And, man, those eyes have seen it all.<br />How can you do it?<br />How can I agree to it?<br /><br />If you ever need a country to help you out and soften those blows and bandage those wounds and help you deliver those letters to your dead friend's family, well, I have a bumper sticker.<br /><br />I have a plastic wrist-band.<br /><br />It's yellow and says that I support the troops.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-86275734044113550722010-11-28T19:14:00.006-07:002010-11-29T00:41:11.479-07:00Run now. Mourn later.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt92cEcVVAVGyun1EDJMXgreLVNdzjFMG_-rVE7F7l6fD6iuWFPkWUtwOzi5xd_nfIeuXVtCosDeDKPNaLp4vVwzz01KOSpB0U5ePGT1xUsexoVSS3Rj3MkBcNyFUfDXLF3wzAw/s1600/ghost_bike.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt92cEcVVAVGyun1EDJMXgreLVNdzjFMG_-rVE7F7l6fD6iuWFPkWUtwOzi5xd_nfIeuXVtCosDeDKPNaLp4vVwzz01KOSpB0U5ePGT1xUsexoVSS3Rj3MkBcNyFUfDXLF3wzAw/s320/ghost_bike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544789518769000018" /></a><br /><br />Sometimes we are all ghosts and alone.<br />No feeling.<br /><br />Sometimes we are the ghost bicycles.<br /><br />But tonight.<br /><br />I fucked it all up hard and you are in bed calling for me.<br /><br />Remember Krazy Shack?<br /><br />I think you are so much better than anything I could ever have loved or even be loved by.<br /><br />Like the kayaks at Krazy Shack.<br /><br />Like the beach at that cabin.<br /><br />Like the time when we took off our shoes and threw them into the water for kicks...<br />Like then, when we kissed.<br /><br />I am no longer afraid of your love.<br /><br />And I will<br /><br />ride<br /><br />your ghost bicycle.<br /><br />-Sid<br />xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-62078733620089306192010-11-18T11:44:00.004-07:002010-11-18T23:03:12.697-07:00Sports bars.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrPQBukYFx_ypUSKLpUnX-SPEuU6QpwUeh79NTXazJDR-UUKoALG04fSqtA5aXxhk35P7HxVaLFW0vjltKhu8_4XQa83Z8A-lyMZNTLdmL8KcZC-Pkjg-tTtvY0YWsatdOAIXheg/s1600/sadness.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrPQBukYFx_ypUSKLpUnX-SPEuU6QpwUeh79NTXazJDR-UUKoALG04fSqtA5aXxhk35P7HxVaLFW0vjltKhu8_4XQa83Z8A-lyMZNTLdmL8KcZC-Pkjg-tTtvY0YWsatdOAIXheg/s320/sadness.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540970729963532226" /></a><br /><br />Man, it snowed fucking hard yesterday. Winter miracles.<br />Anne and I walked to the bar and hit it.<br /><br />Hard.<br /><br />You never know why I don't quit.<br /><br />It's my life.<br /><br />You are.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-38232689739626679502010-10-15T01:17:00.005-06:002010-10-15T21:35:19.701-06:00Crowsnest Pass.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhHXMk-zdUmNGVLJCZD01ZS9-EOllfHkIJBbWLNPGa9dBEvzvpSiQ6h2nK0XvkSeaLfbcHywtw8o6GynhuQgg64GGPe2IVrO5MR5e0qElp2AJy6MX7W7m1rosDNVcvohWoOg2nA/s1600/IMG_8256.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhHXMk-zdUmNGVLJCZD01ZS9-EOllfHkIJBbWLNPGa9dBEvzvpSiQ6h2nK0XvkSeaLfbcHywtw8o6GynhuQgg64GGPe2IVrO5MR5e0qElp2AJy6MX7W7m1rosDNVcvohWoOg2nA/s320/IMG_8256.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528481831307793026" /></a><br />I love your California hair<br />in my face.<br />The way that you love me, too.<br />In the truck and on the way, you kept those mountains high<br />and those passes cold.<br />Frank Slide.<br />Crowsnest, from Vancouver to Edmonton up 22 the Cowboy Trail.<br />You kept me warm those nights.<br />Cochrane hotels and drunk on each other.<br />Vodka, too. <br />I cry when I make you smile because it's been so fucking long...<br />Have I ever made anyone smile like that. Ever? Ever?<br /><br />When you lit my cigarettes as I drove the straight line roads<br />I hit the brakes as rarely as possible<br />because I need your momentum<br />you fucking angel.<br /><br />I love that California hair in my face when I sleep.<br />When I breathe.<br />When I dream.<br /><br />When I am awake.<br />And I am awake.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-85640313255227804782010-10-07T16:57:00.002-06:002010-10-07T17:01:04.238-06:00Stars and bars.And here I am<br />All yours.<br />You brought me out and sought me through.<br />And poetry is the medium.<br />I love you and love you.<br />My city. My Edmonton.<br />I have been dreaming of you for years.<br />That river valley.<br />That flat land.<br />That hot sky.<br />I have been dreaming of you for years.<br />I am all yours.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-55557372602860819052010-09-04T18:18:00.002-06:002010-09-04T18:21:03.353-06:00Sometimes.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh74TZnx901s18G7EJtc_mNlk8B4lqA27dh0o1PvH6tH-iYS5iYz-eLdYcoiOBBNZP_o7fo08YO7wkk-MtTWs-Xn_ei_-srrxwAHEUT-tsgBOTpWNwrQjp_HhK2utUPtb6w2w51oA/s1600/escape.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh74TZnx901s18G7EJtc_mNlk8B4lqA27dh0o1PvH6tH-iYS5iYz-eLdYcoiOBBNZP_o7fo08YO7wkk-MtTWs-Xn_ei_-srrxwAHEUT-tsgBOTpWNwrQjp_HhK2utUPtb6w2w51oA/s320/escape.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513217807540247250" /></a><br /><br /><br />Sometimes<br />When I am alone here<br />And the lights are out<br />I imagine a slow-dance with you.<br /><br />Sometimes<br />When my hammer swings<br />And the nail is hit just right<br />There is a spark<br />And I imagine building a house for you.<br /><br />Sometimes<br />While tying my shoes or washing the dishes<br />Alone, here<br />I imagine your hand on my back or neck or even on my ass<br />Lightly, lovingly, longingly.<br /><br />Sometimes<br />I just want to crank the wheel of my truck<br />And drive to you<br />Openly weeping and yours.<br /><br />I say sometimes<br />But<br />There are no other times<br />When<br />I don't think of these things.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-85867588095588927752010-08-28T22:43:00.005-06:002010-08-29T15:49:18.845-06:00"...the diver descends to maximum depth immediately and stays at the same depth until resurfacing..."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouNr0q5nljtvIf9Vj2lQRdZP5FGmh775-SD8nzPSCjG5_x4QkpWFwSEvrCeaOI-zY9QgHx5aSv0LwVeoXsS0QtE5R6lvHp5qU3OTwt38xUxdM1o4p_b36o2qF0ur2R1K2ozWBNQ/s1600/LightningVolt_Deep_Blue_Sea.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouNr0q5nljtvIf9Vj2lQRdZP5FGmh775-SD8nzPSCjG5_x4QkpWFwSEvrCeaOI-zY9QgHx5aSv0LwVeoXsS0QtE5R6lvHp5qU3OTwt38xUxdM1o4p_b36o2qF0ur2R1K2ozWBNQ/s320/LightningVolt_Deep_Blue_Sea.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510741155931093522" /></a><br /><br />Hit with it<br />Stung by it<br />Ruffled and fucked<br />by it.<br /><br />Open your legs like an Alberta sky in August<br />Let me in.<br /><br />I am all yours.<br /><br />Hit with it<br />Stung by it<br />Ruffled and fucked<br />by you.<br /><br />Open your heart like a Wild Rose in July<br />Let me in.<br /><br />I am coming there, back there, for some kind of terminal end.<br />Some terminal finale, some everything. For you, just you.<br />I am yours, all yours.<br /><br />Hit with it.<br /><br />Stung by it.<br /><br />Ruffled<br /><br />and<br /><br />tussled.<br /><br />Get in love.<br /><br />-Sid<br />xoSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-10153564221271816962010-08-18T18:17:00.003-06:002010-08-18T23:11:03.489-06:00Winter Miracles.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNDdz3qurEP5wSZeyJ8P-RBFCeGr6gZerSww52ccvz3Qfs5HwbWnmMrAsrpxbxYHsgZZbxJ6zrwoaRQcAO3GtIzTjKMW90MU-pK6K7BTHqbQqeU7kX9vZXqG9XyFkHMRBG8A03g/s1600/Alberta.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNDdz3qurEP5wSZeyJ8P-RBFCeGr6gZerSww52ccvz3Qfs5HwbWnmMrAsrpxbxYHsgZZbxJ6zrwoaRQcAO3GtIzTjKMW90MU-pK6K7BTHqbQqeU7kX9vZXqG9XyFkHMRBG8A03g/s320/Alberta.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506911575575921666" /></a><br /><br /><br />I want to freeze again on those long nights from 4 p.m. to 9 a.m. when the sun is gone.<br />I miss the drifts of snow and the instant sobriety upon leaving a place.<br /><br />Boots and toques, icy lungs and cold fingers.<br /><br />I want you to miss my warmth at 4 a.m. on an Alberta morning when I get up to piss and make coffee. I bet you'd call my name softly between sleep and wake states. <br />"Sid, come back to bed".<br /><br />I would, too, cold and naked, leap under the covers and tell you I love you. I'd run my fingers through your hair until you fell back asleep.<br /><br />I think I should retrace my steps, but in different shoes this time.<br /><br />I want my winter miracle.<br />I want my spring lust and summer freedom.<br /><br />The hard trees, the brown, the over-frozen everything. I want it.<br /><br />I want it all that winter miracle.<br /><br />Snow in my boots and frost-bitten ears so hot that I can't fucking stand it.<br /><br />I want the drifts and wisps and shifts again.<br /><br />I want to jump under the covers when you whisper my name on a farm in Northern Alberta.<br /><br />"Sid, come back to bed."<br /><br />-SidSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-13785464324009316652010-08-07T11:12:00.005-06:002010-08-07T19:27:39.867-06:00Dowshi, Afghanistan. The cunt road.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgat4zUdboZekD5mOUPK_SSL9u7SR5zfJruo0tTDZxZiayU-9i7k7NGrUmzHZz2vsOELwBSS5VTn455PGimJ6UoxEyBeJiiZmqLxu7YZ2jVig9xMgAUgerLxz83Fy9Ov5Rd7aWKOQ/s1600/dowshi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgat4zUdboZekD5mOUPK_SSL9u7SR5zfJruo0tTDZxZiayU-9i7k7NGrUmzHZz2vsOELwBSS5VTn455PGimJ6UoxEyBeJiiZmqLxu7YZ2jVig9xMgAUgerLxz83Fy9Ov5Rd7aWKOQ/s320/dowshi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502724714720504258" /></a><br /><br /><br />Sentry was never done, but my shift was over at 0900. I needed sleep, water and new laces. I always needed to hydrate.<br /><br />On my way back to camp I saw three boys playing soccer.<br />Their ball was a piece of shit. Cow shit, or something.<br />I didn't even care and hoped they would die before they were old enough to want to kill me.<br /><br />When I thought that, though, that second, that fucking instant, I was suddenly beside you. Your scolding, your fantastic love, your compassion.<br />I was sorry for it, for thinking like that.<br /><br />Dowshi is a tiny fucking town at the cunt-opening of a valley into certain death. A76 North, a suicide drive. We had patrols up there, but man, that road buttressed by mountains on both sides is death. Drones went ahead of us and we stopped every 500 meters for a sniff-check.<br /><br />It rained all day Saturday and I was up it only 1500 meters. I kept the rear and made sure we didn't get flanked or pinched or drawn-in. <br /><br />It was silent.<br /><br />We drove and hopped and checked like that for days, for days.<br />I sang Neil Young songs and kicked rocks.<br /><br />But fuck I loved you, through that dust. A76 was shit, deadly but so fucking shit.<br />Maybe the Terry had bucked it deeper into the valley.<br />Fuck, I hope so.<br />At night we tri-podded the M20 just for kicks.<br /><br />I slept well on that road.<br />IEDs, mortars nor snipers riled us.<br /><br />Two teams were on either side of the road at all times, sifting slowly and looking overhead.<br /><br />But those letters from you.<br />They killed me.<br /><br />You.<br />In Safeway.<br />In traffic.<br />In line to pay your SHAW and TELUS bills.<br /><br />Fuck you.<br /><br />I love you.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-32138736228493492462010-08-07T03:00:00.005-06:002010-08-07T12:19:44.997-06:00Us.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUPnwD4RFGZLnZj8-xHpTGJRonMhAJMaXUJC2DLC02P89iA4J13oEx5QkpYUAr5Z1PxsRHGluae2tOgQnjg64Fejr44bduZ6s9MxMOOdtZvBe4idIYBlJD9UO1jWdaTrD7edZjA/s1600/snow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUPnwD4RFGZLnZj8-xHpTGJRonMhAJMaXUJC2DLC02P89iA4J13oEx5QkpYUAr5Z1PxsRHGluae2tOgQnjg64Fejr44bduZ6s9MxMOOdtZvBe4idIYBlJD9UO1jWdaTrD7edZjA/s320/snow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502593247795307506" /></a><br />I waited and waited again.<br />Not just for a rebirth of wonder<br />Not just for Christ to climb down<br />Not just for some fucking lines from God<br />But for you.<br /><br />I waited for you and I came to thoughts of fucking you.<br />Again and again and again and again.<br /><br />And again.<br /><br />This is it, you know, my last stretch, my last grasp.<br />Keeping a man like me on the fence is like keeping a man like me on the fence.<br />One day, the whole thing is going to come the fuck down.<br /><br />Like a Zimbabwean government<br />Like the Eiffel Tower without rivets<br />Like Marxism built by IKEA!<br /><br />Like me.<br /><br />Again and again and again.<br /><br />The snow is going to be heavy this year, baby.<br />Are you sure you don't need some soft-shoe, soft-heart to clear that fucking drive?<br /><br />This is it.<br /><br />Are you sure?Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-39453546059670897252010-07-30T16:20:00.003-06:002010-07-31T03:33:22.204-06:00Only after a few.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYVZ3LcRIauqWFtoKSO_78GFBzglZxPPdgNXRDOFVGWdByvXJbt_aRPhyphenhyphenrVOjK99tjmJkqdT9rwcv99Uki8qpecvLGa-9t5cFwrYQ67_Zyc7_mHIvTmraIKHAKE42MqAdfCiT3g/s1600/800px-Plane_Crash.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYVZ3LcRIauqWFtoKSO_78GFBzglZxPPdgNXRDOFVGWdByvXJbt_aRPhyphenhyphenrVOjK99tjmJkqdT9rwcv99Uki8qpecvLGa-9t5cFwrYQ67_Zyc7_mHIvTmraIKHAKE42MqAdfCiT3g/s320/800px-Plane_Crash.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499845949219933442" /></a><br />I love you like a plane crash.<br />Those jet engines digging into the earth<br />and serving up everything for the last time.<br /><br />I love you like a fucking car crash<br />glass everywhere and me hanging out the driver's window. Alone,<br />bloody, and even dead.<br /><br />I love you like a firecracker or a nuclear bomb. <br /><br />Everything is always exploding.<br /><br />I love you like that.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-91500412210407626052010-07-24T10:43:00.008-06:002010-07-24T14:17:41.459-06:00Sometimes, a monster is loosed for want alone. It will take you and it will eat you and it will give you pleasure.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5rTADLQa6SO0EUdLvXMsXzX6D6M8ouA4BUBy7gf1NSeXobRP91KNfiLiM0qWjbQUWGkMM4jic77khcDdgZH4AW1J4k1KluUVdNwA_wwimuPv5Jko3GPBi-zVY-VdWSQ8l34vmPw/s1600/bottle+rocket.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5rTADLQa6SO0EUdLvXMsXzX6D6M8ouA4BUBy7gf1NSeXobRP91KNfiLiM0qWjbQUWGkMM4jic77khcDdgZH4AW1J4k1KluUVdNwA_wwimuPv5Jko3GPBi-zVY-VdWSQ8l34vmPw/s320/bottle+rocket.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497514528181776530" /></a><br /><br />I want flesh.<br />I want to fuck.<br />I want to be deep inside of you.<br />I want to cum in you and keep my hard cock pushed in there, filling you.<br />I want you and I will have you. <br /><br />When your duvet or covers or sheets are pulled tight tonight, and you are drifting off to sleep, I will creep in there, into your secrets. <br /><br />In that place you will be free to take me like the lover you have always wanted to be.<br />You can have anything you want of me, as I will of you.<br /><br />Your fingers will drift below your waistband and with self-muffled sighs you will imagine that those very same fingers are mine; my cock, my tongue and my heat.<br /><br />And when your hips buck as you cum, you will say my name and gasp for it; clenched fists, curled toes and open mouth.<br /><br />After it all, dear lover, you will shudder and shake and return to your senses and drift away into sleep.<br /><br />But I will have had you then like that, using your own body to fuck you and make you twist.<br /><br />Sometimes, monsters be loosed.<br /><br />Tonight the jailer has opened the doors and the monster is out there. He is hunting you.<br /><br />Check under your bed.<br />Close the closet doors.<br />Leave the lights on.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-4168967886219174082010-07-16T20:55:00.007-06:002010-07-16T21:55:56.488-06:00"She is the paragon of paragons of beauty, the reply to all desires, the bliss-bestowing goal of every hero's earthly and unearthly quest."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2zDVglkdq-PwdiLIwv-g9fMkMFVgqwGJaH19aPGpPjCDUsj4SeSZPTaoqbuqOIsdmScQxzAg9tkFfMV_pkJwsXSshPcMDk0buKX1CA4TZ9Bg5X0hR1GtqydL8IhhIWmXqzhGDw/s1600/IMG_8048_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2zDVglkdq-PwdiLIwv-g9fMkMFVgqwGJaH19aPGpPjCDUsj4SeSZPTaoqbuqOIsdmScQxzAg9tkFfMV_pkJwsXSshPcMDk0buKX1CA4TZ9Bg5X0hR1GtqydL8IhhIWmXqzhGDw/s320/IMG_8048_2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494703560431535394" /></a><br /><br />It had been a long ritual. I cleaned out everything that meant anything to me. Under the seats, the buttons on the roof, the rosaries from Mexico and the Philippines hanging from the rear-view mirror, the clothing and camping gear and carpentry tools from the back, the Jesus and Mary stickers carefully lifted from the rear window using dish-soap and my bank card; even the small things like my favorite tapes which I had constantly played in you: David Bowie, Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra.<br /><br />On Saturday morning we took that final drive and I spoke to you softly; the radio stayed off as I wanted to hear what you had to say to me. Your V-8, 350 5.7 purred and roared at all the right times, when I asked you. You have never let me down. When we pulled off the collector and onto Highway 1 East I opened you up wide and was willing to take any ticket, any punishment; just for you. I opened you wide and was hitting 180km by the time I passed Canada Way and we swerved in and out and I thought we would die together as we lived. You have been my shelter, my home, my work-horse, my escape-pod, my darling in white. I have driven with you through the Rockies and slept in your lap, I have worked to feed you the things you need. Your new catalytic converter and muffler, your new tail-pipe. I love you.<br />You hauled me and my small number of belongings through Alberta and into Vancouver to begin my new life in Canada. I worked you hard those hauling days. And you took me back through Alberta and back again to Vancouver, too.<br /><br />As we sped toward your final destination, our last drive, I began to weep and shake hard. I pulled over once to explain death to you and I knew you might never understand but I did it anyhow and I just wanted you to know how much I love you; so much.<br /><br />We pulled into the wrecker and I did the sign-off, tears running down my cheeks and a hole in my little heart. They had to ask me several times for the keys before I complied. They knew why I was crying.<br /><br />I couldn't watch you being driven off but I did sneak a small look as you rounded the corner and I blew you a kiss and hoped to God that you saw it; I think you did and your tail-lights were gone.<br /><br />I left my favorite Elvis tape in your cassette deck.<br /><br />I left you a love letter in your glove box. <br /><br />-SidSid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15241095.post-10092513710749427792010-07-04T15:02:00.004-06:002010-07-04T20:30:08.543-06:00Not infrequently, the supernatural helper is in masculine form.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoB0YbvEevf4rn09hZ4WplGIhZ87buOJTZU2FnJxWDivReSa4oWPEYpJYG7GBiGEYaiNZf9UmCWyrohjv78XufN-3EWr1MUQtGgt7MdxtLUKGF4kriNB3jmUIJ-hH0lfGH8xFJ_A/s1600/Allah.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoB0YbvEevf4rn09hZ4WplGIhZ87buOJTZU2FnJxWDivReSa4oWPEYpJYG7GBiGEYaiNZf9UmCWyrohjv78XufN-3EWr1MUQtGgt7MdxtLUKGF4kriNB3jmUIJ-hH0lfGH8xFJ_A/s320/Allah.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490242766673211714" /></a><br /><br />Many years ago there was a young man with a broken heart, and a soul which could never be still. His spirit was strong, but never silent enough to hear the sounds that trees make when the wind kisses them. He was attached to worldly delights and measured his manliness against them and defined his godliness through them. The young man was well known in the small kingdom he thought he ruled and was sure that the women and flowers were pretty for him alone.<br /><br />One day, while inspecting his possessions and counting his coins, he was approached by an old man. The old man walked slowly and was dressed in rags, yet there was a peace in his face. <br />"Is this your fine house, sir?", the old man asked.<br />The young man did not answer, but instead continued counting coins.<br />"I will give you a wish if you answer me, boy."<br /><br />The young man told him that it was in fact his house, his land, and bade the old man to stay as many nights as he needed.<br />The old man smiled and said,"I knew you would be kind to me."<br />"How did you think that", said the young man, "when we have shared but mere words in exchange?".<br /><br />"I am the future you", said the man in rags. "I have met the women and the money and the possessions and the hollow-nothing."<br />"I have returned to warn and encourage you".<br /><br />The young man wept hard and fell to his knees.<br />"I have nothing", he cried.<br />"You never had anything", said the old man.<br /><br />The young man became old.<br />But his love became grand and wide.<br /><br />Being a man, he thought, is the greatest profession.Sid Hearthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09379571056068527895noreply@blogger.com0