I have been reading Walt Whitman again. These are some god damn powerful poems to be sure from the time when America was young. And God, as you read and imagine what the words are representing, you can feel how everything seemed possible in what we would now call - Walt's time and space. I wasn't there ofcourse, and neither were you, but man, just take a moment to read some of this crazy guy's writing about San Francisco at the turn of the century and you will likely find yourself right "there", walking those gone century streets with old Walt looking on and leading the way with that hungry and crazed look in his eyes. You may even run into Charles Fey if you have enough imagination, while he fiddles and works in his storefront shop in order to make those first three individual reels spin freely. Yes, everything seemed possible. Hell, even Bayer (the friendly aspirin people) developed a new opium substitute to help the growing number of addicts get off the pesky drug. Problem was that what Bayer came up with was heroin, and at first claimed that it was non-addictive. Oh, it got you off opium alright, but.....damn !!

Well, we live in different times now, more restrictions and regulations, but I can't bring myself to give a shit about limitations tonight. In fact, if I want to be able to think that it will always be 1892 or 2014 or 2042 or whatever, what difference does it make what year it is via à vis to how open we should be at seeing & acknowledging the world around us. Limitations are what others, especially control freaks and screw heads want us to believe exist when it helps their interests.

Some say that time stands still, some say it moves, - who cares. In fact, the only constants are cycles and changes, ebbs and flows, uprisings and declines. All there to serve evolution, growth, and the silly continuation of this complex story which keeps repeating itself to some end we know nothing about and can only guess at the whole stupidly of the exercise. At best it is absurd. In fact, nothing else really goes on except repetition, creation, growth and decay to show us the way to nothing at all, so 42 to you too my fellow humans.

So when I went up three flights of old winding stairs to fix a pinball tonight for a bunch of McGill students living in a old Victorian fraternity house/building from Walt's time, I thought about all the dead young men and students who had walked up those flights before their present substitutes who were now climbing and leading me up there in a strange ritual of sorts to an old place which I was certain that I had been to before decades ago when my brother studied at McGill in the early 80's and who must have had friends in this old house. In fact, the 1970 WLL "Dipsy Doodle" which I opened tonight to get playing again presented me with the evidence of my presence (or my brother's) via a long lost tool which he or I should never had brought with us here some thirty five odd years ago. My grandfather's old hand made hammer was "hiding and wedged" under the machine's motor panel with it's handle slightly exposed. I slowly and thoughtfully reached out for it in order to retrive the artifact as it began to appear more complete by my touching it's handle grip which my grandfather must have grabbed hundreds of times, I felt a connection to all that had happened before I was born, and what I have done so far and hitherto have been so cockingly calling, "my time".

There is no time, but there is certainly existence and continuity and repetition.

I have been reading Walt Whitman again. These are some god damn powerful poems to be sure from the time when America was young. And God, as you read and imagine what the words are representing, you can feel how everything seemed possible in what we would now call - Walt's time and space. I wasn't there ofcourse, and neither were you, but man, just take a moment to read some of this crazy guy's writing about San Francisco at the turn of the century and you will likely find yourself right "there", walking those gone century streets with old Walt looking on and leading the way with that hungry and crazed look in his eyes. You may even run into Charles Fey if you have enough imagination, while he fiddles and works in his storefront shop in order to make those first three individual reels spin freely. Yes, everything seemed possible. Hell, even Bayer (the friendly aspirin people) developed a new opium substitute to help the growing number of addicts get off the pesky drug. Problem was that what Bayer came up with was heroin, and at first claimed that it was non-addictive. Oh, it got you off opium alright, but.....damn !!

Well, we live in different times now, more restrictions and regulations, but I can't bring myself to give a shit about limitations tonight. In fact, if I want to be able to think that it will always be 1892 or 2014 or 2042 or whatever, what difference does it make what year it is via à vis to how open we should be at seeing & acknowledging the world around us. Limitations are what others, especially control freaks and screw heads want us to believe exist when it helps their interests.

Some say that time stands still, some say it moves, - who cares. In fact, the only constants are cycles and changes, ebbs and flows, uprisings and declines. All there to serve evolution, growth, and the silly continuation of this complex story which keeps repeating itself to some end we know nothing about and can only guess at the whole stupidly of the exercise. At best it is absurd. In fact, nothing else really goes on except repetition, creation, growth and decay to show us the way to nothing at all, so 42 to you too my fellow humans.

So when I went up three flights of old winding stairs to fix a pinball tonight for a bunch of McGill students living in a old Victorian fraternity house/building from Walt's time, I thought about all the dead young men and students who had walked up those flights before their present substitutes who were now climbing and leading me up there in a strange ritual of sorts to an old place which I was certain that I had been to before decades ago when my brother studied at McGill in the early 80's and who must have had friends in this old house. In fact, the 1970 WLL "Dipsy Doodle" which I opened tonight to get playing again presented me with the evidence of my presence (or my brother's) via a long lost tool which he or I should never had brought with us here some thirty five odd years ago. My grandfather's old hand made hammer was "hiding and wedged" under the machine's motor panel with it's handle slightly exposed. I slowly and thoughtfully reached out for it in order to retrive the artifact as it began to appear more complete by my touching it's handle grip which my grandfather must have grabbed hundreds of times, I felt a connection to all that had happened before I was born, and what I have done so far and hitherto have been so cockingly calling, "my time".

There is no time, but there is certainly existence and continuity and repetition.