The Journey of SILVER BROWN

An Enzymatic Bitchslapping

One of the aspects unique to releasing a book in serial format is that the characters almost become actors, and you become this entity similar to Kermit the Frog who says encouraging supercalifragilistic things to them backstage in the waning seconds before they go out there to knock ’em dead. Except I wouldn’t be exactly Kermit. If I learned anything from meditating in Ojibwe tipis for three years, my Kermitic manitou would be something closer to the other guy from that other movie…

…but only because he brought up cheese. No other reason. Cross my heart.

Speaking of which, Kent Fairholt had to undergo a violent soul extraction and digestion in the 9,302nd stomach of my dark Kermitic essence to remove certain impurities that sullied his character. I am pleased to announce that he is now ready to take his war medicine. In the earlier drafts, he was just an asshole. But now he’s an asshole, and more.

The Journey of SILVER BROWN

The Colossal Esophagi of ₪EYONUGIISHI

The chapters I’m editing now see Florys being taken to the headquarters of Lodge No. 7712 of the Thirteenth Nation Sisterhood, located on the forest island of ₪EYONUGIISHI. There, she is to have a face-to-face discussion with the dreaded and ill-tempered Crocus Acadia, a senior cyberwitch and reigning Vizier-Queen of the Lodge, who (among other things) smokes her cigarettes through a big hole in her neck that she had surgically installed on purpose, and has the ability to rip a person’s head off (“like it was made of paper”, as Florys puts it) using nothing but a stare. I won’t elaborate too much on what the discussion is about. You’ll just have to wait until I eventually publish those chapters to learn more about that. I more so wanted to highlight ₪EYONUGIISHI itself and what a freakishly surreal place it is.

In addition to the myriad of booby traps on the island that were put there to deter outsiders (which include ravenous flesh-eating beetles that only experienced Sisters know how to tame and trees that excrete highly corrosive sap when touched), the entrance to the Lodge headquarters is located in an impossible-to-find spot, inside a tool shed in the middle of a meadow…

Something like this one, except with different graffiti.

The meadow is a wandering meadow – a special type of program devised by the Sisterhood that alters its own coordinates daily. It could be on one side of the island one day and the other side the next day, the only constant being that it’s always on the island somewhere. Its outward appearance is merely a diversion; it’s not really a tool shed. It’s actually an elevator. A living elevator.


From its walls it emits a substance closely resembling spider silk. This silk accumulates into a wad roughly the size of a small horse every two hours or so, which sits neatly atop an orifice in the dead centre of the floor. Once the Entity has scanned a Sister’s fingerprints and verified that she is worthy to enter the Lodge headquarters, the Sister gets inside the tool shed and puts the wad on, as if it was a fur coat. The Entity then swallows the wad whole down the orifice, with her inside.

The Entity has several other esophagi aside from the main one, as well as several anal openings that provide a way out of the Lodge headquarters. Some of the other esophagi are comparatively pleasant compared to the main one. But Florys doesn’t care about any of that. She hates all these elevators, and always complains to her Aunt Jennifer whenever she has to ride in one. She would prefer an elevator with an impeccably dressed attendant, a string quartet and a fully-stocked champagne bar.

The Journey of SILVER BROWN

Why Writers Write: A Semi-Scholarly Thesis

A part of me was hesitant to press the publish button on that last blog post I wrote about one of my characters, because the experience of writing it reminded me of certain cringe-worthy moments of yesteryear, when I would bring my stuffed animals to school for show and tell at the age of five. In the end, I pressed the publish button anyway. The very fact that it is like being back in kindergarten again is precisely the point. It’s all part of the effort to tear down the house that ego built. To unlearn what you have learned, as a certain little green man would put it…

Most of my personal philosophy is based on his teachings.

With all the chaos going on in the world today, it’s imperative to have something in your life which facilitates the renewal of your beginner’s mind. I’ve seen up close what happens when you don’t have that something. For twelve years, I worked for a woman who devoted her life to trying to kill her inner child. The quintessential example of a Type-A personality, to put it mildly. In the world according to her, any personal habit, activity or ritual which even remotely resembled a hobby or a daily zazen practice was a complete waste of time, and if it was a waste of your time, then by extension it was automatically a waste of hers.

Granted, she was a leading expert in the field of critical infrastructure. I’ll give her that. She was very good at what she did; I wouldn’t have chosen to work with her for as long as I did if she wasn’t. But in the sixty-two years the Fates allotted her on this earth, she learned absolutely nothing about introspection. She was repulsed by the very concept of introspection; it was her garlic. So pathological was that repulsion that any attempt on anyone’s part to school her anything about introspection was met with unbridled hostility. Anyone at all. I once overheard her, at fifty-four years of age, telling her own mother to “shut the fuck up”.

Tearing down the house that ego built was simply not part of her DNA. She was more the type of person who would move into that house as opposed to tearing it down. Not only that, but she would go the whole hog festooning it with priceless works of art, a marble jacuzzi, a wide moat inhabited by ravenous salties and piranhas, and a resident butler whose legal status within the the country was sketchy and could be threatened with deportation if the lady of the manor was at all unsatisfied with his work. Sometime while she was in the midst of angrily barking orders into a megaphone at the contractors who were given the thankless task of building that house, she turned into this…


This should almost go without saying, but she was never the author of any book. In spite of multiple former colleagues suggesting that she ought to pen and publish her memoirs, she could never be arsed with any of that. It was waste of her precious time. She was too busy ruling the world. Not to mention writing such a tome would involve all that icky introspection stuff on her part. Bleck! Pewey! She didn’t even write her own social media posts, because she was way too good for that. That was something she could hire people to do for her.