Last October I constructed a scarecrow-like entity for the annual sacrifice to the autumn sun. An effigy of myself constructed of dry foliage and old clothes and a couple of pruned branches held together with twine, to serve as a physical personification of everything I would like to lose in the coming year. Just for shits and giggles, I used a cardboard cutout of Jason Kenney for its face.
Idolizing any politician is a bit like believing the stripper really likes you.If this offends you, see caption to the previous image.You can see a shades-donning Grinch in the flames if you know where to look.
A few weeks ago I revisited the site where this sacrifice occurred, and saw that it had begat new life. It was probably just the THC, but a small part of me was briefly tempted to conclude that the shit Jason Kenney has for brains added more nutrients to the soil.
To everything there is a season. Turn, turn, turn.
That macabre time of year is upon us — the time when I take that pile of unwearable old clothes that’s been accumulating for the past year deep into the eerie haunted wood, where I incorporate them in a scarecrow-esque effigy for immediate sacrifice to the dying sun. Stuffed with generous handfuls of that ubiquitous dry foliage that all species deciduous have been shedding like tears…
This year’s wicker man, in the headless early stages of construction.
Part of the autumnal wicker man tradition is to attach a handwritten list somewhere on the effigy, detailing all the things one would like to lose in the coming year. Like a letter to Antisanta. For this ritual is not about gaining things one presently does not have, but about letting go of things one no longer needs. As the forest itself does in fall.
Upon attaching the aforementioned list, it’s time to get the party started and douse the whole thing in booze. This year’s choice of rocket fuel was inspired by a certain man who currently reigns supreme as the most moronic politician in all of Canada…
The cowboy hat prevents his microscopic brain from blowing away in the chinook.
Speaking of politicians and their moronicity, we had a (highly underwhelming) federal election last month. I brought along a campaign letter I received during said election, which I never bothered to open. Mostly because I didn’t like the sanctimonious tone of the first two letters they sent me. I sensed I’d be none the wiser had I opened the third letter. But I found plenty good use for it in this haunted wood.
I always walk away from this experience feeling like my inner manitou just shed an exoskeleton. I don’t know if it’s the sacred smoke, or the way the pieces of burnt fabric flutter about like faceless dark angels in the wind high above. Or maybe it’s the spectres that always manifest themselves in the flames. Like this one, which immediately struck me as bearing an uncanny resemblance to a young Bernadette Peters…
Or this one. A phoenix rising, which for some reason looked like either a rubber chicken or one of those Instant Martians from the old Looney Tunes shorts that grew to full size when you added water.
Last but not least, there’s this image. You have to use your imagination a bit to see him, but you can vaguely make out the Cat in the Hat.
A fount of literary inspiration is nestled somewhere deep in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. A little place they call Banff. The name is Scottish in origin, according to what I just read on the official website. An appellation borne by both Canada’s oldest national park and the main town within said park. In the vernacular of this great land of beavers and poutine, most talk of Banff centers around the park. Yet contrary to what some people (mostly east of Winnipeg) believe, a town called Banff exists. I present this morning to the fine folks of Planet Earth an exhibit of original photographic evidence of its existence.
Everybody knows there is no Walt Disney World in Canada. But there’s Banff, and that’s close enough. It’s a town where the streets are all named after woodland critters. Where you can buy a shot of vodka from a street vendor like you’d buy a hot dog in a different city where provincial liquor laws aren’t nearly as lax. If that sort of thing turns your crank. During the height of ski season, half the population suddenly becomes Australian…
…and the street vendors construct their booths out of ice. Because they can.Yes, buffalo and caribou with a Japanese translation. Welcome to Alberta.
In Alberta, Christmas is in January. So I can get away with posting this.
Even the local Toxic Ronnie’s is lah-di-dah.…and who doesn’t?
Five and ¾ Senses 