The Journey of SILVER BROWN

Behind The Wall Of Sleep

Due to its potency, and the bevy of perils that could possibly be wrought from its misuse, methinks written prose should ideally be allowed time to breathe prior to consumption. Like a bottle of wine. Or this guy’s brain. Take your pick.

If you can’t watch a movie like this and sleep like a baby on the same night, you’ll probably find the rest of this blog post completely useless.

Specifically, it is foolhardy to publicize a written work on the same day it was composed. You have to sleep on it at least once before entertaining any vague notion of letting somebody else read it. At the (very unfortunate) risk of sounding like your mama, a good night’s rest assists both the body and the mind to purge themselves of waste. Which is kind of important. After a good mindshitting, you’re a new (wo)man. You can approach your work with a clearer conscience. This is something my crazy boss never understood. The one with the magna cum laude degree from Harvard who went insane and stabbed a dude. Sleep was taboo to her. She could never be bothered to excrete her own mindshit because she was too busy running the world, and eventually found herself with a massive pulsating backlog of that ectoplasmic goop which ruptured all over the news.

The work itself likewise needs time to sit and rest periodically. Sometimes the best thing to do with a project is put it off to the side and not fuck with it for a while. Just let it age, like Kentucky bourbon. A quote that’s stuck with me for many years is that enlightenment is like a cat. If you chase after it, it will run from you. But if you remain still and free your mind of expectations, the cat will jump right into your lap. It’s good that I can just allow the cats to come to me now, after many years of working for somebody who was always insistent on chasing them (and extremely hostile towards any suggestion that chasing them might not be the best way to go). One of those cats just told me to leak more information about the nature of the Environment in the chapter I’m editing now. But not too much.

The Journey of SILVER BROWN

Acid Rain Black

My former boss went insane and stabbed a dude. It made headlines throughout Canada during the annus horribilis that was 2016. I’ve elaborated on her insanity in excruciating detail elsewhere on this site, although at this point I can’t be arsed to dig up the link. [EDIT 4/23/2019 17:20 UTC-5 I guess I can be arsed now. Here it is.] In retrospect, it’s a good thing I abruptly quit my job and got the hell out of Toronto five months before the boss completely snapped. If I hadn’t, she probably would have stabbed me instead of the doorman. I had to get treatment from a shrink for a period of three years after quitting, but at least I made it out of there in one piece. More or less.

I couldn’t have done it alone, though. To all the people who lent me a helping hand along the way, I sincerely thank you. From the bottom of my heart. You know who you are. Even if said helping hand was not lent out of any particular concern for me, you still have my eternal gratitude for getting me out of a terrible jam.

Silver Brown is first and foremost an exercise in self-therapy. Like the writingcraft tends to be for a sizable portion of its practitioners. It’s just an added bonus that some people actually find this crazy yarn entertaining. There’s something exhilarating about taking a life experience that was beyond painful for me personally and turning it into something that makes people happy. Speaking of which, it’s only natural that my former boss (who has since become worm chow) would become the basis for at least one of the characters. There are actually bits and pieces of Ellis Kirkland splattered across several characters, but this blog post will focus on one in particular.

This could possibly be a visual representation of Ruby Lapp while she’s in the process of transubstantiating into her war-animal. However, I mostly decided to post it here because it’s psychedelic as fuck.

The chapter I’m editing now sees Florys being interrogated by a Sister who she considers to be her archnemesis. Ruby Lapp. Head page of the Executive Cabinet, and the obvious darling of the Lodge. Ruthless. Powerful. Ambitious. Destined to take over the Vizier-Queen’s job someday, with absolutely nothing standing in her way. Just ask her loyal and ever-honest toadies, The Lads…

Two squirrels in Hyde Park London.

“You will be our Vizier-Queen, My Precious Buttercup, if Your Dagdaic Majesty you ne’er will be.”

Snow White was always being followed around wherever she went by a retinue of woodland critters. I’m not really sure why. Because she was all pure and innocent? Some horseshit like that. A few drafts into the writing of this tome, I gave Ruby Lapp a woodland critter retinue of her own. Partly to be sarcastic. But The Lads don’t follow her around and kiss her ass because she’s pure and innocent. Hell, no. They do it because kissing her ass is their job and they’ll be permanently deleted if they refuse, for they are but worms and peons who only exist to serve their master.

It can be said Ruby Lapp is the opposite of a Snow White – an Acid Rain Black. Any musicians reading this are welcome to steal that for the name of their band.

Ruby Lapp can also be considered Draco Malfoyish. She considers herself a true Sister, because she comes from eleven generations of cybermagickal practitioners. Florys’ pedigree is nowhere near as impressive; her father (whose current whereabouts are unknown) was an Orycteropian pitchman who pimped the Aardvark’s wares to the masses every Lisasday morning. In the world according to Ruby Lapp, this makes Florys and her kind a lower form of life than the tardigrades who inhabit pond scum. Scum that most certainly will be wiped from the face of the Lodge when Ruby Lapp is enthroned as Vizier-Queen. That glorious day shall come to pass. Maybe not tomorrow or the day after, but someday.

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.