I was originally going to use my shiny new TikTok account as a showcase for my spontaneous poetry, but that concept lasted only for the first couple of videos. The more abstract and avant-garde creations of mine elicit more of a reaction from the Internet-surfing public, from the looks of things. Creations that will presumably become even trippier now that I’ve acquired Premiere as part of a bundle package with Photoshop. Had to do some tinkering around with the graphics card to get Premiere to work properly on Windows 11, but before long I had churned out the maiden GIF. I found myself promptly deactivating that Creative Cloud portal/updater doohickey that Adobe always installs on your machine when you buy one of these programs, though. That thing’s just a RAM whore. Mostly useless to boot.
On a completely unrelated note, this particular location has never had toilet paper. Ever. If you go number two, you must wipe your ass against the trees like the bears do it. But the beach is lovely.
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.
I was not aware that entire buildings were constructed for such a purpose. That’s now a thing that I know.
Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese…
Regrettably, Jack-in-the-Green mysteriously disappeared the other weekend, somewhere along another nature trail near another lake. This is his replacement, Professor Plum.
I would have called it Deep Purple if it was a slightly different hue.
Five and ¾ Senses 