Often I find myself quite amused by what I observe around me.
I have always been able to “read” people.
A survival instinct brought forth by my leaving home at 12 years old.
To begin my accelerated rush through puberty.
A manchild at 12. Living in a Hippie Drug Commune.
Within two years I would become an opiate junkie.
The Original Urban Viking LightHouse Dann
Long story short……….
My life has always been a numerous collective of poetic tragedies, good times, sad times, love won and love lost.
I am a firm believer in being a true realist.
I am a “REALIST.”
There are no sad/happy times.
There is no “time”.
“Time” is but a manmade instrument of measurement. A necessity for society to be able to record history.
It does not exist as we define, “existence“.
Every single moments of your life are just that. Moments. An ink mark on manmade paper with a manmade pen.
From my waking up in the morning and until I lay my head down to sleep, I gleefully gobbled up all and any bites of knowledge I could find.
I developed an insatiable appetite for knowledge.
Like a sneaky toddler who finally gets the cookie jar open.
This need for mindful stimulation replaced my opiate addiction.
Saving my life as far as I am concerned.
You cannot overdose on the daily life lessons that our soon to be “dystopian” society has laid out before you.
At a very young age I had to learn how to read if a person was friend or foe. This was done immediately. As soon as we were introduced.
Had I not, then my life could have been and often was placed in certain danger.
Truth be known, I wouldn’t be here today had I not learned so soon.
I would have succumbed to the dark and dangerous side of streetlife.
Either a murder victim or an overdose.
The latter I have experienced many times.
Narrowly cheating Death too often to count.
Those times where the “Dragon” chased and caught me.
Not vice versa.
We did not have “Naxalone” kits back then.
You overdosed, you spun the wheels of fate.
Technically I have been a “Murder Victim” twice.
Once when a lovely group of motorcycle enthusiasts and I had a slight business debate over the black market price of Valium.
We must have had a very religious talk.
I recall asking for a moment with my God.
I don’t think “He” showed up.
I remember asking for the Catholic Son of God to come to the party.
If he arrived I cannot seem to remember.
It was as if I was swooped up into a surreal tornado of pain and confusion.
I think that when the one eyed nice man accidentally broke his chair on my head I may have blacked out.
(I truly believed and wished he had tried some of the Valium before he got upset.)
Somehow, I ended up laying like a crucified martyr on the yellow line of the McKay Highway in New Brunswick, Canada.
The RCMP, (Royal Canadian Mounted Police), discovered me and I literally breathed my last breathe in the Constable’s arms.
50 miles from the nearest hospital.
Broken leg, arm and fractured skull.
The Constable managed to revive me and applied CPR till the ambulance arrived.
Bless her soul for not walking away from my unconscious form and for her quick response to administer CPR.
The second time was in that cesspool Quebec calls, “Montreal“.
Where systematic racism against all who are not Québécois has and will always be a reality.
Again, I had a mere business argument over the price of a little garbage bag full of a white substance.
Say about 5 kilos worth.
I figured it being in a garbage bag meant it was perhaps unwanted and cheap.
Wouldn’t you believe the same if someone passed you a garbage bag full of a white substance?
Well, apparently I was wrong to assume such.
I also thought I should not have to pay.
I even offered to take the garbage out for them.
Hell, I carried a gun back then.
Hell, I carried two guns back then.
I even showed them my guns.
The guy with the gun and the white hat always wins in the movies.
Right? Always wins.
(Unfortunately, that day, I forgot to wear the white hat.)
A short time after showing them my guns , I was discovered deceased in a laneway next to my hotel.
Funny how, immediately after they heard the sound of the window’s glass shattering, passerbys witnessed me and my chair bouncing down the service laneway.
Thankfully, a good Samaritan was gracious enough to dial the 3 magic digits, 911.
It may have been the extreme beating and/or forced overdose that stopped my heart.
I am inclined to believe that the chair ride held most of the blame.
I believe that when the nice gentlemen picked up the chair they had joyfully tied me to and then accidentally through it with me out the second floor window, well, and this is just my personal belief, mind you, it may have contributed to my temporary demise.
The only time in my life that I was happy to be in Montreal was in the back of that ambulance.
Waking to the cramp from the defibrillator and vomit spewing out of my nose and mouth taught me a lot.
The activated charcoal solution they pumped into my stomach tasted like I had licked the inside of a charcoal barbeque.
I do not like Montreal.
I go into the plane’s toilet and make a healthy bowel movement each and every time I have flown over that itchy city.
My own personal “Mile High Club”.
‘Nuff said. I sound racist. I am not. I “race” for no man.
I never race. I am lazy like that.
So I leave you with this polyl of knowledge…..
Your life and well being is a matter of choosing the right choices.
So sayeth The LightHouse Verner