The rich earthy smell of piss fills my nostrils as I leak into the unflushed toilet. That’s mostly what I do these days. That’s okay. I am getting more sanguine about my expectations.

I did a viagra and some caffeine so that I could cum, but you know what gave me the most comfort? Changing my bed. My boy Jefferson had pucked on it, and yoga stretching. Sexual release used to have such power over me. Now it is a sad attempt to recapture my past, and love for my father, who only made me ashamed of myself as a sexual being.

I still relentlessly pursue it even though it is giving me diminishing returns and costs me my dignity everytime.

Even though I spend enormous amounts of time pursuing it I still don’t really see myself as a sexual being. I don’t really know what I am. I feel ashamed to think of what arouses me. No human being could ever meet the expectations that I have for the act of sex.

Because that’s all it is, the act of sex, no follow through, no attempt to know another.

I know that I can feel love. My love language is touch. I have a yearning. I don’t know if it goes any further than that? I am so afraid of getting hurt that I don’t take that first step. All I see is a chasm in front of me. Full of what ifs.

Its not, in my experience, a fruitful endeavor. It usually just trotts out the fears and anticipation of the day coming up. Will I get to the market before all the green onions are gone. Will I find a companion to spend the rest of my days with?.

These practical and emotionally existential questions often plague me. Although I have been spending more time in the moment. Self destructive behaviors often still creep in. In a alarming yet comforting way. Knowing what is coming up, even if it is damaging is often more withstandable than the fear of the unknown.

After the day has gone by, though, it is often only in the living of the day that we get a glimpse of what might have been or regret what has become.

I’ve started to see in technicolor, again. More than that, I’ve started to feel the same way, even the dust on my shelves adds a texture that would not be there if the shiny plastic was clean.

I walk along the shabby, broken streets, past the falling houses, that I can’t believe are still occupied. Framed by the richest, most vibrant shades of green foliage. It all makes for a rich, full tapestry.

I harken back to my earlier life, where I felt cut off from others, in a sterile environment, doors and windows a barrier to life and its interplay. I say hi to my corn tortilla making nieghbor almost every day, as she works in front of her wood fired grill, upon which she produces six inch circles of baked corn, from the open window of my truck, as I park. I say hello to many as I walk the streets or visit

I interact with many cats when I volunteer for a cat sanctuary, where by the way I am part of the bandied about, loosely defined CAT COUNCIL. I go visit with and watch a friend make transcendent stain glass pieces. I walk to the market, almost every morning to see a plethora of colours and shapes. I choose witch of these fruits and vegetables I will eat that day, or the next.

I drink lots of plain, and coconut water and eat ice cold watermelon to keep my self hydrated. Mango season alone is a delight to participate in. The smoothies I have made. The simple pleasure of an overripe mango mixed with ice, tamarind, lime, orange, mame, coconut cream, banana and ginger is a moment I can look forward to on the hottest, most sweaty of days.

I can only hope for it to be my life for the foreseeable future. I have Jefferson and Ferguson to travel with me there. It isn’t always easy traveling through life with cats, but I couldn’t ask for better companions

When I was young I looked around for my Master. My Father wasn’t there. I started to read, it became my Master. I spent most of my early life in libraries searching through words believing they were my Master.

There came a day when I tried drugs and I believed that I could find my Master in them. I struggled for twenty years, finally realizing they had become my false Master. It took me a lot of pain to throw off that yoke.

I also tried exercise. The control of my body and weight seemed to be the way to the Master. Suffering injuries, and a recalcitrant mind. I pushed through to get one more lap, one more kilometer.

I am sixty three now, soon to be sixty four, overweight, struggling with sex as my latest imposter. All this time I haven’t been willing to accept that I am my own Master. If I take responsibility for my actions and am humble enough to give a shit about my own value. Do what I know is going to give me the best chance to live in peace, and except that, I will have become my own fatherly Master

I have moved to Belize from Canada. I have been hear 20 months. Today I realized that there are no trains in Belize.

That makes me sad. I don’t know why it makes me sad? It’s like a part of my life is missing. I will never have an occasion to sit at a crossing in a wheat field, on the Praries and watch a series of containers, with the names of Walmart, Hyundai, and Esso on a Canadian Pacific train, rolling by my windshield.

I won’t have a chance to race a train across the landscape, trying to beat it to the next crossing. I once got out of my car, went to pee and locked myself out of my running car, on a railway crossing. I was apoplectic!

Fortunately I managed to get back into the car before it became a pile of wreckage. I’ve seen lots of graffiti covered trains hauling grain and oil among other things, but I don’t think that clickity clack sound the cars made as they rolled by will ever go away.

I will miss seeing them roll by me in a mountain pass, or in a open field. I’ll miss seeing the caboose disappear into the distance, to come to a stop on a coast in British Columbia or in a railyard to rest up so it can chug along the same path, yet again.

Wants to collect my financial information. Why is that? Fuck you Jetpack. You get nothing from me!

I love the sea. It just goes on forever, and unless you are scuba diving or snorkeling, which I rarely am, in Greece, once I think. You generally don’t know what you are sharing it with.

I was born on the Prarie in the bread basket of the world, Saskatchewan, Canada. I am what is known colloquially as a “stubble jumper”. This is a term that describes someone derogatorally, I believe, as a person who jumps over newly shorn wheat stubble.

When the wheat has not been cut, they look somewhat like a golden sea as the wind rustle’s the wheat. The reason I bring this up is that, perhaps its where I get such strong feelings for the sea.

It might just be that I had never seen the sea very often as a child, none the less when I get the opportunity, I go swimming . The morning I got home from Placencia I went swimming in the glass like ocean. As I breast stroked out from shore I watched a little wave break slightly ahead of me.

It was completely uniform. One of the most beautiful things i have ever seen.

My advice: go to your market

It’s gentle and almost ineffective. Wafting around obstacles. Not enough to make any difference to the 36 degree heat and certainly not enough to move the stale, drenched air.

It could be so different though, it could spring up slightly and carry aromas and smells like memories, pushing them through my mind, taking me back years and across continent’s

Perhaps a robust, gregarious wind to rustle the ground and move leaves along their way to rest somewhere else, under a rake being moved along by the foul curses of a person tasked with moving them along.

Or it could be hurricane force and moving on it’s own. No longer around, but through, moving leaves, branches and trees. Moving you if you get in it’s way.

I prefer it gentle, whispering in my ear on a cool day. Who knows what it will say.

I find myself in a odd space, not odd for some people, but for myself, yes.

I have taken to watching techno, trance music concerts on YouTube. I am drawn in by the bodies of youths, the fashions they fling about, and the way they move to the beat.

It’s always about the beat. Fast, faster, irregular, soft, Boomboomboomboombooming. Cutting in and out. Fading away to silence, in anticipation of it’s return, because that is inevitable.

Why is this beat so important to me today. I’ve never been a consumer of this sound before? Perhaps it is something inside that is finding a connection to the vibration of the beat, beat, beat, beat…

What to do. I’m not kidding!

What you do. It matters.

What I do. It lives on.

What I’ve done. Touches no one.

This I think. Not true.

Ignore I do. What, who?

What to do! Boo hoo.

What’s you? I push the trigger.

All that’s left to do.