Dream Catcher

Can’t shake this mood this prevailing feeling
Nothing is how it should be
I find my bed lately and look at the ceiling
Wondering what waits in the morning for me

When the ghost stories end my mind turns to dust
I give in to my monsters at large
Giving up on the dreams and the ones that I trust
Seems my dream catcher needs a charge

My spirit's gone lame my notes are all flat
Friends will laugh as I fall
I’ve run out of swings when it’s my turn to bat
When the bell rings can’t answer the call

So the nightmares are over and daymares begin
If it happens to you you will know
Whistle away face the sun with a grin
Put your lips together and blow

Dan Blix

Dreams Don't Float

If streets could talk, our streets would cry
With lonely walks and scraping by
Of cold and hunger garbage bins
Still no room to take us in

Of broken homes and broken dreams
Of broken bones and silent screams
There’s no place left to cast our vote
The bay is calling and dreams don’t float

Yesterday’s child at school or play
Never saw themselves this way
They always thought that someone cared
Now they’re tired and cold and scared

Our leader tells us things are great
He eats his meal we lick his plate
He doesn’t seem to realize
One will live while another one dies

Long lost hope and abandoned goals
You think about the hungry souls
You think about the coming storm
A cardboard home to keep you warm

Dignity hope and self-respect
Can leave you when you least expect
Someone close may leave the boat
The bay is calling and dreams don’t float

Things don’t have to be this way
If we speak up for a better day
We can help to make things better
If we use our voice or pen a letter

We’re not alone in this battered boat
The bay is calling and dreams don’t float

Dan Blix

Traces

I’m still looking searching out
In all the wrong places
where I might find hope
that I might find love
Traces

Searching out the souls who know
with all their social graces
a little here, a little there
Traces

On the streets I watch and
hope to recognize the faces
to smile a while in passive style
trying to find
Traces

What are you searching for
wandering through the mazes
nothing is what nothing was
Traces

Losing hope with blinders on
going through the paces
a shadow here, a footprint there
Traces

My eyes are growing heavy
trying to see through hazes
a foggy night, a fleeting sight
Traces

Dan Blix

Little Boy Lost

I have searched most everywhere
In the house and in the yard
Looking near and looking far
Trying to find that single clue
That would bring me close to you

It’s been so long that you’ve been gone
I’m really not sure if I’d know you
If you’re hiding you’re doing it well
Come out I’ve something to show you

Little boy lost where can you be
In the garden or behind a tree
Or in the tall grass taking a nap
Under the shade of a mushroom cap

I miss your laugh I miss your smile
Come and sit with me awhile
We’ll talk of time and where it went
Of broken hearts and time well spent
We’ll talk of dreams and nightmares too
The hopes and fears of little boy blue

Return to me and let me know
All that’s passed since I let you go
I have to find you at any cost
I just must find my little boy lost

Dan Blix

Treasures and Trash

Things break down, then things break up
but you never break even.

I wear one mask at night and exchange it
for another in the morning. Treasures and Trash...
Life in a Box

The space was full of unfulfilled promises
and the stench of defeat and failure.
Dead dreams lay scattered on the floor.
The air was stale.
Boxes of baggage and bags of mould
Reminders of yesterday, for better for worse.

There are physical scars and the other kind.
The physical you learn to live with
because everyone can see them, and accept them.
They are sometimes worn as badges of courage
Trophies from victories and reminders of defeat

The others are hidden, shrouded in secrecy and mystery,
only available for your ministering and healing.
Cosmetic surgery of the soul.

I feel like the bunny with the bad battery.
The ground shook violently, then cracked and split
like a Christmas walnut.
Headstone fell upon headstone, upon headstone
like some game of devil’s dominos.
While he lay celebrating on a cloud.

Dan Blix

Hermitology 101

Are Hermits a genetically stimulated oddity or simply the product of neglect? What are the ingredients that make up a loner? I believe, If you take a taste of success, a scoop of love, add an ample portion of heartbreak, a certain amount of betrayal, stir in a pound of failure and a pinch of cornered rat, then blend into a bowl with low self esteem, mixed with a lack of confidence, throw in some self pity, a respect for nature and bake slowly for twenty years, you may then, be on the right track.

If there were courses in Hermitology, taught by the world’s leading Hermitologists, would you enroll? Of course not! Simply because the Hermitologists would not show up to enlighten and neither would you for that matter. Hermitedness is something, I believe, that follows a spontaneous path and is guided by events that occur outside the realm of predictability and common sense. I can’t claim to know any Hermits, which tells me they have successfully and skillfully succeeded in their quest of anonymity.

I do believe though, that I had a close encounter of the third kind with just such a recluse a few weeks back at the exit door of a large retail store in Gravenhurst. As I left the store I came close to knocking over an old timer, right out of the pages of Prospector’s Digest. He looked about seventy years old, with a full beard and very few teeth, not that this is a prerequisite for being a Hermit, but he could well have been typecast in the role. In fact he looked more like the perennial sidekick, Gabby Hayes than even Gabby himself. He had an amazed grin on his face as he watched the automatic door open and close, and said to no one in particular 'Ain’t that the darndest thing!' In true western gibberish! I couldn’t help but smile at the childlike amazement that lit up his face. It had to make anyone wonder where this man had been hiding for the past number of years. Being a romantic, I dismissed the possibility he was mentally challenged, but chose to think of him as a voluntary social dropout. How and where he lived, I could only speculate. A path, I’m guessing, the old fellow followed for years and for reasons only he knew. As I left the parking lot he remained transfixed as his head swung from side to side with every opening and closing of the magic door. I wasn’t sure what brought him to town, but I had a good idea what would drive him back into seclusion. The world was just moving too fast for his liking. Who knew what was waiting around the corner?

For those who would actively pursue this life style, be warned! Hermitedness cannot be created and is not contrived. It is usually gender specific, although the word Hermette has been used on occasion to describe self-exiled women. I’m sure a degree or doctorate must be earned with years of shattered dreams, broken promises and a general mistrust of fellow man, cultivated with bad decisions and developed to perfection with word fasts. So for those of you, who consider yourselves Hermitically inclined, lock your doors and your hearts and let it happen naturally. For those of you, male or female, teetering on the threshold but not yet ready to make the commitment... happy trails or seek help!

Dan Blix

Cheers for Chairs

A chair is a sad thing when it’s all alone.
Waiting so patiently ‘till you come home.
It remembers a time when it had its roots
buried deep in the soil near its mother.
When it swayed as it played in the woods,
where it stayed, with its father and sisters and brothers.

For a chair to be happy, for a chair to feel close,
It needs the warmth of your body.
It has to have feelings much stronger than most
to act as a resting place, act as a host.
And anticipate what is soon to come,
With the frequent arrival of that special bum

Your chair will glow, you can feel it relax
when you slumber on lumber and put your head back.
Just throw your coat on its shoulders
and place your bum on its seat.
Put your hands on its arms, enjoy all its charms
and hear its soft sigh as you put up your feet.



Dan Blix

Rastimon

dis rastimon he a nasty mon
he do just what he please
it be easy to preach
when you on a beach
at eighty-eight degrees

rastifarian is’im...is’im...is’im...yeah

dis rastimon he a nasty mon
he make the girls believe
he can walk on fire
so they all desire
be hangin off his sleeve

rastifarian is’im...is’im...is’im...yeah

dis rastidude be a nasty dude
be messin women heads
got him lots of charm
got a gangi farm
growin sidewize inis dreads

rastifarian is’im...is’im...is’im...yeah

he go on the run when constable come
to harvest crop his locks
he chance to shoot it out
but there ain’t no doubt
him look thru bars in a box

rastifarian is’im...is’im...is’im...yeah


Dan Blix

Measures and Motions

I find it interesting how we deal with pain and sorrow with our own, very personal, emotional slide rule.

The strength of any physical discomfort and pain has a hierarchy. The pain you suffer with a sunburn will be down-sized with a bump or bruise. That will quickly be put in true order when you scald your hand and that will lose importance as well, at it’s place on the pain chart, should you tear a muscle or break a bone. The pain that you feel physically, however, will soon be forgotten, with the occasional reminder of a scar or a flashback, when a similar event occurs.

The same hierarchy applies in certain ways to emotional stress. On the work front, when you didn’t close the deal with that important prospect, missed out on that promotion or failed to qualify for a bonus will soon be forgotten should you suffer a demotion or indeed, lose your job.

The pain that comes with the unexpected or even inevitable departure of a much loved pet, can quickly be put in perspective when a family member or close friend needs support physically or emotionally, and if escalated, should end in death. Although the immediacy of the pain will eventually depart, the substance of the pain is filed and can be recalled to nearly the same intensity, when triggered. The difference between emotional and physical discomfort is that psychological scars run much deeper.

I believe the same principal applies on a much grander, global scale. Emotional groupings happen every day and escalate and recede with the next media news report. The yardstick took on a whole new meaning in North America, with the events of September 11th, 2001. The massive emotional awakening we felt as a nation or as a continent would set a whole new standard for stress and discomfort.

The reason I localize this tragedy to North America, is simply because of the impact felt at our imaginary, impregnable borders, our total reliance on America to protect their northern neighbour to our mutual advantage, and the fact that more serious ailments face other parts of our world. These shattered geographical safeguards also affected our emotional borders. The millions of underfed or starving people, the millions dying from AIDS and other unmanageable diseases not only in third world countries, but down the street, and the indiscriminate cruelty of Mother Nature and how hardened and apathetic we seem to the plight of global problems that have very little immediate impact on our
in-turned, daily lives.

Since the global, emotional bar was set so high on Nine-Eleven, as it’s been referred to, we have become further jaded, as a whole new generation has been subjected to, and has had to adjust to the uncertainty and disconcerting, internal boundaries of war. We have become emotionally dulled to the loss of life and tend to shrug off, or minimize daily media reports of further violent activity in the middle east. As a result of the events of the past few years, we no longer concern ourselves with the on-going problems in Ireland, the insurgence of drugs in our culture or the South American cartels which supply them. Many things have taken a less important role in the media, and thus, in our lives. The
re-measured impact is true to the slide rule of discomfort and pain. These happenings can impact us negatively or make it somewhat easier to be optimistic.

The bar for optimism is set very high these days.

My view from Loon Lake.

Dan Blix

What is a Gurgling?

Making the Connection with a Gurgling:

There is a point in time where child meets parent for the first time in an understanding and a shared appreciation of who's in charge.

When a baby is born out of love, with mutual consent and is awaited with great anticipation, there is always a need to connect and always a point of connection.

Whether it's birthed out of some genetic impulse to procreate, a desire to further lineage or even an egotistical attempt at artistic achievement, we still feel it's worth nine months
of waiting to count toes and fingers and begin sharing love as a family.

For the first years of its young life, a baby is the recipient of much love, care and attention, much like a prized, high maintenance play-toy. In return you get peed on, barfed on, crapped on, rude burps, wet farts and the honour of riding the red eye rocker most every night. Being dictated to by a gurgling, whose demanding cries could pierce armour, but whose vulnerability and dependence assured an immediate place in your hearts.

If I recall correctly I had just turned three years old when I awoke one morning, afraid and oh, so curious. I recall saying to myself, 'What’s happening? What am I doing here? Where is here? Am I a boy or a girl?’ Why am I in a cage? Maybe I’m a lion!

I toddled my way downstairs to the kitchen, because I somehow knew instinctively that this was where you went when you were hungry. Who were these large, but similar creatures sitting at the table? Why were the words, 'Hi Mommy...Hi Daddy', exiting my throat?

Well, it hit me like a ten-pound rattle! These were the ones that ordered me! It all started to make sense now. The gray areas were quickly disappearing and my brain was finally kicking in!

My parents saw the curious look in my eyes and were quick to make the realization that I had finally put two and two together and successfully completed the puzzle that led to my first memory. There were tears in their eyes as they picked me up and said ‘He made it!
He made it!' That was my first indication I was a boy. Why were they so surprised? If it were me, I would have sent me back, marked 'Defective', long before this.

It was some time later, when my parents were showing my baby pictures to visiting relatives, that it struck me, 'There was life before three!' They kept saying my name and pointing to various pictures. Was that bald, prunish gurgling really me? Damned if I could remember!

It was about this time that I was able to begin returning love and start respecting and fearing my parents. They were huge! I also realized I was able to stock pile thoughts. I never knew what was going to happen tomorrow, but I always remembered yesterday. Today? Today was like an unrehearsed play!

© Dan Blix

Buffy and the Buffleheads

It’s Easter Monday and I’m staring out my picture window at Loon Lake. It’s a wonderful time of the year; that time when the lake shadows of winter magically turn into the reflections of spring. The songbirds have returned to nest and the geese and ducks are winging their way to their summer homes. This marks the end of my fifth winter as a permanent resident of Muskoka, although my family and myself have been cottagers for twenty years.

The ice has been out for close to a week and I’ve been treated to the fascinating mating rituals of the Bufflehead Duck. The Buffleheads are a diving breed, feeding underwater much the same as their larger, more awkward Loon cousins. As I write, I am watching their courting display where six black, green and white pretty boys vie for the attention and affection of a much smaller and rather homely brown female. They dance, dip and dive to pique her interest and follow wherever she leads, all the time showing off their varied degrees of talent. Some males are so bold, that they follow in groups of three or four and so closely, you can almost hear ‘Do I have to get a restraining order boys?’ They know, however, it's time for her to make a decision and they're all screaming 'Pick me…Pick me!' I'm not certain how the final choice is made, so I can only speculate that it could be love at first flight or the size of his flippers.

It makes me wonder what happens to the losers after she has chosen her partner. Surely mating season ends at a similar time for all Buffleheads. Do the remaining males lower their standards and pursue the less attractive or infirm wallflowers of Buffledom? Do they meet at the local watering hole and exchange exaggerated stories of past conquests? Do they gather up their dignity and the pieces of their broken hearts and return from whence they came, to live and court another day? I wonder if they slip into protective denial, curious as to what they ever saw in her in the first place. Perhaps the un-chosen might take one final dive, as the rejection and pain prove all too much!

A few days have passed and yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Buffy has chosen the perfect partner to father her offspring. They swam together, fished together and generally basked in the glow of newfound love. The other rejected male voyeurs watched from a distance while tending their wounded hearts and pride, occasionally closing the gap and crossing the line that the lovebirds deemed appropriate, only to be chastised by the hero of the day and chased away with wings slapping the water in a threatening manner. This slapping of the wings, I came to understand, was also part of the mating ritual and seemed to be a type of foreplay.

Well, a few days passed before I saw them again. A loose flock of ducks came in for a landing a few hundred yards off the shoreline. When I focused my field glasses I discovered the flock consisted of eight female Buffleheads. Not a male to be seen! I could only assume that the girls had gotten together for a community baby shower or to trade secrets on raising ducklings. Anyway, they seemed to be having fun diving and just hanging out. Quite a hen party! I don’t know if this was a permanent parting of the ways and who left whom, or just a girl’s night out. I’m not certain, but I believe the females may have grown weary of the adolescent behavior and the constant attention and competitiveness of the males. Boys will be boys.

Dan Blix

Taja The Donut Girl

When it became sadly apparent that our beloved 12 year old Standard Poodle Taja was suffering and hurting, we had to make the tough decision to end her pain. It still saddens me when I think back to the morning we walked her into the office of our veterinarian and friend Mary DeCaire in her Gravenhurst office for her final visit. She showed no signs of her illness and acted like this was just another visit to our caring friend.

I had written this passage to read to our pup as she left our world for another. I had determined to read it, because Taja's soul-mate, Linda would surely be too emotional to get through it. Well, as I started my eulogy, I started my blubbering. Linda had to finish the reading. How she had the strength I don't know. Taja will be forever in our hearts.

Our Puppy Taja

It’s so very hard to say goodbye
to a part of our lives that we’ll treasure forever.
Thank you for the memories and all the goofy things you did to endear
you to the four of us with such a strong love.
Thank you for giving back so much more than you ever received
and for protecting mom when we couldn’t be together.
Thanks for your curiosity and for warding off the furry critters
of Loon Lake with your never ending battle to keep us safe.
Thank you for being a gentle soul and a mother to all your toys.
Thanks for being there and comforting us when our days were long and
troubled and for your happy ‘It’ll be okay’ smile that lit up our lives.
Thank you for all the years of unconditional love.
Thanks for your patience as we stumbled through the good and bad times.
Thanks for picking us up when we were down and for stubbornly
taking us for walks when we thought we were too tired.
Thanks for being the straight man for so many of our jokes.
It has all passed much too quickly as good things do.
Thank you for being a lady and for being our Taja.
We’ll watch for you leaping and pouncing in the clouds.

Dan Blix 2000

Red the Squirrel (trilogy part 1)

It was Good Friday, the day my little, biddy, buddy bought it! A child of nature in the shape of a red squirrel. I called him “ Red ”, which I know shows a startling lack of imagination, but I didn’t feel I had the right to be creative, not having his ownership papers. I once had a cat I named “Cat” only because he came with the apartment I rented while attending the University of Manitoba, and I was certain he already had a name. But that’s another story. Anyway, Red was the source of many smiles and laughs during a long and lonely winter of self imposed isolation.

In December I had hung a swinging bird feeder from a beam under the front porch veranda to attract the Chickadees, Kinglets or any other birds that felt like a winter snack. I didn’t realize at the time the great amount of angst and frustration it would cause Red. He tried every trick he knew and invented a few more in his quest to conquer the feeder. While I sat working at my computer, I could watch him from the picture window as he schemed and analyzed. He would run along the railing and try to scale the corner post only to slide back down .He would climb to the window sill and try to scamper up the window to a lamp that would put him a mere three feet from his target. Didn’t work! I could see his little brain working as he tried to solve his dilemma. “If I climb to the railing, jump to the window frame, then shinny up the wall to the lamp I could then leap the remaining three feet to dinner!” His head would move from side to side and up and down as he worked out all the possibilities. I don’t suppose he ever thought about how he could cling to a plastic, swinging bird feeder or in the unlikely event that he successfully completed his mission how to return safely to the deck. I think he suffered from a severe case of tunnel vision.

Although he feasted daily on the grain and nuts the birds kicked off or rejected, he continued his obsession all through the winter. One day after sweeping the snow off the deck, I leaned the push broom up against the window close to the lamp. This proved to be an accidental instrument of torture for Red as he tried time after time to scale the slippery broom handle only to land in a heap on the deck.

I believe his most frustrating and infuriating moments came as he approached the object of his torment from above. I could hear his tiny footfalls on the roof, scampering back and forth, and see his tiny face peeking upside down from the overhang only two feet away from his tempting target. He managed the main beam and for a few promising seconds found a four-pawed grip on the corner post, a mere six inches from the feeder. It was only when he reached out a paw to swipe at or try to grip his swaying dinner that he lost his paw hold and crashed to the deck. I swear the air turned blue with rodent curses. Although I could see he was clearly losing his battle, as well as his mind, he never gave up in his attempt to solve the mystery that was the bird feeder.

Red was also obsessed with me. He would sit on the woodpile just outside my window not three feet away and watch as I plunked away on my keyboard. We would stare at each other in a contest of nerves to see who would blink first. I never won! I would occasionally stare at him cross eyed and I swear after a time he would do the same, proved I thought, when he took an uncharacteristic tumble after taking a wrong turn on the top log.

On the occasion that my wife Linda and our equally crazy standard poodle Taja would visit from the city, (I meant crazy in reference to the squirrel and not to Linda.) Red would lose all interest in me in an attempt to bend Taja’s brain a little further. He would tease her mercilessly. At one point even running through her legs.

Needless to say, Red and myself became friends over the winter and early spring. It was in the early afternoon of Good Friday as I went to fill my cleaning bucket from the rain barrel that I discovered Red face down and lifeless in the water. I felt terrible and sad as I lifted him out by the tail. I felt responsible for not having the foresight to cover the barrel against such a happening. Shortly afterwards I left for a visit in the city knowing that when I returned on Easter Sunday I would not be greeted by my furry, little, winter jester.
People deal with loss in different ways. I chose to deal with Red’s departure as he would have wanted... with a sense of humor, although dark. When I relayed my story to my sons in Alberta, my youngest, Ashley, asked “What was he doing in the rain barrel?” I replied “Laps...I think!” I do believe Reds’ demise was a tragic accident, although suicide has not been ruled out.

I don’t believe Red had any family in the area, but if he did, and if you are reading this, rest assured, he had a proper send off. Any neighbor close enough to hear, must have been curious on Easter Sunday why the strains of Amazing Grace and Taps, played with appropriate reverence on my beat up harmonica, could be heard rising above the white pines of Loon Lake.

Given the significance of the day of Red’s departure and as one of God’s creatures, I somewhat expect a visit to my wood pile, by an albino squirrel with large crossed eyes, buck teeth and a Halo who just may, finally, have a solution to the bird feeder puzzle .

Dan Blix

Leif Son of Red (trilogy part 2)

Here it is, almost a year has passed since Red did the same. Darkness had just settled in on a cold and blowy February evening. I was looking for some warmth in a long distance phone call to my wife in Toronto when I was surprised to see a pair of tiny black eyes fixed on mine, gazing with interest at me from a window beam. I had related last years encounter with Red to my wife Linda, who wisely determined not to spend the frosty winter in our summer cottage, and she had shared my laughter and my pain.

It seemed now, that the son of Red had taken up the bird feeder challenge. The feeder was located in an impossible to reach perch, hanging free about ten feet off the deck and well away from any climbing or jumping aids. As I watched him in the dim porchlight, it became clear to me that this young Turk of a red squirrel was in much better shape than his father. He appeared stronger, more vital and seemed ready to meet the task at hand. I know I had mentioned in my first story that I didn’t feel I had the right to name one of God’s free creatures, but to avoid confusion as I continue this update, I choose to. The deceased father will now be referred to as “Eric the Red” and his acrobatic son as “Leif the Lucky”, after of course, the famous father and son team of Nordic explorers.

As I watched, giving Linda a play by play Foster Hewitt approach to the action, Leif propelled himself a good five feet from one vertical window post to another. A substantial accomplishment. There was little doubt in my mind, what was on his. I can picture Eric the Red, having a father to son talk with Leif, while looking longingly at the overflowing bird feeder, saying “ One day son, this will all be yours. It caused me more than a few gray hairs, but I know you can do it. You’re bigger, you’re stronger and by gum, you’re smarter.”

This winter has been much colder than last year and as a result I have seen less of Leif than I did of his father. But there was no mistaking the family resemblance and the tenacity applied to their goal.

I watched him negotiate his approach, losing him occasionally in the darkness. I had to hang up the phone in order to get a better sighting, promising to call back with further developments. I strained my eyes, trying to locate Leif and not finding him, assumed he had retired to fight another day. But as I went to turn out the porchlight, I was shocked to see the illusive bird feeder rocking violently back and forth. There, in the last possible place I was expecting to find him, was Leif, feasting happily and victoriously on the seeds and grain. I’ve never heard a squirrel laugh before. Actually it sounded more like a gloating cluck. I can’t say he didn’t deserve to be elated by his accomplishment.

It seemed now that the tables had turned. Not five minutes ago I was laughing at him, and now I was the one with the puzzled and confused look and he, the one with the secret. I still have no idea how he managed his feat in the minute or so that I lost him to the dark. I watched him feed for a while, wondering how he would dismount from his lofty perch. I went to pick up the phone to tell Linda of the latest news and when I turned back to the feeder, I thought I was seeing double. Either Leif had a tail on both ends of his body or there were two squirrels now gorging in the feeder.

Now you can’t tell me these guys don’t communicate. Leif had obviously passed on his secret to success very quickly and accurately to his sibling. There was no way that his guest could have figured out the route to the fruit without instruction. It seemed apparent to me that Leif and his companion were mocking me and determined to keep me scratching my head as long as they could. I went out the front door to witness their precarious descent. After they had their fill, knowing I was watching, they glanced at each other and after laughing at me one more time, literally flew off the feeder. Leif took the aerial path to a large white pine more than twenty feet away and his buddy chose the softer landing of a snowbank fifteen feet below.

Leif and his friends now eat regularly at my restaurant. Usually after dark and always without revealing their secret passage. Eric would have been proud. Linda feels I have been far too obsessed with my red squirrel friends and tells me the effects are quite obvious. Gee! Do ya’ think!

Dan Blix

The Outhouse Wars (trilogy part 3)

Against the advice of my therapist, I have a renewed but somewhat reluctant interest in my nemesis, the fiery red rodents that challenged my sanity and came so close to dragging me away in past years. I tried for the longest time to ignore, avoid, dismiss or just altogether pretend they didn’t exist. I wore blinders for over four months, choosing to justify my rising birdfeed costs as merely the return of the endangered white breasted, buck toothed, furry tailed cardinal. I was soon to realize that I was deep in rodent denial. After discussing my feelings with Dr. Bender, he suggested that I should confront what he referred to as my Rodephobia. Sound advice, or so I thought at the time.

That was in the summer of last year. Since then the good doctor has tried to get back in touch, I’m sure to check on my progress, but I have chosen to ignore, avoid, and otherwise dismiss him, on the advice of the fiery red rodents. I feel they believe it will cut into my birdfeed budget.

Once I decided to pick up the gauntlet and once again do honourable combat with the crafty clowns, I felt a sense of healing and purpose. I could see, once they realized I was back, that they too were up for the 2005 games.

My first mission was to alter the genetics of this band of squirrels and perhaps develop a whole new breed. To understand my plan you must first picture my swinging feeder hanging from a main beam just barely within the reach of the outstretched front paws of the most athletic squirrels. To achieve the desired initial physical change I moved my hanging birdfeeder just out of reach, thus forcing the diner to stretch even further. When the time came that this problem was solved, I would sneak out at night and advance it even further.

The project is making significant progress after only two months. I’ve noted a distinct development in the length of their forepaws. I don’t think they suspect anything as of yet, although I have witnessed my subjects’ altered behavior as they tend to hop more like a frog than run like their mates. If they find out I’ve been experimenting on them, there will be hell to pay! But, in the best interests of science, I feel compelled to continue.

They, as I soon discovered, had their own plans for genetically altering my brain. While I was busy making my case for scientific immortality, they had assumed total occupancy of the outhouse. I didn’t discover the coup until my water supply from the lake had frozen solid, offering me little choice but to get reacquainted with the comforts of home as it was a century ago. When I first opened the outhouse door, it was much like witnessing a tickertape parade in New York City, except it wasn’t fun and no one was singing ‘Take Me Out To The Ballgame.’ My furry adversaries had taken over and established their headquarters in the penthouse suite, a netted off area in the upper reaches. My first reaction was anger, then vengeance, then calm, understanding and appreciation of a move well played. They were firmly established and had made their suite comfortable with leaves and about two rolls of Supersoft. I thought that perhaps we could cohabit for the winter, but over the next few weeks it became apparent to me that they had no plans at all of doing a time share. With every visit came a new surprise. They continuously changed their sheets as was evident by hanging paper. They even went as far as creating their own amusement park using the paper holder as a treadmill.

Seeing as my relationship with Dr. Bender was tenuous, I phoned and tried to explain the goings on to my wife in the city. She, who was clever enough not to want to share my pending insanity, went the, ‘Yes dear...that’s nice dear!) route. I thought it better to put my discoveries on paper. This is my letter to her.

Dear Linda Monday, Feb. 15th

I have a gigantic 10-foot icicle with about an 8-inch diameter hanging from my downspout... Let me rephrase that, from the front, cottage downspout. It’s beautiful and highly reflective, much like myself.

How are your gigantic urban squirrels doing. Those black monsters could tear off a Blue Jay's head and drink their blood. Not like my cute little vindictive redheads.

They certainly make their own fun. They chase each other around and have actually constructed an undersnow tunnel of about twenty feet. I was watching the other day while they played tag and they just seemed to disappear in the snow only to emerge at the other end of their tunnel. They have also devised an indoor SquirrelyWorld in the outhouse. I had put a brand new, sealed roll of toilet paper in the holder and when I returned the next day, I found that they had been using it as a treadmill. It was still sealed, but the whole middle of the roll was scattered about and it took more than a few seconds of fun to do that. I can hear them laughing at me, whenever I open the patio door. A sinister sound to say the least. I think I’ll go out and plant my metal spade at their tunnel exit.

Tuesday, Feb.16th
They have gathered en masse for a final winter assault. I intercepted a communiqué from their headquarters where they were plotting my swan song. They seem to think I would surely carry them through till spring. I'm not quite sure what they mean, other than their description of me as ‘The biggest nut they have ever seen.’ I have since taken extra precautions and only visit the outhouse with the protection of my trusty staff. Their communication and early warning system is something the CIA should be studying. I do, however, feel defeat coming on and am considering just lying down in the snow and letting them gnaw away.

Even as I write one of the ‘Altered Ones’ is spying on me from the feeder. Losing it on Loon Lake...Appropriately. Hope all is well in the Big Smoke. Love, Dan.
She has yet to respond!

Dan Blix

Slum Queen

I just returned from the lair of
the Slum Queen I’m told
Where she cursed and stomped
and demanded ten-fold
Her nails will put screws in your soul
Purple and blue, whichever would do

She’s twisted and short
And quick to retort
She’s hollow and thick
And knows every trick

Stay back take your time
Don’t intrude on her space.
She’ll dance on your grave
She’ll spit in your face

As she slides down the road
She clings to her sack
She stole part of you
That you’ll never get back

Don’t meet her gaze
Don’t challenge her stare
Don’t chase her down
She’ll strip your soul bare

As you dash from darkness to light
Your robber continues to groan
Remember her vanishing words in the night
'Come back and I’ll turn you to stone'

Dan Blix