I should not dare to be sad
So many the years gone by
The weight we bear is impossible
If we think we bear the most

But the truth is, it’s not us who have difficult lives
We are all dying every day
I should not dare to be so gloomy
While I encourage my friends

On different terms, we are who we are
Disappearing to ourselves
Unknowable, without friends and partners
I should not dare to be alone

With my insignificant Immortality
To withdraw is a worthless thing
Secure in our simplicity, we maintain control
I should not dare to be so unobtainable

That I never select others into my life
I must befriend the world, to begin to live.

Very weird little stop motion animation about a red neck and his life in the woods. Does alright for himself in the end. And the animation is lovely (if bloody in places).
via b3ta.com

Excerpt

Loneliness remained one mystery that defied Sethren’s mind, despite his understanding of structure and formlessness. The space between the lines had become a wellspring of loneliness, an opaque impression only water seemed to penetrate. He often wondered if his father, a hermit whom the folk in the villages thought mad, living as he did on the wild edges of their simple existences, felt lonely. But then, his father lived half of his conscious life elsewhere. Perhaps the ones he spoke to there, the ones who told him things, kept him company.

According to him, loneliness had driven the War God to abandon the world. An entity who caused death by reaching through the lines into the darkness that created them knew the solitude of the Mother; and after so many turns of a world from life to death to life, so many spirals in so many eons, he could no longer bear it. So the War God grew sad and went to sleep.

The hermit spoke of a temple in the north, at the base of Math’s Eye, the mountain range that protected the realm. He said the War God slept there, beneath five points, five lines and a raven’s eye. So said the old tales. So said the mad. No one else spoke of such things.

“The War God Sleeps” appears in Wizards, Woods and Gods: Tales of Integration, a short story collection available as an ebook from:

Wild Child Publishing
Amazon (Kindle)
Barnes and Noble (Nook)

 
 
© F.T. McKinstry 2013. All Rights Reserved.

Tomorrows Zed Episode will be online as usual, even though I will have to attend my Grans funeral tomorrow. That got me into thinking again.

Remembering in the next lifetime!
Not me my gran, not my gran me. But will I remember myself? So far this life has been a dull run, at least compared to those I remember.

A friend of mine once told me she wanted to become famous. Not for the money, not for the fame.
But to have memories that aren’t dull, and an easily available biography to trigger these memories!
Good idea.
Not my motivation to write though.
If I were to stumble upon my blog and vita next time around, I’d be like “Could’ve been me, but surely wasn’t!” The doubt you see is omnipresent. Between my last remembered life and this one, there are a few figures in history that could’ve been me, but I doubt it.

So, my motivation to write is, simply, to tell the story I am working on. All the stories I have ever worked on and will ever work on.
Just that. I want to tell stories. Period.
I don’t want fame – all I want is credit.
I don’t want riches – all I want is credit and what I deserve. (a.k.a. don’t steal my stuff)

Hope your Monday starts better than mine…
A.

Click link below picture

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For years, stories about the North Pond Hermit circulated around central Maine.

According to lore, the shadowy figure would sneak into cabins, camps and houses surrounding North Pond, and steal food, clothing, camping gear and other supplies. But he never took money and never caused damage, according to a 2005 story on the hermit in the Kennebec Journal newspaper.

Locals, the newspaper reported, said they found odd caches of goods in the woods. Some speculated the hermit slipped out on wet or dark nights, gliding across the 273-acre pond in a boat to burglarize camps, the newspaper reported.

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.Click link below for article:

http://www.cnn.com/2013/04/10/justice/maine-hermit-arrest/

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____________________________________________________

It’s hit me, that once you have hit “Rock Bottom” within the confines of your mind, every aspect of your life, seems to reflect that. Indeed I have come to realize that perception is indeed reality. To quote Captain Jack Sparrow:

“It is not the problem that’s the problem, it’s your attitude of the problem that’s the problem”.

For some years now, I have kept and continue to write down inspiration quotes from athletes, billionaires, entrepreneurs and inspirational figures. From this, I think I may start to write a ‘Quote of the day’ category for this website.

But anyways, I read these quotes- I write them down in my books and I ponder over them, but…it is an entirely different story, to actually experience and put these quotes into practice in our everyday life.

For instance, for a very long time, I would ‘naturally’ condemn the day, upon waking up. Absurd? Absolutely, but one cannot recognise the absurdity of the situation, if one does not recognise, at that time for himself, the absurdity of that thought.

This all changed when I began to put into practice one of my favourite quotes that I have ever come across, and from all place a WWE professional wrestler, named CM Punk, who once said:
“Everyday above ground is a good day”.

Why does this quote mean so much to me? Well I have a very high regard for CM Punk, whether you have heard of him or not, the guy puts things into perspective for me every morning. You see, when you think Professional wrestlers, you think of those big, muscle-bound monkeys, butting heads, wearing tights and baby-oil, rolling around the floor, just about naked…(okay, the latter half may be correct!). However, CM Punk has managed to become a huge star within the WWE, and a multi-millionaire- not for his large physique or domineering presence, but for his captivating personality and powerful words. And yes, I KNOW its fake and predetermined, but if a person can captivate an audience like Richard Burton- to make them feel and experience an emotion- good or bad, then to me it is as real as anything!

I always strive to be disciplined, even if it is for short spurts, and that’s why I find CM Punk such an appealing character because he personifies the term on a daily basis. CM Punk is Straightedge- he does not drink, smoke or do drugs, which to me, is something to be admired, considering that his schedule requires him to be on the road travelling the world 300+ days a year, wrestling, taking hard bumps, and yet still choose to remain faithful to his credo.

Now I’m not the type to write corny, heartfelt blogs, but this one…this one is dedicated to CM Punk, because a few months ago (around the time of my last blog), I was really bored. Just… bored. I’d be doing the same routine everyday, and feel extremely stifled.

I have come to learn, that a change of attitude is indeed a change of destiny, as our thoughts-good or bad- govern that which we do, behave and how we interact with others.

Now I have always tried to be an optimist, I got clinically depressed at one point, and required hypnotherapy, and it is only now, that being an optimist doesn’t work. How can you possibly force yourself to be happy (don’t worry I’m going somewhere with this), if you’ve had a crappy day, your spouse is angry with you, work was a bitch, you’re overweight or you’re stressed out about the bills?

That is why, thanks to authors like Anthony Robbins, I can now say, that I am a proud and practicing “Solutionist”- I now see life with a different perspective- I change my focus, and ask myself on a continuous basis, when I’m just about to pull my own hair out:
“How can I make this situation better?”

AND IT WORKS!- setting the tone for the rest of the day.
Just reminding myself that indeed, “Everyday above ground is a good day”, is a great reminder to live purposefully, to live passionately, to make a mark, to…EVOLVE.

So, as I have learned, whenever you’re in a pickle or to put it plainly ‘pissed off’, make the conscious decision to ask yourself:

“How can I make this situation better?”

…and if you do not get an answer straight away, do not fret, keep focusing on that question until you do. You will be amazed at how vibrant, productive and free you’ll feel, if you just implemented this “Solutionist” mentality into your everyday circumstances. And I know from experience….IT WORKS…EVERYTIME!

This is a great story, Christopher Knight spent 27 years in the Maine Woods as a Hermit, in that time he used no hunting or fishing skills, instead, in a state with huge amounts of game, and some of the coldest winters in the US, he chose to steal from camps in the are, apparently his favourite target was Pine Tree Camp in Rome.

I’m not going to repeat the stories, but rather to add some personal recollections. I worked at Pine Tree Camp in the summers of 1991 and 1992, together with the girl who became my wife shortly after the 1992 summer.

When I worked there, I had heard the camp stories about the NorthPond Hermit, for many years ‘someone’ in the area has run a Facebook page for the ‘NorthPond Hermit’, and they would post stuff when they knew he had been active, of course you know he has been active when he burgled your camp. Unless you were unfortunate enough to be a victim of his, it was treated as a bit of a lighthearted joke, everyone thought he might be a Vietnam Vet, but there were many other active burglars who hit  summer camps in the winter time, so it was often difficult to know what was his doing, and what was others doing.

In 1991 Pine tree Camp, along with other private camps in the area, were getting hit pretty bad by Christopher Knight, and there was quite a lot of anger among property owners, enough to motivate some to go looking in the wood for him. About half way through the summer, someone found one of his ‘nests’ across the other side of the lake, and so together with Greg Oulette, the Camp Director at the time, and another PTC staff member, I took a boat over to the other side of the camp, and met with a property owner on a four-wheeler, who gave us a ride up to the ‘nest’. I remember it was built into the side of a slight gully, you had to be pretty much on top of it to see it, and it could only been seen from the other side of the small gully. We went though it of course, looking for PTC property, and found some empty #10 can’s, which are the large catering size cans we used at the PTC kitchen. Other items were also identifiable as coming from PTC, but were either so worn out or ruined, no one wanted to lug them back.

We pulled the ‘nest’ apart, but from what I gather from the news stories, it would have been one of many nests he had in the area. And it certainly appears he was not discouraged from his activities in the area.

So what is next for the North Pond Hermit, well other hermits have gone on to be Popes and leaders, by all accounts Christopher Knight would like to remain out of the limelight. I hope this means North Woods Law get’s another season, but more importlantly, I hope Christopher does not go back to his previous way of life.

Me, I have never lived on an island. Certainly never been set adrift and stuck on one against my will. And I happen to have pretty serious hermitage skills when I want to haven them: I’m a master at finding the quietest, remotest, emptiest corner of any place when I sincerely desire it. So I don’t generally have to wrestle through either of those dire, trying situations mentioned above. And also, I don’t really expect to run into such a situation any time soon.

That means I rather like my visits to islands, which visits are thus far entirely intentional (unless you count wrong turns onto bridges leading to them), and I like aloneness enough to seek it. Even on an island, if need be. Truthfully, though, I’m quite happy to visit islands any time I can, for holidaying purposes. Whidbey Island, Molokai, Ireland, Vancouver Island, Puerto Rico . . . I will be glad to return to these and visit many another any time I might have the chance. Let me wander inland and explore the beauties beyond the islands’ perimeters. Perch me on a rock by the shore and I will be happy, no, delighted to spend my time in good company or solitude, either one.

A beetle loses its way in breaking cherry trees,
a hermits self missing in an empty petal storm.

~~~

Image found here: http://sarurunkamui.tumblr.com/

NaPoWriMo day 12. Like the stuff I used to write.

Christopher Knight, according to officials, is suspected in more than 1,000 burglaries over the past 27 years in the town of about 1,000.

PHOTOS: Celebrity Mugshots

Following his arrest, Knight told cops he hadn’t had any verbal contact with anyone since one incident in the 1990s.

“He passed somebody on a trail and just exchanged a common greeting of hello,” state Trooper Diane Vance said, “and that was the only conversation or human contact he’s had since he went into the woods in 1986.”

Knight last week was apprehended emerging from the Pine Tree Camp with $238 worth of stolen food in his backpack, after a surveillance alarm was implemented to catch him. The facility’s manager, Harvey Chesley, said Knight “used us like his local Walmart.”

Authorities identified an area believed to be his encampment, covered by tarps tied between trees, and containing a bed, sleeping bags, propane cooking stoves and a battery-operated radio.

Game warden Sgt. Terry Hughes said that when authorities encountered his living arrangements, “It only took a few minutes looking around and making observations such as ropes that were imbedded in the trees that had grown around them that he used to hold his tarps up, shoes that were under rocks that had been there for years, there was enough indication to me … that he had been there for a lot of years.”

The 47-year-old has been linked to the area since 1986, and his rumored sticky fingers were such a well-known secret among locals, Vance said some summer residents would just leave food outside before they left, so he wouldn’t break in during the winter.

Knight is currently being held on $5,000 bail at the Kennebec County Jail in Augusta.

Not my cat, but envious of his wellbeing!

It feels like a long time between blogs (over a week I think). I’ve got so many excuses I’m not really sure which one to use: jetlag, two kids with gastro, going back to work, my struggles with honesty vs privacy  and its implications, having to go to Year 9 camp and having a bunch of giggling girls keep me up half the night, a touch of writers block.

But now, finally, there is a wonderful quiet in the house, apart from Raisin the cat’s inexplicable and slightly annoying meowing.  Oh Ok, it’s not inexplicable, he just wants to go out- I just don’t understand the language of cat very well.  It’s actually quite simple, meowing either means feed me, play with me, I’m sick or let me out, but somehow I always get it wrong.  Probably because I don’t really care.  Basically, I am a dog person anyway who has decided that cats are marginally better than fish  because fish tend to die too frequently, but cats are nowhere near dogs.

Anyway, back to the quiet, or somewhat quiet of the house.  I’ve been craving it, and it seems like it all week it has eluded me. I thought at least I would get two and a half hours alone on the V-line ride back from camp to Melbourne but another teacher travelled with me the whole way, and talked non stop.  I learnt a lot about her various sons and daughter in laws and religion and had a good gossip about work and really she was very sweet but I would have given anything for some me time with my i-Pad and my book.  I am definitely an introvert, because I truly feel recharged by these quiet moments, and sapped of energy by having to be with people all the time.  Now that I think of it, perhaps that’s why I have struggled with the writing this week too, obviously for me it must come from a place which requires this particular bit of introvert recharging.

I even kind of related to this story in the Guardian this week:

He would meditate on an overturned bucket while staring up at the sky and knew all the eagles that nested nearby. And in his 27 years of seclusion in the woods, Christopher Knight also refined his tastes in the food and gear he stole to survive, authorities said on Thursday after dismantling the hermit’s lair in the far north-eastern state of Maine.

I quite like the idea of a hermit’s lair, particularly one filled with high quality food and camping goods.  Not that I think the stealing is cool, but really what choice did he have?  It’s very hard to be a hermit if you actually have to work and shop.  People insist on chatting to you all the time, and before you know it you find yourself travelling 213 kilometres with your book and i-Pad sadly in your handbag, while you chat to someone about whether their son should join the in law’s business or go to uni.  A shame that  hermit guy had to go to prison, because really, he might have been on to something.

Born 1416, at Paola in Calabria, Francis lived as a hermit. He attracted many followers by his piety and holiness. He founded a congregation of hermits, which became the Order of Minims. He died at Tours in France in 1507.

PRAYER:

Father of the lowly,
you raised Saint Francis of Paola
to the glory of your saints.
By his example and prayers
may we come to the rewards
you have promised to the humble.
Through Christ our Lord, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.
Amen.

(Maine Police Handout)

Part of the fun of going camping is the novelty of eating camp food that you might not otherwise eat at home. Roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the flames, snacking on trail mix or just heating up a can of Spaghetti-Os — all of those are fun while you’re in the woods. Which makes us wonder how the guy who lived in the woods in Maine for 27 years feels about camp food now.

Police say they’ve captured a man suspected of committing as many as 1,000 burglaries at a campground near where he lived the life of a hermit.

He entered the woods in 1986 for unknown reasons, reports the Associated Press, and set up a camp site. From there, he was known by the locals as the North Pond Hermit.

Authorities finally busted the 47-year-old man after he tripped a sensor while stealing food from a camp. He was arrested last week leaving the campground with $283 worth of food, and cops say he admitted to breaking into that camp as many as 50 times during his life as a hermit.

He’s being held in county jail on burglary and theft charges, and is probably really sick of canned spaghetti at this point. That’s just a guess, of course. There’s no way of knowing if he enjoys Spaghetti-Os as much as I did when I was a child.

Hermit: 1,000 burglaries by one guy in Maine? [Associated Press]

Click here.

PDF

once more.

AUGUSTA, Maine (CNN) — Police have arrested a man known as the North Pond Hermit, who is accused of burglarizing areas in the woods of central Maine for 27 years, state police told CNN.

Christopher Knight, 47, was charged with one count of felony burglary and one count of theft, but police suspect he’s responsible for more than 1,000 burglaries since living in a campsite in the woods in Rome, Maine.

Maine State Police spokesman Stephen McCausland told CNN that the arresting warden was the second person Knight had been in contact with in 27 years. Knight was arrested last Thursday after he tripped surveillance equipment at a camp and a Maine Warden Service sergeant who lived nearby caught him committing a burglary, McCausland said.

Knight is being held on $5,000 cash bond at the Kennebec County Jail. As is custom in Augusta, he had a video arraignment Friday for his first court appearance. His next court date is yet to be determined.

Maine Hermit Living in Wild for 27 Years Arrested

” A man who lived like a hermit for decades in a makeshift camp in the central Maine woods, who may be responsible for more than 1,000 burglaries for food and other staples, has been captured, authorities said.

Christopher Knight, 47, was arrested last week when he tripped a surveillance sensor set up by a game warden while stealing food from a youth camp in Rome, state police say in a court affidavit.

Authorities on Tuesday found the campsite where they believed Knight — known as the North Pond Hermit in local lore— has lived for 27 years.

Residents of the town with a year-round population of about 1,000 say they’ve been aware of the hermit for years, often in connection with break-ins that have occurred. Some have spotted him walking along the side of the lake known as Great Pond and others have seen his living quarters, which include a tent covered by tarps suspended between trees, a bed, propane cooking stoves and a battery-run radio.”

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Related articles

• Maine hermit living in wild for 27 years arrested (cnsnews.com)
• Maine hermit living in wild for 27 years arrested – Boston.com (boston.com)
• Hermit Arrested After Living in Maine Woods for Three Decades (theepochtimes.com)
• Maine hermit suspected in 1,000 burglaries caught (heraldonline.com)
• Police: Maine Hermit Suspected In 1,000 Burglaries (boston.cbslocal.com)

—

1

            The whispering morning breeze always accompanies that dreadful blue hue that signals another day, one more beginning with but one outcome; an end.

The breeze is but another tender reminder of the unremitting circle of a play we call life. I’ve yet to lift my eyes out from under this scruffy wool blanket but I can tell from the scampering of the eager paws just outside these wooden walls that the blackness of night is giving in once again to that blasted reality of daylight.

When will my beloved night win this never ending struggle?

Gradually I open my eyes and stare at my new day through the luminescence of that brown ratty blanket. Laying there I think to myself: What if I just stayed on this old mattress all day and just waited for the night to take over again? I’ve got nothing to do, nowhere to go, and best of all no one to meet. It’s settled, I’m going back to sleep.

Just when my day was all laid out all hell broke loose at the door, the side window, and just outside the wall my bed is against; those god damn dogs again, every morning, every damn morning. Playing as they may be, they might as well be a herd of traveling salesman peddling products they say I need to be a civilized upstanding and respected member of this charade called society.

On this side of Jacobs Pass, so called for the old-timer Jacob Tooley who went missing in these woods some time ago, I wake up every morning in my cabin exactly six miles out of town, a good distance to keep those refined types out of my hair.

Out of sight out of mind they say, there might be something to that.

Maybe—just maybe, sort of like a blind man whose hearing has been fine tuned.

And what do I get in return?

A pack of wild dogs that those cultured folks acquired for pets but then decided they no longer wanted and then chased out of town to fend for themselves and onto my door step. Damn those civilized folks and damn those dogs. But honestly, to hell with those ‘civilized’ folks because they give up quicker and easier than these damn dogs ever would and I’d go to hell and back with those irritating dogs before I would with any of those damn cultured people—it’s a fine line; a fine line indeed.

Somewhere in those words the concept of respect swings in the direction of those dogs.

Sitting up I feel that familiar cold that these tired wooden planks share every morning with the soles of my feet.

Familiarity can be nice sometimes and at others nothing short of irritating.

Rubbing my eyes I can tell the iron stove in the far corner has lost all its embers and ceased to care one way or the other about it. I knew I should have placed a few more sections of wood inside last night as I was finishing off the last few sips of whiskey, but with a little whiskey in the body the air never seems as cold as it rightly should. Oh well, always something to kick yourself about even if you think you’ve done everything you can. However, the whiskey has the charmed ability to make that feeling go away. That charmed liquid has many abilities that only present themselves to an open mind and a willing soul.

Standing up, fighting gravities nonstop presence, the floor boards creek under the weight of my thinning frame as I make my way towards the stove to bring the blasted thing back to life again. With the sound of opening the heavy black soot encrusted door the dogs once again erupt into a fantastic blur of yelping, snorting, and scurrying that hits my ears like hammer to anvil.

That reminds me; I need a drink.

After placing a few slivers of scrap wood among last night’s ashes along with a few strips of an old rag I grab the tin of matches off the shelf above the stove and finger one out and put it to its purpose. With a flame jumping around I add a few thicker pieces of chopped cedar I keep inside and shut the iron door, leaving a small opening to let some air flow through. After making sure the thing is going good enough to leave it to its own devices I head for the door and stop close enough so I can hear what’s going on just on the other side: stillness greater than moving, silence greater than stillness and pure silence an impossibility.

They’re out there as sure as I’m in here, all involved waiting for the morning ritual or annoyance depending on which side of the door you are on.

Slowly I unlatch the rusty latch and brace my weight as I swing the door open and jump out screaming which sends at least eleven dogs running in eleven directions as if the great game has begun and there’s no possible outcome in which they lose. With a sly smile pulling at my dry lips I slip back inside and pour some water from the bucket near the sink into the coffee pot and sit the pot on the edge of the stove, checking the flames inside and shutting the contraptions door.

Waiting for the water to warm I head to the one cabinet that holds my lover, my teacher, my friend, and my most trusted enemy all confined in the swirled hardened mixture of heated and then cooled sand that sends light curling in its own preferred way; whiskey, carelessly waiting in its bottle.

Opening the door I’m surprised to see that there is only one full bottle left. I grab it in disgust; given it’s the kind of disgust that comes with getting what you want but knowing you’ll have to dodge the angles of heaven to get more, weaving my way through them I grab my coffee cup and I pull the cork and fill my cup about half way.

Ah, the first taste of contentment to bring in the new day. I take another sip and check on the coffee pot again, a few more minutes, and walk over to my chair that sits about seven feet in front of the stove front.

Sitting down I look around at home sweet home. It’s not much; a fifteen by fifteen foot cabin I built with my own hands from trees that once stood around where my home now sits. Two windows, one facing south the other west, didn’t place one on the east side because who wants to see that damn sun destroying the solitude of night. The ceiling reaches about six and a half feet and the only door belongs on the north side. The roof leans at a forty-five degree angle, or at least as close as I could get it there, towards the south, away from my door, to let the rain fall off onto the downward slope of land that begins its descent at the edge of my flat plot where my home rests and constantly settles closer to its ultimate incorporation back into the landscape.

As you walk in you will find the stove in the closest corner to the right along with my overstuffed chair that offers the most comfort for miles around. In the far corner to the left is my cherished bed where I spend as much time as possible dreaming the dreams this world can never offer; realities of existence that will never be mine once my eyes are open, a universe in its self. Just to the left of entering you’ll find a sink with shelves above that hold my limited dishes and a stand where I keep the bucket full of water which I retrieve from the creek which is about a five minute downhill walk from the porch. My comfort cabinet hangs nailed to the wooden wall to the right of the sink where a crown of thorns would surely fit nicely on top of. There’s another small stand next to my chair where a few candles and the latest interest of a book rest; this week it’s another Sherlock adventure where attention to detail always defeats the slyest of the sly. Next to my bed is a book shelf that is waiting for the inevitable collapse brought on by the combination of one of my nemeses, gravity, and one of my greatest pleasures, books.

When one doesn’t have the desire to travel in three dimensions one can always travel in two.

In the middle of the room lays a rug that my mother left me when she died eight years ago. It is the only sophisticated piece in my entire home. One of those hand woven wool rugs from Europe that must have graced the room of some high society snob who never appreciated it. It’s about five feet by six and a beautiful thing to behold with its dark burgundy tuffs shadowing the deep green vines that glide their way around in a perfectly random pattern that is nothing short of amazing and splendor; it’s one of the two family attachments I have held on to.

Other than a single lantern and a few more candles here and there that’s pretty much it, nothing to brag about but nothing to be ashamed of either; bragging and shame, both nothing more than two sides of a worthless coin trying to be spent in a foreign country.

The coffee water is ready now and I take my last sip of whiskey before pouring some hot water into the cup and dipping the twisted rag full of coffee grounds into it. Letting the grounds fuse with the water I grab my pipe and cup and head out to the porch and sit down on my other chair made from a single piece of tree trunk, backrest and all.

That thing must be eighty pounds or so; glad Caleb was around for that one.

Filling the pipe and taking the first puff I catch a glimpse of a few of the dogs that never seem to be very far away.

It’s a strange relationship the dogs and I have. I can’t say I’m glad to have them around because of the racket they make every morning but they do make a great early warning system for anyone and anything that comes within a half mile radius of my secluded home. We’re not cozy with each other; I don’t attempt to hurt them but I don’t let them get too comfortably close to the cabin either. They get the entrails of the deer, rabbits, squirrels, foxes, and beavers that I’m lucky enough to kill for food and use for trade in town for this and that but mostly their hides bring in the money I need for that numbing happiness called whiskey. That great liquid that changes objective reality; and that my friend is not subject to debate. I don’t think the dogs would disagree, with the entrails that is.

2

            My name is Joseph Tooley and it was my father that went missing eight years ago out here in these very woods. No trace has ever been found of him in all that time. And believe me it hasn’t been for a lack of looking. His disappearance was the main reason I moved out to this area and built my cabin. The only other is that after my mom passed I felt no motivation to be a part of society and all the trouble people have to offer. Truthfully though, people don’t like me much and honestly I prefer it that way. Don’t get me wrong there are a few folks in town I get along with and actually enjoy a conversation with every now and then. Like old William and his younger brother Walter who runs the tavern on Briggs Street, Caleb the local preacher, who I run into at the tavern quite a bit by the way, Orville the grounds keeper of the only cemetery, and Mrs. Beatina who I trade furs with for candles and coffee and such. But other than that the rest are basically ghosts I try to avoid.

If you’re wondering of any sort of family history beyond that I’ll do my best to pull some details from the mist of memories and the haze that comforts my mind.

I’m not talking about anyone specific.  I’m just saying.  I’m not exactly sure why I care.  I just do.  And I hate that I do.  I don’t want to care.  I really really don’t.  I don’t want to care, I don’t want to feel, I don’t want anything.  I just want to be alone.  I just need some space.  I want to be a hermit.  Have a small piece of land, grow crops, live off of what I grow.  Not need anything from society.  Just be alone.  With myself.  I think that’s what I truly want.  I feel so confused.  I’m not sure what the hell I want.  I don’t know.  Honestly, I am not sure what is right and what is wrong.  I don’t know which is the right decision.  I made mistakes, and I’m not sure if I want to live with them.

But then the question becomes, if I decide to ‘fix’ my problems, am I really fixing them?  Or will I just be making a worse mistake.  A bigger one?  I’m not sure.  I’m young.  I make mistakes.  It’s just what I do.  It’s in my ‘nature’ (as much as I’d hate to use this word).  But that’s just the reality.  When you’re this young, you can’t help but make all the wrong decisions.  It’s just very hard when you know that the decision you make now will effect the rest of your life…  It will either be the best decision, make you happy, live a safe, stable life.  Or it will be the worst decision, you regret it, hate yourself, hate everyone around you.  Or you will be too depressed to even think about the decision.  Too overcome with grief to want to look back and remember that day you made the worst decision of your life. 

So honestly, I am confused, torn, hurt, pained, all that stuff.  I have no clue what will happen in the future, I’m only human.  I have no clue what is the ‘right’ decision, if there is one.  The only thing I know is that whatever decision I make, no matter what, I will have sleepless nights.  I will always wonder ‘what if’.  I will always dwell on the decision.  Even if the decision I made is the right one.  Because, being human, you can’t help but crave the experience.  We learn from our mistakes, and when we don’t make those mistakes, we wonder if they would have truly been mistakes.

State police say in a court affidavit that 47-year-old Christopher Knight was arrested last week when he tripped a sensor while stealing food from a camp in Rome.

Authorities on Tuesday found the campsite where they believed Knight — known as the North Pond Hermit in local lore— has lived for 27 years.

Knight was arrested last Thursday as he left Pine Tree Camp with $283 worth of food. State Trooper Diane Vance says Knight told her he had broken into the camp about 50 times since he began living in the woods in 1986.

Knight’s being held at the Kennebec County jail on burglary and theft charges.

Copyright 2013 The Associated Press.

I guess going out once a week is not so bad. Even now, I don’t really have the strong desire to go out though.

I have been sick though, just a cold. I’m not sure how I even caught it since, this was around the time I haven’t been out in weeks. I’m just getting over it now. I really just want my taste buds back. I hate how everything tastes so bland, especially sweets.

My filling fell out too. I could feel that I had a cavity, but I knew most if not all my teeth are filled. So I was confused but gave it no thought for weeks. It was really scary having it come out, I thought it was because I haven’t been taking care of myself. I’m sure it’s a huge factor. I’m happy the tooth isn’t as sensitive as it was before, cold water made my body jolt forward and forget about sweets.

This job I applied to a month ago, wrote me asking if I’m still looking for a position. Of course I missed the call since I was asleep, but they sent me an email. I called yesterday trying to speak to the hiring manager but they were out. So, I might be getting a phone call in four hours. I’m afraid I’ll sleep through the call since, it’s 7am and I haven’t been to bed yet. I’m also scared that this will turn up like my last interview.. blow up straight in my face.