Bust of the Day

Erased by accident late last year. Here it is restored, so I could 'frame' them. Tell Dean it's time to kneel to that 'foot' he's been bombarding me with - if he's done kneeling for that other thing, which your lying TV wants you to think rich people like Mike Myers and Blue Rodeo don't have to do, too. Oh, and is my 'grief' substantial enough now? Maybe you can see why I was reluctant to share it here. Thursday, August 17, 2017 Half Dead I've decided to share some of that large poem, the Host, a chapter of which I recently shared on YouTube (V: the Fire). Well over my nicotine addiction, it's nice to know that I don't rely on tobacco to write my poems, but it's a little disturbing to think of the narcotics my poems were used to buy for spoiled TV stars on Saturday Night Live. Such an evil business, supporting a crime like that, and such an evil president and vice president. Hard to believe these kind of people have the trust of parents and teachers while I, their victim, am half the time viewed as some sort of offender. I finally finished reading Dostoevsky's The Idiot, whose cover I featured in my 2013 video for Nothing but Ashes. What a tragedy, but I should have expected it. I wish I could write more heartbreaking work like that instead of being stuck with comedy that stars use against me to make me suicidal. More Statements Scripts Songs © 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. Posted by Dave at 1:26 PM No comments: Email This BlogThis! Share to Twitter Share to Facebook Share to Pinterest Monday, August 14, 2017 The Nanaimo Logs Thursday, July 27, 2017 Better Hick than Prick 11:30am: I am forced to record my thoughts in longhand today since my Google account won't let me in from here. I told everyone I was staying offline for a month anyway, I guess, but things continue to happen around me that provoke me to comment. This morning, for example, I was dismayed to see the face of Justin Beiber in the news. To the woman who wore the black top with the capitalized phrase SICK AND TIRED printed in white ink across her back, did you hear the latest news story about Justin Beiber? They didn't say anything about that song I accused him of stealing, but it sounds like even my superior talent can't save him from imminent collapse. If I were him, I'd quit while I'm still fifty million dollars ahead. And these murders of children on the news show Vancouver's cruel streak, as the city that celebrated so much nasty fraud with my music and comedy - however inadvertently. I think that Plato said something about keeping cities under a hundred thousand, but even compared to other cities of over two million, Vancouver's cruelty seems to stand out. Look at the Pickton slayings. On a more positive note, I am in fine company here on the island. My first contact with people from Vancouver Island came from shipping art glass from the Kona warehouse back in the late 1990's. It was always a treat for me to meet these customers in person, and given the stress of their long journey, their warm affability was remarkable. I do not consider the island underpopulated but ideally so. I have a high opinion of these folk, which may have manifested in Part V of my Obelisk tome, called the Island. I had to buy some earplugs to block out the loud snoring of my dorm mates. The only store available was London Drugs, so I hope that those girls who were mocking London Drugs shoppers on my way out weren't mocking me. If they were, I hope they'll read this note about their behaviour when I return to Vancouver. And I hope that their mothers and fathers are in good health. 1:32pm: Back in Nanaimo Library after a fire alarm forced us outside for a spell. I now recall another thought I meant to post in my Blogger account today: the evil committed by stars with my work will outweigh all appearances in the final tally. I saw a book about Mick Jagger on prominent display in a shop window this morning. I take it as one that is rapidly losing its value. Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones are old fools, and I'm sorry to have to inform their otherwise tasteful fans. Bereft of support from broadcasters to advance this harsh truth, I am thrown into a most uncomfortable position for my music's sake. 1:50pm: I forgot to state earlier that I had a humorous thought about snoring last night. I tried to figure out why God made us such noisy sleepers (not me, though). The blood curdling chorus of the occupant of the neighbouring bunk, in particular, strikes me as the kind of sound which would scare off predators. Perhaps our snoring is a primal security alarm to guarantee a safe night's sleep in the wild. Thursday, July 28, 2017 The Buck Stops Here 6:30am: No time to grieve as I aimlessly wind Sobs all suppressed to make predators wait Then by reflections in eyes wide and kind Out pours my misery, all the more great Tragedy strikes as the utmost of crimes Lending support by a crippling bond But for the outcast with losses two times Caught in an ocean that looks like a pond Heartbreak too hard for my neighbours to grant They with their own clinging heavily on Eager to tears with a smile supplant Like a bright garland cast over the wan Dead end diversion the morbid effect Once the grim option has exercised been With ev'ry face that my mind can connect Rising from ashes to deepen the scene 7:25am: I slept well in my dorm last night and I feel much better for it this morning. I had to see an outreach worker yesterday to determine my eligibility for admission into the shelter. When I told her about my mom and dad there was genuine compassion in her eyes, which I found very moving. For the first time I fathomed my grief, as a person who was orphaned in such a brief span and as one with no children of his own to give him comfort. I confronted this grief head on in the preceding verses, which reduced me to tears; but a good night's sleep tells me I might not have so succumbed were I better rested. It's time for me to put my foot down and try to save some money today. With all the good free support from the Salvation Army I should be able to keep most of my money in the bank. The only challenge is how to pass the hours, but that's why I bought this writing tablet. I have a pretty interesting library book to read, as well. 11:37am: I added two more verses to yesterday's poem and wrote four new verses here at the library. I took inspiration from one of my suffering mates at the shelter. Poor guy not only lost relatives but needs a walker to get around after some awful car accident. He is obstinate in his grief and made me feel silly for trying to cheer him up. How much lament for myself do I choose Seeing in sorrow a thing not to mock As if my good hopes were better to lose Gouged out as pieces that fell from a rock? Still in one piece, though on legs doomed to fail Drawing forbearance from paralyzed peer Whose resolution to openly ail Renders my blessings abundantly clear God loves him more to his bitterest woe Wreaking upon him a horrible price I in position to happiness know Could only taunt with banal good advice One day perhaps in a hospital room Like my poor father, bound fast to my bed I will at last know the measure of gloom That won't be lifted by dreams in its stead 6:01pm: On page 192 of the Analects of Confucious (Note following 12.20) Liu Baonan points out that Confucius was most suspicious of those who coveted fame because they would 'do anything to have their name known.' Such were apparently the ways of the 'village goody men' Confucious condemned as the 'ruin of virtue.' How can I not love Confucious after reading this? Saturday, July 29, 2017 Fraud Stinks 7:00am: Back in a happier fragment of part Mother and father beheld me onstage Where my career might receive a good start As one whose voice was advanced for his age There they sat cheering, their love for me plain Covering over my lyrical slip Shining like beacons to pierce the dense rain Stationed to guide to the peak of my trip And in an interim stuffed with delays Firmly they kept their support for my song Willing to warmly extend me their praise Until their very last breath would be drawn Now I'm unsure why I toil and rack Melody lost on indifferent ears Of whose humanity, showing a lack Harshly makes up for with putdowns and jeers 8:50am: I wrote my four verses between 7:00am and 8:45am this morning. It's shaping up nicely. I guess I'm lucky to have my rhyming verse construction to help me pass the time. A bit of excitement in my dorm last night: one of the guys got kicked out for fighting. The Salvation Army has a zero tolerance policy for violence, which I fully support. The staff person showed up to clear out the evicted person's locker and needed to break the bolt with a bolt cutter. She accomplished this handily, but still managed to look feminine as she did it. I thought it was time to get to the focus of my poem, my parents. I touched on how their dual demise sets me apart in my first installment (losses two times) but that falls short of expressing my loss. I think I covered it nicely this morning, tracing their support for my music all the way back to Grade Six. My music teacher liked my singing voice and wanted to give me a head start on a career as a performer. If only she'd have known how rotten the business would turn out to be. It was March 1977, with the Rolling Stones already having enjoyed twelve or more years of stellar success. My worker here thinks I may need grief counselling, but I hope I can address my grief with my poetry. She explained about how there are several stages to grief's cycle, and I think I'm familiarizing myself with them first hand. There must be a phase of anger. Thinking over some of the things I've said in the last year or so, I'm not sure if I'm myself anymore. It's not like me to blurt out hurtful remarks, however at fault my enemies might be for provoking them. I think I'd have been able to keep my correspondences a lot nicer were I not so entrenched in disputes over my songs and blogs. It's quite unfair to subject me to insults at this time and then hold it against me when I lash out in defence, but that's the kind of behaviour that has up to now been richly rewarded by the brutal entertainment industry. It's quarter to ten and time for me to head down to the library to read some more of my book. Apocalypses by Eugene Weber - a friend of the Frums (David Frum et al) unfortunately. Oh well, I'm keen on the history lesson it offers, though I find its style somewhat tedious. To the person who mocked me for having no car: ask billionaire bands like the Rolling Stones how much money they've made from my music in the last ten years to see why I have no car. 5:00pm: I was astonished to learn that someone reported me for having poor hygiene when I have been showering, brushing, and laundering daily. Sunday, July 30, 2017 Where Is God? 7:00am: Where would be God as I limp from my load? What corner hides his restoring white light? Will it cost all the rewards I am owed While I'm still living to stand in his sight? People too faulty upon to rely Show no way out from the trap they have sprung I turn my tentative head to the sky Aiming a vaporous chorus unsung Justice will come as a pendulum tide Fully encompassing all who now laugh I have the brilliant truth on my side Poised to cut cruelty's darkness in half God knows the righteousness of my despair Set against armies who practice deceit He'll catch them all in His glorious glare And lay them finally down at my feet 4:00pm: I'm glad I'm journalizing my days here because a few things have happened that I should share with my YouTube following when I get back to Vancouver. A woman was dragged out of her seat at the computers by two RCMP officers in the library this afternoon. How long does it take these industry creeps to learn that their web assaults are illegal? I guess our streets are so crowded with released offenders who have nothing to lose that there is a never ending resource for those rich fraud stars stars to employ as professional character assassins. Maybe we need more crippling punishments for this kind of crime. Looks like I finished my poem about the cycle of grief in which I am currently trapped. I may touch it up later, but I want to move on to a more imaginative topic for my next one. 4:45pm: I'm also nearly done my second loan from the library here, a non-fiction book about ghosts (Ghost Whisperer by Mary Ann Winkowski). From it I gather that I am attractive to ghosts because of the the negative energy surrounding me from all the crime with my music and comedy. Ghosts feed on negative energy, according to this author, which may explain my lingering depression. While it may be healthier for me to somehow evict them from my presence, I don't want to offend them. As long as they use their paranormal advantages in my defence, maybe we can work something out. Monday, July 31, 2017 (Untitled) 2:25pm: I'm back at my favorite bench - devoted to Beverly Conrod, overlooking the harbor - to record a few thoughts for the day. Not much to say except that I sense that the pressure has lifted from Saturday's assault. Maybe now I can get some of the rest and recuperation for which I came. Also I noticed a few errors in my HTML links when I checked them here. I thought I'd already corrected them, but if that book I read last week is accurate, my code may be tampered with by ghosts. I'll try not to let them nettle me because it only feeds them energy. Perhaps I may live up to La Rochefoucauld's maxim, after all, if only from necessity. [Vancouver, August 14, 2017: After the above note I limited my writing strictly to my tome's construction, one of whose chapters I read for you in my YouTube video Rhyme or Reason - June 25/2018: Voluntarily erased from YouTube.]
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