Let me just begin, as per usual, by just diving into the article without giving a shit really what the end result is. Great Premise, “n’est pas?” Ok, so I have given up hope of ever fitting into the ridiculous world of human normalcy and decided to just write my musings all summer, then hopefully publish a book by summer’s end. Judging by mom’s last frantic e-mail, she is not too thrilled about me quitting my latest job. Well, when you 14 year old boss messages you from an abandon military base when it is pouring rain at 9 am and politely asks if you are interested in doing some lawncare, you start to wonder which type of hyperbolic crazy techno drugs your boss is doing. I think I posted something on facebook along the lines of…”Hey Brett did you look at the ground outside ? It is fucking raining. What are you high on PCP ?” He failed to grasp my sense of humor. I am sure when I was summoned by the staff of the schizophrenic lawn care division, they fully expected me to go right away. Similar to when you are in the Mob and you get sent for. I thought well schizophrenic lawn care bosses can be cagey I better tool up just in case. Haha. Actually I quit. I was making peanuts, but just for the record I wish them luck, they are a grass roots organization that does help folks with mental illnesses, so there is no hard feelings at least for me there ain’t. My pay cheque of $38.32 should cover the next pilgrimage I can imagine or my line of over the edge T-shirts. Besides when you have 5 or 6 schizophrenic lawncare workers in a confined space like a Chevrolet truck cab, you start conspiring against one another before the first job site.
So, I am 100% convinced that the Baleine road area of Louisbourg here in lovely Cape Breton Island is something special. The inception of the pilgrimage came to me whilst having a conversation with my new friend Maggie MacCormick. She is a talented and super hard working Fashion designer from Halifax who works he arse off and was kind enough to let me display some of my Bone jewellery and primtive weirdo art. Which, as you can see in the photo inserts, is enough to freak someone out, or maybe intrigue them. Maggie probably read my “Zaum” review or the “Haunted house” piece and had a clergyman smudge the place after the 2pm set-up. I will say though I scored three ladies dresses in exchange for a freaky owl print. I showed up with wine and was told that my existence is flawed and that I should go to church. No, actually, Maggie mentioned going on a pilgrimage to Spain where you think about Jesus and climb some insane mountain only to realize he ain’t there. Don’t get me started on why I don’t like Spain, oh wait maybe the idiot Spaniards occupying Holland for almost a hundred years may get mad, well too bad. I heard the story from my “Opa”, who is from Rotterdam and strangely enough was in the publishing industry prior to Rotterdam being carpet bombed into dust because of it’s importance as a port. Nazi occupiers, known for their kindness eh. It is the second largest port in the fucking world. You know you hate the occupying Spanish when they occupy your country for ages and you don’t adopt any of the vernacular whatsoever. Well conquistadors ain’t know for their diplomacy now are they ? Just go ask the Native Americans.
Ok, so the conversation with the fashion designer spurred me to visit my “holyland.” It had been over 3 months since I had visited the beautiful spot. It is for sale too. I will get to that later in the article. So, after I try to bribe everyone at the end of the pop jewellery show with posters and eat some scraps of pita bread and buy clothes for my model friend Breagh, who is also a super talented singer and a legit model. I think I have her willing to model some ‘DOOM METAL TRIBUNE” t-shirts too eh. So, late friday evening I decide that a pilgrimage to my “holyland” is in order. I whiff my hiking pack, Norse amulets, Magik objects, candles, doom metal cd’s, hiking boots and some food for the trip. Fuck, it is only 30 minutes or so from my residence. So, I throw all my gear into the Toyota and head out early Saturday afternoon. The only shitty part is that I forgot the cheesy fishing hat that covers my pale “Norse” face from the brutality of sunlight. I am designing a “DOOM METAL TRIBUNE” clothing line of cruise wear for the insane, so I will include the fishing hats that make people think you are a middle aged go getter dentist from Vermont. I figure that if Nick Cave can make those Neon blankets, and Danzig can make baby “onsies”, I can make a line of cruisewear. Coasters, hyperbolic briefcases, stationary, slippers, napkins, hand towels the whole kit and kaboodle. I saw Danzig down at Super value buying kitty litter, everyone saw that eh. Well even doomed punk legends need kitty litter and groceries right? I tell myself, “Schizo kid wade into the commercial end of things with vigor and efficiency.”
I bobble around the cellphone with on of those military strength hokey looking cases that can survive the” Norse apocalypse” or 4 tonnes of concrete. Well, at least that’s what the salesman told me. I took this to be gospel, after all he is working for commission. I mean look at car salesmen, they work on commission and they are mega honest people. Yeah ahhh ok. I just remember calling my friend Mike who was somewhere in the mainland of Nova Scotia doing some hyperbolic Marathon with his wife and kids. I couldn’t get in contact with my parents who were in Digby. I was going way out of cellphone range. I just wanted search and rescue to be able to find my corpse and send it to “Valhalla” with all the other Norse warrior journalists, when I fall off the cliff or break my ankle and am eaten by the packs of Coyotes that roam the coastline. “Coywolves” technically speaking. Well, when you are raised by 2 military colonels, you give the ETA for the trip, grid coordinates, pack 78 days of food, secure the perimeter, send out a recon platoon to check out the pilgrimage site, and arm yourself to the tits.
Not sure the exact time I arrived and parked my shitbox at the end of the gravel road. There was a couple other cars there, I start out and throw my pack on, make sure I have my custom scent that the aromatherapist suggested. It is called “Balance” and I am sure my doomed aura makes the balance shift and curdle. I trot along the old horse cart paths until I reach the first “Fjord” haha. This is where it gets real interesting. I bump into a Fella from “the Bay” For all you non Capers that is Glace Bay. A place that has been oppressed by deranged coal mining nazi overlords for 800 years. The half coyote dog that him and his girfriend own comes over to me and I briefly consider if it will bite my nuts off. Listen, my friends, if you have ever been to “8th street” in “the Bay” and seen the feral dogs you might grasp my fear of dogs. You should have seen the fucked up dog accross from my uncles’s residence, just down the street from the place my dad grew up in. This dog was a beast from some other dimension. It used to chase your car and then latch onto the tires with it’s rabid teeth and you could hear the clunking sound as you drove up towards town. I think it was the “Scindadore’s” dog eh. You know your neighbourhhood is tough when you have the “RIng 73” boxing club in the backyard and a cliff on the other. I am doing a photo project to photograph the humble company houses built for the coal miners by the nazi overlord coal companies themselves. Just a brief fuck you to all the companies all over the map that enslaved these hard working people and made millions while my family and everyone else’s risked their lives to mine coal. Every time my uncles used to go into “The pit”, as it is called it, the wives were so terrified that they may never see them ever again, that they sometimes didn’t sleep when their husbands did the back shift. It is back breaking work, but people needed to provide, period. There was no social safety net, no regard for safety, and no other job prospects.
The guy introduces himself, but it may of been the mild heat stroke or my social awkwardness, but I can’t remember his name. I will eventually re-edit the piece to give him a shout out for being a cool guy and telling me the story of how wolves and coyotes were introduced into Cape Breton Island. Get ready for it, to control rabid tree eating rabbits that were basically munching the highlands to a nub. The thing is, nobody legitimately introduced these wolves to the highlands and Inverness region at all. It was just local dude with a pick up truck who brought 3 pairs of wolves from Northern Ontario. The three pairs of wolves were released and they mated and the population flourished. I think the guy telling me the story now lives just up the highway in Catalone with his girlfriend. You could tell the guy’s dog was half coyote because of it’s face and the legs, just the way it walked. He told me a story of shooting a coyote mother with a Beretta. The mother was getting aggressive with the kids or pets or something along those lines. At this point I ask him a serious bone jewellery related question, “… Ahh listen man what do you do with the teeth and jawbones, they are mega great for carving ?” The mother Coyote died, but the subordinate females take over nursing out of instinct. Just let nature take it’s course. This is the way nature works, survival of the fittest. Well, nature is cruel so I agreed. This proves the point that if you talk to locals and working class people and treat them like they are humans, they open up to you. Once I told him about my writing, he really seemed genuinely interested in telling me his stories. Let me tell you young folks why insurance companies cringe when they see the Region of some of the car owners in working class spots like “The Bay.” Well, if his story about the secret car graveyards “Upnorth” is any indication, when people are exploited, they start to not give a “FLYING FUCK” what insurance companies think. BAM! I mean I heard stories about guys in “The Bay” driving cars right off the fucking cliff when the cars were too expensive to fix, or just getting too old to maintain. Yeah, well just whiff a brick on the gas pedal and fire that Buick off the cliff, fuck it. I would too if I worked for Nazi overlord coal fuckwads. Apparently, an insurance agent from Toronto or Fuck knows where hired expert divers with hyperbolic scuba gear to go down past “#2” to an area called “Shitcove” to investigate the rumors of exploited workers driving the cars off the cliff. So, the divers arrive filled with beaurocratic rage and probably a Car worth more than all the houses in the neighbourhood. They go down to the bottom and discover so many damn rusted out vehicles that the insurance companies report made the head honcho shit himself. But, don’t you worry he was assassinated by miners I think. Plus, we fenced the fucking scuba gear to pay for food, ain’t that the case. Probably not, but I like the sounds of that better than the truth. I mean, why not drive your shitbox off the cliff. You are already exploited, right? Fuck these scuba overlords anyways. I think have a pair of flippers and a wetsuit in the storage room off of my living room. I will be fencing these fucking flippers on the sly, who wants some hyperbolic insurance company fucking scuba gear. Inbox me fellas, Just don’t tell community services.
Pilgrimage continues out Baleine road after we briefly marveled at an apparent mirage or maybe it was Iceland off in the distance, I couldn’t tell. Saw a whale surface too eh. Fuck pretty cool. So, I really do think this Island is special and “Magikal” in every way. The Louisbourg coast is rugged and alive with life and hard working working class people just trying not to be fucked over by the Federal government. I can hardly wait to put “Pilgrimage journalism” zero dollars on my coming community services stub. Let’s see occult stand up, Doom metal security, 3 posters. All way under my lousy $300 a month allowable income. Hey, try paying my $900 anti-psychotic medication bill, then talk to me. Community services is only interested in saving money, and reminding the child where the fucking milk is coming from. Well, fuck them anyways. They ain’t too concerned with how I am doing, living with a major mental illness and trying to make a living. Someone ratted me out to the Prince street office for posting that I was selling prints for $50, of which I sold zero. I mean when I hire Dwight to wipper snipper the fucking yard for $10 bucks, I don’t get on the horn and tell them. SO FUCK YOU AND THE PENCIL PUSHING SHIT YOU ALL DO.
Start to trudge through up the coast to this huge mountain, sort of like Moses, but if Moses was a Norse warlock will the remnants of some cormerants dangling from a hyperbolic stick to make an offering to the “Magikal Universe.”There is a huge bird colony on the go at the start of the “holyland” site. I leave a Dutch Blitz card with a “9” on it. This is to represent the realms in Norse spirtual belief systems as is written in “The Prose Edda” and “The Poetic Edda.” These, amongst other texts are basically the bible of the Norse people. Most of whom are very switched on highly progressive people. They have many progressive ideas that are at least (30-40) years ahead of the quagmire policies of the US. I got a really terrible ankle blister and rummaged through my pack for the moleskin and band-aids that I packed. I took off my Combat boots, wishing I had have sprung for those hippy dippy $47 dollar socks that walk for you. I took off the boots and go barefoot. A few minutes later, Gary Hatcher inboxed me asking if I was interested in dog walking. “DOG WALKING?” I felt like messaging him and telling him that I am in a swamp surrounded by hungry coyotes on my Norse warlock pilgrimage. So, I continue down to the beach to collect bones and admire the scenery. Well, he must have not got the memo on my news feed then. I do want a dog, maybe that freaky one I saw on the SPCA link, the one with the freaky pale blue eyes, cool dog. I figure if Moses or all these other biblical go getters can wander through the desert, then I have no issues with doing the Baleine road trail barefoot. I do have some shard of something that is in my right big toe, but I am soaking it in salt water. By the time I get passed the “Fjord” to see if my Toyota hasn’t been set on fire by “Sons of Nebadon” or The “KKK”, I decide that just wading through the murky swamp is better than gingerly tip toeing over thorns and pointy rocks. I write down the realtors phone number that is posted on the telephone pole by the Toyota. Price is reduced eh, fucking $50,000 down from $80 000. Not bad for a sacred “Fjord”. So, I add him to my contact list in my military “doom proof” phone and briefly debate my grid co-ordinates and take off my destroyed socks. I whiff my “Vans” on. Yes, that’s right “Vans” so if they are reading this I am a size 10, and I love that you guys support the arts and music. What is the NOFX tune, “So long and thanks for all the shoes…” Yes, I like that song very much. What’s the tee they got on the go, “Never trust a hippy” seen a guy rockin’ one at the YMCA a few months back.
The Schizo Kid
* artwork at CBCCD done by “The Schizo Kid” Norse Eagle (8 by 10) India ink, for sale