<<<<<<< the_clones_of_guelph.html

GNUPG! You need to get some ENCRYPTION, BUB.




Most of the time "ugly" is a state of mind. To surpass that state of mind, you have to encourage the ugly person to reach beyond their ugliness - this is what the liquor is for. If that doesn't work, you'll need to look very hard for the inner beauty of the ugly person - this is what the paper bag is for.
-- MLP



We're not like the others.  We really hate you.

No, you don't understand, Michael. I *do* always have to be an ass. It's all I have left. -- Tjames Madison


>>>>>>> 1.12

Clones in Guelph

"...with each eye looking in a slightly different direction."

Each of us carries around a little model of the universe. We assume the medium in which the model operates is functioning correctly. To imagine otherwise - that our perceptions were all wrong - means we would have to shut down operations completely. It's a version of "The Liar's Paradox:" How can we say "I am thinking irrationally?"

And so the mind protects itself, even when the vast surges of dopamine we call Schizophrenia are causing chasms of logic to drop out of our view of the world. The brain will change the universe, change the model. But what if the outer universe lies as well?

Myths are stories that are more true than actual events. They resonate within us because they exist in the very medium our little model runs in. Sylvia's story is truer than history; I swear to you that there are clones in Guelph.

-- Quaker State Tapioca Rupture

My partner left with the software company and I was left with no income and my wheels spinning. I spent my time making tarot cards, and listening to the radio. I needed some money. I heard on the radio that there was going to be a craft fair in the city of Guelph in Saint George's Square. Tables could be rented for three dollars. I had about enough money left to rent a table and put some gas in the car. I had been trying to sell the tarot cards through bookstores and head shops. Perhaps I would have better luck at this craft fair.

It was a beautiful day. I wasn't sure where Saint George's Square was. As I was driving, I listened to the radio for directions. Guelph is a pretty city. I noticed some people gathered and a band getting ready to play in a small square on the corner of Wyndham and Quebec streets, and found parking nearby. I gathered some paintings and my old red thrift store vintage crocodile skin suitcase which contained the tarot cards and some books of poetry that I had made, and made my way to the square. Sure enough, it was the place. There was a girl named Megan renting the tables. I paid for mine, and set it up at the edge of the square near some shrubbery, where I had a good view of the band. I propped the paintings up against some bushes. I don't know why I had painted those paintings.

Guelph Fever -- Catch it!

Sometimes I feel compelled to paint. I always paint with oils; I like the sensuous feel of the pigment slithering from the brush to canvas. The paintings always seem to have asymmetrical faces, with each eye looking in a slightly different direction. The paintings leaning against the bushes seemed to be viewing the square from a couple of angles.

I noticed a barefoot man with long hair and a tan sitting on the other side of the square reading a book. He was very handsome. A beautiful woman with long hair and a magazine figure was walking towards him and I assumed she was his girlfriend, but she kept walcing past him. He remained absorbed in his book. I hoped he would look up at me. The sun glinted off his hair and glowed from his skin. He made me curious. He seemed magical.

A well dressed oriental man walked across the street away from the square, and disappeared into the entrance of a shopping complex. He seemed to float, moving gracefully. His suit was dark and perfectly tailored, and he carried a slim briefcase. Oddly, later in the afternoon I noticed an identical man, walking in the same direction and disappearing into the same shopping complex. I had a sense that something peculiar was going on. The scene seemed staged. People seemed to be following a script, or following orders. This made me nervous, and excited.

I sold a few decks of cards and some poetry books, and kept running with the change to the parking meter near where my car was parked. As the day lengthened, I seemed to be making only enough money to feed the parking meter. But I didn't care. The sun was shining brilliantly and the music was entertaining. I was having a good time.



Over.  End of Story.  Go home now.


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