Calgary, Portage La Prairie
Made from Nothing Writing Begins
I snapped and wanted to join the Hells Angels after that. I figured that I had finally taken enough shit in life and wanted to do more than be a slave to corporations who stood up for assholes more than those who had slipped through the cracks. I took a toque given to me by the company and using whiteout had written 81, or HA on the back of it. Management at the company never really let on to what people said of me, but during the two-and-a-half months off work I thought of something I told myself when I quit Manitoba Hydro. I could try writing a book.
I had the name of a character to go on, Jarred Reignyard. I invented him before I left my original apartment years before. Before finally quitting and moving home to Manitoba in 2009, I wrote a few poems and played with the idea of superimposing them over pictures I had taken in Kananaskis. Some pictures were fantastic and the poetry’s quality was getting better. To this day I have several of these original works left, but they are stranded on a hard drive that I have no access to.
I thought up 6 more characters for the book I dubbed the Dead Indians and they were all Bikers. They were to be the King’s Horsemen, the local bike gang in Winnipeg. I had nothing else to go on, nor knew how they would tie into the plot as it progressed. I didn’t even know how Jarred would fit in yet. I moved back to Bowes Trailer Court in Portage La Prairie to the trailer my Great Aunt still owned and once again couldn’t afford marijuana. It stunk, but I was still alive.
Again, without a future I decided to write. I cashed in my pension fund and wrote poem after poem in contemporary stylings. I eventually found a job at the Flying J across the TransCanada Highway from the trailer court and continued to write, but the demons that haunted me soon again took their toll. This time Molech, Beelzebub and the Devil and somehow gotten into the trailer and left themselves there to haunt and taunt me 24hrs a day. I couldn’t take it anymore and was again going nuts. Molech haunted me at work all night long and told me it would be his brother’s job.
I would have to quit and move on. I couldn’t handle it anymore and asked for the night shift because Beelzebub stood with me taunting all the patrons to the gas bar daily. I couldn’t work without smoking pot, which seemed to keep me safe and keep the demons at bay. They were yelled at constantly and told I would fuck them up if I could. I hated them and wanted to kill them for a while, but figured, why should I go to jail for assault when they are the stupid bastards getting away with it.
I quit that job and tried to hide on Long Plains Indian Reserve at Carl’s Smoke Shop working nights selling cigarettes. I loved that job because it provided the means to keep writing. I wrote poem after poem and eventually had 4 books of contemporary poetry written. I thought I could continue forever and keep on trucking selling cigarettes for the local reserve and the guests that knew where to find us. Eventually the demons chased me away from that job as well and I was royally screwed up once again.
I never got rid of the notion I was God and had a special place in this world, but what could it mean to a tortured soul with barely an existence. I could not eat or sleep again and couldn’t cope with the job after a while. At one point I traveled to Newfoundland convinced I could publish a book of poems and took off for St. John’s and Breakwater Books with three of my newly finished poetry books that were not relevant to the company. I thought there was another reason for me to be there but had not clued myself in yet. I joked with myself that I was on a mission from God and decided I had to be there against all odds. I waited for my 2009 tax refund to come in and took off with the money.