Some Whole Wheat Words

And Other Up-Lift

Sandwich Gourmet

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I used to have a girl with whom I’d talk about sandwiches.

“People who really know their sandwiches,” she said, “—sandwich gourmets—always use butter, even if they’re putting mayo on there too.”

Why? I asked. And sandwich gourmets? Really?

“Really. Keeps the bread from getting soggy,” she said.

Nothing worse than a soggy sandwich.


We walked across a dry concrete courtyard. It was indian summer and on campus boys and girls smoked and read books in the colourless sunlight. The grass was still brown and freezerburnt. Geometric 1970s buildings cast mathematical shadows on rounded 1960s buildings.

Days later, the girl decided that what we were doing wouldn’t work. Among other things we no longer would discuss sandwiches. Afterwards I made sandwiches without her input.

2 Slices white bread
Hardened refrigerated margarine

Using cereal spoon, break margarine evenly onto bread. Put sandwich down, half-eaten, and slide it off the plate into the garbage. Leave house.

2 Slices stale springwater rye
1 Discount smoked mackerel fillet

Spread tzatziki on bread, portion with mackerel fillet and cover with tzatziki-spread bread. Eat too many of these until your lips smell like fish and you feel sick. Lay on back, on bed, and look at the ceiling.

2 Toasted whole wheat loaf-ends
Canned anchovy fillets

At breakfast, use fork to dredge fillets through can, gathering oil and salt. Smash fillets into pores of bread. Chew mechanically. Repeat at suppertime.

1 Stale baguette
Olive oil
Balsamic vinegar

Bite into baguette, cutting roof of mouth on petrified crust. Recoil. Pour oil into bowl. Add vinegar. Dip baguette in oil to soften. Chew. Feel sting as vinegar meets torn roof of mouth. Take call from father. Talk and finish talking. Snap phone closed, noting time, and place on table. Forget time. Check time again. Finish baguette. Run tongue, slightly acid-burnt, back and forth across bottom row of teeth.

When I was in grade school I had different, smaller teeth and a planner to help me remember things. In the corner of each page there was a quote from someone like Margaret Thatcher, telling me to be more opinionated or stating truisms. Some pages had facts:

Did You Know: Smiling takes x fewer muscles than frowning.

The implication is that smiling is justifiable even to someone who closely rations their muscle-energy. By maintaining a positive aspect they will save y(x), where y is a number of calories per facial muscle per exertion.

I have found that making no facial expression of any kind carries the lowest energy cost. To further save energy, I keep my eyes focused beyond the faces of the people I pass, and take no interest in my surroundings. I imagine a number of white sinusoidal lines slowly drifting over a field of grey (R:34.9; G:31.0; B:30.2). Efficiency is my goal.


Written by wholewheatwords

April 10, 2009 at 10:15 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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My mother, when she was young, had a son, and
It was pouring rain..and we both found ourselves standing outside
you even cite the James Blunt tune
you even
Is it that you are you afraid that they will snub you?
and flashed a huge goofy smile
and flashed a huge goofy smile
and flashed a huge goofy smile
and flashed a huge goofy smile
Hume and Locke will make you feel better.
Trust me
My friend interrupted our brief encounter,
caught your eye and tugged
What harm is there in that?
What harm is there in that?
What harm is there in that?
What harm is there in that?

to your

to your computer to post your feelings on Craigslist
I am her daughter, and tonight, I found out about it.
the times we spent together,

the together the the times

You were ahead of me in the line
(Bloor West), approx 2:30 on Thurs, Nov 20
Maybe I’ll donate next time :-P.
Would YOU be offended?
Or is this a cruel joke?
I can’t help but smile.

Written by wholewheatwords

November 20, 2008 at 10:51 pm

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For a Cold November

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Brr! The stocks and leaves are falling and my family is kind of coming apart. I don’t feel much like writing right now. Instead I give you the refuge of the writer’s blocked, music posts with brief comments!

Can – Vitamin C // Ege Bamyasi

Never say a bad thing about Damo Suzuki or I will appear before you and club you with a rainbow. Listen to them drums!

The Dixie Cups – Iko Iko // Soul Jazz Presents: Saturday Night Fish Fry

Behold, the power of ashtray percussion. The song makes me happy. I want a cigarette. COINCIDENCE?

Clouds – Shallow // Tes La Rok/Clouds Split 12″

I’d never heard Joanna Newsom before when I first listened to this and I had no idea who or what was singing. Was it a creepy little boy? Was it a pitiless and cheerful elf? No, I discovered. It was not a boy. It was not an elf. Just Joanna. In my daydream music video, she is portrayed by a large animated spider and she kind of looks up at you when she says “Do you want to ride on my back? Pray that what you lack does not distract,” because she is deciding which herbs and spices would go well with your body.

Anyway I’d date her.

King Midas Sound – One Ting (Dabrye) // Cool Out EP

Okay, the vocals don’t set my soul on fire, but you have to— hey, there goes a subway made out of xylophones!

Battles – UW // EP C/B EP

It’s pixellated, see? And you’re on all of these clouds, way up high, and the sky is a really deep like, navy-black. You can see lots of stars. They twinkle pixelatedly. An iron-red meteor passes BWEEEEEEEOOOOO, then a Sputnik streaks by, BWAAAAAAAOOO, and then SHEEEOOOOW this little spaceship crashlands in the clouds. There’s a puff of cloud. A kid in pajamas gets out of the spaceship and he’s greeted by a walking green sprout thing with a mustache.

“Hello!” says the mustache sprout. “We don’t get many visitors here. What’s your name?”

“I… I don’t remember,” says the kid in pajamas.

“That’s a shame,” says the mustache sprout. “A shame. I see that your spaceship is broken. Would you care to be a good sport and play through several clever puzzles in return for the space junk required to fix it?”

“I… I guess so,” says the kid.


Lee “Scratch” Perry & The Upsetters – Double Power // Rhythm Shower

I think I associate this with water because in Zelda for the N64 the Zora level starts with the same organ fall and reverb. That’s why. Thank you for asking. You have a good day, too!

Joey Beltram – Energy Flash // Classics

When I listen to this I can kind of understand the people who thought that rave would change the world. Ignore the cheesy 909 hats and imagine yourself sharing the total darkness of an abandoned warehouse with four thousand other people, out of your mind on a drug nobody’s ever heard of, neon squirming everywhere like seafloor predators, perspiration running down the walls. I think you’d be well convinced. Am I projecting?

Jamie Woon – Wayfaring Stranger (Burial Mix) // Wayfaring Stranger 12″

Boo hoo I am a sad religious cyborg subjugating the third world in the name of the faceless corporation which took my humanity away. At least I get this wicked golden messianic dream sequence/gritty battle scene montage!

Can – Peking O // Tago Mago

If only more music was like being yelled at by Martian hillbillies. Whenever I get sad I just remember the time that Damo Suzuki put his hand on my shoulder and said “Joe, PRRRRRGABABBAGAG FFHNGNGNAAAEEEE ANG ANG ANG FRRRADDLEPADDLE PRRRRREEEOOOOPAPAPDABDABDEDADADFRRR GRNNNNN SMUUUUU WAHBABAZABBADA” and I think “you know, he had a point” and I don’t feel so bad.

Anyway I should be doing homework. You take care now.

Written by wholewheatwords

November 9, 2008 at 11:21 pm

Posted in fucking around


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A smarter West-leaning Eastern European postbloc might wait until the Olympics were over before turning the sky violet with katyusha salvos. In this way it could ensure that the Western viewer would observe it being destroyed by Russia and come to its aid. Perhaps it could give out video cameras to its troops and civilians and send in the results to Western television networks, in this way building ground support for its cause. The more dramatic the footage, the more likely a response would become. The audience for war will be primarily males ages 18-35. They will enthusiastically share videos featuring their favourite moments; the perfect rocket-fire demolition of a khruschyovka apartment block; that one beautiful headshot. They will camp out at arms trade shows in XXL size camouflage gear, shining eyed and waiting to touch the knuckled curves and feel the cold armor. More interesting weapons will be designed for them to watch, more elaborate and loud and colourful, presenting options for tie-ins with popular video games. A machine gun which is also a chainsaw. A flamethrower on each arm. Bombs filled with fishooks and tanks with legs of heaving meat. I see a bright future. I see a bright future.

Written by wholewheatwords

August 9, 2008 at 12:57 am

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In his imagination the author stood in the kitchen of his future house. The kitchen was well appointed in concrete, steel and wood. A bottle of olive oil was open on the counter, reflecting a skirt of bright halogen spotlight. It was otherwise dark in the kitchen. The author had a glass of alcohol over ice in one hand and he wore a blue striped jacket, which was buttoned wrong. One side of the collar of the jacket was fighting with the other, pushing it downwards.

“I sure am glad that I wrote some sort of bestselling creative work,” said the author, “for now I have made an indeterminate amount of money which means that I am set for life, though without feeling like all further work on my part has been rendered meaningless.”

Yippee. The name of the work changes but was always uninspired in the vague sort of way book titles tend to be. Inanimate Objects Doing Things Such as Singing or Crying, Someone Performing an Action in a Foreign City, The Name of an Emotion or Strong Feeling, Two Foods or Spices Juxtaposed To Imply a Rustic Earthiness, Doing Something Which Your Mother Warned You About, A Fictional Organisation of People With a Single Unusual Job or the Friends or Close Relations of These People. A Plural Word Prefaced by “The” Which Will Make Sense if You Read the Book. Secret Lives of Everyday Objects or Types of Wild Animals.

“I wonder how many people Missing Connectioned me on Craigslist today,” said the author to himself, wishing he had a more clever way of saying “Missing Connectioned.”

“I bet like a million people Missing Connectioned me on Craigslist today,” he said. “Like a million people. It is a good thing I wrote that work, whatever it was, for now I have good fashion sense and no longer dress like a clown.” He smiled a smile which seemed in his mind less broad and stupid than it looked.

“Hello darling,” said a blurred amalgamation of half-glimpsed and changing parts which loosely conformed to a female silhouette. “How are you?”

“Ah, the significant other which I also magically have as a consequence of writing whatever it is I wrote,” said the author. “I am well. How are you?”

“I’m fine but I should tell you that we can’t go any further in this conversation, or really even this narrative,” it said, “because then you wouldn’t be Writing What You Know, and it’ll seem forced.” It crossed its arms. They were changing skin tones so rapidly that they looked grey in the glare of the track lighting.

“I think I can fake it,” said the author. “Faake it till you maake it,” he sang tunelessly before wondering if the quote was from a song. It wasn’t, was it? Maybe it was just something that people said.

“I don’t think it’s going to fly, Joe,” said the blurred silhouette. The author grabbed its arm and tried to reach its lips with his but felt only a numbing static.

Reach its lips with his,” it said in a tired voice. “See what I mean?” Daylight flooded the room as the roof was peeled off like shoe leather. All things began to rot and wither and curl and dissolve. Swarms of glossy cockroaches exploded from under the appliances to breed furiously over the bucking floor. He’d installed the floor in another dream scenario and now he felt attached to it and it was this which made him act.

Moving toward the bubbles in the floor through a low tide of insect bodies he attempted to press them down, first with one foot, then the other. Each time he managed to stick one back into the underlay another section peeled up leprously. If he just had a hammer and some nails, maybe he could do something but now the room had filled itself up with shining water. The pressure increased in his ears and his movements became slow as his limbs were stretched like gnarled taffy and his fingernails corrugated on themselves like potato chips and his skin browned and grew cancerous. He had a hammer in the basement and a box of nails, as well. If he could just

Written by wholewheatwords

July 3, 2008 at 12:08 am

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Poetry removal is what I’m working on lately. Not poetry in the way that literary critics use it but poetry as the desire to construct sentences which conclude with “in the dryness of the night.” That is hardly a telling detail. It’s what’s called purple prose and it stems from a lack of structure, or at least that is my guess. Structure is about beginnings and endings; for instance, this paragraph began and ended with the word poetry.

Serving no other function now without enough cash to buy a gym pass the metal lock on my desk points at me. I lie at 53 on the dial. After being spun around thousands of times the mechanism is loose which makes the combination fuzzy. I don’t remember it, but my fingers do.

I’m again fooling myself about getting a job today. I handed out a single resumé and I think I wrote a cover letter. Maybe the cover letter was yesterday. Since I fool myself about having trouble getting out of bed, sometimes the productive period around midnight blurs into the furry half-consciousness of the following morning. I didn’t get a job today but I fooled myself very effectively.

Paragraphs should begin and end on the same topic because they are like hamburgers, or well tuned cars. Occasionally they are like human bodies which are peeled away in layers. The skeleton is the bottom layer. Often in classes where this is the case, the teacher will say “now we have to put some meat on these bones.” However, the rules of English generally dictate that human bodies do not contain meat. This has never clearly related to paragraphs in my mind. I am not good at writing paragraphs. There were no tomatoes in Italian cooking before the discovery of the New World.

It is accurate to say that I do not feel excellent today. A more accurate description would involve the term dysphoria. My moods seem to change from high to low at random. It is possible to wake up bad; for instance, I woke up bad today. Yesterday on the toilet I came up with the title of the book I will write if I become a miserable unknown: The Failure. It will be semi-autobio— how did you guess?

I feel no strong attachment to anything unless I am on drugs. This strikes me as a very ambivalent way to be. If anything ambivalence is punished in nature. All things are a part of nature. I am a thing, therefore I am part of nature. Therefore I should expect punishment. Even severe punishment does not much concern me; right now I feel ambivalent about it, actually. Therefore I am not on drugs.

Written by wholewheatwords

May 2, 2008 at 9:12 pm

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Short Hiatus

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Do enough drugs and eventually you start to wonder about baseline. Back in the distant past unclouded and young there was a baseline level of energy that did not require maintenance. At some point almost forgotten creativity did not arise as a set of biomechanical complications associated with substance intake but existed on its own like a bright corporeal haze. Like a patch of unexpected sunlight magnified in contrast to a day of rain.

Live in enough places and eventually your sense of place is scratched and clouded. This for instance is a basement which has followed a living-room. Memories of other places can be recalled and examined but not trusted. Houses are interesting to observe from outside but they are no longer easily remembered. There are both windows and walls in a house, instead of one or the other.

There are tapping noises in these walls. The small windows are deep set into them and high up along them and very little sunlight makes it inside. When I am deprived of sunlight it is difficult to guess at where I am in relation to my baseline. My guess is far away.

A Dream I Had

I had this weird dream. I was somewhere and somewhere had moist peaty red ground and the atmosphere was throttled by heat. I was a hunter and always had been a hunter and I was armed with a bow. I notched my bow and crouched waiting by the salt-crusted shore of a lake which had been clarified by acid. The sun was nauseously bright, bouncing off the surface of the lake to strike me in the face.

Things came from the lake. They looked as if trees and elk and carnivorous dinosaurs had melted together or forgotten to separate and evolve individually. They had pineapple skin and antlers and long butcher-knife teeth which I saw as they opened their mouths towards me. There were no eyes; twitching feathered antennae grew from the sockets. Something stank powerfully of bleach and airplane glue. I let an arrow fly into the nearest Thing which buzzed electrically and twisted with its skin creaking in the killing sunlight. My head was splitting with the brightness and the afterimages of the glare clawed at my eyes. Avoiding a gout of pressurised blood which spat from the wounded Thing I notched another arrow and loosed it and it struck heavily into the soft flesh around an antennae and the Thing collapsed into the lake with a blast of pure white noise. Suddenly I found myself looking at a mirror; feathered antennae sprang from my eye sockets and explored the cool surface in gentle non-human motion. I woke up suddenly.

It wasn’t a very good dream.

A Dream I Had

I had this weird dream. I was a little green being in a daisy chain of other little green beings deep underwater. I was finely constructed like the motion of a watch and I glowed like a wintergreen spark in a dark room. Comforted by the warmth of the Ocean, I let the tide move me and watched as it turned my daisy chain into a bright green sine wave. All the people I know were part of the daisy chain as other little beings with their arms linked in mine.

“It’s dark,” I said to everybody. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

“We can’t help you with the dark,” they said back to me. “But we are here. We’re close by.” A bubble passed me on its way up to break surface.

“That helps more than you’d think,” I said to them.

“Funny how that is,” they said back to me.

Written by wholewheatwords

April 12, 2008 at 10:17 pm