With Gusto

It Begins With Negative Grammar

And for smattering the city with your trash, you feel as though the righteousness of kings and lords dead belongs in your hand!

Cans, bottles. Do YOU know their stories, their mysterical journey across the globe may take you to places you’ve probably never been before in your entire current life! If you like a good mystery, he sure does, then you will absolutely love to hear what Bottlers do to make a living~ they take their poo and then sell it to Santa Claus Impersonators Club of Mass. B.C. in the south of main, in the south of main, the bottles feed their veins.

These men live tragic lives, and they don’t care. They probably would hate you if they met you in real life, which is where they operate. You feel sympathy, and they, filled with an impoverished contempt to those who walk the streets, ride buses, take the ferry, or water-ski to work, look to the ground and scavenge for bottles and cans. They depend on the people they hate: drunks smuggling out bottles from closing nite-clubs then abandoning the bottle on the walk home, the juice carton fresh from a child’s hand, the water bottles from a picnic. You will find your salvation, your independence from these feelings through hard will and a secure path to enlightenment; that is, if you harbour enough negative capability to handle your current problems without cause for change. If that is the case, then I suggest you take a bath, and forget about things for awhile. It'll all blow over, then you can come out and we'll pour you a glass of your favourite fucking wine!

Brain Young reflects on his impoverished life: alcoholic, separated from a wife in Chilliwack, homeless, first in Nanaimo and now Victoria, a bottler, a vague life lived in small pollution shrouded suburbs. Eyes blinking awake, the cement wall beside him, patchy-grass underneath him, he sees cherry blossoms, each petal the size of an infant’s fingernail floating in the tree above him. Clothed in a plaid shirt and brown pants, he wriggles his body, waking it up. His foot skims the black garbage bag beside him, and it clanks with bottles. The wine bottle from last night lies in a small patch of grass amidst the gravel lot in which he slept. He runs his hand through his thick goatee and moustache, along his grizzled cheeks, and through his hair. He licks his hand and rubs it along his lips and chin, washing off any possible trace of wine. This is the closest he’ll come to cleaning. The sound of traffic makes itself apparent as if it has always been there. The breeze, the city air, the smooth escape of the nite before all at once in his head. He’ll spend the day working towards escape. Victoria is a good city, he feels, although he only moved a week ago.
“It’s impossible to starve,” he says.

With his bag in hand, he stands up and walks towards the bottle depot where he can cash in for the morning, and probably rummage up a shopping cart from an alleyway.

He pushes his jangly cart towards the bottle depot. He will buy a jug of wine and get wasted in the park, maybe explore the city.

When he hits the streets, he does so as a venomous lecher who would probably bugger a child, given the chance! He can’t spend all his money on wine!

Open your arms, and speak with peace. There is a humility which follows the lives of the meek without trial or trepidation; it is merely as a squirrel, or as a river otter in a dried up stream. When bottlers collect bottle, they do so for the command of us all, where we obey each other not through orders, but through adaptation, a fierceness expressed with negative gestures, rather than thoughts. The gestures then get passed on as if it were a driving school, or better yet, bratwurst.
Brain Young will most likely not eat a bratwurst for a very long time. He’s too poor. He’s too much of a drunkard wandering the streets, another bum without a job, another half-wit walking the good sidewalks, diverting our attention from those who deserve it. It’s about time the tenured profession of paramount said a few things in regards to bottles. On behalf of the Bottle Return, we have with us today Fergusun, who manages the Bottle Return.
So tell me Fergusun, do u shit yerself?

Posted by matty-b at March 8, 2005 9:28 PM