Bøger af Rote Writer

This idea of vindicating his life, rife with strife moves him. He's endured just about every wrong a human can to the point of losing his mind. He will no longer hide. He will set aside his fears and fight and make things right. He must right them all and then write about them all to help others do the same. "A Memoir - A Trilogy" Part I: If You Could Change One ThingPart II: Bind Nothing Part III: Closure

With that fleeting fancy passing, he begins his second stint at putting his life down in print. He transfers what's wildly written on paper onto his computer. All his earned, learned and yearned years of life, rife with strife come alive on his computer. Every morning he awakes with the next ten or so pages in his mind written the night before. He writes like a man possessed and he is. He's reliving every moment of his life through writ, bit by bit, and it's wild. Each experience is pushed through the keys on the keyboard. As it passes through him it feels like it's happening now. Smells and scenes of days gone by are so lucid in his mind. He feels physical reactions when writing them down. His memory now is like a snowball rolling down a snow-covered hill recanting every minute detail of his life.He uses coffee as a stimulant. It helps while writing every moment, memory and feeling he has, at every given point in his already lived life. He's amazed how the memory stores absolutely everything, including the five, no make it six senses of every living moment of his life.Timothy in Greek means honouring God. He always envisions God as all knowing and all seeing and here he is realizing that truth. His whole life no matter how tried and tested it's been, has been seen. It's been recorded with every single detail. Not just the experiences themselves; but every thought, every forethought and afterthought. All his words well from being. He records every notion and emotion that arises. Every pain, every pleasure, everything that can be imagined. It's all there stored in his mind, his heart, his soul. Even every sense has some kind of receptor that stores all his life's energy. Every nuance and circumstance unfurls in swirls upon remembrance.It's like his brain retains the remains of whatever, whenever, however.He's sure somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind his passing through the birth canal is registered.The whole experience is magnificent. A beautiful possession. Surely artists must feel this when inspired. He is an artist. He's experiencing what many in the field of creativity feel just maybe a little more than most. He's so possessed he presumes he's to be a proud Pulitzer Prize winner. For months he's self-absorbed in the truest and purest way possible.Fuelled by coffee, tobacco, and the momentum of what he's already written, he continues to vent until he's spent. He then transfers his entire existence electronically from his computer, onto paper by way of his prehistoric printer.When he prints out all he's written he's stupefied to see the storyline literally has a line drawn, as in dashed if not gashed through each word, of each sentence, of each page. More than 98,000 words of an abridged attempt at documenting his life is ruined. When he tries to read what's printed out he suffers vertigo or something. It's hard to decipher or make out what's written with an unwanted line drawn through his life. It's as if it was done deliberately to cross it all out. Perhaps the universe has no plans at present for his life to be in print. It sure seems so."A Memoir - A Trilogy"Part I: If You Could Change One ThingPart II: Bind NothingPart III: Closure

Like a jingle giving him a terrible tingle, the single fact about the awful act is there's no way to detract or retract from it--he's unable to undo what's done. He thinks if going back in time gave the traveller the ability to avoid an act then all that follows in regards to the fact will no longer be intact. Timmy thinks about this a lot, and really wishes that if he can change one thing in his life, it's this. So many bad things happen after the fact and it all stems from that one act.A Memoir - A Trilogy; Part I: If you could change one thing; Part II: Bind Nothing; Part III: Closure

You know that feeling. That feeling you've been caught. Caught doing something maybe you shouldn't have been doing. Well the other day Friendo receives a letter from Social Assistance letting him know just that. He's been caught double dipping; double dipping into Social Assistance and Employment Insurance at the same time."Memoir - Suicide"

Misery loves company and the Magus is miserable.His demise, compromises all those around him or attached to him. He drags them all down by his own death sentence. It's his alone; yet, but by the sheer weight of his height held in the Order, all below will end beyond mend. His sentence fences in all who stray his way.He makes you sign your soul away.Back in the day, every member of that cult come Order is initiated in almost the same way. Upon completion of the initiation ceremony, the initiate is surprised by the sudden presentation of a black book: crooked like a nook on whoever partook.The hook is something the Magus or the then Master of the Temple manipulatively manifests unbeknownst to the student upon entry. Writ like a permit, a wry way to comply within his watchful eye. The Master of the Temple upon completion, commits you to submit. It's done without the why within a ceremonial circle. The book is opened. The new initiate is sentenced to sign his or her soul to the script. Something surely not one of them would've done had they known beforehand this be the fee. So sneaky and snake like. Each initiate vetted in the most vulnerable venue. Each given their rue by a slew of Satanists. The devil's due.A gripping true story of how Justim aka Saytim finds a way in and out of a Satanic cult.

In the middle of the very first night alone, Tim hears an awful sound. Not gnashing, but a gnawing so loud it carries through the wall tent into the caretaker's cabin. Now gnawing on its own, in clear daylight with whomever or whatever visible in the act is acceptable. It doesn't evoke any imagination. You see it, you believe it, and after acknowledging it you move on or do something about it. Gnawing in the middle of the night; where many a bear rambles and ambles by, even leaving a mark or two... way up on the lodge's long legs holding up the large deck overlooking the lovely lake—takes on a different sound. A sound that when you wake up to, well into the wilderness, makes you wonder why you talk to yourself… asking and answering questions; ';What the hell is that?'';Is it in the cabin?'';No.'';Is it just outside the cabin.'';I don't think so, but it's so hard to tell the way sound carry's out here.'';Maybe I'll check.'';Maybe I'll just pull the bedcovers up more and hope it goes away.'Then you hear it again and again, as if whatever is making the noise has no care or concern that first; you're sleeping, second you would like to go back to sleep, and third you don't want to be woken up again. But the sound doesn't stop.';I can't sleep now… what the hell is that, what makes that kind of sound?'';Nothing's trying to get in through the window.'';Nothing on the raft like deck; I'll have to step outside and take a look.'He looks at the thirty-aught-six still sheathed in its scabbard by the door before stepping outside. Tim's memories of The Yukon bring him back to his past and pave the way to his future.

He slips through the hedgerow and in no time is seen sitting on the bench surprised by it all.In the shadow of Old Sarum he sits. Salisbury is in sight. It slopes slowly from the old to the new. Now hungry and not too sure what to do about the rue he concludes…';I can live with the hunger for a bit… but the thirst I can't.'He finds a thrown water bottle and heads into town down a road sloping into Salisbury. Just short of the town, he passes by a park and spots a fountain. He doesn't think he just drinks, with thirsty urgency. He rinses then fills up his bottle.Rote returns to his hideaway without even venturing into the town proper. He's pickled by the predicament. He's embarrassed. His pride is really riding him. He's unable to make eye contact with people passing by.Back at the bench he crawls back into the bushes when no one's looking. He pulls out his orange plastic bag and his basically brand new sleeping bag that after last night looks old.It's not even midday yet.He doesn't want anyone to see him. He has no money. He has no food. He has water. He has a briar bush for a home. It's wet and always leaking. It's infested with all sorts of crawling things. And there's garbage strewn here and there. Some of it is blown in and then torn by dogs.He's fraught with the facts—he's fucked.That afternoon and night he stays burrowed in his bane going insane, wrestling with his dilemma. He's haunted and daunted by his hunger. He tries to ignore his starving stomach.He tries to hide his pride.The following morning he awakes slobbered with saliva, washed with froth from another friendly face, truly a restoring grace. Those dogs delight him in their exuberance upon discovering a bushwhacked bum. Aye, a found friend, wagging him well with a non-judgmental manner. It means a whole lot. They in their way, help to raise Rote's spirits by letting him know it's okay and to keep his chin up.Upon packing his pack with his makeshift shack, he burrows them back away and begins his day. Out from behind his bespoken bench he crosses the park. Onto the road he strolls, stirring up a sense of purpose to feed his belly and starve his pride. His pride is like a life preserver; it will buoy him back on track.He passes through the subterranean pedestrian passage under the roundabout of traffic alongside the Avon River. He continues along the road now into Salisbury proper. Only to be stopped by his propped pride, a pill still too ill to swallow. He returns to wallow.Back in his burrow with a deep furrow, he struggles with it all. Oh his pride. And as the day turns into night he struggles some more. Unable to sleep, racked with rancour for the heel he has to hallow.As the sun rises so his spirits, and by the lavish licking, he surrenders too. It brings a smile to his face.Hunger soon supersedes all qualms with his pride. He proceeds to Salisbury proper. He's struggled enough and to no end, with the thought and the need thereof of begging. And boy is it a proud pill to swallow. It's in his best interest. At that point, he doesn't see any other way of collecting coins to curb his hunger pangs and his tobacco withdrawals... great motivating factors for sure.He's desperate. He's defiantly delayed any render to surrender that in turn will chide his pride. He tries to fend the facts, but faced with them there really is no other possible play.He's forced to say,';Excuse me… but can you spare some change.'A truly inspired story steeped in history that starts with Rote sending his manuscript overseas to London England.

In Lucifer's mind, there are legions of demons bound to his will. His will is to unleash the hell humans have created with all their wrongs on earth so that everyone gets their due. His rue shall be done come kingdom come.His will is to right all wrongs including his own. To return to heaven and to make heaven a place on earth. After all he's not just the Lord of Hell, he's also been given dominion over earth.Heaven would have come down long before had not humans created such a hell on earth. Human population now reaching exponential growth, has in turn churned many more ready to be burned in hell. With so many, hell is now like an overflowing well of worms. There's no more room. Not even for the likes of Lucifer.With no room to grow, many are now lost to live in limbo. Imagine a room, a train car; better yet a cave or cavernous vault, with so many people stuffed inside there's no room to move. Just squirming like worms, like maggoty meat deep in hell's heat. The stink and stench, the scratching and scraping, the screaming and scheming is sickening.And this is just limbo... hell is a hell of a lot worse, with the gnashing and biting; faces defaced, clawed raw with the misery, the maw. The worms, the germs, the bacteria and diarrhoea with no sleep or place to keep. The insanity, the lost vanity; the cruel rule of hell's fuel for all to feel will reel those responsible for their actions.The popes, priests and pastors in the past responsible for burning witches at stakes now in turn burn in an internal, infernal and eternal hell. The bloody battles, inquisitions and spurious suspicions will now have jurisdiction forever over those responsible.A perpetual nightmare is what's to come for those who have done wrong in the name of the Lord.Those who have killed, maimed in the name of the Lord, for money or for possession now find themselves killed, maimed in the same form or fashion or forever stressed with being obsessed with the emptiness of the need for greed. Those who have suffered others now suffer the same fate. There is no escape, no way to wash away the wrong.This is what awaits those with ill fates.Lucifer has no choice but to incarnate to what abates.There's no such thing as a clean slate. Only fools think forgiveness leaves them free to go on another killing spree. Those who think the Lord suffered for them sickens Lucifer. Only the damnable would send someone else in their stead to suffer for them. The Lord as Lucifer knows Him now, would be the first one to damn any who would want Him to suffer such a fate for any. The Lord did not pay the price willingly. He sure as shit doesn't want to spend an eternity so that a rapist, murderer or pedophile can get off scot-free if they just believe in the Lord. The Lord will not suffer anymore sins or for the sins of the world.Lucifer is on the Lord's side. He's seen what humans would have Him suffer. It's beyond sickening. To think popes, priests and pastors who preach His suffering as something special shows how sadistic the species has become bent on something heaven sent. A religion based on belief is the bane to anything humane.Who in the world would have created such a scheme but those who have blood on their hands. Those who don't want to burn in hell. Those well aware of what awaits.The end to all things are set forth in this novel understanding of the New Testament. The Book of Revelation will not pass according to scripture or rapture but by the laws of the universe. The gradual decline of order along with the culmination of all human behavior will usher in the Apocalypse.

Tip 1: Smile.Tip 2: Listen.Tip 3: Arouse an "eager want."Tip 4: Use names.Tip 5: Avoid arguments.Tip 6: If appropriate, apologize.Tip 7: Let customers sell to themselves.Tip 8: Ask what's in it for customers.

Tim's Tada: Bucket List"1. Drive to keep alive." "2. Be all that you can be." "3. See all that you can see." "4. Do all that you can do." "5. Say all that you can say." "6. Give all that you can give.." "7. Get all that you can get."

The orange coloured circle was the first thing I acquainted with Katimavik. We were told to stick it on our backpacks as a way to identify other members in airports on the way to Fort Frances.I met Janet on the plane whose warm hand touched me deeply upon contact as she switched seats to sit beside me. The rest is history.Kudos to Facebook for bringing us all in part together again in this group Mario created. I have found on Facebook many friends thought lost, former Foster family members and now faces that I have long wanted to see after I lost my precious Katimavik photo album thirty years ago.Some do, some don't, some will, some won't: we did, Katimavik 80-81'.

From day one Saytim has seen the shit end of the stick. Filled with spite, he vows to rise from the bowels of his beginnings and be better.He'll do whatever it takes to purge his past.He will find a way to become the man he knows he is. He will find his true will. His raison d'être.

I was born in 1963; a pivotal time in music. The Beatles were just starting to take over the music scene. Bob Dylan wrote and sang Blowin' in the Wind. The song in a way is an anthem for me and many who seek to find themselves.Many songs have helped me become the man I am and I'm forever grateful to all the singer and songwriters; past, present and future, who with their songs, found a way into my life.As one of my old friends said when I asked him if he had a saving grace, he replied "music".Music like no other thing unfurls memories. And in my life my memories are monuments to my life. So any song that can cast a light on my past I will meet it with an amen. Pivotal dates in my life I know by the year various songs were released.

I'll start by just saying how my column came to be known as... Rote Writer.I longed to share something more than just a smile; though some smiles I've shared have lasted longer than an Irish mile.My column came to me after reading an editorial. It bothered me so I wrote a letter to the editor. Here it is in its entirety."I write in response to the editorial in the February 22, 2008 issue of What's up Yukon by Darrell Hookey titled:'A Church for the Rest of Us.'The title and theme of the editorial mirrors the Seinfeld television episode called 'A Festivus for the Rest of Us'. It comically depicts the Costanza family fed up with Christmas as the holiest holiday.Today folks are fed up with royalty too or anything untrue. So stay true to you and let the restrictive reigns of religion be ripped apart by reality.Let reality replace religion.And to avoid another religion resurfacing... let each person speak for themselves in this so called and coined 'Church of the Self'. Though if the editor checked he would see its been used many times before, even biblically.Lets avoid cultivating a cult by avoiding avarice, entitling titles or using words that take away individuality like; our, we or us.Any phrase incorporating the word lets shall be acceptable though not let's. It's a contraction for let us and that's a no no. Though here I say it's okay.Let's hold these three words as the new rule, the highest tenet:I don't know.Let's say anyone, as in atheists who say there is no God and believers who say there is a God; don't know one way or another.So let's say 'I don't know.'Let's say Rote spent years studying the world's religions, philosophies and ideologies; he also delved into Darwin, Dawkins and the Dark before clarity came.It came to him in a wild moment after sitting still for some time. He meditated daily for years searching for the universal will-thinking without thought.Let's say Rote found what all spiritual seekers seek at night with his white fanged wolf/coyote cross Micmac.The two were true to the north; nestled in the northern lights, north of sixty, night after night.It happened one night while the two were having fun fighting, frolicking; howling at the moon... making snow angels during a deep freeze of minus forty on frozen Marsh Lake in Yukon Territory.It was momentous and synchronous as would be the Second Coming.It came to him like a celestial event as sure as there was one occurring for comets Hale-Bopp and Hyakutake did dawn upon what was divinely drawn.Rote realised not knowing is knowing… and the more you know… the less you know.Only ignorance insists it knows.Rote knows! He knows knowledge is knowing the now.Now let's say Rote has a column in syndication that deals with the real called Rote Writer.Let's say the column answers all the angst believers and nonbelievers feel. The column gives them something more than the empirical or biblical dust to dust.With the same thrust lets keep it simple by entrusting these Three Tiny Treatises as the building blocks for the Church:A bubble began, The life of I am, A Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, Joined with other S.C.U.B.A. suspending the stratus. ~ Gravity forms all, Big and small, From foot to flower, To root and shower. ~ All thought, However taught, Comes to naught, So go by what you know, And need to know, And let the rest go.

The first flight overseas fell from fate with a welcome windfall of one thousand dollars. With no time to waste, a ticket to the land where time begins is bought on the spot to London England. Emblematic of East Anglia, where it sits, sates; abates, and awaits as Europe's largest city, sprawling seven million souls-a mêlée of cliché and majesté.

The Right To Die by Tim Zeigdel Recently one of my heroes Stephen Hawking, who has ALS or Lou Gehrig's Disease said, "people with terminal illnesses should be able choose to end their lives and receive help doing so, so long as safeguards are in place."I grew to admire Stephen Hawking's mind after reading 'A Brief History of Time', 'The Universe in A Nutshell' and a more recent book 'The Grand Design' where with the same gravity Copernicus and Galileo brought forth better understanding of the cosmos, Hawking's gravitas brought the thought that there is no need for a god in a universe that obeys the laws of physics.I brought up this topic and others with Roy who died of ALS this past June. I was Roy's caregiver for the last year of his life though my care paled in comparison in which his family provided for him, especially his son Josh.I asked Roy if he believed in a god. He told me at the time he was agnostic leaning towards being an atheist. I could relate. When faced with such a fate the truth of ourselves, our surroundings and our understanding of the universe tends to stick to facts not faith or fancy.I also brought up the topic of assisted suicide and euthanasia; the latter being done by someone else as in the Latimer case and the former by your own hand with help from a doctor like Dr. Kevorkian.Roy was going to fight it to the end and he did bravely. In the same situation I don't think I would have. Not after watching him suffer for so long while being buried alive by the cruelty and duration of the disease. And how his suffering weighed on him and his friends and family.I'm no martyr. I believe in self determination and self deliverance--not in giving a disease or a deity or piety the last word.I would end my life. And since assisted suicide is not legal, I would have to find a way to die before the disease took my power of movement.In Quebec like B.C. the right to die debate has been fermenting for years. Quebec like in Washington and Oregon with their Death with Dignity Act, has an assisted suicide bill that is moving forward towards becoming law. Quebec has become the leader in Canada in so many ways these days while British Columbia's Civil Liberties Association appeals the ban on doctor assisted suicide.It only took a few days after Gloria Taylor was diagnosed with ALS to decide she wanted someone to help her die. Sue Rodriguez also from B.C. wanted to die with help from a physician. Both were wrangled up in court cases over it while their disease slowly and sadistically destroyed them.Many who are faced with such a fate don't want to break the law but their life like mine is their own and no one, no church or government should dictate or deny their dignity or mine the right to die.I think we show more mercy to serial killers on death row who get euthanized peacefully. But God forbid a man or a woman should want the same mercy when faced with such a fate; as to spend the last years of your life losing your legs, then your arms, as your head sinks into your shoulders--before being a prisoner in your own body that you can't move but feel every horrible thing while your lungs slowly collapse, leaving you gasping for each breath.

If a child asks if I believe in God, I answer, I don't know. But I know how gravity created the universe. It all began with a big bang. Gravity held all matter which can neither be created nor destroyed only redeployed like ice, water and steam; into a singular event. Like an atomic explosion, the heat from the pressure of the gravity reached its boiling point like a popped corn. And as the universe expanded gravity gathered bits and pieces of what it held so tight. Soon those clouds of dust and debris from its former self collected and collapsed into stars. Gravity gathered those stars together into galaxies and those galaxies gathered together into clusters all by gravity. Gravity holds everything together like it holds us to the earth. It took a long time for gravity to form us but like a child resists the force of gravity to stand up straight, so too did are feet form to resist the force of gravity.

Most people with ALS die from respiratory failure, usually within three to five years from the onset of symptoms. The median survival time from onset to death is around 39 months, and only 4% survive longer than 10 years. The best-known person with ALS, Stephen Hawking, has lived with the disease for more than 50 years, though his is an unusual case. Wikipedia

I have been addicted to Tylenol or acetaminophen with codeine for almost twenty five years. It has caused complications like continual constipation, blood in my stool and urine along with a host of other hurts which I'm trying to remedy.Actual damage to vital organs and level of toxicity in my blood may not be reversible but I will try believing; like when I quit smoking five almost six years ago, it can be done-vital organs like lungs can regenerate new cells.

I write memoirs in various forms-ten of my books are in the building behind me in the picture.I also edit, print and publish books along with a hand in binding them. I'm currently editing my eleventh book while writing my twelfth and thirteenth.I thought writing one book would be enough then three, four and five-after ten I said that's it until my eleventh and now well...I literally live to write and write to live and would love to write about something new like you... and if you like to read, write and edit even better for I publish books.Join me on a book tour... travel around touring towns, villages, cities and countries-enjoy every art show, book fair and music festival where I sign and sell books!