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My Indigestible Media Diet
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
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Not much reading as of late, but scrolling through Youtube, a few prospecting videos (but it doesn't take me long to catch up there), then a couple of videos on Missing Persons Cases.
Now, I've watched all the Missing 411 Videos, which describe missing persons cases with a negligent lack of detail and salacious amount of speculation. Intriguing, if you're 8 years old and heading off to summer camp, otherwise I'm going to go with "Bigfoot and Flying Saucers Can't be THAT BUSY...".
But I find another channel, in which a reasonably intelligent person goes through missing persons files then discloses how in the end the victims are found. In every case there's a reasonable explanation, whether it be a landslide, a concealed abandoned well, mineshaft, or simply lost outside the search area.
This channel, it focuses on American Cases, largely desert environs where you think that the search would be relatively easy, given the low scrub and rocks. But they're not, and people frequently defy expectation, which is why they end up missing...
Anyways, it gets me curious about a few missing person cases closer to home. And here, in the mountains of BC or foothills and brush of Northern Alberta, well, it's pretty easy for people to go missing as well, and with a much less probable chance of recovery. In cases where they slip into a river - and end up in a lake, or the ocean, chances of recovery are low. Same with those suicidal people that jump off a bridge. Then there's those cases where clearly those missing were likely involved in criminal or gang activity, so no longer are you merely looking for a body, you're looking for a body that has been deliberately or purposely concealed. Then there are the cases where foul play is suspected, a "bad date" with a known violent offender who had access to a boat, a bitter divorce, custody battles, or last year the case of a certain missing person from Creston who, if you took the time to Google, had been charged with fraud the year prior, going to businesses door to door, and clearly I'd postulate the ill-will he generated caught up to him. There are quite a few like that, heartbreaking when the campaign to bring a mother's son home is renewed every couple of years, and when the only people who know what happened have themselves deceased, and there is no hope of closure. Despite the 'peaceable' nature of the Kootenays there are more than a few cases like that, where people don't trust the police to deal with matters in an efficient way and so take things upon themselves. These, find the right subreddit or Youtube video, will invariably unravel, the only thing left is to find the remains, which as I mentioned earlier can be nigh on impossible given the intentional or purposeful disposal of evidence.
And then there are those that simply disappear. Which is compelling, in that the mind (or mine at least) rebels against the mystery these cases present - think of the missing kid at Shambala a couple of years ago, who clearly had not recovered from the party, ran off into the woods, and was never seen of again. And too many more to list. The problem with these cases is that there's never enough information provided for you to make an accurate prediction as to what happened, or where they may be, people close to them/and the police rarely make public the victims state of mind, their associations, their possible motivations or intentions, etc. And so you're left with this indigestible mystery, not that's it in anyway a mystery, only you haven't been given enough information to figure it out.
***
So a dark media diet that does my soul no good whatsoever. But there was one story, very curious I thought, and it's not anecdotal - the Youtube host highlighted the relevant bits in the police report. About a hunter that had went missing, 1968, and after several search parties and thousands of hours of searching it was abandoned.
Fast forward almost 50 years and another hunter stumbles across a partial set of remains, beneath a cliff, the hunter had been crushed by a very large falling rock which left very little visible by way of remains, only the skull and femurs projecting beneath the rock. A proper Wyle-Coyote.
When the assigned deputy went to notify the next of kin he tracked down the grand-daughter, who put him in touch with the wife, now in a home with early dementia. And she advised him she knew, that her husband had come to her the night before, told her where he was (and she gave the location, the same as the deputy had) and that he was coming home and would be seeing her soon...only, she had understood he'd be coming home alive but now understood he wouldn't. The deputy noted it was the most extraordinary interview he'd ever conducted.
But that's a different blog post, and the nearer you get the thinner the veil...
Tarot on Baker, etc
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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News the past weekend.
Saturday, beautiful day and the streets are empty. Nonetheless I head down Baker and set up with a crystal ball and 5 decks of Tarot cards. My outfit, my grey "Andy Warhol" wig and a pair of oversized rave sunglasses with disco balls hanging from the ear.
I should blend in just fine.
I'm immediately pounced upon by a trio of 20-something girls, one 'tips' $15, the other nothing.
They like the "Hermetic" deck, the one who's symbolism is least to my taste.
This is the most popular deck, by far.
Next customer, younger guy, coming off addictions and waiting to start tree-planting. Again, no cash, but I'm not a fan of "Charging" and - really, if you take it as a spiritual practice than any attempts to monetize it become merely simony, and so like it or not I gotta suck it up. Anyways, a beautiful day and I'm meeting people.
One final senior, a proper Grandpa Simpson, he tips $10, then I'm treated to the story of his life..."in 18diddly-odd-seven when I was just a young Man and Napolean was ...." sort of stuff, without end, which brought my hourly revenue down to about 35 cents.
I was saved from this (and would otherwise still be there...) by a text from my daughter, she'd made it to town.
So, find her still wearing my wig and loud glasses, a bag full of tarot cards & props, make the "impression" that has her questioning why she's visited, out with her, make some dinner, catch up.
Sunday with her the same, I try to induce her to go prospecting, but she's heard the tales and isn't leaving town.
This town, at the moment, a ghost town. Nobody around. Baker empty the whole live long day, and you have to wonder where everyone is...soon enough it'll be busy.
Sunday night, turn her on to "Once Upon a Time in the West", by the time Charles Bronson shows up she's hooked, and by the end she has to concede it's a masterpiece. Not even watching it this time (she's watching it on my phone), merely listening to the scant dialogue, the sound effects, the music, leitmotifs, and - it's still a fucking masterpiece.
Monday, the daughter's off, lunch with Cathy (from the Alumni of Unspeakable Trauma), help her to line up some bar supplies, glasses for the golf course, a catch-up glass of wine and then I'm done.
I'm good with a little bit of people, but a little bit can turn into too much pretty quick.
Today, volunteer, the other two ladies I usually work with don't show, and I'm not sure there isn't a bit of fallout from Michael's 'resignation'. And - despite a follow up, no word as to my 'job' and so it's back to the drawing board, this cash thing, and stressing about it, 6 months is more than plenty enough, and I've got to get my thinker on tight and come up with another plan...
The Coulee
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Memory
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At 12 years old (or thereabouts) we moved from 911 1 St. NW to 1204 Grafton Ave.
As a child it was a big house, huge, main floor, basement (where I'd play with a chemistry set gifted me for Xmas, the copper sulfate and other chemicals packed in test tubes marked with a skull and crossbones), the upper floor (where the bedrooms were) and the attic, converted into a studio by my mother, where she did her sewing, painting, stained glass, etc. I remember pictures she did for myself and my sister, of us as monkeys, and a spread of Burt Reynolds from a Playgirl magazine with my father's picture pasted over the face.
We had a garage and a big yard, the back of which was converted into a garden that I was expected to weed. I remember not being happy about that. One memory, that of finding a large ashen cinder stuck to the side of the garage, pitching a stone at it to discover that it was not a cinder, it was a bat, and it fell to the ground injured and squeaking, we found a broom and put it out of it's misery...I felt terrible.
All the kids in the neighborhood would frequently assemble to play "Kick The Can", and I had graduated from collecting bottles for change to a paper route. One day while delivering papers I discovered a body, but that's a different story...
If you headed North on the street you would arrive in a few short blocks at the outskirts of town, the north edge of which was bounded by the Coulee, a stagnant stretch of water in which we could catch garter snakes, frogs, and - if we were lucky - mud puppies, or salamanders. There were a few poplar trees, in one of which was built a treehouse which we commandeered to our purpose. The treehouse was a childhood secret, and kids would find old girly magazines and we'd look through them, vaguely excited by the taboo nature of them but not really understanding, only that we were not supposed to be looking at them...
Which brings to mind another memory, of a friend who regularly went through his parents night table and came to school with the most incredible and outlandish tales of what he'd found, he had to be making this all up, didn't he?
In a few places the coulee widened, deepened, became a pond, and we'd find wooden old palettes, stuff them full of sticks and twigs, make rafts and pole about upon it like Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn on the Mississippi...
It was the idyll of childhood, only I hated Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan in general, and when being unfairly punished for a poor report card or other misbehaviour would walk west upon the railway out of town hoping to catch sight of the mountains, only returning when I realized the grim reality that I was a long way from where I regarded as home, and that I was only 12 and would have to suffer the injustices of childhood for a few years yet...
My Australian Friend...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
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Owen, he's got it all and how I don't know.
A friend/acquaintance, who moved to Australia to pursue a doomed romance. I haven't had the heart to tell him. It doesn't matter, we all do what we do and there's no talking (me at least) anyone out of a bad idea.
He's visiting a girlfriend.
But while he's there...
And he has the same interest in gems, minerals, prospecting, that I do, only wants the experience. And he's landed in Shepperton, North of Melbourne, maybe 30-40 miles from Ballarat.
And looking for advice.
So I go looking on maps and searching what's out there, this has been a dream of mine for quite some while.
He is the hand, I am the brain.
SO I get to googling and there's everything. Diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, zircons, topaz, gold....
I could go on. It's everywhere. All in the state of Victoria. All within an hours drive. And this is in Australia, where if you stub your toe on an oversized gold nugget you call the council to remove it.
So I spend a few hours sending him links, looking at maps, warning him of hazards (don't stub your toe on that giant nugget ....) and I'm thinking....well, fucking bloody hell you know what I'm thinking....I got a job at the sushi joint and they haven't yet called to give me a schedule...
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