The Human Volatility Index: Between Good and Evil.

I’ve realized one thing, from a life of selfless servitude. Nobody, not even me, is a good person, not whole-heartedly. In fact, according to my definition, which I shall enshrine further below, in this essay, I claim that not one in a hundred people are good. Good people are so rare that they no longer occur. The vast majority of people are evil.

You can see this all over the place. I don’t just mean vigilantes robbing, shooting and stealing for pennies on the dollar, or for no damned reason at all. I don’t mean senseless and violent crime.

I mean run of the mill, you and me, “good” people, acting in selfish and morally detestable ways.

Perhaps the entire boomer generation was evil. Perhaps younger people are more sensitive to the issues at large, and will elevate themselves to a selfless trajectory, one which does not doom all of mankind to a violent end. I’m talking, of course, about environmental issues, which many young people at least worry about.

Here’s my definition of a baddie or evil person. Someone who wants to acquire wealth. That’s it. That’s all. Want money? Then you’re evil.

Money is evil, friend. And wanting money is inviting evil into your life.

Instead of wanting money, I propose a new way of thinking: Living selflessly, and moderating wealth until you have little or none of your own.

I myself live off the very lowest amount that I can live off of. About 10-12k Canadian per year. This places me, according to statistics and the government, well below the poverty line in Ontario, Canada.

In addition to part-time work, I also take care of two elderly people at home, for which I am not paid. My family, in turn, takes care of me. I live in a selfless vacuum, in which several moderate people help me, and I help them back.

2.0

But wait a minute, you think. Money can buy you a lot of convenience, and liberate you from work, and buy you life-saving medications and healthcare services. Money can save your life. Just how and why is it evil?

To this I respond: Make as much as you need, and nothing more. Take the very lowest amount back for yourself, and leave the rest to others. Live selflessly.

If all of us lived off the lowest amount necessary, all of us would be rich. Instead one person has more than 100 billion dollars, and the rest of us are poor.


And don’t believe the fairy tales, carefully crafted and marketed, that that person is a self-made man and that’s his own wealth. If you believe that, perhaps you’re a little too naive for your own good, friend.

That’s where government comes in. Why do we have one, if everybody is broke, rent is too high, and wages are too low? And the last thing we need is another space bail out or car company tax relief. Down with government I say, and yes to post-left anarchy. Let G-d sort out all these politicians. Why don’t they earn minimum wage, the way you and I do?

So, my friends, we’re at a crossroads. And we need to live selflessly, and care for one another. Two examples. One is our aging population. Who will take care of us in our ripe old age? The numbers don’t lie. The way things are going, every young and able body should be assigned an elderly person to take care of. And even that might not be enough. For, elderly people will far outnumber young workers in the years to come. I myself already take care of two people who are in retirement, and might take care of several others after them, if I am still able to. (note: They take care of me, too!)

The second is the environment. These billionaires want nothing but more wealth. For, you see, my friend, wanting wealth is a tell-tale sign of being or becoming evil. And the more you have, the more you want, the more you lie, cheat, and steal your way to the top. What do you think they teach at these business schools? It’s not Shakespeare, it’s things like Machiavelli’s The Prince. They teach you to be cold, callous and calculated. If you could eat your own head or that of your child’s at a profit, then you would probably do so.

But that’s exactly what the environment is. Betting against the future of civilization, the end of young people’s right to life, for a sizable sum to a private individual(s) who probably do not even need it.

Just how much money is too much? If you have a second home you don’t live in, you’re part of a growing problem. Many people don’t even have a first home. But before they buy one, it’s already been sold by several enthusiastic bidders, who have wealth. By the time you buy your condo or home, it’s already been bought and sold at a profit and the price upped by a sizable chunk. Why? Because somebody profited at your expense… because money is evil.

So what’s the solution? Just buy several homes if you have money, and who cares about the little guy, trying to put a roof over his head for the first time. And then they claim  that I am ill, and you are sane. Though I do remain, your paranoid schizophrenic friend, I do not even own one house, in this market of million dollar, fifty year old bungalows in the ghetto, I cannot, and will not accept ever owning a home, which is a luxury I cannot afford. I also never drive a car, partially because of my disability but also because of preference. And I recycle everything, keep a low carbon footprint, and want to offset my emissions with life insurance when I die. Perhaps, you might claim, I am selfless. But no friend, I want money just as much as the next bloke, I’m just not very good at making it. I’m a writer, and instead of becoming commercially viable, I post my rough drafts in the public domain, and do myself a disservice. Why don’t I chase the bag, so to speak?

Well, I leave that to your intuition.

Best of luck with that. And no to money from me.
I’m poor and live with a disability.

I’m a bum. I’ll always be a bum. And that’s alright with me.

“Steve Mini from the 6”.

note: This is a rough draft and/or notes updated sometimes. It’s just an idea.
I’m inspired by the likes Johnathan Swift’s “A Modest Proposal”. None or all of this is fiction and sarcasm. Leave me alone.

Patriklironomicon: The Man In The Black Kimono

sample #2 with notes.

The man in the black kimono waited for the elf king to die with honor, and even offered him a knife, to carve out his guts and incriminate himself.

“Here, have my dagger, it can hasten your untimely death”.

The elf king smiled. He fell to his knees and conserved his strength. He did not want to die quickly.

“For four hundred years, no elf has died in a war. Our magic and our solitude have kept us safe. How are you so certain I will die?”

At that, the man in the black kimono lifted his unsheathed sword, a great bastard looking sword, longer than the common kitana of his people. He wielded it in both hands and grasped the long, glittering, jeweled hilt in both hands.


“This sword … is magick. There is a demon in it. It thirsts for elven blood.”

The elf looked at his wounds, mere glances, yet already, black bile had magically surrounded the wounds. He thought briefly on the situation.

“What is this? Magical Poison?”
“I die without honor, therefore.”

Suddenly, there were tears in the man in the black kimono’s eyes.

“We were too cocky…” he stated, as a matter of fact.

“Tell me…” the Elf King said, suddenly strong again, though only briefly. Then, he felt rather tired, and with one hand on the ground, sat himself down to die.

“Who gave you this sword? Was it an elf? I would know his name.”

It was the man in the black kimono’s turn to smile.

“The time for talking is over. Now that you’re kneeling down, I might behead you, and save you some small dignity.”

“Tell me! Tell me his name! Who gave you this sword?”

The Elf King thought on his short reign – several millennia, during which he had not fathered a son. Ever elusive and rather difficult… He only had one daughter …

“There will be a war, a-now…” he trailed off, and spat black blood.

“Promise me, stranger. Do not kill my daughter.” Black blood gathered at the corners of his mouth. He spat.

“She is the last of her kind … mayhaps, one day, she might have a son …”

The man in the black kimono was wary.

“Promise me! And I offer you my head.”

“Very well.“You have my word. The Kuroki clan will never harm her.”

The man in the black kimono did not say these words lightly, and took his promise to heart.

But the elf was clearly dying and took no heed, though he tried to smile. He was foaming at the mouth. A vile cloud of black surrounded his wounds. He retched as the magick of the blade ate at his innards.

“Are you ready?” the man in the black kimono said, and, not wanting to spare him any more dignity, without further warning and with one brief strike, the man in the black Kimono beheaded him.


Notes: April 27-28. 12:15am+

I like the idea for this scene: but I find that the dialogue could probably use a polish. Just a grazing wound kills the elf king. I want to emphasize that a little more. Things I’m looking to work on: perhaps show the fight scene, which I tend to avoid for now. I find fight scenes awesome in movies, but awful in books. I sped up the action and only ever showed the conclusion. It’s short, concise and tries to be to the point. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the writing, well, kinda sucks. But the idea is good. On to the next scene, the next idea, and we’ll leave this for subsequent drafts for sure (I’m a man of two, three and even four drafts. I’m just getting ideas down for now and I’ll polish in the subsequent drafts).

The Good: The man in the black kimono sounds badass and should be mysterious, with a demon sword no-less.

The Bad: The elf king slouches over and dies like a wuss.

The Ugly: I write quickly, and don’t care for errors. On to the next scene, and I’ll fix this in subsequent drafts once I have a complete story of many scenes.

Written: Wednesday 27 April 2022. 11:40pm+ “Thursday Morning”


2.0 “notes for subsequent drafts”

-The elf king retched. “Die with dignity!”
-possible alternative: “His soul exited his mouth and entered the Demon Sword’s blade.”
-“This is my avatar: my host. I am older than the oldest elven king” the demon blade spoke in his head.

I like the idea of a talking sword. Many magical weapons talk in my stories, especially those of some importance. This is a throwback to old-school Dungeons and Dragons, I suppose. I might expand on this … theme?

First time: Trying to write a novel. Sample scene with notes.

She drank the tea, but not too eagerly, though she was thirsty and curious. It had been a fortnight since Nana read the cups, and what else was there to do, in these uncertain times, but worry about the future?

Perhaps the cups would bring her bad omens, and the nightmares would start again. Nana did not know of the nightmares, she never told anyone about them, for fear of being cast off as weak or insubordinate. Men didn’t have nightmares. Men were soldiers. She would grow one day to be a fine young man. She would sit on the throne of her father. She would be an elf prince and no longer a woman. Oh, how she wished it were so. For now, she must weather the storm and become strong.

Finally, the cups were drunk and nana took a peek at the bottoms and smiled. 

“A wish that is in your heart will be granted”

X smiled in secret joy. “Would that it be so”

Just then, the soldier came in from the field. His helmet was flung off in frustration, and she could see his long, lanky light hair brushing against his shoulders. For not the last time, X wondered why her father had chosen a young boy, not even yet a man, to be her lifelong companion and guard her. This boy couldn’t even properly fit into his armor.

“Why this boy?” She grumbled to nana “Why not a knight or even a soldier?” She looked at him approaching.

It was nana’s turn to smile. “When you’re older, you’ll know more of these things than the leaves could ever tell you. For now, be happy that your cups didn’t foretell nightmares!” she said wistfully, as if the old soothsayer knew far more than she let on.

But before X could question her, the boy nearly broke through the door. “We need to go. Now.” He plopped on his oversized helmet and gripped the sword at his side.

X had been secretly prepared. She always was. She grabbed her things quickly, then fled.


notes: This is my first time writing fantasy. Heck this is the first scene i’ve constructed. It has some flaws and errors, which I would hope are minor and fixable in a second, third, even a fourth draft. I anticipate many drafts, at least two, maybe three, possibly four.

In the first draft I just sort of write stuff down and hope it’s coherent enough to edit. In the third or fourth drafts I’ll connect all the dots and revise; perhaps even finish the novel. At least, that’s what I’m thinking.

Maybe I should practice writing more, and editing less. But at any rate, I’m a novice.

decades of reading and I can barely write a novel. For shame!

To Arms! For Art’s Sake!

PS: One thing I’m worried about, when posting online, is that I somehow lose the right to print said work in a novel and publish it. I would hope this isn’t the case, and that this will be deemed a “sample”. You’re welcome 😉

Steve Mini from the 6.

2.0

I didn’t realize this, (this is how novice I am), but I was reading that each scene is supposed to have a conflict. Maybe Nana and “X” (yet unnamed) can argue a little, so I can show that there is some struggle and a scene goal. The main character aught to fail this goal, and struggle with another conflict or scene goal in the next scene or chapter. At least, I think that’s how things should work. I’m hopeless. But this is a start.

There’s only one way to learn how to write. To be a writer you actually do have to write a little, is what I’ve realized after all these years. I need to write, and fail, and write again some more. Stay tuned, I’ll post some samples with notes!

The New Poem: A Theory Of Innocence

I remember one time ,in my youth, where I began to modify and edit Northrop Frye’s theories for fun. I never quite respected Frye after that. I thought he needed a good edit. A younger man’s mistake, for sure. I now returned to him the other day and respect him very much.

I don’t remember much about my youth. But I do remember that one of my early responses to Frye was my Theory Of Innocence. It simply states that the younger a person is, the more potential they have. I applied this to art objects, which were, scientific objects, too: the younger art was, the more potential it had.

My ignorant, half-assed poem on the internet could be, in theory, more famous than a masterpiece in sanskrit which nearly nobody could read. It was young, it was new, it was in English. At least, that’s what my younger self projected. And if my confusions and misunderstandings are correct, perhaps we might see the rise of Chinese art in a century or two, and the setting of the sun of the entire English language thereafter.

I don’t know where the future lies. But I do know this: I aught to write some of my whacky and zany theories down. I never wrote or published whilst I was young; I just read quite a bit. But now I’m 41 and won’t live forever. Might as well start to write a-now.

a-Lack-a-Day!

“Steve Mini from the 6”.

PS: Northrop Frye makes short work of my doubts in his Polemical Introduction to his Anatomy Of Criticism, where he sums up the situation of Literary Criticism rather well. Will I ever modify Frye satisfactorily? Probably not. But I definitely have some literary criticism in me – perhaps a few essays should suffice. I’d like to publish a collection of essays some day. We’ll see. Fiction first, most likely.

The Hard Truth About Fantasy Fiction …

I want to be a fantasy writer some day. So what do I do? I read fantasy fiction …


I’ve timed myself. I read at about half the speed of the modern college kid, I would think. That’s because, due to hearing voices, I’m often distracted. Perhaps it’s also my age. I’m 41 now. My concentration isn’t what it used to be, either.

So I picked up A Game Of Thrones. And what did I notice? Within the first 150 pages, there’s the murder of a child, a scene of incest, the child-marriage and wedding night description of a 13 year old girl who is terrified she’ll be beat up by her brother if she refuses or does not satisfy her new husband.

I never even knew you were allowed to write about such taboo subjects in fiction. But then look what happened? This fantasy fiction, Game of Thrones, is some of the very best, having been awarded and turned into a TV series.

I’ve learned something about fantasy fiction. If you want to write it: Shock your audience. At the very least: don’t be boring.

The hard Truth About fantasy fiction is that there’s murder, rape, incest and paedophillia in it’s pages. Furthermore, everybody is straight and white.

I’ve always stated that, were I to write fantasy fiction, mine would be a much more sanitized, clean type of fantasy fiction, with young adult readers in mind.

Maybe that’s why my fiction will never sell, nor ever be a best-seller. Maybe I’m too old, too cynical.

I’m learning a lot by reading fantasy. I’m learning about what I can and can’t stomach, not just about point-of-view characters.

Shock your audience, I suppose. That’s what Game Of Thrones did.

Nah I’m good y’all. None of that for my fantasy fiction. Mine’ll be different, clean, sanitary. And probably terrible.

Until next time!

Steve Mini from the 6.

Memoir fragments: “Two years all but homeless”

From his notes that might become a memoir: “The ‘Frenia: Neologisms & Word Equations”. Steve Mini from the 6ix.

I remember spending two years all but homeless, because I adamantly refused to take my medications for paranoid schizophrenia, and was absolutely out of my mind. What did I do? I hopped on a bus in Toronto and transferred cities and got out of the bus, a few hours later, in Ottawa, broke and crazed, and checked myself into a homeless shelter in a new city.

I knew nobody in this new city, but I was adamant: no to meds. I also thought that secretly someone was trolling my mind with synthetic telepathy via satellite somehow: that they could read my thoughts and communicate with me telepathically. I was hearing voices that I thought weren’t my own.

Maybe it was the Russians. You ever think about that? Perhaps I was an enemy on foreign Canadian enemy soil. There is no such thing. But when you’re ‘frenic, you come up with a few dandies sometimes. At least, that’s what I did.

I ended up changing my name to a travel alias. George Ohwell. What had happened to me was certainly Orwillian; The joke was on me. So for two damned years, nobody knew my real name and everybody called me George. George Ohwell. Perhaps I was safer that way; only G-d knows.

At the shelter, absolutely refusing to show ID, I was helped regardless by a kind old soul, who took me in, wrote down George Ohwell, and helped me get government issued documents by that name, without any identification papers.

It was official. I was all but George Ohwell in practice as well as in theory. I even had a library card with George Ohwell written on it. I was going places. And fast. As fast as I could walk, that is. I don’t drive and recycle everything and keep a low profile, as well as a low carbon footprint.

2.0

From Ottawa, it was easy to walk into Gatineau Quebec. It was right across the bridge. I had a couple of girlfriends in and around the area, I was fortunate to be quite charming in my yout; Some were from Gatineau, QC and some were in Ottawa proper.

… (fast forward past the homelessness part): I used to walk to Gatineau by crossing a bridge, and drink a beer there. Eventually, the most curious of things happened. Somebody from Quebec invited me to live with them and co-rent a room; which I accepted, having had, thanks Heaven and G-d hisself, just enough for the rent every month and a little extra for myself. I was poor; I would eat at the soup kitchen in Ottawa, then walk all the way back to Gatineau, every day.

Somewhere, in either city, I can’t recall, I met a young’un, a bambi, as I often called them, someone too young to sleep with, someone that could only really be your friend. I was all prim and proper, and fretted about such stuff. Heck even if she were of age, what’s that, 16 in some parts? I still felt it proper to only sleep with women 18 and older. We became great freinds, and chilled together, but I suspected that young bambi wanted something more than what I could offer her, that is to say, she wanted more than a friendship. Now I’m not sure, because I made sure nothing happened, and never advanced anything, but I always did wonder: did this young bambi have a crush on me?

I always figured, because she would come around with two best friends, two young men, that one or the other would have made an excellent partner for her. But no, she always seemed to suspiciously want to hang around with me, which I, being paranoid, suspected.

One or all of these fine young folk were indigenous, and we ended up calling ourselves “the wolf pack” for some reason, don’t ask me why. At any rate, I’ve always been a lone wolf, so I took to this monikor, this wolf pack, rather well.

Perhaps I was never officially inducted into this pack, perhaps the pack lives on, today, without me; it’s membership closed even to my own persons, who may or may not have named the whole shabang. I don’t really remember. But hey, wolfpack, if you’re out there, and remember me from Gatineau QC over in Ottawa, Ontario. Say hello. Gosh you’re probably adults now. Are all three of you still friends? Were those two male friends, your cousins, or brothers? I’m confused.

Sincerely,

George Ohwell

(Steve Mini from the 6ix).

647 986 6324 text me.


Fragment 3:

One day, I was “fortunate” according to the voices in my head, to be served a heart in the soup kitchen. At first, I thought nothing of it, and almost bit into it; but then I realized, nope, it is, literally speaking , the heart of an animal that I was served at the counter, over in the soup kitchen. I might still have a picture somewhere; for I was an amateur photographer, though not many pictures survive, if any. I’ll have to look.

But anyway, a heart. In my soup. Who would have thought?

I would have taken it, and held it high, and allowed all the other patrons to know me by my real name, and bang my chest, et cetera. but I did nothing of the sort. In fact, I said nothing to the soup kitchen, and deposed of it ingloriously. I am paranoid schizophrenic at times, and laugh curiously to myself, about jokes nobody understands, but I never did act on impulse. I don’t obey the voices, and thankfully, I was never dangerous. I’d like to think, after all these years, that me and my voices have a working relationship, and that they have rightfully subordinated. I’m still wary.




A Memoir: Money = G-d = Evil

Rough drafts, released in the public domain. I suppose a final draft won’t be published, perhaps self-publishing on Amazon’ll have to do some day. 647 986 6324 text me if interested. Steve Mini. (Nobody really ever does “and then they publish your released information”).

When I sat down to write a memoir, I thought to myself. What does a poor, pleb of a pauper like me, have to say, that nobody has ever said before? With aplomb I say unto you, that money = evil = G-d, and that, therefore, a kind sir(s), that money is evil and so is G-d.

Why that hyphenate? Because I assume already that you know that which I assume, and won’t tarry on for very long. Perhaps I meant something else entirely, in which case, no to you; Such is the way of secrets, of hyphenates and aphorisms.

This knife of wit shall grow dull with the scraping of time, and even the old joke, now new and fresh, that money is evil, and that therefore, so is G-d; shall know it’s time.

Perhaps one day, when I’m a rustic millionaire in a painting, remembered as such, though often opposed and sentimentally blind, I’ll be remembered, not for my wealth, but for my art, which is, the last indignancy. No to G-d.

Shall I proceed to explain the why and how, or are we, men of wit, already in agreement that we already know the rest, having been said by better men, and that we shall now agree, that money is evil, and therefore, G-d hisself is so, just this one last time, for old time’s sake.

I’ll give you a buck to publish, but you won’t give me a dime to write. But I don’t have a buck, how’s that for G-d; Up next: The Sermon on a mount (Whilst mounted up, a High Warlord Warlock on my PvP mount, I wrote a sermon.

Nobody gives a damn. Go broke you hobo-looking maniac of a lunatic. Said the voices in my head (Paranoid Schizophrenic, by the way).

That’s not at all what I felt, however. Curious that even I, am opposed to myself. Perhaps I am opposed to being evil; but I am evidently so. Therefore, please give me my money now.

Your evil persons, rather inept

Steve Mini from the 6ix, from his “Neologisms and Word Equations: The ‘frenia”.