Heather Lock-unclear

A strange thing…

I spent 15 years of my life building a mural painting business — and far more than that engaged in fine art, design work, and general artsy projects — only to realize a horrible truth…

I’m a fucking hack. I have no clue what I’m doing.

This realization came to me when attempting to illustrate a few drawings for the next ridiculous book I plan to publish. I’m brutal at cartooning. I have no talent whatsoever. I feel like a pencil is a foreign object to me.

Those thoughts reminded me of a time I got invited to draw caricatures for an open-house at a resort I used to make signs for. I agreed, assuming I would excel at it — but the reality of the situation proved quite different…

I fucking sucked — badly… like a trainee Vietnamese hooker.

I arrived at the resort that day bubbly and eager — quickly finding my place to set up shop. While doing a test drawing with a marker on a sketch pad for the first time, I quickly learned there was no way in hell to get through the next 2 hours without a massive degree of embarrassment and ego diminishment.

I was fucked.

My only hope was to play Unabomber sketch artist — you know, where you draw everyone wearing giant sunglasses and a hoodie. That strategy was my perceived saviour at the time.

Jesus, what the fuck did I just get myself into?

Although it was a volunteer gig, I had no right being there.

I quickly made use of personality and charm to fumble through the onslaught of miniature humans lined up for inked immortalization. I thanked my lucky stars each “client” was a kid. I would have developed many enemies that day if adults sat before me, hoping to look pretty by my artistic hand.

The kiddies didn’t give a shit how accurately I rendered their faces — they were more pumped on whatever fantastical situation I could land their bodies into, through poorly stroked black marker.*

(*Note to self: Bread joke tomorrow about stroking black things)

Dune buggies, spider-men, and fairies dominated the themes — although the dune buggy idea was something I repeatedly suggested because of a stupid joke I recalled from a Simpson’s episode. Though I didn’t really know how to draw a single one of any of the elements I moronically kept asking my clientele to suggest, it turned out no one gave a shit. Each o’ the smallfries were happy with the giant piece of paper I tore off to give them as a horrible memento of my talentless efforts.

I got invited back the next year by popular demand of my “satisfied” customers. Many of the kiddies even had their artsy abominations still pinned to their walls, haha. Some bright-light gave me a tip jar the second year, and I made a decent buck for the meaningless gig I drove 2 hours to get to. Go figure.

It’s true what I said earlier about art. I really have no clue what I’m doing, despite years of experience. Dedicated effort ultimately comes down to letting instinct and muscle memory take over at a certain point — like playing guitar, trusting a tennis swing, or picking up chicks at the bar. When we allow our big brains to get in the way, that’s when shit goes sideways.

So today I spent a few hours getting acquainted with my pencil and eraser again, hoping to get Original Sin finished. And I realized why there was no need to feel frustrated over cartooning — because I’ve never really done it before, caricature stupidity aside.

We only get better at shit is when we engage it consistently.

Don’t we always?

Ya gotta jump into the muck sometimes, and just fucking do it. Instead of feeling frustration from the get-go for not being perfect at a thing you’ve never done before, cut yourself some slack. Before long, you’ll realize just how quickly you can rock whatever scenario you give your attention to.

I don’t need a Jerry’s Final Thought comment here to tell you that doing what you truly love to do should have no attachment to fear, apprehension, or intimidation. If you love it, then fucking do it. If all you care about is making a buck down the road, then maybe your project ain’t quite the right gig for you. I dunno, I could be wrong.

Life is about diving balls deep sometimes, the future be damned.

Not sure about you, but I just dropped my hawaiian shorts…

I’m goin’ in…

Writing With a Broken Pencil, Part 2

Okay, so I never did end up buying crack, and I don’t really know any drug-dealers. Whatever. Ya gotta fancy up the writin’ every once in a while with some tall tales, just for the fun of it.

I did end up doing the rest of the pointless things I said I was gonna do.

Let’s consider them for a moment — from the perspective of people in this world that always need to accomplish something, achieve a goal, or reach whatever plateau they’ve become fixated upon.

Just so you’re fairly warned, there’s the possibility of hypocritical ramble ahead, too. Deal with it…


A little backstory first…

One reason I’ve introduced this animal back into my diet has to do with a quest for self-sufficiency. Perhaps slaughtering animals for food isn’t the most ideal thing in the world, but we hardly live in an ideal world. If the indigenous tribes who wandered these lands before us could demonstrate a balanced co-existence with the animals that sustained them, I’m sure I can as well.

Whether I’m killing lettuce, or catching a fish, I’m still a murderer. Over-the-top spiritual douchebags never want to acknowledge the basic truth that they still kill shit to survive. They never consider all the rodents or insects that get stacked up as collateral damage to their “enlightened” dietary lifestyles. With the exception of Twinkies, every morsel of food we eat has been alive somewhere along the way — there’s no way to get around killing something for sustenance unless you learn to survive on prana and rainwater. Even then, you’re probably still wiping out new generations of microbes that only want the same opportunity to thrive as you do, despite your considerations of them being inconsequential.

Just because broccoli doesn’t cry out as you sever it from the plant, doesn’t mean it can’t feel pain. The plant would prefer to live intact, I’m fucking sure of that. In fact, broccoli is the pre-flowered bulk that hasn’t yet reached seed-bearing stage, so people munching on it are into the equivalent of eating plant veal. Fucking monsters!!

I don’t know why I felt the need to justify eating small amounts of flesh again, but the deed is done. Ironically it had nothing to do with why I went fishing today.

My goal was far more pointless — to stand under a blue sky, radiant sun, and revel in an hour or two by the river. There’s an underlying meditative quality about repeatedly casting a line into the waters that most fisherpeople probably never consciously acknowledge, and likely can’t put into words. It calms the mind and soothes the soul. Mine, anyway. I guess I can’t speak for anyone else.

I caught nothing this day. And that’s why it was so perfect. The exercise of throwing a lure in the water over and over produced none of the results that others might consider their reason for engagement.

From the standpoint of someone wanting to eat fresh fish, the time I spent was futile. From the standpoint of someone wanting to engage in an activity of joy, my time was glorious. Absolutely pointless, but fucking glorious.


Considering I’m scared shitless every time I solo, one might perceive my participation in this activity as ridiculous. As I fired up my engine today, I knew there was nowhere I needed to go. I had no destination awaiting me, and no plan of action after leaving the confines of the harbour.

That’s why it was perfect. Completely pointless, and perfect.

You might say that floating under the sun was part of my agenda, that getting some much needed practice was part of my motivation, or mention a possible dozen other “reasons” for doing what I did.

But you would be wrong. My only thought was to go sailing. Just for the fun of it. So that’s what I did. And you know what? It fucking rocked. It was pointless, and it rocked.


You wanna talk about an exercise in futility? Most people would consider running as a form of torture. People do it to stay in shape, burn calories, or test their levels of endurance, pushing personal limits as far as they can. But not a lot of them think of it as fun.

I’ve gone running in the past for all those reasons. Not today though. My only thought was to strip half naked and go for a jaunt through the woods, just for the pure pleasure of it. And I did. The sun was shining, the flowers were fragrant, and little critters were scampering about everywhere. What could be more perfect? I didn’t care one iota how far I was running, what health benefits were being accrued, or anything that had to do with weight loss. I wanted to do it, I did it, and I loved it.

It was also completely fucking pointless to further any fate, destiny, or meaning I might have chosen to impose on my life. This one was about rock’n’roll, and comic books, and bubble gum. Hoo hoo hoo…

Crack Smoking

Nah, I never got to that, but I did substitute a beach walk instead. The weather’s finally warmer, but the water’s frigid. As I splashed my feet through the waves, I thought to myself, “I’d love to jump in, but it’s too cold. It’ll warm up soon enough, I guess…”

Quickly catching myself living in an imaginary future, ignoring my immediate, more important whims, an awesome thing happened — I no longer needed to think. I dove in like some retard in a polar bear club lacking basic common sense. Within seconds though, that cool refreshing water forced a giant smile to my face. I scanned the 3-mile shoreline for even the slightest hint of another human. Not one. This glorious beach and body of water were mine today, all on an impulse of fun.

Icing on the Cake

To end a kick-ass day, the fair weather treated me to a spectacular sunset — a dynamic spectacle that could never be captured in a single digital image. The best I can share with you is a watered down experience of a light show that blew my mind.

Though you may consider it to be impossible to live footloose and fancy-free every day, there’s also nothing to stop you from thinking, “Hmm. What if it is possible?”

Everything’s possible, though most people would rather believe otherwise. Why? I’m not sure. But I do know that once we own our limitations, our limitations own us.

So whatever might be on your agenda today, give a moment’s consideration to the things in life that make you feel happy deep down in your core. If you don’t have the opportunity to experience them today, don’t sweat it. But the more you realize how ultimately meaningless your life is, the more time you’ll begin investing your free moments in those pointless activities you love.

That’s when you’ll start learning what real freedom is about. If you want to be a slave to destiny, that’s your call. Just know that the free-air of pointlessness is only a breath away.

What was it Nellie Mandela said?

“There is no passion to be found playing small — in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living. There is no such thing as part freedom.”

Amen, bro.

Break out the crack…

Writing With a Broken Pencil, Part 1

I stumbled across an important truth today that I feel might be worthy of sharing. “Truth” might be an incorrect word, as nothing seems absolute in this reality, and “stumbled” might be inaccurate as well — I more or less smacked square into this one, like a dumbass walking into a telephone pole while staring into a smartphone.

Are you ready for my big-brain insight of the day?

It’s this:

Life is utterly fucking pointless.

Although that may seem like a negative sentiment, it’s actually the key to happiness, joy, and freedom.

So how do I explain this properly?

The only reason for doing anything is because you truly want to do it. If you’re acting out of guilt, insecurity, or some other ignoble motivation, you’re kinda fucked. Those roads will always land you in a hell-state, long before you clue in your toes are on fire.

You have no higher purpose, no soul-calling, no karma, and no obligation to be anything other than whatever tickles your fancy in the present moment. There’s no fate, no destiny, no gameplan devised by God. Every future consideration you have about achieving your “life-calling” will end up diminishing the most important time you’ll ever have in the world…

Right here, right now.

When we stop thinking about future goals, past grievances, or any other stress factor under the sun, we suddenly realize we’re at peace. And it doesn’t matter what situation you’re in — living as a millionaire with hookers by your side, or sinking into a murky pit of quicksand. When you shut down projected thought, peace ensues.

Sure, no one wants to sink in quicksand, but it’s the fear of dying in the murky mess that makes the situation unwanted — pretty much like every other scenario in life. Whether you’ve formulated a grand design for peace and harmony down the road, or you stress out over upcoming bills, it matters not. Contriving a future that doesn’t exist is a glorious waste of fucking time.

The ride we call life is much shorter than we perceive it to be. And it can end in a heartbeat, literally, without warning. We have to take what little time we have and live it to the fullest — appreciate all the little things that make sucking in oxygen worthwhile… appreciate our friends, family, and every single weirdo that crosses our paths… appreciate every sound, smell, taste and texture… appreciate every strange nuance that, for whatever reason, humanity has labelled an “annoyance.”

There will always be mornings when opening your eyes, or getting out of bed, seems like a futile task. On those days, we might say to ourselves, “Why fucking bother? There’s nothing I’m going to accomplish that’s going to make a lick of difference in this twisted reality. I have no reason to play this game anymore.”

And you’re exactly right.

Even if you complete your mission to abolish war, homelessness, and poverty — making your name a household item that generations will remember for centuries to come — you’re bodysuit is still gonna crumble and die in a hundred years or less, and you’ll be nothing more than another footnote in the pages of humanity. One more memory that time will slowly forget.

So fuck analyzing the motivations or reasoning behind any of your actions. Greet each day as if it were your last. If you knew you were gonna die in 12 hours, how would you spend the afternoon? The answers you provide will give some insight into what truly makes you happy. You might even realize that the piddliest, dumbest of things that you want to do or try one last time, will bring more “purpose” to your life than saving the fucking world.

Go do those first, and giveth not a fuck about RRSP’s, the stolen bologna sandwich at work, or the new alternator your shitbox car is in desperate need of. Go live for once. I mean really fucking live! 20 grand in the bank doesn’t mean jackshit when a massive brain aneurysm prevents you from spending a single cent of it.

The sun is out. I’m going fishing. Then running. Then sailing. Then I might go smoke some crack. If anyone knows where I can procure some, lemme know. If I don’t do the crack thing, then maybe I’ll just wander the beach for a few hours, and be grateful for my last day on Earth, which it may very well be.

Cooking up a daily soup of activity is utterly pointless unless we learn once again to savour each and every sip of our brew. Don’t cook the stew because you want leftovers to feed you tomorrow, do it because you want to relish its taste today.

At some point, you’re gonna be taking one last bite of life. Every action you engage in has the potential of being that last nibble, so start learning to enjoy each of them with the full awareness of an intentional being, lost in the wonder of the moment.

And maybe when you’re done eating, we’ll go smoke some crack.

My dealer just texted…

What, Me Worry?

Whenever I lack focus, I find it’s best to dive into something — anything, really — and use the activity as a form of meditation… something to clear the head of heavy, undesirable thoughts that cloud over the blue skies of happiness.

I don’t know about you, but dark thoughts often seem to be looming on my horizon. And I ain’t very good at playin’ zen guru — witnessing them for what they are, and allowing ’em to blow by overhead. Nah, not me. If I’m not begrudging the very nature of their existence, I’m busy trying to dominate them, ultimately getting caught in torrential mind storms that leave me cold, bitter, and miserable.

It’s easy to get stuck in your head. I’m the fucking king of mental torture. But that’s not a throne I can say I’m proud to sit upon. And we all get stuck in our castles of crazy conjecture from time to time, forgetting the drawbridge is only a single order away from opening.

Life is supposed to be fun.

If it’s not, then what’s the fucking point?

We’ve taken a potentially glorious game and turned it on its head. All the little things that are supposed to add sweetness and spice to our daily adventures have become irritations and annoyances — a flat tire, a dead phone battery, your girlfriend walking in on you as you spank your monkey… the list never ends. Instead of relishing all the subtle twists and turns in store for us each day, we struggle to get through them as quickly as possible, in order to get back to “relaxing” in front of the TV machine with a dozen beers, and a 5-dollar pizza cooked by retards down the street who ritually handle their testicles before kneading the GMO-laced dough of every pie they make.

I don’t even know what the fuck this piece is about. I just needed to sit down and write something, anything, to keep my thought-demons at bay.

One of those active demons goes by the name of Worry.

Worry has suggested many things to me lately about my stupid writing.

Worry informed I had nothing new to say. Worry informed me no one gives a shit to read the words I write. Worry informed me I had no interesting tales left to tell. Worry imparted a basic truth — that books, blogs, and stupid life philosophies are irrelevant to a society far happier smothering their brain cells in food, alcohol, and the bullshit drivel lovingly compiled for them by Netflix.

Perhaps Worry is correct.

Perhaps I should give up on new book ideas, and go back to earning money cooking substandard food for people with substandard ideas on living. Perhaps I should give up on ridiculous dreams of sailing around the world, living free, and suggesting to others that a functional society isn’t bound to the absurd habits, beliefs, and lifestyles we’ve been taught from birth.


Or perhaps I should inform Worry it’s time to go fuck itself.

Perhaps all I needed was a kick in my own whiny ass, to foster a realization that we are the creators of the games we play. We facilitate our own heavens or hells. Misery and joy have always been two sides of the same coin.

If our stupid bodies are gonna crumble, rot, decay, and die, then now is the time to have some fun. There’s no future happiness waiting out there. It either happens in this moment, or fucking never.

Screw the rainclouds. Feels like a day to go trampin’ through the woods, to see what wonders lay in store. Clothing’s simple enough to dry out — much easier to deal with than a drowning soul.

Fuck Society

Is it just me, or does life on Earth seem unnecessarily complicated?

I guess that depends on the word “unnecessarily.”

Let’s start there.

We’re pretty simple creatures, are we not? Aside from the big brains, we’re no different from any other animal roaming the lands — we need to breathe, we need to eat, and we obviously have a big thing for fucking. Even though we have this so-called greater reasoning capacity, supposedly giving us a major advantage over the dimwitted critters livin’ in the woods, why does it seem like their lives are far more honest, pure, and simple?

Over hundreds of centuries, we’ve crafted our civilization into a dynamic and highly complex hierarchy. We’ve built bridges and towers, learned to split the atom, and are sitting on the edge of realizing artificial intelligence as a practical reality.

Impressive shit, eh?

The only problem, it seems, is that we don’t really like ourselves that much.

We treat each other like fucking garbage. Stray dogs get rescued, while homeless people freeze to death. Single mothers work 3 jobs to feed their kids, while CEO’s drive around in Ferraris with hookers and coke. Homes are denied to families daily by institutions concerned with nothing else but maximizing their usurious profits, and 98 percent of the world’s wealth sits in the hands of 2 percent of our population.

We sell each other poison, and call it food. We pollute our waters, and call it business. We find the cheapest ways to manufacture limitless amounts of toxic shit to rub on our skin or banish dirt, and feel good sleeping at night knowing warning labels were conscientiously put in place. We’re lied to on a daily basis, but seem content to keep our heads buried in the sand — oblivious to the fact that position makes it real easy to get fucked in the ass.

Endless war, endless greed, endless corruption — how the fuck have we come to this? And why the flying fuck is it considered “normal?”

Perhaps our brains aren’t as highly advanced as we’ve been told.

Or perhaps they’re clouded by an obsessive belief in the one thing that’s kept us in perpetual bondage since some fuckwad convinced us it was a good thing…


Bullshit fucking money.

Pieces of paper traded back and forth that have no inherent value.

We’re complete fucking morons, wasting our lives collecting this shit, and engaging in activities no sensible animal would ever consider. And we keep repeating our undesirable routines till the day we die, knowing our paper supplies will never be enough.

Are you ready for a shocker? Humans used to survive without money. Villages used to thrive before the concept was developed. Communities used to care for one another and cooperate as holistic organisms, without a single coin being traded.

You wanna know why I get pissy from time to time, and spout off at the mouth about stuff our “advanced” society doesn’t seem all too interested in?

Cuz I’ve had enough of being a fucking slave.

Why everyone else seems content to play the fucked up game of trading paper dollars is beyond me. If we decided as a group to stop believing in the fiction of wealth, all the bad shit would come to an end.

Yeah, I’m a naive dreamer, I know.

“It’s just not that simple, Mike, to abolish money and selfishness and greed — our world is far too complex.”


Our big brains can reinvent this world in a heartbeat. There’s nothing difficult about caring for one another and making sure each belly gets filled. There’s nothing tough about expending a little energy to build a barn for your neighbour, knowing somewhere down the road they’ll do the same for you.

Our society fucking sucks, and I want off the treadmill.

If no one wants to run away with me, so be it. But I know I ain’t alone in my desire for a harmonious planet. A destructive model can only have one ultimate ending. And no matter how well you cover your ears and sing “lalalalalala” to ignore that truth, it ain’t gonna stop the runaway train from crashing and burning at the end of its track.

We’ve fucked up here. We’re not supposed to live like this.

But change will only come if we do it together.

If assholes want to keep playing “mine, not yours,” then don’t be surprised when the conductor eventually announces the final destination.

Me, I’d rather switch tracks.

Or better yet, never ride another fucking train.

The club car sucked, anyway.