He slips through the hedgeow 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 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?”


“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.

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 Thing

Part II: Bind Nothing

Part III: Closure

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