The Island, Mostly. July 27 to August 5

Mother, mother.

Mary and I checked our boarding passes. We weren't seated together. I was in the 11th row, she was in the 6th. I shrugged it off.

Then once we were actually seated, in rows six and eleven, I got nervous. The idea--what if we crash? We'll be so far apart! I felt so lonely then.

The feeling: what was the feeling? It was the feeling of a little boy, separated from his mother in a store. Only thing in his head: "I need my mommy!"

A desperate need, in both cases. "I want Mary! I want Mary!"

 

Last Monday night seven teens got into a car built for five. They drove out down the Shore Road.

Just after the wooden bridge, probably speeding, they went into the ditch, rolled.

All except the driver, who was wearing a seatbelt, were thrown out of the car.

Three of the six thrown were killed, either immediately or shortly thereafter.

A woman named Anne Marie, who stays where we are staying, at the Lighthouse Cottages, heard the sirens rush by. Then she heard the helicopter that took the injured to the hospital.

The funerals were yesterday, in Judique and Port Hood.

 

Father, father.

What is it with me and difficult people? A normal person avoids difficult people; I go to them. (I'm thinking right now of three people, one of whom I dined with this evening.)

I'm making this sound more like a riddle than it actually is. The answer is, simply, Father.

He would get into difficult moods, and I, with my charming ways, would go to him to calm him down, or distract him.

And thus I look for difficult people--I suppose because, now, there's also the meaning that I am, in some way, again with my father.

 

Difficult people like to modify their behaviour so that they don't look like difficult people.

Here, it's actually the 31st of July, not the 30th. A red-breasted robin is bob-bob-bobbing along in front of me.

What will I say about tomorrow, or is it today?

I'll talk about a day free of complexity--until what I'll write about tomorrow--watching the blue water and the blue sky.

What else, it's a vacation.

Except to say that no-one really gives a damn about anything at all.

We're all just waiting to die, and we don't care who's left behind to grieve.

 

It's hard to have a simple day here. We've been here a dozen times or so. Father was here maybe nine years ago.

Yes--one time, me, Mary & Mother went down to the water and while we were gone he got into the state I was in when I was in the airplane.

I got sad on the airplane; he got mad waiting for his mother, er, wife to return.

So this theory's a general theory. At least as far as men are concerned.

Or at least as far as my family is concerned.

Or my father and myself.

 

Oh yes, the ritual of the Shaving of the Pubic Area.

Sometimes it seems a drag--oh, here we go again!--but, barring expensive and time-engulfing electrolysis, it's essential.

I mean, what lady could resist? No more of that infernal nose-tickling, no more fear of a hair getting caught in your throat.

And consider the appeal of the optics. Tinto Brass knew what he was doing in that film about the nazis. It simply looks bigger, and we all know how the ladies can squeal with delight.

So shave it dry, boys. Your ladies and your man-root will thank you.

 

The newest thing out here is nudism. Mary and I decided to check it out.

The place was in a shopping mall.

(Geoff was there too.)

We knocked on the door.

A bare-breasted woman came out angrily. "Yes, what?"

We said we were there to be nude.

"Uh-uh, no. Who told you about this place?"

"You advertised."

(Peeking inside, naked people watching a film.)

"Forget it," slamming the door.

We went to get Geoff's car from the lock-up. It was nowhere to be found.

They'd even stolen Geoff's car! What was wrong with them?

(Dreams are part of vacations, too.)

 

Tonight we went to a dance.

And although the folks on the floor were happy, I wasn't; I was distant from it (partially because one of my ears is blocked up and everything sounds like a wash), which led me to consider the emptiness of the world (partially because I've been reading the Tale of Genji) and aspire to--or merely ponder--the inevitable pain of all departures and that the only way to avoid the pain is by renouncing the world, maybe by entering a nice monastery. Have I mentioned I have the taste of cancer in my mouth?

 

Danglingly tired of everything, we found a note on the door. "Back @ 7:40 B & T." Which meant, to my eyes, nothing less than the return to Cape Breton of Mary's parents. After Bernie had done his Sunday Mass assistance at the Veteran's Hospital, they'd driven back from Halifax. Which meant also they'd want to drive us to the bus in Port Hawksbury. I schemed and phantasied as I applied hydrogen peroxide to my ear.

Car pulled up. Brother Bernard. The T had meant Tanya.

Moral: When danglingly tired of everything, ask questions before squandering precious space of imagination.

 

I expected a disaster somewhere along the way back. The taxi arrived one minute early. We heard the bus company had to put another bus on because of all the travellers, but it didn't affect us. A big rainstorm at the airport put us on the plane to Ottawa an hour late, but we still caught our connecting flight. My bag was at the carousel before I was. We decided to go to Gabby's because I figured they'd still be serving food at eleven, and they were. The cat was still alive. There was no disaster.

There was no disaster.