[39] [M]

We watched ‘Bite the Bullet’ this evening. I noticed that in almost all of the shots the horses—and thus the race itself—went from left to right on the screen ... as if you’re watching it on a map of North America. But then I figured there may be something else to it: as a narrative as it’s read proceeds from left to right so do the horses in the shots. Progress in reading itself goes left to right. So Arabian horses should always run right to left, and Chinese horses run from top to bottom of any shot.

 

***

 

It was like I’d been there before. I knew there were ten guards in the next room of the castle. (Beyond that room, who knew how many more guards there were?) Could I get past them somehow? Maybe allow them into my room one my one, to kill them one by one? There was no natural solution. I chose to kill them all one by one because I would gain experience that way. So I fired a shot into their room; they alerted; I killed one, then another; the third shot me—and I awoke in the room again. Again!

 

***

 

-Is that when you got away?

-That’s when we almost got away. They had another trick in their books.

-What was it?

-They got in a hot air balloon and, as they rose, the lassoed me and June by our wrists.

-Wow!

-The rope was losing its slack and soon we would be pulled up in the air, probably to be dropped onto the rocks of the cliff below.

-So what happened?

-What happened? Why, as June and I were starting to have our arms pulled, I kicked my shotgun, hoping it would miraculously go off.

-Did it?

-Yes, it did.

-What’d it hit?

-First it hit the rope holding onto June and me just as we swung out over the cliff; we grabbed onto some roots there.

-Then?

-Then it hit the rope of the balloon’s basket, dropping it, unattached to anything, a hundred feet to the shore below.

-Wow.

-That’s right.

-How’d you grab roots with your hands tied?

-Get away from me kid, you bother me.

 

*

 

 “In every set-up, these magnificent horses are seen crossing the screen, running, walking, tragically stumbling, always from left to right, as if we are viewing them from God’s perspective of America itself, like we are reading the great narrative of American capitalism and competition as we would read the script by Richard Brooks who also directs, from left to right, from west to east, for ever and ever left to right, magnificent horses running like America with a goal but without a known destination, from mark to mark merely, not able to know the end of the movie, as the early pioneers headed West, Young Man, in something of a reversal of our originary myths, which appears to undercut my thesis; but that, too, is the nature of film.”

-Andrew Sarris

 

***

 

WHO IS KILLING THE GREAT ASPIRING RAPPERS OF TORONTO?

 

All the victims have but one thing in common: they are all aspiring rappers. Some even sold CDs.

Out there somewhere in the city he lurks, follows, executes. He must be either a music critic or a rapper jealous of any new competition.

Could it be Peter Goddard? Brad Wheeler? Kardinal Offishal? K’NAAN?

Or someone no-one has even heard of?

I know we can track this person down and stop him. I don’t know why the cops aren’t on it already. People! Someone is killing the great aspiring rappers of Toronto!

 

***

 

I said, “It’s like this.” I held up two fingers of each hand. “This is my father and his sister, and this is my mother and her sister. My father’s sister had three children, and my mother’s sister had two. My parents had four. I don’t know the names of my father’s sister’s children any more. My mother’s sister had two children. My parents had four children. Therefore I have five cousins and three siblings. Plus I have, what, four nephews and a niece. Second cousins, there’s at least four. There’s nothing unusual about me at all in small groups.”

 

***

 

The moment will come possibly maybe in just five little minutes. There will come the moment when I can write no more; because I’ll be dead. It’s impossible to know when. What a mess I’ll be leaving behind if it’s in just five minutes! My desk here will take three hours to clean, and that’s not a hundredth of my mess....

The number of corpses is overwhelming. Murders all over, every day. How does one go about getting murdered? I don’t know the first thing about it....

It’s like DEATH really can’t be talked about without talking about something else....

 

***

 

I’m not a song that’s rarely sung

The door that shut the day you went away,

My tune’s so old it tarnishes in time

The silence of your humming room

The paint on me, me, painting of loss,

Is cracking in webbery silently

It’s a bed your toes hang off of,

Like there’s nothing of something

I’m not a rare ochre label single

Now that you’ve gone, I have time

I’m fading off the paper slowly

Will I ever see you again? Ever? Never?

I’m circling the last groove of myself endlessly

Will I think about you every day, forever?

 

***

 

Music key to every good thing.

Key to things I’ll never know.

Why—not how—did she cry at Phil Ochs?

I never asked, even when asked Why.

A million years ago there was a voice.

Crying out as something misbegotten.

Crying out at something misbegotten.

No answer was ever recorded then.

To cry at “Changes” like she did!

Whatever memory caused those sobs?

And now I’m sole holder of that time.

It’s losses all the way back.

I carry this moment with me daily.

There’s a million questions for every answer.

If only I had one! One is plenty!

 

***

 

Many years before the beginning, Spirit said to Matter, Ease yourself.

Matter said to Spirit, Look around.

Spirit said to Matter, Look inside.

Matter said to Spirit, Let’s hold hands.

Spirit said to Matter, Good idea.

Matter said to Spirit, Let’s never be apart.

Matter said to Spirit, Look: A sunset.

Spirit said to Matter, How about a number game?

Matter said to Spirit, What’s 100 times 100?

Spirit said to Matter, An angel on a pin.

Matter said to Spirit, Hold on. Hold on.

Spirit said to Matter, Let’s hold onto this feeling.

And so it came to pass.

 

***

 

Tim Hortons is running their annual springtime “Roll Up the Rim to Win” contest. You roll up your paper cup’s rim and you can win stuff, usually coffee or a donut, if anything. So anyway, I’ve had quite a streak of luck. Three wins, then nothing, then another win. Four out of five!

I go home the night of my fourth win. After dinner, as my wife and I are settling in for some casual television viewing, I say to her, “Say, you know I’ve won four out of my last five Roll Up the Rims to Win?”

“Four out of five?”

“Yeah. Missed one, but three wins, a loss, a win.”

“But, what about the loss?”

“Please, honey.”

“You missed one. Why couldn’t you have made it five out of five?”

“It’s chance!”

“It should have been five out of five.”

“Honey, please!”

“You loser.”

“Don’t.”

“Such a fucking loser I married.”

“Does this have to happen every night?”

“Are you contradicting me, boy?”

“No, ma’am, it’s just—”

“You know what you have to get now.”

I nod.

I return with it and give it to her.

“Four out of five,” she mutters. “You regret the day you were born.”

“I regret the day I was born.”

“Roll Up the Rim indeed. Roll up your pant legs.”

I roll up my pant legs. She aims her blows well, re-breaking the wounds from last night.

“Creep, creep. Now get down, worm. On all fours.”

This again.

“Face away! mister four out of five.”

She inserts the whip handle.

“You like that?”

“Yes, mistress, please.”

She pulls it out and harshly and furiously slashes the switch between my legs.

 “What was I thinking?” she cries. “A fucking loser! I married a fucking loser! Four out of five! What a shit!”

 

***

 

99

 

When someone called my name

I looked around for who?

I heard her call my name

She’s nowhere to be seen

Three thousand miles away

Too far to call my name

’Twas just some random noise

I’d carved into her voice

With wanting as my adze

But no she’s gone away

Yet still that calling voice

Is crawling through my mind

As I alone compose

This song she’ll never see

Three thousand miles away

And wondering not aloud

About illusions cast

A hundred years ago

And asking in my song

A simple question: does

She ever hear my call?

 

***

 

I’ve never before been so humiliated.

“Get in the plane!” the instructor cried.

I said, “You mean this crate?”

“Yes!” he shouted. “Pretend it’s a plane!”

I crawled into the crate and looked out at him hopefully, expecting some praise but there was none.

“Now what do you do?” he shouted.

“I guess ... I wait for it to get in the air?”

“It’s already in the air, you idiot!”

“It is?”

“Don’t you read briefings?”

“I don’t know how to read. I’m a shepherd.”

“The people they send me! So you don’t know a thing about what you’re doing in the plane?”

“Well, yeah. I’m supposed to hijack it and fly it into some building, right?”

“Finally, a sign of intelligence. Yes. How do you get to the pilot?”

“The what?”

“The guy who’s flying the plane!”

“Oh! Well, I guess I.... Is he above me now?”

“Of course not! He’s at the front of the plane!”

“Which way is the front?”

The instructor took off his hat, crumpled it, threw it to the ground, stomped on it. “The way you’re facing! Now what? Are you crying?”

“You’re so mean!”

“Get out of that crate!”

Never before, so humiliated!

 

***

 

You know, I can understand what's going on whenever I see something on the tv about midwifery. You see, they always say they got everything always under control because if there's any like complications all they got to do is call up the hospital or something and everything's okay.

You know, I can understand this totally, from experience. You see, I remember when 'speed-dial' came in back in the eighties. It was a boon to me and my friends. We spend all our time lighting one another's hair on fire and it was okay, because we had 911 on speed-dial.

 

***

 

When I’s a lad, the King was just a man;

Then blossomed he to some thing like a God;

Then wond’rously became a Living God.

It wasn’t my perception made it so,

Or not alone my sense of holiness

Became he to the thing he always was,

The Living God I hushed four lines ago,

But rather changes of his nascent forme

Containing wisdom’s works in line and verse

Could set well-set for print and distribute.

Then all us commonfolk could mark the sense

And mark, “Our King’s a Holy Man,” except

For some who only saw a halo’s mark

Above his blessed head; these reprobates

Were moved en masse to islands to the north,

Preventing sick infecting of ourselves.

And so for years the birds sang sweet and clear

That our great K-ng (his name unutter’ble

For fear the winds would dissipate The Word)

Did reign, whilst animals did cleave

Unto their mates by twos or threes or fours.

A paramilitary force considered me

Of use in self-agreement, for my heart

Was theirs and theirs of mine; we learned

Of cells and I.E.D.s to prep ourselves

Defensively against whatever threat

Should -en our K-ng (for we had learned belief

Can pervert-like invert the Chosen W-rd).

But why, you ask, if all were so

Enthralled with He your K-ng was such preparedness

Necessary? Military why

The need? Because around our landlocked land

There dwelt a larger land in infidel-

-Ity who’d not (as you can guess) come ’round

To righteousness, such they oppressors were,

And so we spent our days yplanning “tricks”

To make them be illuminate or dead;

In cells we operated, such that just

Two levels up were not aware of nor our names

Nor ranks, and even then we weren’t to breathe

A word about what special opping plans

We might have in the stew and spark to do,

Because our foes had spies afoot (although

We never seemed to catch a one), anear

(Although we never prisoned but a none),

Aseeing (though we couldn’t pluck a soul

From borders), and in touch (although a hand

We never shackled manacled or gripped).

My comrade and myself concocted plans

I share here for the first time anywhere:

We’d ’jack an aeroplane from out the sky,

A plane of diplomat ambassadors

(Not ours but theirs) as they attempted to

Return with safety to their shit-stain lands,

And blow it up, that plane, with no regrets;

O what they’d say about our hero act!

O who would not remember us eterne?

O where in all the lands would we be slight?

O how our heritage’d be sung in song!

Thus quietly we schemed, just he and me

And one who true to W-rd had pledged himself,

Intent on time and place for great’st effect,

Until we settled down and bought our tix,

And sep’rately we boarded us the plane.

From where I sat, L3, I couldn’t see

My comrade seven rows behind nor could

I see my other comrade up in seat

G3, and soon the plane was in the air.

When I’s a lad, I lived a life of such

Excitement every day was newly born

Or so it seemed; the coolness of the grass

Beneath my feet could lift me through the air,

And mornings were the summer sun and winters

Were the moon I stretched to touch; I knew

Too much for anyone to know without

A salty cry (and yet I can’t recall

The weeping that I must have done for now

I see my youth and want to weep at how

It must have been). And now those times are past,

And there I was enweaponed on a plane,

To strike a blow against the infidels,

To let the world at large, if world-at-large

Existed past the borders of surround,

Envision passion mine for W-rd the K-ng,

And know my kith and kin impressed with what

I’d done, parade perhaps, in any case

A handsome epitaph upon a stone.

The plane was in the air and soon above

Our hated domiciles (that is to say

The domiciles we hated, namely theirs)

And soon we’d blow the airplane into bits

Foreseeing news reports about our deed;

What news reports? There won’t be any way

For anyone to know just what you’ve done

Or why! You’re organized in cells which means

There’s none to tell your tale or left to claim

Responsibility! so said a little voice

Within my head, some undigested bit-

Of-beef complaint, some concept truly mine

Yet seemingly from somewhere else entire.

I panicked then, determining to stop

The blast some minutes off, but how? My friends

Were not available for contact in the plan

We’d sworn to hold until our fiery deaths.

But still I rose and moved on up the aisle,

To where my forward friend did sit: too late.

So once upon a time, an amateur

Astronomer one night saw something bright:

With unseen worlds surrounding it, a star

Exploding to a nova. Packing up his gear

He made a note precisely noting down

The latitude and longitude and time

Intending to next day report his find.

He slept next morn as wife swept up his pants

And tossed them in the wash with note inside.

So now I’m here in Hell as punishment,

And no-one down below knows of my deed,

Because we never told a soul our plans,

And emptiness is all around my self.

The forces here are wanting me repent,

But why repent when fame’s eluded me?

The plane exploded, killing all aboard,

And no-one knows who did this wicked deed!

I’d cut myself away from everything,

I’d severed ties to everything of care.

I know there’s irony in bucketfuls

And so a word of warning (where? To whom?)

To always write your plans destruction of,

And give them all to someone whom you trust!

A Fly In Every Ointment

I believe I will send submissions in the formal way. When you reject them, I may put them in that other place. But I would like permission to put them in the other place too; some of my work isn't even fit for a swamp, intentionally. I haven't looked: have I been removed from your Creators section? I should be removed since there may be nothing of mine that's ever acceptable.

To move on from this point, I'll send you two things once I've done revising them. They're linked (though rather different) but they can be de-linked.

Sincerely yours,

JOHN

 

*

 

In the city called Quapel, the entire population is dedicated in both sacred and profane ways to its goats. The population has deified the four-legged creature, and don't try to talk them out of this belief. Their belief system considers themselves to be but degraded goats, a step down from them at the very least. All their social organization is meant to give their goats all the pleasures goats desire. Their currency is oat and grass solely. Their goats occupy the very best rooms in their mansions. (Everyone has a mansion for everyone has a goat deserving of a mansion.)

Next on our travel agenda was the ancient seaside town known as Asia. In Asia, diets are conducted through starvation. That is to say, when some is feeling a bit overweight they simply stop eating. This is proper conduct, they believe. Not even a plain salad is allowed because it does not matter the substance consumed: they are all fattening. This dicta is not so far off, is it not? Similarly, they all have tribal colours and anti-colours. A blue cannot see yellow, for example, and a yellow cannot see green. Thus they use a system of symbols to communicate.

We came across the city of Earth by accident, which is the only way one can come across the city of Earth, because it is not on any map. In addition, none of the streets or avenues have names. There's not a printed name in the whole metropolis; there's not a written word in the whole metropolis. You see, they have an odd sense of property that includes the names of things. To reduce speculation and piracy, one cannot buy property by afar, which names would facilitate. I wed a lovely woman there. We've two children, named _________ and _________.

 

*

 

What do we know?

Knowing that,

what's the ratio of

what we know

(over)

what we don't know?

K/DK?

(However,

we don't know the numerator

and we don't know the denominator....)

How small might this number be?

How to count what we don't know?

However we con it,

the number is small

(but not quite nothing).

So

this is the place to start from.

Knowing nothing

we still work at knowing

though we cannot know

by how much our knowledge is increasing.

In 10,000 BC we knew very little

now we know more.

How much more?

Another vanishingly small amount.

 

*

 

An Intermittent Landscape

 

is what I see every six minutes. Wherever I am, at whatever elevation or during whatever act, it flashes for the smallest piece of time: how things used to me. It's especially noticeable in a city. Suddenly, there's nothing: just trees and grass, sometimes a frosty lake, an unbreathable atmosphere. Some may call it an hysterical nostalgia, but I know it as a grounding of knowledge. I can see the past that clearly, I swear. I cannot verify these visions, though I would like to. I wonder if the rest of time is actually the illusory part.

 

*

 

1735. Port-La-Joye.

The curé rushed in to our hut. Mondieu! he cried. The English are devils and demons! Do not swear allegiance to their devil King! Mondieu! Mondieu!

What could we do? The church had spoken. We'd seen drawings of these English, and we'd agreed they looked like demons.

We didn't sign. Of course not. Mondieu!

We got turfed out, naturally, some time later. We were foreign nationals, loyal foreign nationals, who had no rights having never signed the contract; and besides, the Church is eternal, and what is the King? The King is a Thing. Not like our King.

 

*

 

Someone famous walked by me today—I could tell by his entourage—but I didn't look up. And I thought of Cheryl Lancastle, so many years ago.

The day after drinking with her in some bar one night, she said, "Last night you were so cool."

"Me? How?"

"***** ******** was sitting right behind you, and you didn't even notice!"

"Geez, I didn't even know s/he was there!"

I didn't get it; maybe she was more normal than I thought she was. What could I say? Famous people: they're bathed in shit and piss just like the rest of us.

 

*

 

Their Piece of the Action

 

It happens every 30th of April.

Two Mafiosi come into my bar in the morning.

They lock the door and turn the sign to CLOSED.

They hustle me into the back room.

"Okay, show us da books."

I get out the books and they ask me questions about how much I made from all sources of income.

Then they tell me how much I'd paid for protection last year.

I tell them my allowed deductions.

Many other questions.

They shove their balance sheets at me and force me to sign.

Sometimes I get a refund.

 

*

 

I read something interesting today about current day distractions. Apparently, all of gizmos are keeping us from driving and walking safely. A Queensland study revealed that peripheral perception is reduced immensely. Because we believe (falsely) we have far better perception that we actually do. The brain kind of fills in the sides of our vision, making it seem like we have full 180 degree control. It had something to do with evolution; the article had references to other studies which I was so busy bookmarking on my iPad that I walked out in front of a semi and got killed.

 

*

 

The Loneliness of the Sole-Use Product

 

Mighty Mr. Clean spotted a dirty infected stain and pounced. In minutes the area was spic and span. No more germs!

Mr. Clean saw a volleyball game and wondered how it was done. Then he saw some filth and pounced! All clean! Cleaned my Mr. Clean!

He went for a walk. A woman raised her skirt. "Hey fella, interested in this?"

"Is it infected?"

"Well! Cleanest snatch in town, I'll have you know!"

"Then it's of no use to me," and he continued walking.

He looked up at the moon. "But I'm not lonely."

 

*

 

RATIONALE

 

Years ago, Durham Cable would televise bingo games. Players bought cards and telephoned the station to yell Bingo.

They showed on-screen 1 to 75 which would light up when called by the bingo caller. The numbers were arranged in an array 10 by 7 with the remaining five in a bottom row.

I'd count the number of contiguous areas of the array as they lit up. (1 and 2 lit up was one unit; same with 14 and 24 and with 18, 19, and 29.) The number would go up, then down.

I use 100s today instead of 75s.

 

*

 

Skinflint. A flint is a form a quartz harder than steel. When the two are brought together with force, sparks come forth. Since it would be almost impossible to skin (or shave) a flint, the term means someone who is so parsimonious he would attempt the near-impossible for a slight monetary gain.

cc. Thin paper coated with black ink bonded with wax was used to create duplicate copies of a piece of writing. (The blackness reminded its inventors of the chemical element carbon.) This was known as carbon paper, and the duplicate was known as the carbon copy, or cc.

 

*

 

An eon is around half a billion years long. That is to say, 500,000,000 years. We can expand that easily to mean one hundred and eighty-two billion five hundred million days which is also equivalent to four trillion three hundred and eighty billion hours. What is that in minutes? Two hundred and sixty two trillion eight hundred billion minutes. I usually eat my daily sandwich in ten minutes. Therefore I can eat twenty-six trillion two hundred and eighty sandwiches in an era. So we have nothing to worry about. I mean, who could eat sandwiches continuously? The thought is absurd.

 

*

 

Dear Abbo,

I have come into possession of four hundred thousand dollars. However, the bills, though cleansed of blood, have probably been marked. What is the best way to "launder" money?

Yours,

Money Man

 

Dear Money Man,

Alas, your dilemma is all too common. Once up a time, a freer time, casinos or even grocery stores would be satisfactory. Today, with the advent of closed circuit photography, neither place is safe. Anyway, you might as well cross over as turn back. Go into the narcotics trade. With that kind of capital, you could relocate to the Cayman Islands and diversify.

 

*

 

Same Word, Same Meaning

 

Rob Ford vows to sue, stuns city with oral sex comment

Warning: The following story contains graphic language

--Toronto Star, 14 November 2013

 

Rob Ford apologizes for oral sex comment, says he is seeking help

Warning: The following story contains graphic language

--Toronto Star, 14 November 2013

 

Putin may free Pussy Riot members, oil tycoon in amnesty

--Toronto Star, 3 December 2013

 

Russia's top court orders review of Pussy Riot case

--Toronto Star, 12 December 2013

 

Pussy Riot to be freed despite 'disgraceful' protest, says Putin

--Toronto Star, 19 December 2013

 

*

 

I could have licked my bar tab, so close to my face I had to hold it to read it.

"What's this?" I cried. Each pint costs one dollar more than the previous one!"

Indeed: $4, $5, $6, $7, $8, $9, $10, $11!

The barmaid said, "It's progressive pricing."

"Progressive pricing? Egads!"

"It reduces over-indulgence whilst remunerating the establishment for the unintended consequences of imbibing unto intoxication."

"I don't believe that's fair. Tomorrow night, I'll leave here after one drink and go over to Joe's Tavern across the street."

"The government's coming up with a way to prevent that, too."

 

*

 

Sometimes people ask me, "How do you do twice as much as anyone else?"

And I tell them,

"Simple.

"I sleep twelve hours a day.

"But in those twelve hours I dream an entire day.

"Well, half-day. Because for half of that dream day, I sleep and I dream ... of an entire day.

"Simple.

"Again, half-day. Because for half of it I sleep and dream.

"And so on and so on.

"Thus, according to the calculus, My time awake approaches two days for every day.

"You may wonder how I escape the infinite regress implied.

"Truth is, I don't."

 

*

 

While she was picking her son's clothes up off his bedroom floor, June knocked his desk and his computer enlivened to his Facebook page. She looked: scantily clad women, many, wanting to be 'friends' with him. Almost like prostitutes!

Her son came home.

"Honey," she said. "I saw your Facebook page today."

"Oh yeah?"

"And I couldn't help but notice all the women who wanted to be friends with you."

"Yeah?"

"Are they prostitutes?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God!"

"But it's only because Facebook can see I don't have any friends, so they're offering me paid companionship!"

June cried, "Thank God!"

 

*

 

I saw them doing it again and again and I didn't get it. Over the hill went all these dogs chasing cars. The cars and the dogs would disappear over the hill, then the dogs would come back with their tongues hanging out.

What was it all about?

What were they doing on the other side of the hill with the cars?

I decided to find out.

A car came along, I ran after it.

I ran over the hill.

The car stopped.

Driver leaned out.

He said, "Well?"

I just stood there.

He shook his head, and drove away.

 

*

 

I don't think this is impossible.

Let's say my neighbour is abducted by aliens some night and travels near the speed of light for some time. Because of some paradox or another he ages forty years while I didn't, and I age forty years while he doesn't. It's possible.

We have our conversation the next morning. We've each had forty years of experiences to talk about, and it was only yesterday we were the same age. Now our ages are skewed but in agreement. What would we have to eat? Is this a daily occurrence?

Who's going to die first?

 

*

 

She looked at the playbill and said, This isn't right.

What's not right?

Look. Here's the names of the actors, and here's the parts they are playing.

Yeah? And so?

They're different. Look. Here's Philip Hnadly playing Archie Elliott.

I still don't get it.

Why didn't they hire Archie Elliott to play Archie Elliott?

Um.

How dare the producers appropriate Archie Elliott like this?

Um.

They're stealing from him his existential being, aren't they?

Um.

It's just wrong!

I don't think....

Poor Archie Elliott. Maybe he doesn't even know about it!

I think he....

I can't participate in this exploitation!

 

*

 

It's a terrible thing, isn't it? You know what I'm talking about, don't you? The dream that everyone has once in a while? The dream in which over a long period (dream-wise) you manage to murder all of your siblings? And there's people, dream bystanders, who don't react right? Sometimes they're supportive and sometimes they're critical? How before it's all resolved, before you get a proper resolution, your alarm goes off and the dream is over? And don't you feel really guilty then? Isn't that the worst part of all, that guilty feeling? Doesn't it last way too long, really?

 

*

 

Tired? Got that low down feeling? What is it you're after?

I know what you're after! It's what everyone is after!

After years of intense research I have created just what you're looking for!

Pure Essence of Vanity!

Folks. Why go through all the trouble of puffing and preening with the hope of finally being noticed? Why risk humiliation?

I have discovered the secret to distilling and purifying Vanity. Using my own Times of Attraction, my Petty Victories, my Moments of Non-Abjection, I have perfected this distillate!

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*

 

I couldn’t believe it. Right ahead of me on the street was that good-lookin’ guy from the office beside mine. Even though it was a slippery winter day I recognized him from behind, that ass and shoulders. There I was, just twenty feet behind him. I’ve been on the elevator with him more than a couple times. Boy, what wouldn’t I give for him to turn around. Instead he crossed the street and he slipped and fell. A big truck ran him over, his head busted apart like a melon. Just shows how you shouldn’t get too attached to people.

 

*

 

With a pretty smile she hopped into my truck like it was some old corny carny ride and sighed loudly. "I've been out there for, like, an hour" she said. I smiled. "Well, you got your ride now. Tulsa, is it?" She smiled. "Sister's pregnant. Doesn't know I'm coming." "Let's roll."

A couple minutes passed as my dash clock kicked to two-thirty and I looked over to see she was asleep with the steady waves of highway lights sweeping down from her blonde forehead to her freckled arms to her thighs. Wasn't she a peach now.

The radio reception was breaking up so reached over to switch it to the local country station that I could find blindfolded. Every three days I drove this route, same highway, same schedule. Suddenly she moved and her knee pressed the back of my hand. Quite a warm knee now.

There it was, right where I knew it would be,

TULSA 20

with my turnoff at the next exit. I quietly rolled to the shoulder and stopped. I said, "Ma'am, wake up." She opened her eyes and looked at me. "This is as far as I can go." She squinted into the four a.m. dawn. "We near Tulsa?" "Eighteen miles thereabouts." She mussed around with her hair, looking at me. "I have to thank you again for picking me up." I said, "It was my pleasure." She yanked at the door handle with what seemed like more force than necessary and climbed down to the gravel. I drove off, looking in the rear view.

My mother always taught me well. You don't need to get something from everyone you meet. Sometimes it's best to let something simply go. The radio station was gone, just like her. They come and go. The highway is forever.

 

*

 

Now I’ve dreamed something extraordinary. I dreamed the entire manufacturing process of a Care Bear. I cut out the patterns, dyed the cloth, and prepared the battening for its insides. This all took about three hours.

The next step was sewing it all together. I used a special sewing machine, sewing from the inside of course.

Then in went the stuffing, and the final seam was on its ass. Accessories followed, eyes and so on. It took twenty-seven hours total.

Okay, it was actually about the manufacture of a .45 Caliber M1911 automatic pistol. But the principle is the same!

 

*

 

Fifty years ago, there was a guy living in my town. He didn't go to my school; he went to one ten blocks away from mine. One day I didn't know him, and the next I did. The day I did happened to be a Saturday. These things probably happen more on Saturdays than any other day of the week, you know.

The mall back then was barely a mall. There was a Sears at one end and a Loblaws at the other, with about twenty stores between them. I was there with a girl named June.

We were walking back and forth, Sears to Loblaws, Loblaws to Sears, then she said, "I know him," pointing slightly such that I didn't know which one of the two guys heading toward us she was pointing at. She stopped us in front of them and she said, "Hi."

I was introduced. Bill and Mike were their names. It seemed that Bill was the one my friend knew, so I wound up with Mike, and I didn't mind that one bit. We walked and talked for hours. He was interesting, let's leave it at that.

So that night, as we were all going to the drive-in, we crashed on the highway. Terrible crash. Mike and June were killed and I broke both my legs and Bill cracked his skull. We were all only eighteen or so.

We recuperated together in the same hospital, and talked a lot. Before we knew it, maybe in a year, we were married.

That was all fifty years ago. We don't talk about it much these days. It was all a matter of chance, see. Meeting in the mall, some guys I didn't know. I've managed to forget Mike's last name; I don't recall what he looked like.

 

*

 

Regrets. We all have regrets.

My biggest regret was, well, some time ago. I got pissed off at all of humanity because they had all lost the way. They were worshipping junk, really. "Graven images."

So I had to wipe them out. Well, not all of them. There was a guy named Noah who was pretty cool with me. He was right with me, his Lord. So I told him I was going to wipe out everyone except for him and his family.

He was shocked, but he obeyed right-o. He was that kind of a guy. He knew I wasn't bullshitting him.

I gave him the plans for a boat big enough for all the animals of the world—the land creatures and the flying creatures and the dinosaurs. Plus I designed a nice apartment for him. He had it done one day; next day I started the rains to fall.

The boat floated up; meanwhile, all the people were screaming and drowning. I didn't like it, but they were just so wicked, you know? Something in the blood, I guess. I made a mistake somewhere in their design. No, that's stinking thinking. I had to give them free will and so on, good and evil and so on. Knowledge. Just that some idiots ruined it, that's all. Still, wiping out thousands and thousands at one swoop: I've never done it since. Yet.

So, that's my confession of my regret. I wish there'd been another way of doing it. I can still hear their screams sometimes. Sometimes it disturbs my sleep.

Regrets. One time I was smoking while I was taking a dump. I dropped the butt down between my legs into the toilet. The heater ignited some toilet paper and my balls got scorched. I regret that, too.

 

*

 

PUSH POLL

 

Push polls are all the rage today, because they work. I've come up with one to get a date with Felicia.

I said, "Are you aware that I would like to go out with you on Saturday night? 1=very aware, 2=somewhat aware, 3=neither aware not unaware, 4=somewhat unaware, 5=very unaware."

I said, "How familiar are you with the issues involved in a decision to date me, such as a pleasant time, a paid-for meal, an excellent film, perhaps some form of sex? 1=very familiar, 2=somewhat familiar, 3=neither familiar nor unfamiliar, 4=somewhat unfamiliar, 5=very unfamiliar."

I said, "Would you be more likely or less likely to go out on a date with me if you knew that a date with me would cause you to be more popular and more envied within your social circle? 1=much more likely, 2=somewhat more likely, 3=neither likely nor unlikely, 4=somewhat less likely, 5=much less likely."

I said, "Would you be more likely or less likely to go out on a date with me if you knew that a date with me would create opportunities for such activities as trips to Paris, solid bank accounts, superior audio-visual properties, and weekends in the country? 1=much more likely, 2=somewhat more likely, 3=neither likely nor unlikely, 4=somewhat less likely, 5=much less likely."

I said, "Would you be more likely or less likely to go out on a date with me if you knew that a date with me would make scarcity disappear, electricity plentiful, education better in quality, trans-oceanic travel possible with the energy supplied by the contents of a thimbleful of water, the contact of friendly aliens inevitable, eternal life within reach, and the Beatles reunite, impossible though that seems? 1=much more likely, 2=somewhat more likely, 3=neither likely nor unlikely, 4=somewhat less likely, 5=much less likely."

 

*

 

I read in the papers about a cleaning-woman who swept away an art exhibit in Bari, Italy, to the tune of some €10,000. Hoo-boy, that was some mistake! Whenever this happens, I return in my memory to an event from my youth.

I was working a summer job as a painter in Milan in 1498 with an outfit called Student Painters. One day we got a call for a job at the Santa Maria delle Grazie monastery. I got sent solo since it looked like a one-day gig. I went in and whitewashed the place. I was pretty happy with it and home by three-thirty.

Next day the boss calls me into his office. He said, "You really fucked up, Jones."

"How? What did I do?"

"You painted over some art in the cafeteria."

"You mean the egg painting? I thought it was, like, graffiti."

"The monastery paid money for it. It was of The Last Supper."

"The Last Supper? I thought it was some kind of a joke."

"A joke."

"Yeah, some kind of a pranky illusion."

"You destroyed it."

"Can you take it out of my pay?"

"You'd have to work here for a hundred years to pay for it."

"Oh. Well, look. I think I can fix it."

"Oh really. How."

"I'll just.... I'll just do the painting over again. I kind of remember what it looked like."

"Are you qualified for that?"

"Sure. I'm a great painter. Besides, it was like something a four-year-old could do."

"Well, let's give it a shot. If you fail, you'll be executed."

"Okeydoke."

So I went back to the monastery, and repainted it. It looked good in the end, and mostly no-one knew.

So I have sympathy for the cleaning-woman. It was just a mistake. Anyone can make a mistake.

 

*

 

The explanation I got the first time I asked about it was, "Things have been falling from the sky for as long as anyone can remember. It's a natural phenomenon. Like rain."

Cold comfort for a scientist, let me tell you. I had to know what the things that crashed to earth were, and I could think of no better way that to use a telescope to see one as it fell, before it busted into masses of string and shine on the ground.

I have spent my whole life trying to see one—even one—of the objects. But nothing.

-

My teacher tried to discover the nature of the falling things using telescopes, and failed. I knew there had to be another technique that could be used. So I decided to examine one of the fallen things extensively.

I catalogued one of them. It weighed ten pounds. It appeared to have originally been something square, something cubic. Its innards were a bundle of wires, several flat surfaces engraved in an unknown way, and a number of wheels.

I glued it all together, but could see no function to it. Now I am near my end, and I haven't advanced anything anyhow.

-

How many years will we continue to puzzle over this? asked the philosopher. It's as natural a phenomenon as a phenomenon can be. Things simply fall from the sky, and there is no sign to be taken from it. It doesn't mean anything. I have to have everyone agree with me about this. It's just something that happens. Let them fall; let us move on to more important subjects. There's a thousand other subjects! You can't get hung up on this! So what, things fall from the sky! Let's just move on! There's plenty of work!

 

*

 

He never care much about his teeth. To him, they were just a bunch of useless extra bones whose only job was to gnarl. There they sat, in his mouth, ready for mastication. He used them well for eating. So it didn't really matter when they started to hurt. They could hurt as much as they wanted to, so long as they were still chewy.

He considered the pain of his teeth their business. So what if he caught a bit of it on his end? Certainly they hurt themselves more than they could possibly hurt him. He pitied them sometimes, but not enough to help them out. Of course his end of the pain: sometimes it was like electricity, other times like needles piercing his head. But he was stoic, knowing they were getting the worst of it.

One of them got wiggly, as if it wanted to strike out on its own, like it had prepared a parachute for a descent to the ground. Well, he would have none of that! He kept it in there, a prisoner. "Wiggle away, little tooth," he'd say to it. "You ain't going anywhere."

Eventually it took its leave, in a sense. It escaped one night. But the man caught it in time, looked at it with a sneer, and shoved it back in his jaw. No tooth of his was going to get away so easily! It took some doing, some concentration, to keep it in his head where it belonged, but he did it.

One by one, the rest of his teeth tried for greener pastures, but every time he'd catch them and shove them back in. Inevitably they were all free agents, and it was work to keep them corralled.

He couldn't let go what his parents had made.

 

*

 

APOLOGY FOR PLAGIARISM

 

I try not to steal ideas or lines from another place unless I'm doing it for an obvious reason. (Obvious to me, anyway.) However, the idea of the preceding story's ending was taken straight from another source. I was writing away happily, only to find myself without a satisfactory ending, when there came into my head a particular passage that simply fit.

The situation is rather different, but the sentiment is the same. It's this passage, from the 18th chapter of Luo Guanzhong's Three Kingdoms. Here it is, via translator Moss Roberts.

"From a point of vantage, Cao Xing drew his bow and, sighting true, shot Xiahou Dun in his left eye. Bellowing in pain, Xiahou Dun plucked out the arrow; the eyeball had stuck fast to the point. 'The essence of my parents cannot be thrown away,' he cried, and swallowed the eye. Then he went for Cao Xing and speared him in the face before he could defend himself. Cao Xing fell dead from his horse. The spectacle left both sides aghast."

As you can see, the idea is blatantly stolen from a Chinese novel of the Ming era.

I try not to steal stuff.

 

*

 

The Defence Attorney said, "I'd like to call Harriet and Stanley Jones to the stand."

The Judge looked over his glasses and said, "That is highly irregular."

"May I approach the bench?"

"Proceed."

"You see, they were both witnesses to the crime. And they can only communicate by finishing one another's sentences, they've been married so long. Thus, having them both on the stand is the only way to get any sensible testimony."

"Very well. What ever."

"You're both sworn in and so on and so forth, and we've got your names and everything, so let's get to the testimony. Can you describe for us exactly what you heard and saw on the night of the 14th?"

Harriet said, "We were just settling down to watch—"

Stanley said, "For one thing, the moon was full that night, so—"

"Were not qualified to use such a class of semi—"

"About nine o'clock, or maybe it was—"

"Painted green because of the hummingbirds—"

"A scream, and so I cried, 'Harriet,'—"

"Plates on the wrong sides of the table—"

"Quietly so the Inspector General couldn't—"

"Twenty seven of them, I'm sure of it, because that's—"

"Taxation was something my grandfather could never—"

"'Remember,' I told Julie, 'you can't just take all of—'"

"I smelled something burning."

"So complicated because Stanley's uncle was also the cousin of—"

"Without a word of a lie—"

"Sensitive she was about her secretions, that was—"

"Back the next day to find every flower gone—"

/"And that's everything."

\"And that's everything."

"Thank you for your testimony. Please be seated."

The judge rapped his gavel. "I see no need to continue with this trial. The defendant is found not guilty. Let's call it a day."

 

*

 

Cottage Framed Photographs

 

“That’s Jim’s father. It’s dated on the back, nineteen twenty. Five years before Jim was born. Hadn’t even met Jim’s mother yet. She died in childbirth, you know. Jim would’ve had a little sister, too. But sometimes things don’t work out.

“This one’s my parents on their wedding day. Don’t they look happy? So what if it didn’t stay like that? But that’s another topic. Kids in rapid succession, Pete, me, Doris, Blake. The fire, as you know: funny us kids were all out at the time, isn’t it? Things sometimes just aren’t destined to work out.

“Now that’s Jim and me, here, with this cottage almost finished in the background. We got the land for a song. This was Wahta territory, and the government sold it quickly to avoid complications. It’s almost as if all the Wahtas were on holiday, came back to find their homes burned to the ground. Of course it wasn’t really like that, just things didn’t work out for them.

“This is Jim in his cast. Took the picture in the city. Honestly, I didn’t know he was trotting down the stairs when I turned off the lights. I wasn’t listening. He healed, mostly. Nothing ever works out.

“I don’t know why we put this one here; it’s from that mushroom hunt we had with the kids. I guess it’s because it’s the last picture we have of them. I always had the idea that if you cooked them long enough they were always okay to eat. Me, I don’t like them. They’re fungus or something, aren’t they?

“I took this picture a month ago. Just the cottage, in the morning, looking out on the water. It’s got a soul, you know. Things have worked out for it. I think it’s content.”