Ménage

Really, what did you think she meant in the email that consisted of only three words lower-case and unpunctuated, that baldly confirmed that something‑some 'it'‑was liked, which you decided immediately was a conclusive and unambiguous statement, which you pictured as words whose meaning was quite defined in all the lexicons everywhere (even though the words themselves‑i, and like, and it‑are capable of, respectively: [i] an infinite number of potential meanings, [like] a limited number of potential meanings {see the OED for many pages concerning 'like'}, and [it] an infinite number of potential meanings), which you carried in your head for at least fifteen minutes as you trekked from your cubicle (after having logged out of your secret email account) down to the research kitchen where your recipe for Blueberry Cloudburst was being followed algorithmically by the three male and three female doughnut chefs with their tall white hats who stood side-by-side doing precisely the same acts at precisely the same time, testing not for the value of the results but for the value of the recipe, that is to say looking for any lexical ambiguity in your instructions that would require revision before the recipe was to be promulgated throughout your franchise of formulaic doughnut shops both in North America and England, and did you not see yourself as you were, as a recipe-writer whose enemy was ambiguity who had decided with no clear evidence that those three words‑i, and like, and it, meant precisely what you believed they meant, and not recognize the joke that was then being played upon you by the gods who take a great belly-busting delight when they deliver nemesis to hubris?

And, really, what was going through your head later that same day when after work you were having dinner with your girlfriend Hethe up at the Flying Carpet where you ate a hamburger and fries and she ate a piece of deep-fried halibut when you got onto the subject of your mutual co-worker Trish and asked and asked question after question, stopping only to order another round, getting so close to confessing there was a thing going on, consummated four times, between yourself and Trish that when Hethe appeared to suspect there was something going on (which there was, of course) you changed the subject slightly to see if your girlfriend Hehte was interested in 'experimenting,' in a 'theoretical way,' with 'our sexualities,' until you finally had to get her to understand that you'd heard rumours about this mutual friend Trish (who was as one may well have gathered the person who had emailed you 'i like it' not so many hours before), whom you described then (at the Flying Carpet), as being 'something of a swinger,' as the saying goes, a description you had (fictionally) confirmed, first through an air of innuendo, and then through a (fictional) direct question; and, really, what did you think when Hethe told you that she'd enjoyed some playful times in senior high with two of her friends, and though they had not gone 'all the way' with them they had done everything but, and furthermore that Hethe found herself occasionally fantasizing to peak about that seeming-so long-ago experience?

And really what were you thinking could happen in this world so well-regulated by physics and norms and common sense when, next morning, a Wednesday (as you recalled years later as you stared at the sea on an outbound freighter), you, not precisely deceptively, wrote to Trish as if you had really interpreted correctly what you believed you had interpreted correctly to propose to her that she should make contact with Hethe, all friendly and kissy-kissy-like, and float some idea that the three of you should get together on some pretence for dinner an' drinks on Friday night, because it's been quite some time since the three of you did that, maybe Trish could tell Hethe that it was her birthday, which would not exactly be a miracle but rather unlikely if you take things in a normal way (which was precisely how you were not taking things that Wednesday morning); and what were you doing when you wrote, 'Please write back ASAP because we were talking about you last night and she let slip that she had an affection for you and this sort of ménage we're working on here wasn't something entirely out of her experience --- maybe if we can get her talking about it again it could get her in the mood I'm gerting a litgle wet right now'?

And really what was going on in that unreal head of yours that night as you waited for Hethe to mention the phone call she must have received from Trish while you talked shop in bed about your Blueberry Cloudburst and about how you'd sat in on the taste-testing with the drivers and the interns to watch them bite into the blueberry-filled doughnuts only to find blueberry jelly bursting out of the top of the doughnut and through the whipped cream (through seven small holes on the upper surface of the doughnut) and wind up tipping every single nose with a small dot of blueberry at which they laughed pointing person to person, your boss beside you saying you were onto something interesting if only for a season which hurt your pride but nonetheless it suddenly became almost a sure thing that the doughnut jobbers would take samples all across North America and England, as you waited for Hethe to mention a phone call, with you almost forgetting about the phone call so wrapped up in your plausible success you were, until finally it got mentioned sleepily by Hethe that 'Trish called' and that Trish wanted to get together for her birthday, on Friday night, just the three of you, drinks and dinner, at a place quite near to where you lived, the Flying Carpet actually, really what was in your head when you casually said, 'I think that would be nice, should we all go together right after work?'?

Why, really, did you, on the following morning, after a quick phone call to Trish to say you had a 'few questions' for her, to which she replied 'sure!', hang up the telephone with a deep sigh as if there was a sword hanging over your head that no amount of cunning could push away (or so you thought a long time later as you walked a salty road to a salty breakwater), go down two flights of stairs to the Jelly Department where there she was, Trish herself, dressed in that skirt she'd said you'd practically torn off her pussy once, and a shirt you'd never seen before, and she stood up and went with you down another flight of stairs making small talk and you went way across the whole building to your special place where you asked her if Hethe has said yes to the idea of Friday night and what had she said and how had she seemed, and you weren't really taking in what Trish was saying because your mind wasn't operating correctly because you had your hands on her hips and your eyes on her eyes but you did get the idea that Hethe had said yes to the meeting and maybe the whole danged thing for all anyone knew, for all the Heavens and Hells knew, and Trish wanted something friskier that Thursday morning but you held off, saying 'I want to hold off, till tomorrow;' now really why did you hold off, didn't you understand the meanings of the words carpe diem?

And what happened to you that evening, Thursday it was, while Hethe was at her book club allegedly reading something of a novel concerning 1973 or so that had two college girls as central characters, while it was dark outside and you had all the lights up halfway, all of them, and you had the television on loud upstairs, the stereo on loud downstairs, and the radio on loud in the bedroom, while you walked from room to room and up and down stairs muttering to yourself and making sure all the throw pillows were conveniently placed (for women absolutely love throw pillows so you believed), all the clothes were up off the floor and the bathroom was clean enough without being obvious about it, while you were having visions that made you jolt with minute lightning-bolts at decent intervals, really, what was happening to you as the scheme played through your head until finally you turned off the television and the radio and the stereo and nearly all the lights because it was getting to be eleven and Hethe would be home sometime in the next hour and you had to appear to be calm in order for your plan to work, when suddenly you went into the kitchen quickly and opened the fridge door and gasped and cried 'there's no wine!' out loud and sighed so deeply and started to sweat at your temples, for whatever reason did you start to sweat like that?

And really next morning what were you doing all that next morning you must have been at work doing things probably doughnut-related and there may have been emails and I'm only using probabilities to quite literally guess what you were doing all the time while you thought about well nothing has to happen after all It's just getting together for a drink and dinner for a birthday that's not a birthday and It could be completely innocent and who knows what's going to happen tonight Maybe the restaurant will be closed or maybe there will be a streetcar accident and Trish doesn't show up or Maybe our house will burn down or Maybe the Russians will finally attack and even if we all end up at the same place at the same time there's something something something well, maybe I'll call it off at the last minute not by doing anything but by not doing anything geez that streetcar ride this morning she was practically but this is my dream isn't it I should say I say full steam ahead and if something goes wrong we can all laugh about it later like it's just tv or something --- but what were you doing all the time you were thinking hysterical cowardly rot like this, expecting some act of God to make things different from what you had planned it all to me, as if you weren't the agency that had set the whole plan in motion?

What really happened that evening at the Flying Carpet where the three of you went, not all at once, but rather you and Hethe went together after work there, talking of the doughnut business as if there was nothing else in the world to talk about, where inside you found Trish already half-way through a glass of red wine set to be followed by two more for her alongside three pints for you and two glasses of white wine for Hethe, a bit more than usual of course, and at some point during the meal Trish showed that she had two bottles of white wine with her because it was her 'birthday' and someone 'had given them to her,' an old friend she'd lunched with, while looking you eye to eye and touching your foot with hers when not (during a moment when Hethe was in the washroom) slipping off her shoe to roll her sock toes against your ankle, and what happened when you went to the washroom and saw upon your return Trish pushing on her shoe again, with a wink to you as if to say volumes about how the course of their discussion had gone, and what happened when without even talking about what you planned to do you all three got up together somewhat drunk by degrees and went to the door and out on down the street with not a moment during which you were not touching Trish or Trish was not touching Hethe or Hethe was not touching you or all three were not touching, touching, touching?

And when you got to your house, all laughing and giggling together, clumsily opened one bottle of wine and poured out three glasses and toasted and quickly drank and filled the glasses again, fell onto the couch all together with hands on shoulders and necks and breasts and crotches all gently rubbing and gently squeezing, delicately pulled off shirts and blouses and bras and tasted that which was beneath, moved to include the carpeted floor as a cock fell out of its confines and was touched and kissed and as panties were pulled aside to present damp pussies that tasted good, as with much laughter underwear was pulled off with a lift and tossed as far away as possible, when Trish had her tongue flick a clitoris while Hethe's mouth was full and moaning while you had two fingers in a vagina and one finger on an anus, when you pulled yourselves apart to take stock of what was going on and laughed shocked at yourselves and your lusts, when you simply lost track of whose was what as you step-by-step orgied up the stairs stopping halfway to sweatily fuck until Trish cried, 'stop, stop, I'm wide open,' when you got into the big bed for that which lasted for three hours with climaxes and comings every five minutes, when you were doing all this, what did you think was going to happen next, when you had to return to the real world?

And so really what did you expect over the next couple days when as was readily apparent as Trish left that Friday night rather abruptly, not without a note of departure but barely so, that something was amiss, as you noticed (next morning) that Hethe was distant and didn't want to talk and as you noticed (at the same time) that you were distant and you didn't want to talk, and the situation remained thus for the rest of the weekend, and after your single attempt to contact Trish via email (text='Hi, how's it going?') came to nothing and that you kind of didn't want it to come to anything, what did you expect when you did not even try to find her at work on Monday even though you had plenty of time available to think with a kind of revulsion about events that had taken place in the special place when you had been, I don't know, betrayed, as you thought without knowing how?

Do you know anything at all about what you thought over the ensuing weeks and months, such as when you got home to find a note saying Hethe would be staying at a friend's house for an indefinite period and you shrugged and tore up the note, or such as when you went to work to find that Trish's cubicle had been emptied of everything and you shrugged and didn't bother to ask anyone where she'd gone to, or such as when you didn't contact anyone or practically talk to anyone for two weeks, or such as when you sold a lot of your things to be apart from them forever? When you thought about what you had done, thinking and thinking and knowing and knowing, and incapable of acting or caring about anything, with a piece of grit at the tip of your tongue like a speck of sand that you turned and turned again, believing it was something that meant a tiny something more than nothing at all?

Disassemble With Care

We will make up stories in this civilization because stories are capable of talking about the inner experience.

Look: there's Julius Caesar. He's in Germany, he's in France, he's in Rome.

Look: there's Paris. There's Emile Zola, there's Gustave Flaubert, there's Roland Barthes.

Look: there's William Shakespeare. He's in Stratford, he's in London, he's in Stratford again.

Look: there's New York City. There's Edith Wharton, there's Walt Whitman, there's Thomas Wolfe.

Whitman looks up and thinks about his tall buildings bursting with humanity.

Shakespeare looks at parliament and sees the cut-throat machinery operating.

Barthes feels something when he looks again at a photograph of his mother.

Julius, ambitious Julius, knows he is smarter than anyone. He knows he's playing a deadly game.

There you are, and here am I, with just one life apiece. We know this, and we know pretty much nothing else.

How can we prove the ephemerality of the everything, and the non-ephemerality of ourselves?

Fact is: we can't. Not in a gabillion years. It can never become obvious.

Forty years ago, there were three states of matter, known as liquid, solid, and gas.

Today, there's a fourth.

Called plasma.

You expect me to believe the newspapers?

 

*

 

I was sitting at the police station, waiting for a lawyer to arrive, when a man with a primary-blue face sat down beside me. He smiled and said, "Good morning."

I said, "Hello."

He said, "You're surprised, I see, that I have a blue face."

"Something like that, yes."

"It's an existential matter," he continued in a measured and reasonable tone. "I believe you will be seeing more of us over the coming weeks and months."

"Blue-faced people?"

He laughed gaily. "No, not exclusively blue. All sorts of colours. Yesterday, I was purple. Tomorrow, who knows?"

"And there are others doing this too?"

He nodded. "So far, there are six of us."

I asked, "So this is all to show ... what exactly?"

"It's not a matter of showing. It's a matter of existing. By pretending to be something I am not, I have stripped myself of the dirty effluvia of being-in-the-world. I am this, and I am no other. I have discovered what it is to be alive, alone."

"That's very interesting."

A cop came up. He led the primary-blue man away.

He was there, I later found out, to receive an award. For saving kittens from a fire.

 

*

 

It was not a hot day. It was not a day to go swimming.

It had rained overnight, so the sand was like mud.

The boys dug into the mud, because mud was all they had.

It seemed like there was nothing in the universe but mud.

The boys found all these bits of glitter in the mud.

The glitter looked metallic, not like mud at all.

They realized what they were finding was golden glitter.

They went into the wet shed to get buckets and bowls.

They took a yellow pail and a broken red bowl from it.

Scooping up the mud and gold, they talked about what to buy.

They had to make a sifter from something to get the gold.

They didn't find a sifter so they didn't need a sifter.

"Gold is heavier than mud, isn't it?" said the bigger boy.

From the pail to the bowl they poured the muddy gold.

The gold didn't free itself from the mud for some reason.

"If this was gold wouldn't it have been found by now?"

That sentence, from the smaller boy, defeated them.

There was no gold in the mud after all.

Circa 1974, with Robby Gutsell.

 

On a cold winter night the sky was full of stars.

The smaller one was in the snow with a girl named K.

K. said, "Let's see if J. is up to anything."

(J. was another girl; he'd even kissed her once.)

J. wasn't up to anything, so the three wandered.

They went to the house in which the bigger kid lived.

The basement was where the bigger's brother lived.

No-one was home. There were five bottles of beer.

Smaller kid was sitting with J.'s legs on his lap.

K. was attentive to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on hi-fi.

The bigger kid held up a videotape, smaller kid to see.

It was 'Sex Boat', one of the brother's porno movies.

A head was shaken. It just didn't seem right.

The tape was put away, while J.'s legs got touched.

Then it was midnight. A new year had begun.

K.'s father was coming to pick K. up.

The smaller one was well beyond finding gold in mud.

J. went home and on the front lawn in the snow

K. kissed and kissed before the father got there.

Everything changes when innocence becomes experience.

This moment is pinned to the 1st of January of 1982.

 

One or two years later, Big's parents went away.

Big invited his metalhead druggie friends over.

Little, and Loopy, and Dave, and some others.

The kitchen they were in was in the middle of the house.

Hot knives and beers were the orders of the eve.

(Big was in bad books with his parents; he'd soon go away.

(He'd go live in Parkdale and work as a cook.)

The partying that night had barely begun.

I don't think any hash had been cooked up yet.

Like out of nowhere it happened because of the noise.

Someone was laughing about something someone said.

Rob's mother was there, at the door of the kitchen.

She didn't look at anyone except the one I've called Big.

She didn't say anything. She slapped him across the face.

Everyone was quiet as she went down the long hallway.

Everyone was quiet as they went down to the coatrack.

No-one said goodbye to Big as the door saw them outside.

Out in the dark street there was not much to talk about.

Only thing to do was find another place,

Someone else's shack, somewhere not too far away,

With a stove's burner-coil, and two knives unmissable.

 

I don't know who you are or why you are reading all of this.

So years pass during which Tall and Short are strangers.

Their parents at times pass information on about each other.

Short hears how Tall is down-and-out, boarding house life.

(Short moved away just about as soon as he could manage.)

Tall, he hears, has had his periods of crack addiction.

He gets to understand that Tall's parents don't want talk.

Then Short's mother tells him Tall is dead.

He was found in his room and the coroner was checking it.

It could have been an overdose or suicide or other.

Again the crack addictions had to be commented upon.

Short calls Tall's parents and offers his condolences.

He thinks about the boy he knew digging for gold in sand.

Then about some other experiences that were noteworthy....

Then he's pretty much out of anything worth remembering.

He didn't want to know if there was going to be a service.

It was a life that simply didn't work out as anyone wanted.

Short continued being alive. For some time at least.

One moment of inseparability, digging through some mud.

It seemed so long ago, didn't it seem?

 

*

 

The family was out for dinner when the fire started. It would be some time before any cause would be known.

Do you know the cause?

Their new kitten, Mumbles, was, by chance, trapped in a closet. There was a sizable gap at the bottom of the door.

Was the gap big enough?

A neighbour called the local fire department. The truck driver, Claney, took a last sip of coffee before leaving.

Did this delay matter?

The closet door was closed. Mumbles was in the closet. The closet was upstairs. The trucks were coming.

Did the dimensions of the closet matter?

The family was digging into dessert. They had chosen to share a lemon pie. The waitress provided too much whipped cream.

Did this change what occurred?

The fire was extinguished. There had been smoke everywhere. The ground floor was pretty much a write-off.

Did something much worse happen upstairs?

A long time ago a thought problem was formulated involving a closed space and a cat and a subatomic process.

Is this programme being rigged from afar?

It's up to you to observe what happens to the kitten, and your observance will determine the facts.

So, what? Alive, or dead?

 

*

 

All I remember is that I was standing on that which is designated as being a corner of what we've been assigned to call a street, waiting for that which has been designated to us as being known as a traffic light (with colours that have been assigned with the cognomens "red", "amber", and "green") to change from the light designated as "red" to the light assigned at birth as "green" so that I might cross that which (as I have already said) we've been assigned to call a street.

What happened was that that which we designate as being a structure containing as it so happened to be that which we have had assigned to it the idea of "traffic light" converted itself through some kind of magic from "red" (conventionally signified as "stop") to green (designated culturally as "go") and thus I stepped onto that which is assigned to be called the street.

I was run down by that which is designated to be a fire-truck that was carrying improbably two things that were assigned the concept of anvil at birth plus that which is designated to be an enumeration of what's called a Steinway baby grand piano.

 

*

 

I'd been dreaming of a fat fish too big to swallow. I thought I was going to choke and I awoke. The sky was getting light, and it was time to go see what I could catch.

I waddled into the deep water. My feet paddled quietly on the glass-smooth lake. I appeared to be the first one awake. I looked left and I looked right. It was so serene. It was a good morning to be a duck.

The water was nice and cool. I slurped up some slime to get my digestive juices flowing. The slime was sweet with chlorophyll. Sometimes your forget how sweet the stuff is, and then there you are.

I looked back to shore. My five babies were still sleeping happily. The trees up above were green and bitter-looking. My head turned before I knew it. Minnows galore, a school of them, were passing under my feet. I thrust me head under and gobbled up three. They went down nice.

Ah! It's good to be a duck! The water was cool and uniform. The sun was coming up. The day was just beginning. Some more minnows I could see heading my way. Such peace.

 

*

 

The great enemy we know is coercion

Because the work won't get done

Just like rolling a stone*

sang Sisyphus as he grunted and shoved that big old rock up that big old hill. The summit was in sight.

A bright light wearing Nike sneakers appeared over his head.

Sisyphus prevented the rock from rolling down the hill and cried out, "Ave, Mercury," for it was indeed Mercury.

Mercury said, "Sisyphus! Sisyphus! I've got some news for you!"

"Oh yeah? Well, spit it out. I've got rock-rolling to do."

"You're being pardoned by Jupiter!"

"Jupiter? Oh, right. Zeus. I'm so old."

"It's been a long time, and he's changing his ways."

Sisyphus thought about this. "I don't want to be pardoned."

"What?"

"This is my identity. If I stop doing what Sisyphus does, I won't be Sisyphus anymore."

"You could retire. There may be some kind of pension involved."

"And what about my fame? I'm famous everywhere. I'm like the patron god of, well, everyone and everything."

"This may anger Jupiter."

"What he going to do? Give me two boulders?"

"This will be litigated."

"Let it be litigated then. They won't take my identity away from me. Vale."

 

*Trans. mine.

 

*

 

Coming Soon to a Province Near You

 

A knock at the door is usually a bad thing. What could be wanted? Alice answered it. Two not-quite-police stood there.

One of them said, "We're looking for a relative of, let me check my notes, Daniel Peter Jacobs."

Alice said, "Yes, that's my son."

"And you are?"

"Alice Jacobs. What's this all about?"

"Can you prove you're Alice Jacobs?"

She found her passport and showed it. The other one photographed it and handed it back. "So now can you tell me what this is all about."

"Your son. He's killed himself. Jumped off a bridge."

"Oh my God!"

"Yes, off a bridge. And he didn't have a permit."

"A permit?"

"A suicide permit. Do you know if he filled one out?"

"No, I don't. Omigod!"

The photographer said, "We couldn't find any paperwork. We wanted to know if there had been a mistake on our part."

"I don't know about any suicide permit."

"That's bad. Very bad. There's a fine you'll have to pay, as next of kin."

"How much?"

"$500."

In a daze Alice got her chequebook. "This is disgraceful."

The photographer shrugged. "Government's just after their piece of the action."

 

*

 

The pneumonia was travailing merrily along the boulevards and through the arrondissements last week, and Cherlie insisted on taking a cabriolet to the Princess's masque-ball at the palace, which, he assumed, undoubtedly had more than one convenience scattered through its wings.

We piled in, still laughing about the Variété's clever rhymes and expressions, the five of us‑Nick and me, Cherlie and Jayne, and our fifth-wheel Lucas, who was still thinking through the lengthy rebus his horoscopist had granted him, which he had written out in capital letters, all twenty-six of them, that she had promised him would solve all the problems about which he knew and about which he knew not.

After we were graciously received, Lucas, rebus in hand, bid adieu to our quartette and went off to seek out the twenty-fifth letter, a big ϕ which he was certain signified a grand dame in the Italianate style, domino'd as a belled jester.

We nearly ran into him next morning‑I say nearly, for he avoided us. As we heard the tale, poor Lucas has sought the wrong orthog of his rebus, and as a result he had received that 'new kind of loving' from his own mother!

Yours, Tania

 

*

 

I wonder I do what day it is.

What ordinal number is today. I wish I knew.

Is it my twenty thousandth day yet.

I must be there, or past there.

And in the generations, what day is it.

How many hundreds of millions of days have there been.

Or could it be, like in science fiction, the first day.

My brain in someone's vat, an imagined typer imagining you.

It's the end of this day, and it's one-thirty-nine in N+L.

I wonder I do what day it is.

What has changed during this day.

Who was born, and who died.

I don't know the answer to the first question.

I know the answer to the latter includes Leonard Cohen.

Watch the news for the details because there's more.

The earth turned the sun around. Hello, earth.

I wonder I do what day it is.

What negative ordinal number is today. I don't know.

Could there be fifteen thousand more to get through.

Or is this the third last or even the penultimate.

This matters everything, doesn't it.

O God will you have me if this be my last night.

O Earth will you find a little space for me.

 

*

 

OFFLINE I remember being naive. So do you. We were children. We looked at calendars because we were shown them, and we calculated. We saw, deepest darling Terri-Lynn, that we would be thirty-five in 2000. And we thought it was extraordinary. 35. So old!

Kids are morons. "Kids" means anyone born after February 25 1985.

I don't like knowing everything I know. I want to know nothing like a child knowing nothing again. I don't want to know how girls are. I don't want to know how electronics are. I don't want to know how the relatives are.

I have to be violent here. On some Fall day in 1979 Melissa called me to say that Terri-Lynn Hodgson didn't want to know me any more. And over the phone I shrugged.

That was the first time I was a total jerk. I should have settled it, but I didn't.

She may read this.

How can I say I loved her? How can I say she was a wit, and funny, and pretty? How can I say that I made such a long-range mistake that I'm still paying for to this day?

Meanwhile, she's settled down. Somewhere up north. She's................ happy.

 

*

 

The Decay

 

The eaves are full of leaves and they're in stages of decay. Up in the sky there're a thousand suns all in their decay. The sidewalk is cracked and torn, and it'll be more cracked and torn tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Aren't these trees getting somewhat ... old? A strong wind comes, and a little or a lot comes to ground.

Oh, and the houses along here, along this street here, are going to seed. Entropy in action everywhere: the whole universe is decaying. Once it's fully decayed, there will be no record it ever existed. Just one big fat nothing.

The passing cars are slowly rusting. The glass in their windows is slowly melting. Friction is weakening their joints, and many of them will crash into stuff someday. There they are, in the ditch alongside a narrow highway, all busted up and leaking fuel into the air.

Thing is, this is the price of knowledge. It seems innocence itself has decay built in. The rain gets in like a blanket.

And yet, and yet, there's the park, the Broadview park, and there's old Chinese ladies hanging out there, and they're laughing about Chinese things, in Chinese.

 

*

 

A sea salt sweet shop with a pyramid

Of jawbreakers in many different hues

Is front and centre shouldered by two paws

Each built of salty taffy clawing from

The sea I hear some hundred metres off

But you are not here.

 

Confectioners here gather every June

To buy and sell what's carmelized or clear,

While in the shoulder season such as now

I smell the sweetness, thumb my coins, and count

The necklaces of rubber string and beads

But you're never coming back, and you've never been here.

 

I'm here in all my ages all at once,

Astride the clocks and atlases at once,

Not able to decide which drug to buy

To soothe my mind and memory of what

Was once a time and place so similar.

I know you're not ever coming back. I know I have to make my choices alone.

 

It wasn't on the sea. A corner store

Instead, with nothing special there at all.

And yet I bought a chocolate bar for you,

And then you bought some gummy bears for me.

Three years ago. My ages all at once.

You're not coming back. It's certain. Time doesn't end when you want it to.

 

*

 

"So?"

"This guy is your cousin?"

"Yes."

"Close or distant?"

"Second. Why? What happened?"

"We had dinner, and then we went to a movie. The movie had a couple dogs in it."

"So what's that mean?"

"I'll get to that. He chose the movie, understand. Anyway, we were getting along just fine. He really likes dogs."

"You noticed that too."

"How could I not? So he invited me back to his place and I accepted."

"Lucy! I never knew."

"It was nothing. I wasn't feeling anything, and it didn't seem like he was feeling much either. I thought perhaps something would come. Some kind of sign. You ever been to his place?"

"Never."

"He put on a mix tape. All the songs seemed somehow alike. I didn't realize it at the time really. He had a bunch of yellow folders on his coffee table. Fat folders. The tab on the top one of them read, 'beach.' I opened it up. It was all of dogs on beaches."

"He's quite the photographer."

"Next folder was 'kitchen.' Dogs in kitchens. The next folder was 'big & beautiful.' Sure enough, big dogs. Do you have dogs?"

"Two."

"He talked about you a lot."

 

*

 

I was very nervous fifteen minutes before the party, and I nervously started picking at the scab, one inch by one-half inch, on my ring finger‑the scab I got from the accident that took place when I was walking my cat. (I've written about this already.) In my obsession, I pulled the scab completely off. I even cleaned the edges of the resulting reservoir with a fingernail.

Pulling off the scab was a bad idea. I saw that I would have to bandage it up again so I went into the washroom. I found gauze and some bandages while the wound started overflowing with pus.

I hung my hand down to let the pus drain out. The pus flowed for approximately twenty-one seconds in a steady stream. I had a chance to take a look at the wound. On the sides of the interior was raw flesh that looked a lot like chicken meat. The finger-bone could be seen, white and shiny. Also there were two electrical wires, a red one and a yellow one, crossing laterally from meat-to-meat.

I drained it of pus again and gauzed it and wrapped it with bandages.

I wish I'd learned how to live.

 

*

 

One day, in the past, about two millennia in the past, on a seventeenth of November, there will be a person in Rome who starts to wonder, seemingly out of nowhere and unprecedentedly, about the nature of time (for he's been reading the marginalia of Hermes Trismegistus in a quality translation), and about (miraculously) what people will be saying years and years in the future, say, in 2016, in 2016 specifically, yet realizing that any assessment of the present must needs be made in the future he wonders about being in 2116 thinking about events one hundred years previous, namely about 11/17/2016, so the person (Roman) through arcane and frankly pagan practices invents (or discovers or re-discovers) a means by which he astrally projects himself to 2116 where he discovers everyone of any (Latin) account is reading yrs trly, thus is prodded to learn the Original Tongue (i.e. Canadian English) and there he finds, finally, that all of World History has been encapsulated and implied in the event fictitious and without any basis whatsoever (i.e. this word, sentence, anecdote, epic), thus that he is the one watched and seen and addressed when all is finally said, and done:

Hi, Roman.

 

*

 

Summary of Chapter 1266 of the Mahabharata

 

Sruchavati practiced severe austerities because she wanted to marry Indra, the king of the gods. After a long time, Indra, disguised as the brahmana Vasishtha, appeared to her. She said to him, "O brahmana! I will do anything for you but wed you. I practice my austerities for Indra alone." He said, "Cook these berries."

She cooked, but she ran out of wood. She happily burned her feet. Indra appeared to her undisguised and said, "You have pleased me with your devotion. Ascend to heaven with me. I sanctify this spot as the Badarapachana tirtha. On this spot, long ago, Arundhati performed severe austerities during a drought. Shiva was pleased. He went to her disguised as a brahmana and begged for food. She said, 'We have no food. Have these berries.' She cooked him berries. Shiva told her wisdom and the drought ended. Shiva praised her and granted her a boon, and this became Badarapachana. You have done the same for me. I grant you a boon. Let any who bathes here obtain worlds." Indra ascended to heaven, and flowers rained down. Sruchavati followed him, becoming his wife.

Balarama went there and bathed.

 

*

 

O sing to me, Atalanaxos, O Goddess of Self-Pity, and tell me of lonely walks and lonesome corners, and of the pains in the feet of all, of the old-time half-remembered half-invented old-midnight thoughts of girls and boys missed kissed, O pity me thou Goddess of Pity!

Let me be a Hungry Ghost as I certainly shall be, woe me, with none to feed my bones pitiful in the dirt; let me wander the Earth and how howl dismal'y, with a bamboo bowl sutured with glue, seeking sustenance of flesh + blood that I will never ever receive.

I saw a sad marsupial today, said Saint Paul, and the marsupial knew not that he would have no offspring, that is to say that he would become inevitably a Hungry Marsupial Ghost, and yet did he care? Nay! He continued on his marsupial ways, thinking of Heaven and eating eucalyptus leaves.

No-one will clean my grave, said the Essene. But I will not be hungry, for I will have food aplenty.

O Atalanaxos! What will happen to us poor sinners who have no faith? Pity me. I am abandoned all over. The birds eat fruits fallen from trees, but not me.

 

*

 

The sign fell down again. Happily, I put it back up.

Sappho continued, "It's the spark that counts. The gods give me a fragment of the immense cosmos, merely a fragment, but it's a true fragment. To go on and on about it would quickly descend into falsehood."

"But," I said, "You could make a lot of money from writing a novel. You could get off this damn island for example."

She laughed. I'll always remember Sappho laughing. She said, "Besides falling into lies, probably around the third stanza if not earlier, there's no evidence it would sell. Think of the cost in papyrus! It's unfeasible. Therefore, book-writing is both false and impractical."

I looked across the waters, towards Asia Minor. It was out there, so I believed, but I could not see it because it the night's second watch. I said, "Your singing with the lyre: how far can it travel? Can the Asians hear you from here, through the darkness?"

She smiled, I believe. "I'm not required for the singing. The song sings on its own. Strings are being touched everywhere."

Happily, the sign fell down again. I put it back up. I never read what it read.

 

*

 

Sisyphus as a Blind Ballyman

 

23,657,645.

Length: 29.64 km.

Width: 8.54 km.

Incline: 2.2 deg.

Sphere diam: 216 cm.

Bumper circum: 895 cm.

Bumper placement, expressed as ratios:

.385, .954

.121, .548

.945, .192

.687, .028

.401, .365

Paddle force: 18 kg psi.

Button resistance: 2 kg psi.

General elasticity: .64 scale.

Digital display: MOS Technology 6510 @ 1.28 MHz, 12 digits, RGB A085C3

Free play release: 20,000 pts.

 

Two weeks later, I received a cable. The cable read, "Configuration unacceptable. Does not work. Start over."

I cabled back, "Can I have some feedback here?"

Two weeks later, I received a cable. The cable read, "Configuration unacceptable. Does not work. Start over."

I cabled back, "What part doesn't work?"

Two weeks later, I received a cable. The cable read, "Configuration unacceptable. Does not work. Start over."

 

23,657,646.

Length: 39.62 km.

Width: 11.98 km.

Incline: 3.1 deg.

Sphere diam: 208 cm.

Bumper circum: 761 cm.

Bumper placement, expressed as ratios:

.222, .645

.014, .547

.354, .005

.475, .500

.862, .828

Paddle force: 19 kg psi.

Button resistance: 3 kg psi.

General elasticity: .32 scale.

Digital display: MOS Technology 8568 @ 2.91 MHz, 15 digits, RGB 18C452.

Free play release: 10,000 pts.

 

*

 

Oh, the wish to be a fearsome alligator, sliding quietly through the waters west of Miami, Florida, with eyes at the level of the swamp water, half above and half below, silently seeking out prey and moving my stubby arms and stubby legs and long tail to propel me so silently I can come up upon anything in the water or on the land or in between; to dig into the mud with my two hundred or so teeth to lay my eggs under the mud and to wait near there for weeks scouting out and smelling out fine feeding grounds, waiting for my fifty babies to crack their shells and feel their motions in the mud under my feet, and to raise them up and feed them and send them off, always knowing them by their smell; to return to the waters to wrestle a snake to death or catch a heron or a pelican once in a while with a powerful jaw-crush that can easily break driftwood into splinters if I wanted, to warm on the bank of the swamp and pass the time digesting a hound, oh what I wouldn't give to be an alligator of fearsomeness.

 

*

 

I was feeling exceptionalsome horny that afternoon, wondering (when not distracted by my priapical concerns) if Julie, my playdatemate, was of the same lean in a big way or even in a small way. It was warm summer and my parents were awaysome. Coming up the street I was clutchingly through her slender clothings air-kissing the bits we owe and urge to mitosis and meiosis when suddenlyish five digits met one digit respectively hers and mine and I knew I was on the track that was right. Tho the street was a desertlike I subsumed 'playing house' would be more of-a-speed as she cooed Ooh.

When what did I see but the great boat of my parentals resting in the driveway atop the yacht-trailer behind their modest Datsun. The boat loomed as largely as the battleship in Marnie. We stopped deadly digits-on-digit and paw on hind, seeking Eros's succour and Cupid's resolve. Mayst we sneak in silent to the basement, avoiding thus the long-take and -tale?‑cut down to not likelily. Then I grabbed truth and saw my generation as a locus amoenus of green pleasantry and a talking brook once-upon-a-timingquite.

"To the woods, my dear, to the woods," I sang.

 

*

 

>N

>W

>N

>N

>N

>You hit a wall.

>W

>You hit a wall.

>E

>You hit a wall.

>S

>W

>N

>You hit another wall.

>S

>W

>W

>You hit a wall.

>N

>N

>N

>You've hit a wall.

>W

>W

>W

>There's a wall here.

>N

>You hit a wall.

>S

>W

>You hit a wall.

>E

>S

>W

>W

>You hit a wall.

>E

>N

>W

>N

>E

>E

>E

>E

>You've hit a wall.

>N

>N

>N

>There's a wall here.

>W

>There's a wall here.

>E

>There's a wall here.

>S

>E

>You hit a wall.

>W

>S

>S

>E

>N

>E

>S

>E

>N

>N

>N

>N

>You hit a wall.

>W

>W

>There's another wall here.

>N

>N

>You hit a wall.

>W

>W

>W

>You hit a wall.

>N

>You hit a wall.

>S

>W

>N

>There's a wall here.

>W

>N

>N

>N

>N

>N

>There's another wall here.

>E

>E

>You hit a wall.

>N

>N

>You hit a wall.

>W

>W

>There's a wall here.

>N

>E

>E

>E

>E

>You hit a wall.

>S

>E

>E

>E

>You hit a wall.

>N

>N

>Congratulations.

>You have finished.

>End.

 

*

 

"Here comes Napoleon."

"Everybody. Make way for the Great Napoleon."

"Remember: Don't mention Waterloo."

"Maybe Waterloo didn't happen for him."

"Yes. Maybe he's that kind of Napoleon."

"That kind of Great Napoleon."

"Here he comes."

"Move that chair out of the way, pronto!"

"Moving chair, moving chair."

"What's taking so long?"

"Security's checking his ID."

"Oh, security! Such Neanderthals!"

"He's travelling in his own double-secret security."

"Pretending to be someone else! How clever!"

"Those Neanderthals. I should file a complaint."

"But really. How embarrassing."

"Especially for the Great Napoleon."

"Being who he is."

"Oh goodness there he is!"

"He's become taller, I believe."

"That can't be. He's the Great Napoleon."

"It must be that the nature of distance has changed."

"Yes. Space has been stretched vertically."

"At least in his vicinity."

"Such is the power of the Great Napoleon."

"Someone speak to him."

"He's wanting a greeting."

"Bonjour, Général Bonaparte, comment allez-vous?"

BONAPARTE: "What's that you said?"

"Facinating!"

"He has expanded the French language to include English phraseology!"

"Only the Great Bonaparte could expand la langue Français so!"

"An imposter is buried at Invalides!"

"Undoubtedly!"

"He's spry for 212."

"I'm glad to be here."

"Happy it's whatever year you say."

 

*

 

That which two major characters in Vertigo, Scotty and Midge, take to be a joke turns out to not be a joke at all.

It's the only joke in the whole movie, and if Scotty had understood it, the film would have been North by Northwest instead.

In the third scene, Scotty notices a brassiere designed by an engineer according to the principle of the cantilevered bridge. Midge says the engineer (retired, I believe) designed it as a hobby. Scotty leers. "As a hobby."

The leer shows Scotty does not understand fetishization, and it is his misunderstanding of fetishization that (as everyone knows) is his ruin.

Later (as we see) he must get the Woman's clothes right. He has to get the appearance right.

To the engineer, the (clothing) brassiere is a (Woman) substitute. But Scotty thinks it worthy of a leer and a joke. He cannot see.

The engineer's story is a (comic) encapsulation of the whole movie, mistaken to be a joke.

The engineer loved her.

Then she was gone.

So he made a substitute.

And what can you make but clothes?

A dress, a brassiere.

She will never come back.

The lack makes the surface.

Surface. Clothes.

 

*

 

[The Manichee]

 

I am nothing but a trivial man. When I look out my trivial window, all I see are matters of trivia. My interests are trivial, with no need to elaborate, yet I will elaborate trivially. I have trivial hobbies that can't be bothered leaving my trivial house. Look over here, where it's ordinary daylight, and see my trivial wife. Maybe there was love between us long ago. Now we have merely a trivial connection. I could be someone else entirely, and the relationship would still be exactly the same. I cannot imagine becoming non-trivial. If I was a spaceman, I would be a trivial one. If I was a cab-driver, I would be a trivial cab-driver. The skies that look down on me are, in my way of seeing, entirely trivial, and no atmospheric change could ever change that. Whatever I write I could immediately dispose of, such is its triviality. I work during the day. I sleep during the night. I know I matter to no-one. My death will be one of billions, and unremarkable. Maybe there was a long-time-past, when I wasn't trivial.... That's not possible. GAGO. I trivially fritter away my unimportant time, o death.

 

*

 

Once upon a time there was a very bad town named Las Vegas. Las Vegas couldn't help but get into trouble day in and day out. He would gamble and drink and whore like there was no tomorrow to greet. However, there was one thing he never found out about. He never found out about the needle.

Until one day an even badder town named Los Angeles came to town. Los Angeles had a swagger and a glamour Las Vegas just couldn't meet, and Las Vegas was jealous. Las Vegas asked Los Angeles, "What is the secret of your swagger and glamour?" Los Angeles answered, "Give me some gambling and some drink and some whores and I will show you."

Now it was about that time that a new town showed up, a town called New York City. New York City was slick and worldly. New York City said to Las Vegas, "Give me some gambling and some drink and some whores." "What will you give me in return?" asked Las Vegas. New York City gave Las Vegas some needles.

Las Vegas said, "No thanks!" Las Vegas got cocaine from Los Angeles and was happy. New York City went away.

 

*

 

Jacky was walking around after the show with his eyes wide. "Did you hear it?"

Andrea asked, "Did I hear what?"

"We hit it. We hit the big time there."

"I didn't notice anything."

"You didn't? Hey, where are the tapes? I can show you it."

Jacky went out, to the soundboard presumably, while I lit up something sweet and Kate poured some cheap Glenlivet.

I said, "Good show, though."

Kate said, "It was nice, yes."

Jacky stormed in with an Asus laptop computer. "Look, I'm sure I can find it, it was, it was ... transcendental. The way we all fit together, and the sounds.... Nothing like it before."

He zipped back and forth through the record file. "Yes, in Begin the Beguine, look, we hit it, this chord, listen."

"♪♪♪"

"No, wait, that's not it. It's here somewhere. Eight bars later, listen to this, big-time."

"♪♪♪"

"Where did it go? It was Begin the Beguine. Maybe it was the next tune."

"♪♪♪"

"Jesus Christ, where did it go? Didn't anyone hear it? Was I the only one?"

He went back and forth in the record. He said the recording was wrong. Impossible to lose it. He quit music.

 

*

 

The clothes she touches, elbow, knee, and nape,

By thigh or thumb, of cotton, leather, gold,

Enclosing her by gravity's blind cape;

The air against her clothes that is so bold

To be but fabric-distant to her flesh

As silent winds press silent kisses there

And there and there, each breeze so fresh

With wet so light it's carried in its hair;

The sounds her ears create to fill the world

With voices, songs of singers, beasts and birds,

That beg response by touching senses curled,

With whispers and entreaties softly heard,

That speak receptively of bed or park

Or even public changing room or bath;

The images that sprout from out the dark

Of nothing's evermore to make a path

To her two eyes impressively so meet,

So begful with their textures and their hues

In competition all to catch her sweet

And loving glance for her to loving choose:

I'm jealous so of clothing, breezes, sounds

And sights that come to her without request;

I hate them so, so easily making rounds

Around her mind and heart that I can't rest;

I grit my teeth and curse all senses, so,

That travel to the places I can't go.

 

*

 

I'd read of a Duke who scented his wife's deathroom with jasmine candles, so we chose to light hers with lavender as a compromise, for jasmine makes my eyes water.

After a sweaty moaning bout, she regained a happy consciousness. Through bleary sight she looked at me with something of a smile. I said, "Good morning, Mrs Ooter."

She said, "Morning, Mr Ooter."

"The end is nigh, I believe."

"It does seem so. Much, so much, has been left unsaid."

"Yes, much; I will miss you so." I paused, then continued, "Do you think I could have a memento?"

"Of what sort, Mr Ooter?"

"Of that which is known as your 'specialty.'"

She looked at me oddly. "Have you been writing things on lavatory walls?"

"No, no, certainly not. Do not you recall I made such a remark on the train to Bristol one bank holiday? After you had, er, performed upon me?"

"Of that I have no recollection."

"Well. It would be simple, really. If I put my knees upon the pillow on either side of your head‑"

"Mr Ooter, this is no time for such an activity."

I shrugged. "Just a thought."

Later, I used my suggestion happily.

 

*

 

So I was at a party last night. I don't go to parties often. I'm too nervous around strangers. I see hatred in their faces.

A woman was there who was rather known for her newspaper columns which were quite outspoken, and which I rarely agreed with. In fact, I was almost aways 180° away from her.

We happened to wind up in a group, with a couple mutual friends. I was quiet, of course. I had the impression (as has been over-stated) that she vividly hated me.

There was a topic, on which she held forth briefly. Then she looked at me and asked, "What is your opinion?"

After a moment hemming and hawing I said, "My opinion isn't mine to give."

"How's that?"

"My opinion has been constructed for me by so many influences that it more rightly belongs to the atmosphere of all history, including biological. My parents had a hand in my opinions, as has my genes, my experiences, my hormones. No opinion of mine supersedes what meets your eye right now."

She nodded. It was the right answer, for she invited me upstairs to a bedroom.

None of this is true, which makes it true.

 

*

 

"And the award for greatest writer in world history goes to ... William Shakespeare!"

William Shakespeare, writer of the plays Hamlet, King Lear, Romeo and Juliet, and The Tempest, is coming to the stage. He is also an accomplished actor, musician, and leatherworker. William Shakespeare is wearing Dior stockings, an Armani codpiece, a Versace doublet, and a ruff by Brooks.

"Thank you, thank you. Really‑thanks! I don't know if I deserve this. It's true! People ask me, all the time, to what do I owe my tremendous success? There's no secret to it: I did what everyone else was doing‑but I did it much better. [Laughter.] I mean that! I was the most unoriginal writer ever. So, thanks. Also, my advice to those who want to imitate you? Build a style. Build a style such that people can imitate you. My style involved convoluted metaphors. Parody is flattery! Unique unimitatable writers are a dime a dozen. Look at some of these guys? Who imitates Tristan Tzara? Who imitates Laurence Sterne? Who imitates, I don't know, Idon'tknow583 Idon'tknowLoganAvenuesay Idon'tknowToronto? Who would bother? So: imitate, and be imitated. It's the key to glory. So, thanks all! What a strange new world, huh?"

 

*

 

He said, It's the problem of the primes, isn't it?

She said, I'm more interested in intersecting bell curves for non-exclusive concepts.

He, Think of the number line. All the numbers are equally spaced. They could be pebbles or comets. Completely abstract.

She, If you superimpose medial male IQs and medial female IQs on a bar graph where x=IQ and y=population.

He, And along this line are prime numbers, that is, numbers that will divide by no other number save 1 and itself.

She, You'll see that the female population clusters more tightly around the center while the male is shorter and stretches further left and right.

He, So these primes occur seemingly at random. But how can that be? Since the number line‑itself a regular pattern‑underlies the primes, how can the primes be chaotic, i.e. random?

She, It appears to me that this means the X chromosome causes instability and irregularity. I can reach no other conclusion.

He, The pattern must exist, and it must be a formula.

She, We could alter the X chromosome any way we want.

He, I would really like to find the solution now.

She, I would really like to find the solution now.

 

*

 

Beginning because there has to be a beginning =S

Pretending to have dropped from the sky ab ovo This convention causes all that follows to be relatively false THESIS

I awoke this morning and the sky was dark. _{BOOK THE FIRST} We gathered our equipment and loaded the steerage with food

The beginning is caused by the middle and the end Adi Sabha Vana Virata Udyoga

Middle because there has to be a middle =M

Confusion of the sky-dropped chaos cause-maker The falseness must be adopted to current circumstances ... somehow ANTITHESIS

Slowly, through the day, the storm cleared up. _{BOOK THE SECOND} We sailed across the sea, days and nights we sailed

The middle is caused by the beginning and the end Bhishma Drona Karna Shalya

End because there has to be an end =P

Re-arrangement of reality to incorporate dropped Let's find a way to get back to the beginning like nothing happened SYNTHESIS

By the time I went to bed the sun was shining. _{BOOK THE THIRD} The land we sighted looked to be a green and pleasant

The end is caused by the beginning and the middle Sauptika Stri Shanti Anushasana Ashvamedhika Ashramavasika Mausala Mahaprasthanika Svargarohana

 

*

 

"You can't really make any good arguments in fiction you know. Emile Zola, right? Wrote a magnificent series of books. But to people who don't read him, what's he known for? J'Accuse. Very effective writing, but it's not fiction. In the same way, like, I'd like to make an argument about bachelors and spinsters. This is it. Why are there so many of them? If the sex drive of our species is all so be-all-and-end-all, shouldn't everyone be matched up? So, like, maybe there's a special‑special, as in species-al‑purpose to all these bachelors and spinsters. That's to say, maybe we help our siblings get married and thereby are populous even without having kids. I'd do some research on it, of course, but I think there's been an argument about this to that effect. We non-propagating members assist our parents in having grand-children. There'd be a by-proxy evolutionary advantage there. Really, it's not weird. Look at bees. There's like a gazillion males for every female. So with us, we homo sapiens, we wind up with unmarried people. But how can you argue something like that in fiction? You can't put anything past anyone these days," said I to Diddle Diddle Dumpling.