SKI SHOW 1
On Tuesday evening, we walked to Windsor
Park (which, since the town had been founded in 1868 and only sparsely settled
for some sixty years, had not seen its name change from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha
Park probably, unless the mails had come in chronically exceedingly late), to
join an estimated two hundred people in watching the weekly ski show. The music
over the loudspeakers was obnoxiously current, and familiar to the majority; it
seemed the days of pumping out 'Raise a Little Hell' ad infinitum were of the days of the Triceratopsini.
The programme itself consisted of a sequence of tricks that became more
elaborate, all performed within a fictional framework involving superheroes.
(The only one I knew nothing of was Loki. Who is this Loki?) The little kids
sat, with their feet dangling, at the edge of the wooden pier running parallel
to the water's edge, ready to get splashed intentionally or unintentionally.
For the end of the show, performers donned 'flyboards'
(new to us) to rise, standing, above the lake. Flyboards
are powered by the water jets of jetskis, to which
the flyboards are connected via long thick corrugated
black plastic hoses.
*
INDEX CARD 2
K‑ B‑
Having arrived and having stored all our
stuff in our cabin, we went for our first venture into town, hungry for a lunch
at the Bala Bay Food & Spirits. Arm in arm we
proceeded along two brief cottage roads, past signs such as Husband and
Hodgkinson, until we reached mighty Highway 169 which ran from Gravenhurst to
Foot's Bay and Lake Joseph Road. Bala Bay Food &
Spirits, attached to the hotel formerly known as the Bala
Bay Inn (currently kept as the quarters for the employees of the Mariott in Minett). We sat on the
patio and a waitress appeared. She was, in two phrases, utterly charming and
moderately ditzy. She talked about my mate's hair and how her opinion meant
something because she'd been to hairdressing school (where she'd received the
second of her three degrees). She bounced off with our orders, then returned to
confirm them. Her mind seemed to be on the subject of hair, though she didn't
compliment mine (which I believe was a serious oversight). We had a fried
panzerotti and a Bala club wrap, along with one glass
of wine and two pints of Bala Bay Brew.
*
INDEX CARD 9
NIGHTS
For a long time, I used to go to bed late.
For a week, it was not the case. I dearly hope to soon enough return to my late
nights and morning confusions. [Ed. note: He has.] Yes; on each evening, after
having dined on fine barbecue or fine grilling (alongside some rather more
delicate plant matter, and chilled white wine) down by the lake in the last
hour before sunset (i.e. between
eight and nine p.m.), we would retire to the sun porch, to escape the dusky
insects of early July. There we would watch, for some time, the lake and in it
the reflection of the trees across the lake, and as we watched how the solar
agitations of the water lessened, causing the lake's surface to flatten such
that the reflected outlines of the pines so distant became vividly plain, we
would grow tired of seeing light. We would go into our cabin, prepare to
retire, turn off the lights, and be startled by how dark it was inside the
cabin. In an hour, nothing could be seen. The moon was waning that week, and by
Thursday we had no moon at all.
*
INDEX CARD 7
FISH
Though I have fished for fish before, back
in, I believe, 1973, I must admit I would be nonplussed if presented with a
"rod" and a "reel". Verily, I would not know which was which! Nonetheless, on Thursday evening, after we had
finished our lakeside dine, our attention was drawn to some activity over by
the boathouse, which was in front of the large white cottage (also a rental)
beside our cabin. We have seen its occupants, and we had even spoken to the
female parent and her two daughters not three days before. So
we swallowed our arrogance and walked over to see what all the action was
concerning. The two little girls were fishing with what appeared to be
children's "gear", while their father was giving them instruction and
encouragement. And my goodness they were catching a great number of fish, which
Father would unhook and release back into the water. I do believe we saw some
seven fish caught and let go in our fifteen minutes at the boathouse. Father,
after having unhooked the fish, would stick his index finger in each fish's
mouth and display it to the children. A happy family!
*
INDEX CARD 3
POWER
Depasting
from our repart, we proceeded to walk through the
quaint town of Bala, Ontario. We espied some
construction activity near the world-famous Bala
Falls, and as we neared we discovered a very large square hole next to the
aforementioned falls. As I have said, the hole was large; within it, scurrying
about, several men like ants were working with light equipment while high
overhead stood a crane hoisting this and that hither and yon. Handy signage
informed us that this was going to be a hydro-electric plant, and that everyone
was proud to be entering a new æra, for there had
been a power plant on that very site prior to 1974. "Hurrah!" we
cried. "Modernity!" Proceeding further, we found many signs that
appeared to be in opposition to the Stalin-worthy electrification project, and
we strangely had changes of hearts. The townsfolk seemed all opposed to the
project, and we were swayed. The beauty of the town would be ruined. A natural
wonder would be obliterated. "Boo!" we shouted. "Conservation!"
And I, happily because of the two pints, returned to the Hellish pit, and, in
full view of God and Man, urinated fulsomely into it.
*
INDEX CARD 6
LEATHER
My beloved got word, during her daily dawn
walk through town, that there was to be a 'farmer's market' a
small ways down #38, in Jaspen Park, so to
that locale we ambled early Wednesday afternoon. We had some difficulty getting
across the various roads due to the heavy traffic that seemed determined to
separate us from our preferred terminus. At last we were on the grounds of the
market. And what was there? I hear you asking. First
we came upon a large quadrangle of fruits and vegetables, and as my beloved
examined the lumpy things I went off to see what I could see. Under a pavilion
I went, where I found candles and other gimcrackery for cottagers and guests,
but in the midst I found a belt-maker with his
leathers and tools a-ready. Gaining his attention, I requested he notch a belt
for me. I noticed several books nearby, all with the same authorship, and also
copies of dear Susanna Moodie's Roughing it in the Bush. The leather-worker was
also a writer and editor. The Moodie was finely bound, but I didnot buy it because I didnot
wholly trust the editorial procedures thereinscribed.
*
INDEX CARD 5
SKI SHOW 2
The flyboarders
would do backflips twenty feet in the air. They were a very uncanny sight.
Then, as an even bigger finale, the emcee called on all the little kids
"who wanna get wet!" to come to the long
dock running perpendicular to the pier, and somewhat on the order of sixty
children ran to the dock to stand waiting. Once a stasis was obtained, sans juvenile jostling and prepubescent
pushing, the flyboarders proceeded to jigger back and
forth from high up in the air, towering over the tots, to spray and splash the
lot of them with the aureoles of their 60 mile-per-hour jetski
blasts. The kids leapt about as they got drenched one and all, and the music
was blasting them too.
If I had been eight years old, I would have
been down there with them. I would have laughed with them and I would have
gotten soaked to my underwear with them. I felt the urge to join them: but
sensibly I held back, for reasons obvious to anyone familiar with our current
hyper-puritanical climate. However, even an old man can remember what it was
like to get wet clothes.
*
INDEX CARD 8
REVIEW
During our week-long stay, I found the time
to read the entirety of a novel‑save for the index closely‑called
"House of Leaves" by one Mark Z. Danielewski.
So, idly, here is my review. It concerns a character who finds a bunch of pages
relating to a house in Virginia and of I think I'm done with post-modernism.
Sheesh! When one guy burns up a book which is obviously "House of
Leaves" and where this other guy finds a band playing songs based on
"House of Leaves" and sees the book and checks out the book and sees
his own name on the cover and they got it from the Internet and I mean really it's such a lame device and it's done twice as if
this is mind-blowing like we haven't seen this trick a hundred fuckin' times in
the last forty fuckin' years! Really through the whole thing there's like a
good short story and the rest is fuckin' filler, like 400 pages of filler. No
wonder I don't bother with anything that's being written today, it fuckin'
stinks out loud. Borges instead, Nabokov instead, Pynchon instead. No-one born
after 1964 is any fuckin' good.
*
INDEX CARD 10
ANIMALS
Where was I? The creatures of our lakeside
cabin are more often heard than seen. A sizable-sounding bullfrog who inhabits
the water-grasses down near our dining table senses the presence of anyone
nearby and ceases erping, thereby making himself
effectively invisible. At the other extreme, a loon who has taken to bobbing
about in the lake is a newcomer, and a surprising one since it means there is a
new couple on the lake. Loons float very low in the water, whereas ducks float
high, which is how one may definitively distinguish the one from the other. Two
other notes from an amateur naturalist are as follows. The local chipmunks seem
to be doing well. Their burrows are well-kept, and I resisted the urge to drop
firecrackers down them. How can I resist the insect world? The monarch
butterflies were about, and one of the clumsy buggers fluttered and buttered
drunkenly its way around me on Friday morning before, fearing death by boredom,
it circled the cabin, signifying an end to our relationship. A very pretty
ginger caterpillar was found in our clothing, and we released it to the wilds
of the wooden steps. Hail, fellow!
*
INDEX CARD 1
PACKING
We have travelled lightly, two-baggedly, for so many years, it was no great challenge this
time around. Surprisingly enough, having arrived at our destination, we found
we had not forgotten a single thing. Now, I can only speak of my own
activities, but I packed four pairs of socks, two underpants, three shirts, a
long pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt and my denim jacket (for it might
have gotten cold if we would have chosen to set outside a-night, which as
happen would have it we did not do), deodorant, bug spray, sun screen,
lubricant for anal sex, two packages of playing cards, a nice load of poker
chips in a zip-lock bag, spyglasses, Collected
Ghost Stories by M.R. James, Strong
Opinions by Vladimir Nabokov, two issues of the TLS, one issue of the New
Criterion, two books of origami designs and about 2/3rds of a package of 25cm2
paper, and the oat pillow atop all of it. In my knapsack I put my music
equipment (iPod and portable sound system, my Kindle, eight packages of
cigarettes, nail clippers, bus tickets, notepad, pens, and newspaper of 7 July
2018. I'd hoped to forget nothing.
*
We'd heard tales of such events, but we
never thought anything of the sort would happen to us nobodies. Julie
complained of a stomach upset early one evening, and it proceeded to get worse
within the next couple hours. So we went and caught a
bus to the closest hospital, and we waited for some fifteen minutes. A doctor
took Julie off for an examination, and I waited and waited. A couple hours
later the doctor came out. He told me Julie had given birth to octuplets. I was
surprised. The doctor took me to see my eight newborns.
They were awfully cute, I must admit, but I
was worried. Julie and I weren't prepared for this. We'd never discussed having
a family. Plus, suddenly, there were five times more of us needing lodging in
our two bedroom apartment. Where to start? How to start?
They let me visit Julie in her hospital
bed. She looked a bit weathered by the whole thing. She said, "That was
all kinda painful."
Then the hospital discharged her and our
babies. They gave us a couple empty liquor boxes to put the kids in, and we
took the bus home. Home sweet home.
*
The water of the river smelled sweeter when
we returned in the fall. The shivery trees were shedding in the evening wind.
The sky was blue and splotched with white like no other time all year.
Something screamed across the river.
The river water widely filled the chasm
before us, like a silver knife slicing east and west. The river deep across
brought a paradox involving an arrow to mind though the connection was a forced
and unnatural juxtaposition. Who'll pour the wine?
A tree across the river jumped.
The plastic goblets floated out of the
basket and settled roughly on the grass. The bottle upturned to third-fill
them. The land brought forth a cloth 3x3 in feet to lay upon the slope and legs
with knees bent in the fall evening unlike any fall evening that year.
The water hued pinkish.
The moon became suddenly noticeable over
the trees of what one might think would be the other side of the river. Has the
moon ever been compared to a Cyclopean eye? was wondered. A rather odd eye,
with half to left or right sliced away? For a moment, no-one was looking at the
moon.
Who dreams of darkness?
*
And they're off
'Round the turn
70 miles an hour
11 miles an hour
Steel polo mallets swinging
Smashing slapping and mauling
Because nothing's worthwhile
And our minds are super dupers
There's the line
'Tween one and two
Some are down below
Any left to screw?
There're still 1,000 contestants
With the peashooters coming out
While high in the sky of heaven
An alien Icarus is going low now
This is tiring me
Where's the stand
With the hot dogs?
I'm getting thirsty
There was a time long long
ago
When everything was all a-piece
Which then cracked lengthwise
And has been cracking ever since
Wheels are all off
Engines are sanded
Windshield's broke
Can't recline seat
Now you're grist for the mill
Of the Gods and their Gods
Approaching that hairy S turn
With family in the back seat
Bring out the bubbly
For one last cheer
Smokem if you gottem
Don't mind the rug
As we celebrate these our killers
Who do the deeds dirty cheaply
Dispassionately cutting throats
And stamping red on the receipts
The race is run
And no-one lost
A quiescence settles on the moor
And birds look to the turbines
To chop themselves through
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