Yesterday,
It was an aeroplane that took us up there; up there to the Muskoka airport, which had something to do with Norway. We went to Bracebridge, a town I believed I had never been to. But then, on the main street, I realized I had been there before, fifty years before. The slope of the street told me so; I even knew which side of the street the toy store had been on. For years I’d wondered where that street had been, and now I’d found it. The street hadn’t been a dream after all. It was quite real. There’s nothing like a real memorial street to make your mind feel more objectively situated.
We were on the plane, and a steward came by, checking us. She said: “Excuse me, ladies.”
She had misgendered me. I’ve never been so shocked in all my life. I literally died. To make it worser, she didn’t even recognize she’d committed a crime. I was burning with the rage of a thousand gender theorists.
Once we were in the air, I called Porter to complain. I talked to the manager. I made my voice heard. I hope that steward gets fired, the bitch.
Yesterday,
We had to take a cab from Bracebridge to Bala; it seemed there were two cab companies, namely: Gravenhurst Taxi and Muskoka Taxi. One or the other had brought us to Bracebridge from the airport, but: which one? I tried one, I tried the other, I got confused. With which one had I contracted a ride? The websites looked different, and I submitted a few requests, but there was no way to get anything like a confirmation. One of them wanted the trip pre-paid, but: which one? As it turned out, the two companies were one-and-the-same; one had purchase the other recently. We got the trip paid for, and managed to meet the driver on time.
It was horrible! We got to the cottage, and there was no picnic table to be seen! How were we going to dine down by the lake without a picnic table? What kinds of animals did they think we were? We found the proprietor, smashed to the gills on the beach, and we yelled: “Provide us with a table, ruffian!” A little later, a table was dropped off, but we ourselves had to tumble it, end-over-end, down to the water’s edge. What insolence!
Yesterday,
Haven’t there been days, days throughout history, in which the participants, i.e. the living people, have no recollection of the next day? For example: 22 August 972. I doubt anything important happened that day; and on the 23rd, it’s likely the 22nd was entirely forgotten forever.
Let’s see, we walked into the town of Bala, because I wanted to see what was going on with the bridge. As it turned out, the municipality had removed it, and it seems they are in the process of rebuilding it. I have a picture here, somewhere, let me see…. Anyway, after fifty years or longer, the Balacade is no more. I have a photo of that too.
We bought jams from this twelve-year-old twat across from the food mart. She was all-so-knowledgeable it made you wanna puke. “You can see the rhubarb in the rhubarb jams,” she said, oh yeah, how about you lose weight, you little porker? She’s all lined up to become a whore like her mother, who was nearby, all slut plastered with tattoos. If I was a pederast, would I do this kid? I’d be Winston Churchill when Marilyn Monroe propositioned him: “Lady, I eat with these hands!”
Yesterday,
Mary went to her office, which was a room up at the motel, while I stayed down nearer the lake. I had to go in to town again, to buy supper, so at about eleven I headed in. I bought a lot: I bought fish, ground beef, corn syrup, brown sugar, vanilla, all-purpose flour, raisins--really, everything that’s needed to make butter tarts. When I got back to it all, I made butter tarts. Two batches, and it was all very messy, but I think I got them done right. The second batch, well, they may have come out of the oven a bit early, but what are you going to do? I ain’t no miracle worker.
Morons with their lottery tickets, fuck! Some bonehead, ahead of me, thinks he can go through his gambling addiction, and clog civilization up. Do I really want to hear that bilingual bullshit Gagner! Gagner! In the language of losers and is only on the N.A. continent because the English are nice? I dig the French, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think they have any claim in N.A. The real French make fun of Quebec, did you know that? “Fucking rubes.”
Yesterday,
Again, I had to go in across the pleasant town of Bala, to the grocery store. What was I after? you ask. Let’s see, it all happened yesterday, so I don’t rightly remember! Eggs, yes, I bought some eggs, and some chicken drumsticks, I recall, and some sandwich meat. All in all it wasn’t an especially nice day, weather-wise. There was rain, and gloom, and I’m sure the poor insects had a rough time of it. Perhaps some of them drowned even! I cooked up the chicken drumsticks, but it was, alas, too cold and mserable to eat down by the lake, so we simply sat inside, and I drank and drank.
I saw a sign, said: “Loaded bagels,” on a place in town. I thought: “Okay.” I went inside, but I was preceded by a woman who ordered a cappuccino. As I stood, waiting, I witnessed the slowest little bitch moron trying to make a cappuccino. I could barely believe me eyes, she was so slow. Was she some birth defect? Had she been dropped on her head? I mean, I’m no feminist, but I think women really have to up their game to play with the boys.
Yesterday,
The day started all wet and rainy, and we didn’t have anything much to do so we didn’t do much at all. At around noon or o the wind started whipping up; it was quite a wind-storm! It kept going all down long, the wind whipping down Long Lake (which is this lake, in case you want to know). The temperature kept dropping throughout the day. Where that weather system came from, who knows? The electricity itself stopped working for about a half-hour; who knew why? Something on the Internet said it was some problem in Barrie, but Barrie is so far away I think they were separate incidents.
How could she go on like that? She said: “It’s all about your pleasure. It’s all about you coming. I’m interested in love-making, not just sex.” And I didn’t respond with facts--I didn’t say: “Sex is all about men coming. Nothing else matters. It’s about men, and it’s about them ejaculating. Nothing else matters, to nature.” But how could I make that sound non-callous? Maybe some day soon we’ll have some sex, and I’ll come. I’ll shoot out some seed, and who knows where it’ll wind up going into?
Yesterday,
I managed to stay at the cottage for the entire day. I don’t think I mentioned it, but it was a bitterly cold night before. It certainly was cool, in the morning; it all warmed up a little, but not enough for swimming. (I put on my trunks at around four in the afternoon, and stepped out--but it was all too cold to go any further, and certainly not into any watery element!) In any case, we went out for dinner, to some place called Lakeside. Once upon a time it had been a hardware store in which James Deakin and I had bought some Poopatroopers. (Let’s see if anyone can identify those!)
Now I’m sorry but how can the prices at the Lakeside double in two years? I mean, the ribs I had were really good, but: $42 good? And then I was stuck in the place I always find myself stuck: I have to pretend I pay these prices every day, I don’t like to complain--and I’m some sad-sack constantly getting ripped off because I’m milquetoast, and I can’t complain about anything for the life of me, and I’m a doormat, and a fucking mark.
Yesterday,
It was nice weather, once again. It was our last full day up there, and who knows what the future holds? Maybe we’ll never get there again. Who knows? In any case, it was a nice day. We crossed the town to the supermarket, bought some drumsticks and bread, and, on our return, we stopped at the Hook and Ladder Bar and Grill. Late in the evening, after we’d eaten the drumsticks, we sat down at the lake and watched stars come out, one at a time, then a whole bunch of them all at once. It was an amazing sight to see, and it reminded one of eternity, via the fixed stars.
Oh, the fixed stars, the empyrean! Behind that, somewhere, is where God is supposed to live. How could he be way out there? He tricked us all, for we all thought he was there, out there, but then it turned out there is no anything beyond the stars but more and more stars! It’s almost infinite, and here we are, insignificant, useless, already in our graves, impotent, useless, and deadcold. What a trick! What a con! What kind of a God would do something so horrible?
Yesterday,
It was our last morning there. We had to pack up and get out at eleven. (That proved to be negotiable, but we felt we should get going at a set-in-stone time.) We didn’t have to do that much to get out; we’ve vacated rental properties a hundred times before. Everything got packed away in our cases, and the cab showed up, nearly in the right place, and we got down to Gravenhurst by noon. Lunch at our usual place, in a relaxed manner, then to Curries to see if there were any good used books available. Mary bought book about the excavation of Sainte Marie Among the Hurons, and I bought Democracy in America.
Ah, back to the scuzzy city! What a Sodom, what a Gomorrah! I was sweating like a miner in the humid dirt, and people, always people, walked by my porch talking loudly about things that did not matter in the least. At around nine-thirty, a police manhunt started in our neighbourhood--flashing lights, blindingly, passing by, and loudly. Man, cities are awful! They really want you to wipe out humanity, stuck as it in in a senseless scramble of lies and greed and fornication....
photo credits:
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45.0106077,-79.6147962
45.0123203,-79.6137982
45.0143116,-79.6139705
45.0041966,-79.6133587
45.00442,-79.6138575
45.0043742,-79.6134666
45.0039967,-79.6130883
45.0008899,-79.6152881
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